#and oh yes working on my attachment style and working with my therapist

[whereistheonepiece]

Real.

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

no doubt ── s. jy

↳ summary ── struggling to balance a world tour, endless responsibilities, and...well, the sting of getting dumped by his girlfriend, jake finds peace & comfort confiding in you—one of his closest friends. what begins as lighthearted late-night phone calls while he's away on tour deepens into something more, quickly pulling you both into uncharted emotional territory. as your connection with jake intensifies, so does your inner turmoil—torn between the comfort of your easy relationship with him and the terrifying possibility of falling for someone you're not even sure you can have in the first place. but jake? jake has absolutely no doubt of what he wants—and spoiler alert? it's you.

↳ pairing ── jake x f!reader, [ft. childhoodbestfriend!jungwon, bestfriends!enha]

↳ genre ── idol!jake, friends to lovers!au || angstttt, fluff, crack

↳ ✎ᝰ. 23.7k [never beating the allegations of getting too attached to my works and having too much fun writing i fear...]

↳ contains ── angst! very angsty but only after a lot of fluff...the cheesy cringe type but then it goes downhill real quick...but happy ending i swear!, mentions of insecurities, maybe one or two curse words, fic starts with jake dating og character named jenn, the use of pet names, jungwon practically plays therapist, jake is absolutely whipped for reader but is terrible at communication and a certified idiot . also jungwon is reader's best friend so the beginning sets up the context for that lolz

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── she's DONEEE [do u hear me crying in the background]...so some backstory lore abt this fic—basically two years ago i had a dream about the ~angsty scene~ of this fic and ever since then, i've had this itch of putting it into words. and when i finally decided to do it, no doubt came out and i thought it was literal fate since the lyrics match the vibe so well...don't tell me it isn't fate guys :') anyways..this is a little different than my typical writing style even though of course i had to include summm crack..but i am still nervous abt how it came out so i really really hope you guys like it :') thank u for all the support and love always <3

↳ update .ᐟ ── check out the sequel series of this fic here!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

You and Yang Jungwon were literally born to be best friends.  

Like, there was no other option.  

Your mom? Their high school's poster child for academic perfection—top of her class, president of every club imaginable, a certified teacher's pet.  

Jungwon's mom? Their high school's unofficial social chair—life of the party, karaoke queen, probably responsible for half the faculty's headaches. 

Nothing alike. 

So naturally, of course, they were inseparable. By their junior year, they'd already started planning their futures together, including one very specific and totally realistic goal that all teenage girl best friends make when they're young:  

"We should have our first kids around the same time and force them to be best friends!"  

"Oh my gosh, yes," Jungwon's mom agreed enthusiastically. "Like, we'll make them share everything! Matching outfits, playdates, joint birthday parties!"  

But what your moms didn't realize as they were giggling over the playful promise that probably didn't hold any meaning to them at the age of 17? 

The universe was taking notes.  

So fast forward a couple decades later, and there you were, baby best friends from birth, fulfilling the shared dream of your mothers—the true puppeteers in this scenario.  

All your moms had to do was execute their promise as planned, but the rest of it? The rest of it was easy.  

You and Jungwon clicked before you even knew what words were, communicating in a series of shared giggles and unintelligible baby noises. By the time you turned two, you were finishing each other's sentences in your made-up gibberish language, and by preschool, the bond was unshakable. 

You two—just like your moms—were inseparable.  

By high school, everyone knew you were a package deal—where you went, Jungwon followed, and vice versa. So, when he announced your sophomore year that he was leaving to compete on a televised idol survival show, you were, understandably, skeptical.  

"Are you sure it's not a scam?" You had asked, rolling lazily around on his bed while he scrambled around his room, packing his bags.  

"It's not a scam," Jungwon laughed, carefully folding his clothes. 

"Did they ask for your social security number?"  

"Y/N."  

"Exactly. I'm just saying—if you end up on one of those exposé documentaries about fake talent shows, don't say I didn't warn you."  

Despite your teasing, you knew how much this meant to him. Jungwon had been dreaming about being in the music spotlight since he figured out how to work a karaoke machine at the age of six.  

So when he eventually did make his debut with his group, you weren't surprised at all—it was inevitable, written in the stars, just like how your friendship with him was.

What did surprise you, though, was how seamlessly you got roped into his new world.  

Sure, Jungwon's life got infinitely busier overnight, but there is no universe that exists in which he'd forget about you—his non-conjoined twin, ride-or-die, and ultimate life-long nuisance (his words, not yours).  

And so naturally, you became an honorary member of this new life of his. The boys' practice studio might as well be your new home—the endless days camping out on the floor of their dance studio with your head in your textbooks while they drilled their choreography for the hundredth time proved that. Or maybe how you crash on their dorm couch so often that Sunoo coined you your new nickname: their unofficial eighth member.  

Which brings you to now: a marketing major by day, unofficial idol by night, and, as always, a certified magnet to chaos.

Case in point? Whatever madness was happening around you at this exact moment.  

"Okay, but hear me out," Heeseung says, gesturing dramatically with his pizza slice—one of many scattered across the coffee table everyone was sitting around. "Pineapple is the perfect combination of sweet and savory—"  

"It's a crime against humanity," Sunghoon cuts in. 

Tomorrow? The boys leave for their five-month tour.  

Tonight? Tonight is tradition: the pre-tour pizza bash.  

Naturally, it's chaos, as no one has bothered with the last-minute packing they're supposed to be doing.  

Not a single bag is packed.  

"It's fruit on bread," you scrunch your nose, taking a bite of your own normal pepperoni pizza. "This isn't dessert, Hee."  

"Thank you!" Sunghoon reaches across the table to high-five you. 

From the couch behind you, Jake chuckles and nudges your back with his knee, "Big talk coming from someone who claims pickles belong on everything."  

"Uh, because they do," you whip your head around to glare at him. "Pickles are versatile."  

"Versatile my ass," Jungwon mumbles from his spot beside you. "I love you, but you're deranged."  

"Look who's talking, Mr. 'I-put-hot-sauce-on-everything'," you shoot back, eyes narrowing at your best friend. Everyone chuckles from around the table at your dramatic, yet endearing, overreaction. 

"Hot sauce is different," Jay chimes in without even looking up from his phone. "It's an enhancer."  

"Pickles enhance flavor too!"  

"By making everything taste like vinegar," Sunoo deadpans from your other side. "Gross."  

"Whatever," you roll your eyes. "You're all uncultured."  

"And you're a menace," Jake quips from behind you, his voice dripping with amusement. You don't even have to turn around to see the smirk on his face—you can hear it loud and clear. 

"Careful, Sim," you say with a sly glance over your shoulder. "Keep talking, and I'll start adding pickle juice to your coffee."  

The room fills with laughter, but before Jake can fire back, his phone buzzes aggressively against the couch. You watch him glance down at his screen before his playful smile instantly fades.  

"I'll be right back," Jake mutters, getting up and heading towards the kitchen without another word.  

You frown as you watch him disappear around the corner, the sudden shift in his mood gnawing at you, and you can't help but wonder what's gotten under his skin. 

After a few more minutes of heated debates over pizza toppings—and yet another round of everyone ganging up on your weird pickle obsession—you decide it was time for a drink refill.  

Excusing yourself, you step into the kitchen, only to find Jake leaning against the counter, his arms crossed and gaze fixed on the empty wall in front of him. His phone sits abandoned on the counter, screen dark.  

"Jake?" You call out softly, approaching slowly. 

Your voice breaks through his haze, his expression flickering as he registers you standing in the doorway, your brows furrowed in concern.  

"What's going on?" You ask, moving closer to stand in front of him.   

"Nothing," Jake says too quickly, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

You give him a look and he knows that you know he's lying, "Jake.."  

He exhales, his expression crumbling as he runs a hand through his hair, "Just...Jenn called."  

Ah. Of course. Jenn.  

You almost flinch at the sound of the name, the weight it carries instantly souring your stomach. Jake's on-again, off-again girlfriend of two years was a constant source of heartbreak—not just for the poor boy, but for the entire group who helped pick up the pieces of his broken heart after every messy break-up…and even messier make-up.  

"She broke up with me," Jake admits quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "For real this time. Something about me leaving for tour and how it wasn't going to work out."  

Your heart hurts at the sight of him in front of you—shoulders slumped, hands nervously twisting the hem of his shirt, as if trying to distract himself from the conversation.  

"Oh, Jake...," you murmur, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder as you lean against the counter next to him.  

"I'm fine," he insists, waving it off, but the expression on his face clearly betrays him.  

"No, you're not," you say, trying to catch his eyes. "And that's okay."  

Jake lets out a shaky breath, finally looking up from the ground to look at you, before shrugging, "I don't even know why I’m surprised. We've been...really off for a while now. Like, more than usual. But still, it sucks."  

“Of course, it sucks," you nod, agreeing softly. "You guys were together for a long time. You cared about her."  

For a moment, the two of you sit in a heavy silence with an unspoken understanding, the only sounds coming from the muffled chatter and laughter in the other room. You stay close, letting him process without pushing further.  

Still, you can't entirely suppress the annoying flare of emotions bubbling in your chest—a tangled knot of sympathy and…something else. Relief, maybe? Not that you would ever wish any sort of pain on Jake—but you hate the way Jenn always leaves him like this: drained, doubting himself, and trying to piece together what went wrong, where he went wrong. 

"Come back to the living room," you say finally, nudging his side gently. "Ni-ki is freaking out over which hoodies to pack. And I swear, they're all the same black hoodie."  

Jake lets out a small, tired laugh, "You don't need me for that. He's gonna end up packing all of them, just watch."  

"You don't know that," you tease. "Besides, I need someone's back up to help me convince him he's not actually going through an emo phase."  

His eyes carry a faint smile as he looks at you, the corners of his lips lifting just enough to remind you of the warmth he usually carries.  

"Okay," he says in a whisper, pushing himself off the counter.  

You start towards the doorway, forgetting about your drink refill entirely, but his voice stops you.  

"Y/N?"  

You turn to find him still standing there, his eyes filled with warmth and appreciation.  

"Thanks," he adds, a small smile on his face. It's such a simple statement, but the way he says it—soft, sincere, and maybe just a little desperate—makes something twist in your stomach. "For just...always being here."  

You smile back up at the boy, "Of course, Jake. I'll always be here for you. You know that."  

For a moment, he holds your gaze, as if taking a mental note of something. Then he nods, his shoulders relaxing.

"Okay," he says, exhaling as he gestures toward the doorway. "Let's go.”

You follow behind the boy back to the living room, silently hoping he knows just how much you mean your promise to him.  

Jake's body is on autopilot at this point.  

Another city, another show, another string of flashing lights and deafening cheers. It's a month into tour, and the endless loop of responsibilities has left him no room to just breathe.  

And he loves this life—he really does. But tonight, for reasons he can't explain, the adrenaline that usually keeps him afloat isn't enough. Pure exhaustion lingers in his bones, heavier than the applause and screams echoing in his memory, and he just can’t seem to shake it. 

When his head finally hits the stiff hotel pillow, Jake exhales with a heavy sigh. The city around him is alive, the neon lights brightly dancing against his windowpane, but he feels none of it. 

Instead? He just feels the weight of homesickness and the ache of being alone. 

Normally, he would push through, shove these thoughts into the back of his mind, call it a night. But tonight, the ache feels different—sharper, louder—and before he knows it, his phone is in his hand before he can talk himself out of it, his thumb hovering over your name on his screen. 

A familiar battle wages in his mind, one he’s been battling more recently ever since tour became a little heavier on him. Slowly, the quiet yearning has been creeping in, and he’s been missing home more and more, craving the feeling of familiarity. But it isn’t just the physical places or the comfort of his regular routine that he craves. 

It’s something else, something harder to name. 

And for some other reason he can’t seem to explain, he thinks it’s you. 

Jake doesn’t know when it started. Maybe it was hearing the sound of your voice through the phone whenever the guys called you to check in every now and then. Or maybe it was the way you would text in their shared group chat, your messages always tinged with humor or a sense of calm that somehow made everything feel a little less overwhelming. 

Whatever it was, it stuck with him. He finds himself craving that unexplainable comfort only you seem to bring. He tells himself it’s nothing special, just the natural pull of familiarity. You’re back at home, the place he misses the most, so obviously, through association, it makes sense. 

It’s logical. Nothing more. 

That’s what he tells himself as his thumb hovers over your name. It’s not about you specifically—it couldn’t be. It’s just the connection to home. The grounding warmth of your voice. The way you somehow make the distance feel a little less suffocating. 

Obviously. Nothing more. 

He presses call.  

Two rings. That's all it takes before your voice cuts through all the static in his head. Groggy, soft, and achingly familiar. Like home.  

"Jake? It's late, is everything okay?"  

Jake glances at the clock. 10:13PM where he is. Much later for you, he imagines. Guilt stirs, but...  

He doesn't want to hang up. 

Hearing your voice feels like the first breath of air after surfacing from deep water. He instantly feels more comfortable despite the heaviness in his chest.

"Hey," he mumbles, his voice quiet. "I'm okay. Just...needed to hear a friendly voice, I guess."  

"Wow, are the boys that bad that you need to call me?" You tease warmly, despite the sleepiness lingering in your words.  

Jake chuckles, the sound low and tired, "Nothing against them, really. It's just...sometimes you need someone who reminds you of home, you know?"  

The other end of the line goes quiet for a moment. He can hear you shuffle, and he braces himself for a teasing comment about him being sappy and sentimental. But instead, your voice softens.  

"Well, I'm glad I could be that for you," your voice telling him you're smiling brightly on the other side of the screen. "Though if I had a private jet, I'd send it right now. Bring you back instantly."  

"A private jet, huh?" Jake's eyes flutter close as he's engulfed into the usual, playful rhythm that's always there between the two of you. "You'd do that for me?"  

"Only if you bring back goodies, preferably snacks," you quip back, and the warmth in his chest grows.  

There's another pause, the kind that feels comfortable rather than awkward. Jake shifts in his spot and before he can stop himself, he blurts out, “How do you do that?”  

“Do what?” 

“Make everything feel...lighter. Like, I can’t explain it, but just hearing you makes me feel like I’m not carrying all this stuff by myself.” 

Your voice softens at his sudden vulnerability. 

“Because you don't have to carry it all on your own, Jake. You know that, right? That’s what friends are for."  

Jake hums in response, a low sound of acknowledgement as he keeps his phone pressed close, your voice instantly soothing the heavy emotions he's been carrying. 

"You sound exhausted," you say after a beat, your tone cautious but filled with genuine care. "How are you holding up? With everything—the tour, the...break-up, just...you?"  

Jake lets out a low groan, his fingers brushing through his hair. "You sound like my mom."  

"Well, someone has to," you tease lightly, a relieved laugh slipping into your voice, as if you'd been afraid you overstepped. "Seriously, Jake. Are you doing okay?"  

Jake hesitates, the question catching him off guard. He hadn't let himself think too much about Jenn or the breakup since leaving for tour a month ago. The boys knew better than to bring it up, and Jake had been grateful for that—for the distraction.  

But now, with you, it feels different. 

Safer, easier. Natural.  

“Honestly? I don’t know,” he sighs, the sound heavy through the phone. “Some days it feels like I’m fine, like I’ve moved on, and other days...it’s like I’m stuck in this loop of ‘what ifs.’ Like, what if I did something different? Or..."  

He trails off to a pause, his throat tight, before he finally admits to you, and himself, "...what if I just wasn't enough?"  

“Jake,” you say gentle but firm, cutting through his spiraling thoughts. “You are enough. You've always been enough. Jenn...she just wasn’t the right person for you. That doesn’t mean you did anything wrong.” 

He swallows hard, your words settling into the cracks he didn't even realize were there. 

"Thanks, Y/N. I mean it. It's just...hard, you know? Haven't really talked about it since it happened. But talking to you helps—a lot."  

“I’m glad." He can hear the quiet sincerity in your words. “And for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing an amazing job. With tour, with...everything. You've got this, Jake. I’m really proud of you.”

Jake lets out a breathy laugh, the warmth in your words settling something in his chest—a knot he didn't even realize was there. 

“You always know what to say, don’t you?” 

“It’s a gift,” you easily reply, and he can hear the grin in your voice, the easy banter making him feel lighter.  

"I missed this," the words tumble out before he can stop himself. Then he quickly adds, as if to explain himself, "It's weird not having you around. The boys are great and all, but you give the best advice. Don't tell them that."  

You giggle on your end, the sound making Jake's lips curve into a small smile and his heart twists.  

In both a comforting and terrifying way. 

"I miss it too," your voice quieter now. "But I'm here. You know that, right? Even if you're on the other side of the world, or if you call me at four in the morning like you're doing right now."  

Jake lets out a chuckle followed by a sleepy groan, "Sorry about that. But...thank you, Y/N. For picking up."  

"Always," you reply, and he hopes you mean it.  

A beat passes. Jake knows he should hang up, that he should let you sleep. He tries to convince himself that you need the sleep more than he needs this call.  

But he can't help himself.  

"You'll yell at me if I don't sleep, won't you?"  

"Absolutely. Go to bed, Jake. Or at least try. Zombie mode doesn't suit you."  

"Fine," he sighs dramatically, but his eyes feel heavier and he knows he's falling asleep, the tension in his body from before easing away. "But only because you scare me sometimes."  

You laugh. "Good. Now get some rest. And call me whenever you need to, okay?"  

"Okay," he mumbles into his phone quietly, his mind already slipping into a deep sleep. 

"Goodnight, Y/N."  

"Goodnight, Jake."  

"Don't you have a bedtime, Sim Jaeyun?" You tease, answering the call. The clock reads 1:27AM, and you should be asleep—you really should—but you smile anyways when Jake's name appears on your screen.  

"Bedtime? I don't know her," his voice slightly groggy, but as usual, still warm. "Besides I knew you'd be awake. You don't sleep like a normal person either."  

You roll your eyes, knowing fully well he can't see it, "Yeah, well, I don't have to dance around a stage for two hours tomorrow."  

"True, but you do have to deal with my constant calls and keep me entertained. That's way harder."  

"Oh yeah, obviously," you say with mock seriousness. "Being your emotional support human is a full-time job." 

“Emotional support human,” Jake repeats, chuckling softly. “You’re right. I guess I really owe you, huh?”

“Oh, 100%,” you shoot back, a grin in your voice. “I want one of those tour hoodies you guys keep posting with.” 

“Done. What size?” 

"The oversized one."  

Jake pauses. “Let me guess—so you can sleep in it?"  

You hesitate, suddenly sheepish at how he knows you too well, “Hey, it's only cozy if it's oversized!"  

You hear his soft laugh on the other end of the line. 

“Cute. I’ll make sure to steal one for you.” 

You try not to overanalyze the way your stomach flips at the word cute, and the easy way he says it, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.  

You shake the thought off immediately. This wasn't new, after all, Jake's always warm and easy to talk to. But lately—over the past month of phone calls—the way he says certain things, the tone he says them in, and the way they make you feel? It carried a weight you weren't sure how to hold.  

In both a comforting and terrifying way.  

“So, how was your day?” you suddenly bring up, trying to redirect your thoughts. 

"Tiring," Jake sighs, his voice muffled as he shifts around in bed. "And Jungwon keeps beating me at Mario Kart during our break time. My pride is in shambles, Y/N."  

"Let me guess," you smirk, repeating his words from earlier. "He picks Yoshi, and you keep picking Toad because you think he's underrated."  

"Excuse me," Jake scoffs. "Toad is underrated. But, for your information, I choose Toad because your go-to character is Toadette."  

Your heart does that stupid flip again. His words are light—I mean, you guys are talking about Mario Kart for god's sake—but it's stuff like that that keeps you questioning the true meaning behind his words.

You ignore the feeling, instead, a laugh bubbles up in response, an attempt to sound unaffected.

"You're so weird."  

“But you like it,” he quips, voice dipping just slightly, like he’s testing the waters. 

You're caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone, but you recover just as quickly. 

"Debatable."  

“Liar.”

His tone is teasing, but there's something softer behind it, “You wouldn’t still be on the phone with me if you didn’t like me at least a little.” 

“Maybe I’m just bored,” you shoot back, though your cheeks are burning at his sudden forwardness, questioning if he’s serious or just messing with you. 

You hear him hum in response, "Then I guess I'll have to work harder to keep you interested."  

“Oh yeah? How are you planning to do that?” You try to match his teasing tone, but internally, you feel unsteady under the implication of his words. 

“By being my usual charming self, duh,” he says, his voice dropping into a smooth tone. “And, you know, calling you every night so you don’t forget about me.” 

Your heart squeezes. "You already do that, stupid. You think I'd forget about you?"  

“Never,” Jake's reply is immediate, almost instinctive, leaving no room for doubt. “But just in case…I like hearing your voice. Makes me feel like I’m not a million miles away.” 

His words linger in the space between you, heavier than the playful banter from earlier. You swallow hard, trying your best to keep your voice steady. 

“You’re not a million miles away, Jake.” 

“Feels like it,” he murmurs. You hear a pause in his voice, as if he's thinking hard about his next words. “I miss home. I miss...you." 

Your chest tightens, and your hands grip the sheets beneath you, as if the fabric could somehow ground you. Your heart is doing that thing again—the erratic, terrifying thing that makes you want to believe in something you're not sure is even real.  

And at the same time, your thoughts are scrambling to say something lighthearted before the conversation steers into that dangerous, dangerous territory you were sure you weren't ready for.  

Not yet.  

"Well, you better win at least one round of Mario Kart for me while you're out there," you force a laugh, trying to mask the tremor in your voice.  

Jake laughs, the sound genuine, "I'll try. But if I lose, just know I'm dedicating every race to you."  

"Wow, I'm so honored," you try to deadpan, but he can sense the grin in your voice.  

"You should be," his voice softens again. "Thanks for picking up tonight, by the way. I know it's late."  

He never fails to thank you every night, as if you haven't been picking up every day for the past month and won't be picking up tomorrow, and the next day...and the day after that.  

And, somehow, the same, genuine appreciation makes it so hard for you to ignore that weird, warm, fluttering sensation growing inside you every time you talk to him.  

But, regardless, you always give him the same reply: 

"Always," your voice matching his softness. "Call me whenever, okay?"  

"Don’t say that," Jake warns, the teasing edge creeping back into his tone. "I'll actually do it."  

"Fine," you giggle. "But if you call me at four in the morning again, I'm putting my phone on Do Not Disturb." 

"Deal." He pauses, then adds, "Goodnight, Y/N."  

"Goodnight, Jake."  

As you hang up, you stare at your phone for a moment longer than you should have, your room feeling oddly quiet and too empty without his voice.  

It's just another call, Y/N. Just another call between two friends.  

But deep down, a part of you tells you it isn’t that simple anymore.  

And maybe—just maybe—he knows it too.  

“Are you busy?” Jake’s voice sounds more tired than usual, heavy with an overwhelming amount of tension. 

“Never too busy for our calls,” you easily reply without hesitation as you lay back in your bed, phone close to your ear. Your voice is light, a stark contrast to the weariness laced in his, and when he doesn’t respond with his typical chuckle, you immediately sense his mood. “Hard day?” 

He exhales slowly, the weary sound answering your question. Today was a lot. Hours of rehearsal followed by a concert, the adrenaline rush of performing, followed by the chaos of having the guys’ hotel information leaked. Crowds of paparazzi and fans swarmed the entrance, the relentless flashes of cameras breaking through whatever little pieces of calm he had left within him. The noise, the pressure, the endless cycle—all spiraled into a mental mess he doesn’t seem to shake. 

The second he settled into his hotel room, all Jake knew was that he needed to talk to you—the one person who could steady his racing thoughts. 

"I just...I didn't think this would get to me, you know? The cameras, the people, the flashes in my face—I'm just—it's like I'm never alone."  

Your heart twists at the vulnerability and rawness in his voice, as if he’s admitting something for the first time—not just to anyone else, but to himself. 

"I—I don't know. Sometimes I wish I could just disappear, just for a little while. Just to breathe, you know?"  

You close your eyes, your grip on the phone unconsciously tightening as if it could anchor him somehow.  

"I know it's not the same," your voice steady, even as you internally ached for him, "but...you can disappear with me, Jake. Even if it's just through the call. No cameras. No noise. Just...you and me."  

He lets out an exhale—shaky, but relieved.  

"You're really good at this. Making me feel like it's all gonna be okay."  

"Because it is going to be okay, Jake," you reply softly. "You're not alone, Jake. Not with me."  

"Yeah," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, and he wishes more than anything else in this moment that he actually was with you. “I know.” 

"Jake," you groan, sitting cross-legged on your bed, staring at the flustered boy through your laptop screen. "I'm begging you—just wear the black jacket. It's literally impossible to mess up black."  

"But what about the beanie?" He whines as he pops back into view, his face scrunched up in genuine distress. "Do you think I can pull it off, or will I look like I'm trying too hard? Be honest, Y/N."  

What started as a simple fashion-advice-question over the phone turned into a two-hour wardrobe emergency—all because Jake couldn’t figure out what to wear to the airport the next day (because, apparently, airport fits matter—his words, not yours).

"Jake, you could wear a literal trash bag to the airport and fans would still lose their minds," you tease, biting back a laugh. 

He rolls his eyes at you, but the smile tugging at his lips says otherwise.  

"Okay, but seriously, you’re trying too hard. Just go with the jacket, no beanie," you add on, just to end this two-hour long madness.  

"Hmm," Jake plops on his bed and turns towards his phone camera, and you swear you can see the pout forming on his lips. "But I already posted a preview of the jacket last week. Isn't that, like, repetitive?"  

"Jake,” you blink at him, "it's an airport. Not a fashion show."  

He stares at you for a beat, then lets out a dramatic sigh, "Fine! Jacket, no beanie. But if I see even one criticizing comment calling me basic, I'm blaming you."  

You laugh, shaking your head at his ridiculousness, "Deal. Now go to sleep, Sim Jaeyun."  

His grin softens as he adjusts the camera to fully look at you, pout gone, eyes glistening.

"Only because you said so."  

"Hey," you say softly, answering the call as you snuggle deeper into your blanket, letting it engulf you completely.

The familiar sound of Jake's quiet breathing fills the space between you, and before he even says a word, you already know.  

"Rough day?" You ask gently when he doesn’t say anything after a few seconds. 

"Yeah," he murmurs, his voice quieter than usual, almost drowned out by the low hum of background noise. "I just...I don't really feel like talking right now, if that's okay."  

"Of course," you reply without hesitation, your tone gentle, no questions asked.

On the other end, Jake presses the phone closer to this ear in an attempt to feel closer to you, instantly feeling better from your pure understanding of how he’s feeling, and he thinks—not for the first time—that you might be his favorite person in the world.  

The warm silence engulfs the both of you like a shared blanket, unspoken yet understood. You can hear the faint echoes of his surroundings: the muffled laughter of the boys somewhere nearby, the distant honk of traffic outside his hotel, and then the quiet shuffle of Jake shifting positions in his hotel bed. You catch his breath catching slightly, like he's finally allowing himself to relax—to just be.  

You don't try to fill the silence. You know that he needs this—a moment of peace in the chaos. Instead, you similarly press the phone closer to your ear, as if doing so can somehow bridge the miles between you, hoping he can sense your presence reaching out for him. 

Minutes pass like this, and for a moment, it’s so quiet you begin to wonder if he's falling asleep. But then, a deep exhale breaks the stillness.

"Thank you, Y/N," he says finally, his voice low but steady, carrying a weight of sincerity that makes your heart clench.  

"You don't have to thank me, Jake," your voice matches his softness. "You know that."  

"Still," his voice is low, so quiet, it feels like a secret meant only for you. "I appreciate you. More than you probably know."  

You smile to yourself, your heart aching in the best way possible, and you desperately try your best to ignore it, no matter how much excitement it brought you. 

"Always, Jake." 

“Tell me something about you that I don’t already know,” you challenge him, your voice carrying that light and endearing tone over the phone that Jake’s come to crave. 

“Hmm,” Jake hums thoughtfully as he lies in his bed, eyes closed, just simply treasuring the small moments, like this one, with you. 

Even though it’s definitely 3AM where he is right now. And he definitely has to be up in a few hours for rehearsal. 

Oh well, completely irrelevant. Talking about everything and anything with you just felt so right. 

“I don’t know,” he eventually exhales, his brain too foggy to think of anything logical right now. “I feel like you know me better than I know myself at this point, Y/N.” 

“You’re so corny it physically hurts, Jake,” you scoff, and Jake swears he can feel your exaggerated eye roll from thousands of miles away. 

“Oh—wait, wait! I have one,” he perks up, his eyes shooting open as he turns towards the phone in excitement. 

“Hit me,” you say, unconsciously smiling at how cute he sounds. 

“I’m allergic to flowers.” 

The line falls silent for a beat before you erupt into a storm of giggles so wild it makes Jake feel sick from how fast the butterflies in his stomach start fluttering. 

“That’s your fun fact? That’s so tragic, Jake,” you gasp through your giggles. “Like, depressingly tragic.” 

“Hey! It’s not that sad, it could be worse,” Jake hopes you can hear his pout over the phone (you can). 

“So you’re telling me you’ve never bought a girl flowers before?” You tease, smiling to yourself as you stare at your ceiling. 

“Guess not,” Jake lets out a laugh, which surprises himself. “Jenn used to always get mad at me for never getting her any, but what am I supposed to do? Show up with a bouquet and an epi-pen? I literally start tearing up whenever I’m around any kind.” 

You lose it all over again, your laughter spilling through Jake’s phone like sunshine, and Jake doesn’t even realize he’s smiling so widely until his cheeks start to ache. 

But what Jake does realize is something unexpected: for the first time in forever, he can talk about Jenn without a single pang of…anything. No weird tension, no lingering sadness—just a casual mention and then…nothing. 

It’s freeing, this feeling of lightness, like an invisible weight he didn’t know he was even carrying has suddenly lifted. He wonders if this is what moving on really feels like, if he’s found his emotional freedom. He wonders when it changed. 

He wonders maybe it’s not when—maybe it’s who.  

And he wonders if it’s you. 

Today was supposed to be Jake’s day off. The golden ticket to rest, recharge, and not think about anything.

Key term: supposed to be.

Instead, Jake found himself knee-deep in the trenches of emotional warfare—and losing spectacularly.

The morning started innocently enough. No alarm, no schedule, just the soft promise of freedom that was so close within his reach. But by noon, Jake came to a harsh realization.

Freedom was a lie.

Because every step, every sight, every breath, was haunted by one inescapable thought: You.

It started with a boutique. Him and the boys had wandered down a cobblestone street in a city that Jake had already forgotten the name of—city number ten or eleven of tour? He barely knew anymore. But then his gaze caught on a mannequin in the window.

Big mistake.

The outfit on display—similar to his mind—had you written all over it. Immediately, his brain spiraled.

Y/N would love that. She'd probably drag me and all the guys in and force me to hold her bag while she tried it on.

He had to physically stop himself from dragging the group inside to purchase it on the spot.

Next? A coffee shop. And there it was: a poster featuring some limited-edition iced peach latte. Jake froze, staring at it like it held the answers to life itself.

You’d love it. You would order it, (well, you'd make Jake order it, because you hate talking to cashiers), sip it, smile, and probably rant about how overpriced it was—even though Jake would pay for it—yet you’d still finish the entire thing.

And then, you'd steal half of his drink, too. 

Because you always did. 

And Jake always lets you.

The final straw? A cat. Just a random stray, peacefully lounging on a sunny part of sidewalk, looking like it had zero interest in the world around it. And even that didn't escape Jake's you-obsessed filter. Without even thinking, Jake whipped out his phone. 

It was instinctual at this point.

Jake [1:06PM]: (attached - one image) Jake [1:06PM]: thought you'd like this one :)

Because obviously, you needed to see that cat. Immediately.

By the time Jake collapses onto his hotel bed that evening, he feels like he’d run a mental marathon—except instead of a finish line, every road led back to you.

He flops onto his bed, hoping sleep would save him from the storm raging in his brain.

Spoiler alert: it doesn't.

Instead, it leads him to the complete opposite. He stares at your name on his phone, your contact picture, your last messages to him. 

You texted him two hours ago—a sweet goodnight message that ended with your usual, 'Don't hesitate to call if you need me.' 

Casual. Normal.

But it probably didn't mean, 'Hey, please interrupt my sleep from the other side of the world so we can discuss your ongoing emotional crisis over me.'

Don't do it, Jake. The remaining rational brain cells within him beg him to stop. You're being dramatic. She's not the air you need to breathe.

But at the same time, deep down, Jake really thinks you are.

The worst part? You two already had talked on the phone earlier—when Jake had another fashion crisis and couldn't decide what to wear for his day off exploring with the guys. Of course, you laughed at him, teased him, but then helped him pick something out anyways. Typical.

Personally, if it was up to him, he'd spent his whole day off on the phone with you. Talking about everything. Or nothing. Whatever you wanted, Jake would've done it, no hesitation.

Don't do it, Jake, his brain warns him again. What kind of obsessed-lunatic calls the same person twice in one day?

Answer: Jake.

But as Jake lies in his hotel bed, thoughts heavily clouded with the image of you and the sound of your voice, he realizes...this wasn't just a phone call thing. No, this was deeper, worse. And somewhere between staring at the same patch of ceiling and replaying every memory of you on a mental loop, Jake tries to rationalize it.

She’s just a good friend, Jake. A best friend, even! You think about her a lot because she’s cool and funny and…and she has the laugh of a Disney princess...But it’s normal to think about your friends, right? Right??

But the more he tries to downplay it, the clearer it becomes. This was something else.

And then it hits.

Like, really hits.

Oh my god. I like her.

Jake shoots upright, widened eyes filled with horror, as if the realization itself just physically smacked him across the face.

No, no, no, no, no. This can’t be happening.

Jake buries his face in his hands, groaning. But the groan quickly turns into a muffled scream, because the more he thinks about it, the worse it gets.

Because he thinks you're going to be the death of him. He really, really likes you. Not in the vague, 'Oh, she’s cute' way, but in the write-her-name-in-a-heart-and-doodle-little-stars-around-it kind of way. The stare-at-her-texts-like-they’re-poetry kind of way. The imagine-her-laughing-at-your-dad’s-jokes-and-enjoying-your-mom’s-meals-forever kind of way.

And this feeling? It's new. It's terrifying. 

It's exhilarating.

Jake realizes in this very moment that he's never experienced this heart-pounding, face-flushing, breath-taking kind of feeling towards anyone. Sure, his past relationship had been meaningful in its own way, but now Jake is realizing that the foundation of his past relationship was tangled up in obligations and unspoken expectations. A tightrope act of Jake having to be the perfect boyfriend, the perfect idol, the perfect...everything. He never realized how suffocating it was until now—until you. Because this feeling with you?

This was pure. Simple, clear, and undeniable.

Your sheer existence proved that it's possible for someone to understand him better than he understands himself. Your laugh had a way of making everything feel lighter, like the weight of the world had been momentarily suspended. Just one look from you alone somehow always manages to make him feel like he was still worthy even on his worst days.

With you, Jake felt...himself, for once. Not Jake Sim, global popstar. Not Jake Sim, the boyfriend of so-and-so. Just...Jake.

Jake's heart pounds as the realization sinks in. He's now transitioned from screaming into his hands to his poor hotel pillow.

Because as clear and strong as this feeling is, the doubt is just as overwhelming. What if you don't feel the same? What if this ruins everything?

But at the same time...what if you do feel the same way?

What if this is his chance? The butterfly effect that changes everything? What if you're it? You have to be.

And so, like an idiot possessed, Jake's finger is one millimeter away from pressing call on your name again.

Because, obviously, the best way to deal with overwhelming feelings is to confess them from a hotel room five countries away.

Obviously. 

Because what if he didn't call? What if he spent the rest of his night spiraling into an endless pit of unspoken feelings and overthinking, arms flailing as he knows the only way out of the pit is with your help?

What if his brain explodes with the sheer amount of feelings he has for you and he never has the chance to tell you ever again?

He presses call.

The line rings twice before you answer.

"Jake?" Your voice is soft, laced with surprise and just the faintest trace of sleep. "It's late for you, is everything okay?"

Jake's brain short-circuits. What time even is it for him? He has no idea, and frankly, he doesn't care.

"Yeah," he blurts, far too quickly that he winces at himself. He clears his throat before trying again, "I mean, yeah. Everything's fine. I just...couldn't sleep."

"Oh," you hum softly and Jake swears the sound alone could single-handedly resolve global wars.

Yeah, he definitely likes you.

"Is something stressing you out?" The genuine concern in your voice makes his chest tighten.

"No—well, nothing like that," Jake rushes to assure you, sitting up straighter in bed now, as if you could see him. His voice lowers, almost shy, "I just...I was thinking about you."

Silence. Jake's heart pounds so loudly, he's sure you can hear it through the phone.

"About me?" You finally tease, light and playful, but there's something softer underneath. "What did I do to deserve such an honor?"

Jake lets out a nervous, breathy laugh, running a hand through his hair, “You exist. That’s what.”

Another pause. He hears you exhale softly, and the sound alone sends his heart into overdrive.

"That was smooth," your voice is quiet, soft, as if teetering on the line of teasing and nervousness at the same time. "Ten out of ten, Jake."

"I'm serious," Jake tries his best to keep his voice from cracking, the weight of his feelings pressing down on him. "I was lying here, thinking about everything, and I realized something."

"And what's that?"

Jake's throat goes dry. His heart is screaming at him to say it, but his brain begs him to reconsider.

But Jake's sure he's lost all his rational brain cells for sure at this point, so he swallows hard, and braces himself for impact.

"I like you, Y/N."

The words spill out, raw and unpolished, but so utterly true.

“I mean, I really like you," Jake continues, his voice barely above a whisper now. "More than a friend, more than anything.”

The line goes silent, and for a split second, a lifetime of pure awkwardness and torture of not having you in his life anymore flashes in his vision, and he rushes to fill the void.

"I know this is probably the worst timing ever, and probably really scary...and it's okay if you don't feel the same way," his voice definitely cracks this time, laying everything bare, but he doesn't care anymore. "But I had to tell you. I can't pretend around you, not when being around you feels like the only time I'm really me."

Then, you let out a soft exhale—a disbelieving, breathless sound that makes Jake's heart skip a beat.

"Jake..."

"You're...you're everything, Y/N. You make life better just by being in it. And I haven't even seen you in four months, but you're all I think about," Jake lets out a small laugh, swallowing the remainder of all his pride and dignity. "I promise, when I'm back...I'll prove it to you. I'll show you how much you mean to me. Anything it takes. "

For once in his life, Jake feels completely vulnerable—and yet, strangely, it feels right.

Because he means it, every word.

He's never meant anything more.

The line had gone quiet after Jake’s confession, his words echoing in your ears. 

“I like you, Y/N.” 

No, not like. Really, really like. 

You spent the last few days replaying his words over and over, dissecting every syllable, every tiny inflection in this voice. At first, it didn't even seem real.  

A part of you still thinks it isn't—that this is all a cruel dream and you're going to wake up any second now back in the real world. The one where Jake Sim, the boy who turns heads and steals hearts without even trying, didn't just confess his deepest, most vulnerable feelings for you in a single phone call. 

But no. He said it, alright. Clear as day.  

First, all you felt was pure happiness. Maybe it was hearing his voice everyday, or maybe it was seeing how his face lit up through the screen when you picked up his video calls—but somewhere along the way, you knew it was something deeper. 

Something that made your heart skip when his name lit up your phone, something that left you craving his voice to make your day feel complete. And now? Now the boy who’d effortlessly become your favorite part of every day was telling you you’d done the same for him. 

But then, came the fear. 

Because what if this was just a rebound? What if you were just a soft landing for him, a way to patch up the holes left behind by his past? Here you were, standing at the edge of something terrifyingly real, wondering if you were just a step in his recovery process—a way to fill the cracks, but not the kind of permanence you were beginning to crave. 

You weren’t naive enough to see Jake’s past relationship didn’t still linger in the corners of his mind. You’d seen him struggle with it before, how hard he’d tried to convince himself he was fine. What if you were just the next step in his healing, rather than something real—a Band-Aid for a wound that wasn’t even yours to heal? 

And worse—what if you let it happen? What if you let yourself fall, only to hit the ground at an alarming speed, and...splat. Not just a regular, embarrassing tumble, no. But the kind that leaves you flattened on the pavement like a cartoon character who ignored every warning sign. 

Because that’s exactly what it would feel like, wouldn’t it? Giving it, letting yourself hope—only to crash and burn spectacularly. 

Deep down, you knew you weren’t just risking a little heartache. Because Jake? Jake had quietly claimed a permanent spot in your heart at this point. 

You were risking everything. 

And the worst part? 

You were already halfway there. 

That was the reason why you told him you needed time. The reason why all you could manage to respond was a meek, 'I just...I need to think about this.' And to his credit, Jake hadn't pushed. Of course, not.  

But now, three days later, you were no closer to an answer. If anything, the time apart had made everything worse. 

Because as the days stretched on, with every passing hour, every text you didn’t send and every call you didn’t make, one thing became gut-wrenchingly, undeniably clear: 

You were already his. 

You miss Jake’s voice, his laugh, the way he rambles about the most random things late at night. You miss how, somehow, he made you fall asleep with a smile on your face from the other side of the world. You miss him, that even in his absence, he was still your first thought in your mind when you woke up and the last before you drifted to sleep. 

And no amount of overthinking or second-guessing could change the truth that finally settled in your chest like a secret you weren’t ready to admit to yourself:

You were his. Completely. 

The only question now was whether you’d let yourself believe he was yours too. 

"Y/N?"  

"Jungwon," you groan helplessly into your phone. "Help me."  

A pause. Then, "Are you sure you meant to call me? It's Jungwon, not Jake," he teases lightly. "I can go get Jake if you meant—" 

"Jungwon!" You cut him off, panicked. "I'm being serious. It's about Jake, dummy."  

"Oh," his tone shifts instantly as he senses the seriousness in your voice. "Did something happen? Because I swear, for the past three days, Jake's been moping around like a kicked puppy, and I was gonna ask you about it because I know you guys have been talking a lot more, but I didn't want to push, and—" 

"That's exactly it, Jungwon!" You wail into your pillow, your voice muffled. Great, now you feel even worse, knowing Jake is moping around, waiting for you.   

"What's exactly it?" Your best friend presses, voice curious. "I need specifics, Y/N."  

You hesitate, the words clinging to the back of your throat like they're too heavy to admit. Finally, you take a deep breath and force them out.  

"Jake told me he likes me, Jungwon. Like really, really likes me. He gave this whole monologue about how I'm all he can think about, and it was so cute, and it made me want to explode from joy and fear all at once, and I don't know what to do!"  

A beat of silence. 

Jungwon sucks in a dramatic breath and then, "Wait, wait, wait. Back up. First of all, this is not news to me."  

You blink, as if he can see your look of shock over the phone, "What?"  

"This was obvious, Y/N. The guy's been smitten with you for months. You guys literally have been talking every day since we left."  

Your jaw drops, "So what? You and I talk every day! How is this any different?"  

Jungwon snorts, "Y/N, we text every day. About minuscule things. Like me reminding you not to forget your keys and you ghosting my last text. But you and Jake? You guys talk for hours—into the illegal hours of the night, mind you. Trust me, I know. Hotel walls are thin."  

You feel your cheeks flushing, "That doesn't mean anything."  

"Doesn't it?" Jungwon's voice is laced with amusement. "When's the last time you called me just to hear my voice?"  

"Jungwon."  

"Exactly."  

You groan again, "But Jungwon, what if…what if he's not over Jenn? What if I'm just a rebound?"  

Jungwon goes quiet for a moment, his tone softening when he finally speaks, “Jake’s not like that, Y/N. You know that. He wouldn’t tell you he likes you unless he meant it.” 

“Yeah, but—” 

“Look," he interrupts. "Jake’s a lot of things—annoyingly loud, for one—but he’s not the kind of guy who’d use someone, especially you, as a rebound. If he said he likes you, he likes you.” 

You bite your lip, his words settling over you like a warm blanket—because you know they're true.  

“And for what it’s worth,” Jungwon continues, “I think you like him too.” 

“I..,” you falter, your heart hammering in your chest. “I do.” 

“Then what are you waiting for?” 

You sigh, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the nerves coiled in your stomach, “I don’t know. I guess I’m scared.” 

“That’s okay,” Jungwon says gently. “But don’t let fear stop you from something that could make you happy. You deserve that, Y/N. And so does Jake.” 

You close your eyes, letting Jungwon's words sink in. Deep down, you know he's right, he always is.  

"Thanks, Jungwon," you say, your voice softer now, tinged with gratitude.  

"Anytime," he replies, and then, with a teasing lilt, "But seriously—you should probably tell him soon. I can't stand watching him mope around like a sad, abandoned puppy. It's seriously tragic, like, to the point where I’m gonna have to start letting him win at Mario Kart."  

A small giggle escapes you, light and genuine for the first time in three days, "I know, I know. Eventually."  

"Y/N," his voice turns playfully stern, like a parent lecturing their toddler. "Eventually isn't a time. Just call him. You've been thinking about him nonstop, haven't you?" 

Unfortunately, Jungwon knows you too well. Your silent response betrays you, and Jungwon lets out a triumphant hum.  

"Thought so. Well, you should go. You have a call to make."  

You sigh, a mix of nerves and a new determination bubbling, "Okay, okay. But if this goes horribly wrong, I'm blaming you."  

"It won't. But deal," his tone is reassuring, confident, like he already knows how this story ends. "You got this, Y/N."  

The call ends, and the quiet still of your room taunts you. For a moment, you sit there, staring at your phone, the little icon of Jake's contact picture—a selfie the two of you took together many years ago—staring back at you like a challenge.  

Your fingers hover. Your heart races, your palms feel clammy, and your stomach twists.  

But then you remember Jungwon's words.  

You deserve this.  

And so does Jake.  

You take a deep breath, then you press down on his name.  

The phone doesn't even reach the second ring before he picks up.  

"Y/N," Jake’s voice is rushed, a little breathless.  

"Hey," you say softly, suddenly unsure where to start. "Um, were you busy?"  

"No, no," he quickly responds. "Not at all. You could call me at 3AM, and I still would’ve picked up."  

"That's unhealthy, you know," your lips twitch as you lay back in your bed, taking a deep inhale. You missed this—you missed him.  

"For you? Worth it," you can hear the smile in his voice, but along with the slight tension just beneath it—the faintest tremor that tells you he's been waiting for this call, maybe agonizing over it just as much as you have.  

You swallow hard, gripping the phone tight, "Jake, about...our last call..."  

"Take your time," he says gently, though you don't miss the way his voice wavers ever so slightly. "I mean it, Y/N. There's no pressure."  

You exhale shakily, closing your eyes, “I’ve been thinking a lot, too. About you. About…us.” 

Jake stays silent, but you could hear the faint sound of him shifting, like he was bracing himself. 

You squeeze your eyes hard, as you let the words finally come out, "I like you too, Jake. A lot. So much, honestly. It's just..."  

"It's just...?" Jake's voice repeats softly, as if that's all he can manage to let out in the midst of his nervousness.  

You hold your breath, scared of what you're about to admit—to Jake and to yourself. 

"It's just...I'm scared," your voice comes out barely above a whisper, "I'm scared that this is too good to be true. That you're saying all of this because...I don't know—you're trying to move on...from the past, or because you're lonely on tour, or—" 

"Y/N,” Jake's voice cuts through firm, but gentle.  

"You're not…a rebound, or a distraction, or anything like that," he starts quietly, each word deliberate. "And this isn't about...Jenn, or me being lonely, or whatever else you think. This is about you."  

Your breath hitches as you take in his words and open your eyes, hoping that staring at the ceiling above you could somehow ground you.  

“You’re the one who makes me laugh when I’ve had the worst day,” Jake continues. “You’re the one I want to talk to, even when I’m running on zero sleep. You’re the one I think about when I’m on stage and wish I could just look into the crowd and see you there. It’s you, Y/N."  

His words are overwhelming, too much, and you're unsure how to even process them. Your throat tightens, and you can feel the subconscious tears prickling at the corners of your eyes without even realizing they were forming.  

"Are you sure, Jake?"  

"More than anything else, Y/N," he says immediately, like the words have been waiting on the tip of his tongue. "And I want to do this right, Y/N. No rushing, no expectations. Just...tell me what you need from me, and I'll do it. Whatever it takes, I'll do it."  

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. You can picture him on the other side of the line, sitting in some unfamiliar hotel room, his brows probably furrowed in that adorable way they always do whenever he tries to find the right words.  

You bite your lip, a small laugh escaping despite the tears sliding down your cheeks, “You’re so cheesy, you know that?” 

Jake lets out a small laugh, immediately easing from the tension that hung in the air.  

"Only for you," he mumbles, his voice soft but steady.  

You sigh, the sound reaching Jake on the other side. There's a pause, a moment of mutual understanding in silence, just listening to the quiet, peaceful hum of each other's breathing.  

“Jake?” You say finally, your voice trembling. 

“Yeah?” 

“I think…” You take a deep breath, and you think your heart is about to break out of your chest. “I think I want to try too.” 

The silence on the other end was electric, and for a moment, you think maybe the call dropped. Then, you hear the unmistakable sound of Jake’s laugh—soft, relieved, and filled with so much warmth that it instantly makes your own heart feel lighter. 

“You're driving me crazy, Y/N,” he says, his voice almost breathless, but tinged with humor.  

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” he says, a smile clear in his tone.  

“I hope I am,” you quip, and it makes him chuckle, the sound warm and full of relief. “Guess I’m stuck with your cheesy lines now huh?” 

“Stuck with me?” Jake repeats, pretending to sound offended. “No way. I’m stuck with you, Y/N. And trust me, I’m not going anywhere.” 

His words are so simple, yet so full of promise, and it leaves you feeling a little breathless. 

“Good,” you whisper, your cheeks warm. “Because I don’t want you to.” 

“Hi Jake,” your voice bright as you immediately pick up his call and see his face appear on the screen, his expression softening when he sees you. 

“Hey pretty,” he replies, without missing a beat, his voice laced with a soft fondness that never fails to make your stomach flip. 

You roll your eyes, failing miserably to hide the blush rising to your cheeks, “Oh, so now I’m pretty, huh?”

Jake smirks at your words, leaning closer to his phone, “Nah, you’ve always been pretty. Just didn’t have the guts to say it to your face before.”  

You groan, dramatically planting your face into your pillow as an attempt to bury the smile on your face, your voice muffled, “You’re gonna be the death of me, Jake.”

“Stop that, don’t hide. Let me see your face,” his tone dips somewhere between playful and pleading, and you give in, lifting your head just enough for him to catch a glimpse of your red cheeks. 

“Cute,” he says with a knowing grin, leaning back against the headboard of his bed. 

“Whatever,” you murmur, but the smile on your face remains. “How was your day today?” 

“Mmm, it was good,” Jake says, running a hand through his messy hair. “Busy, but good. I forget how loud the fans get each time. But it’s nice. Makes it feel worth it, you know?” 

“I’m glad,” your smile grows as you watch him speak, feeling nothing but proud of him. “You deserve all of it, Jake.” 

“Stop,” now he’s groaning, throwing a hand over his face to cover his shy expression. “You’re going to make me blush.” 

“Mm, looks like you already are, Jakey,” you shake your head, laughing softly. 

“Maybe a little,” he admits as he peeks at you through his fingers, his grin boyish and infectious, and you can’t help but laugh again. 

The call falls quiet for a moment, but it’s not awkward—just comfortable, like a shared breath. Jake shifts, turning on his stomach and propping his phone up against some pillows to make sure you can still see him. 

“I miss you,” he says suddenly, and there’s something raw in his tone, something unguarded that catches you off guard. 

Your heart stutters.

“Jake, I literally called you this morning,” you tease, your tone light and sweet. But still, you can’t resist, “I miss you too.”  

“You don’t sound convincing enough,” his eyes narrow at you, the pout forming on his lips quickly turning into a small smirk. “Say it like you mean it.” 

“Fine,” you huff, rolling your eyes. “I miss you so, so much Sim Jaeyun, that it’s physically painful and I might conbust on the spot if I don’t see you soon. Happy?” 

“Very,” he grins into the camera, making your heart beat faster. Ugh. "But please don't combust for me. Who else am I supposed to call every day?"  

"Oh, please, you'd survive," you shoot back, smirking. "I'm sure anyone else would be more than happy to fill the spot."  

Jake clicks his tongue, shaking his head dramatically. "Nope, no one could keep with you, Y/N. You're a handful."  

"Excuse me?" You scoff, mock offense all over your face. "You're calling me a handful? Jake, who's the one that texts me random song lyrics at 3AM and expects me to interpret their deep meaning like it's poetry?"  

"Okay, first of all, they are deep," he argues, his grin widening into something boyish and utterly unfair. "And second of all, I know you secretly love it."  

You let out a laugh as you roll onto your side, propping your phone against the pillow next to you.  

"Maybe I do," you admit with a shrug, trying to sound nonchalant despite the smile on your face. "Or maybe I don't. That's up to you to find out."  

Jake shakes his head, laughing softly, his eyes twinkling as they linger on your face. 

"You really are a handful, Y/N," his voice teases while his eyes remain on you through the screen, as if studying you, and it makes your stomach flip.  

You glance away, suddenly feeling shy again under his unwavering gaze, "Stop looking at me like that."  

"Like what?" His voice is innocent, his eyebrows lifting in feign obliviousness.  

"I don't know—like you're trying to memorize my face or something," you mutter, your cheeks burning.  

"Maybe I am," his voice dips, low and soft. "Honestly wouldn't complain if that's the last thing I ever got to remember."  

His words hit you square in the chest, and despite how ridiculously corny they are, they manage to take your breath away. You don't know if you'll ever get used to this newly discovered side of Jake—the one that speaks so candidly, so sweetly—like you're the only person in his universe.  

But honestly? You love it. You love how he makes you feel, how his words wrap around you perfectly like they were tailor made just for you. But as much as you love it, you fear it too.  

Because the more you fall into this feeling, the more you wonder if there's anything solid beneath it. Despite all the soft words shared and sweet nothings exchanged, at the end of the day, deep down inside you can't help but ask yourself if his words, if he, is even yours to begin with. 

"Jake..."  

"Hmm?" His voice is gentle now, the teasing edge in his voice fading.  

"You really mean it, don't you?" You ask, your voice quieter now, the question laced with your vulnerability. "You're serious about...this? About us?"  

"Of course I am," he answers without hesitation. His soft eyes stay trained on you as he sits up in his spot in bed, as if to show just how serious he is. He lets out an exhale, as if mentally encouraging himself to continue, "I know we're not...whatever this is, officially yet. But I do know that I like what we have."  

He brings his phone closer, a small smile on his face, his expression earnest, "And that I like you. A lot."  

You swallow hard, his words settling in your chest in the best way possible. Because despite everything—the doubts, the undefined boundaries—you can't deny the truth of how you feel.  

"Me too," you admit, your voice steady and honest. "I like what we have too. And I like you."  

You pause, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips as you feel the remainders of your walls crumbling down, "You make me happy, Jake. Like annoyingly happy."  

"Good. Because you make me happy too," His smile spreads wide, the kind that is contagious and could light up an entire room. "Annoyingly happy, if we're being specific."  

You roll your eyes again, though you're smiling just as much, "We really are insufferable, aren't we?"  

"Oh, completely," Jake nods, his tone playful. He's more relaxed, back to leaning against his headboard as he looks at you with a softened gaze. "We'll figure it out, Y/N. I promise. Whatever this is, or whatever it becomes, I'm not going anywhere. And honestly? I just can't wait to see you. Finally."  

"Me too," you perk up, your eyes sparkling with excitement as you bring your phone closer, "It feels like it's been forever. This tour feels so much longer than the other ones for some reason."  

"It does," Jake hums in agreement, his eyes thoughtful. "But you know what? I think It's because, this time...I actually have something waiting for me. Something—or someone—I want to come home to. And that makes every day feel so much longer."  

You think, at this point, you should check yourself into the emergency department for the sheer amount of times you thought your heart was going to pound out of your body from Jake's words alone.  

“You're ridiculous," you laugh, the sound bubbling out so naturally you couldn't hold it back even if you tried. "It's getting kind of out of hand how cheesy you are, Jake."  

"And yet," he fires back with a smirk, "you love it. Admit it. I've cracked the code."  

"Maybe I do," you tease, repeating your words from earlier as the corners of your mouth tug up into a smile you can't suppress. "But don't let it get to your head."  

"Too late," he grins. "It's already there."  

Jake [2:15AM] : can I call you?   Y/N [2:16AM]: jake isnt it like 2AM for you?   Jake [2:16AM]: well…yea but I was thinking about you so… 

Your feet are kicking before you even realize, and before you can type up a response, your phone lights up with Jake's name and contact picture. 

“Hi,” you answer softly, trying not to let the giddy smile growing on your face take over. 

“Hey pretty,” he greets, voice warm and easy as he brings a hand through his messy hair. The lights in his room are off, and the dim glow of his phone screen casts a soft light over his features, making him look unfairly good for someone who should be fast asleep.  

“You have two seconds to give me a good reason why you’re here talking to me instead of getting a good night’s rest before your concert tomorrow,” your eyes narrow in mock disapproval as you give him a knowing look.  

Jake laughs lightly, “Hey! Okay, hear me out. I couldn’t sleep, so I did something.”  

You raise an eyebrow, “You did something? That sounds ominous, I’m scared.”  

“Yeah. For you,” he states plainly, leaving you even more confused for a second more before he continues. “I made you a playlist.”  

Your brain stalls at how simple he says it—so casual, as if not packed with so much meaning.  

“A playlist? You—wait, why?”  

Jake shrugs, “I don’t know—I guess I just wanted you to hear what I hear when I think about you. Which, by the way, is a lot. So..”  

You blink at the screen, your mouth slightly agape at the boy who's watching you with that lopsided grin that makes it practically impossible to function. You scramble to collect yourself, but the more you try, the worse it gets, and by now, you think he definitely took some secret class on how-to-make-Y/N-completely-flustered.  

And aced it.  

And of course, he notices—because Jake always notices.  

“You okay there?” His voice breaks you out of your overwhelming thoughts, his teasing tone laced with curiosity.  

“Define okay,” you mutter, rubbing a hand over your face in an attempt to cool down the warmth spreading like wildfire across your cheeks. “Because if it means not feeling like a complete fool over a guy who’s halfway across the world, then no, I’m absolutely not okay.”  

Jake lets out a low laugh, the sound affectionate as he leans closer to the camera, the light reflecting off his shining eyes, “If it helps, you’re not the only one losing your mind here.”  

“Oh yeah?” you arch an eyebrow, “What’s your excuse, Sim?”  

“My excuse?” He tilts his head with a small, exaggerated frown, pretending to think. “Hmm…let’s see…I’m hopelessly into this girl who somehow makes being teased fun, who makes me smile just by hearing my name come out her mouth, and who—“  

“Okay! Stop, stop, enough,” your voice strangled as you try to talk through the fit of giggles you couldn’t hold down. “You’re gonna kill me, Jake. Like, actually. I’m not strong enough for this.”  

Jake laughs at your flustered reaction, holding up a hand of surrender, “Fine, fine. But seriously, look.”  

You hear the sound of faint typing in the background before your phone buzzes with a text containing a link.  

“It’s called Songs That Remind Me of Y/N. Creative, right?”  

You open the link, and your thoughts are dazed at the sight of the endless playlist of songs. Some new to you, some you recognize—all of them feeling like little pieces of Jake's heart he's handing to you.  

"I think it's perfect," you murmur softly, scrolling through the titles, the warmth and appreciation for him now feeling almost too overwhelming.  

"Yeah?" Jake's eyes shine with a mixture of pride and hope as he watches your reaction.  

"Yeah," you repeat, switching your phone screen back to his face and giving him a genuine smile. "I love it. Thank you, Jake."  

Jake hums in response, the look on his eyes gentle as a beat of comfortable silence falls between you two.  

"Well, I should probably sleep for real now, but...listen to it when you miss me, okay? Because chances are, I'm probably doing the same."  

You pause, letting the weight of his words settle over you—vulnerable, yet undoubtedly honest. "Deal. I'll listen to it right now, then."  

"Good," his smile grows, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Because I am too. I miss you, too."  

You both linger for a moment, neither wanting to end the call just yet, simply enjoying each other's pure, raw presence.  

"Sweet dreams, Jake," you finally say, your voice gentle as you slowly let sleep take over. 

"Only if they’re about you," he quips, grinning.  

You roll your eyes, your chest feeling lighter, "Go to bed, Sim."  

"Yes, ma'am," he winks, and with one last fond look, he ends the call, leaving you smiling at your screen like the absolute fool he's turned you into.  

"I can't believe you're finally coming back tomorrow," you murmur into the phone, your voice soft but buzzing with excitement as you take in the sight of Jake sprawled out on his bed. The dim glow of his phone highlights just enough of his face to remind you how impossibly cute he is—even with the pillow creases on his cheek.  

"I know," Jake sighs dramatically, flopping onto his side. His head sinks into the pillow, and you hear a soft fwump as he shifts to find a comfortable spot. "I just wish I wasn't landing so late. If I could, I'd come see you the second I land. Like, bags in hand, running to your door."  

"You'd probably trip and knock yourself out with your carry-on, Jake," you snort but then smile, the imagine of Jake rushing to get to you playing in your head.  

"First of all, I'm very athletic," Jake raises an eyebrow, pretending to be offended. "Second, that's exactly what would happen, but at least I'd be unconscious on your doorstep, which is still closer to you than I've been in months."  

Your heart does a little flip at the sound of the sincerity in his voice as you try to keep your tone casual, "It's okay, Jake. I'm not going anywhere. We'll see each other the next day? If you're free, maybe."  

Jake's face softens in that stupidly adorable way he always does when he knows you're just trying to play it cool. "Free or not, I'll find a way. Nothing's stopping me from seeing you, Y/N. Not jet lag, not my schedule, not even my manager if he tries to barricade me in the building."  

A giggle escapes you, partly at his sheer determination and partly to cover up the butterflies constantly causing the havoc in your stomach when it comes to him. And Jake, of course, looks all smug, like he knows exactly what he's doing to you. Typical Jake—sweet, determined, and impossibly endearing.  

But as much as his words make your cheeks warm, there's another reason why you're holding back your smile.  

Because, despite what Jake thinks, you're going to see him much sooner than he expects. All thanks to a message you got earlier from the group's manager:  

Y/N! Hope you’re doing well! We all miss you and can’t wait to see you soon! As you know, the boys are returning tomorrow late at night, but the staff and I want to plan a little surprise party at their apartment, they have no idea. The team’s already prepping everything. We’d love for you to come—it wouldn’t be the same without you. 10 PM! See you! 

You're practically vibrating with excitement, each passing minute on the call with Jake making it harder and harder to not just blurt it out and tell him you'll be seeing him in less than 24 hours. And, somehow, hearing his sleepy voice on the other side of the call, completely oblivious, just makes it even harder to contain yourself.  

Jake's brows furrow as he watches you try (and fail) to suppress your grin, "What's up with you? You're smiling so much, and I'm pretty sure I didn't say anything that funny."  

"Me?" You blink innocently, even though your heart skips a beat. But you shrug casually, masking your smile with a feigned yawn. "Nothing's up, you've just been acting too cute tonight. That's all."  

"You're lucky you're cute," Jake narrows his eyes at you, but even you can see through the dim lighting the red creeping across his face, "And that I'm tired. Or else I'd call you out for how you're gaslighting me right now."  

"Gaslighting?!" You sputter out, breaking out into laughter. "How am I gaslighting you for calling you cute?"  

"Because I know you're hiding something—" Jake replies, his pout audible in the way his voice drags. He yawns mid-sentence, the soft sound and the image of his eyes fluttering closed making your heart melt. "—and you're using my sleep-deprived state against me. It's not fair."  

"I'm not hiding anything!" You protest, your face one second away from cracking into a guilty smile. "Go to sleep—you're barely holding it together over there."  

"Like I'd ever fall asleep on you," he mutters, his voice heavy with drowsiness. "You're way too important for that."  

His words hit you like a train, and you have to physically restrain yourself from squealing, burying your face in your pillow before you let out a strangled, "Okay, enough sap for one night, Romeo. Go to bed."  

"Mmhm, fine, fine," Jake hums before he yawns again. "Goodnight, pretty. Dream sweet dreams, okay?"  

You let out a breath, losing the last remaining bits of your composure at this point—but in the best way possible, of course.  

"Goodnight, Jakey. I'll see you soon."  

The day flies by in a whirlwind of anticipation and sheer chaos, the emotional hurricane brewing up inside you rooting from one source and one source only.  

Because ever since you woke up this morning, every step, every sight, every breath was haunted by one inescapable thought: 

Jake.  

The morning was a blur of pacing around your room like a Sims character who was glitching after being told to "Go Here", overthinking every possible scenario for how tonight—when you finally see Jake in person—could go down.  

Because, really—how exactly do you approach the boy you've been friends with for years, who you've fallen for, in a room filled with people, including yours and his closest friends, all while pretending your heart is trying its hardest to not control, alt, delete itself?  

Not exactly something you can Google.  

Like, do you hug him? Does he hug you? What if he doesn't hug you? (Unacceptable, you decide, before pacing faster.)  

By the time afternoon rolls around, you're about 78% sure you've developed three-and-a-half migraines from the sheer pressure of it all. Not to mention, the borderline illegal amount of caffeine coursing through your veins isn't helping—why did you think drinking four cups of coffee was a good idea? (You didn't. Your brain has officially gone rogue.)  

And now, here you are. The buzzing apartment of the boys is alive with the sounds of laughter, the crinkle of party streamers being hung up, and two staff members arguing about where to put the over-dramatically large "WELCOME HOME" banner. You, along with everyone else, await for the signal, passing time by keeping up small conversation with the friends and staff you've gotten to know over the years—all the while you desperately try to keep your nerves from causing a mental crash out right here and now.  

Eventually, one of the staff gets the alert that the group has landed and is minutes away, the energy immediately shifting, both in the apartment and mentally. You settle in place in the back of the crowd, near the door but not too near the door—because 1) you're 99.99% sure you're not emotionally stable enough to be front and center, and 2) the staff and camera crew are already hogging the entrance as if this was the world's greatest comeback (and spoiler alert—to you, it really is.)  

The lights dim, the chatter fades, and the room hums with anticipation. And meanwhile? Your heart won't. Stop. Pounding.  

Any second now.  

Your nerves bubble up even more than you thought is humanly healthy, and you're not sure if you're about to a) pass out, b) puke, c) or both.

Simultaneously.  

The sound of multiple footsteps echoes faintly in the hallway, followed with muffled voices—one of them the unmistakable sound of Jake's laughter. Your breath catches.  

And then the door swings open.  

"SURPRISE!"  

The boys freeze in the doorway, their suitcases still in hand, the looks of genuine, yet pleasant, confusion plastered on all their faces. Sunghoon's eyes dart to the snacks table, Jay looks like he's deciding whether to laugh or roll his eyes, Sunoo is on the verge of tears, and Jake—Jake looks beautifully, stupidly confused.  

Your eyes immediately find Jake's face, like some natural gravitational pull you can't fight, and suddenly it hits you: he's here. In front of you. No blurry video calls, no glitchy Wi-Fi interruptions—just Jake.  

It feels surreal, like you're living in a sugar-induced dream that you aren't sure of is real yet or not. Last time you saw him in person, he was merely just Jake, one of your best friends, your go-to guy for bad jokes and late-night rants about life. But now? Now he's Jake—the boy who's somehow become the main character of your life (and brain capacity) over the past five months.  

Every memory of your late-night calls, every teasing smile, every time his sweet, groggy voice promised he'd prove himself to you—it all comes rushing back. Like those cheesy montage scenes in a rom-com, except instead of a whimsical romantic song playing in the background, it's the sound of your brain, and heart, screaming WHAT NOW Y/N?! 

But then, finally, his eyes land on you.  

The moment your eyes meet, you think your lungs give up on life. Breathing? Never heard of it. It's like someone hit the pause button on the entire universe, and you're convinced that the only thing to ever exist is Jake looking at you with that soft, unreadable expression.  

But you manage half a second of calm—half a second—before that softness on his face disappears. Just as quickly as it appeared, it's replaced by...something else. Something you can't quite put your finger on. Something you've never thought could exist on his face. A flicker of...conflict? Hesitation? Like he's staring straight at you…but also from miles away at the same time.  

His jaw tightens slightly—so slightly only you would notice with how intently you're looking at him—and for a split second, his hands fidgets at his side before he quickly clasps it over the handle of his suitcase. And right as you process it, right as you're about to convince yourself it's just the million grams of caffeine rushing through your blood that's making you hallucinate and see things— 

He looks away.  

He looks away.  

He looks away. As if you're not even standing there, as if he didn't just short-circuit your entire brain. His attention shifts to the nearest staff member, greeting them with a quick nod, and suddenly he's smiling and laughing at something they're saying like nothing just happened.  

And just like that, the universe hits the play button again, and you're left standing there—staring, blinking, wondering if the last thirty seconds of your life was, indeed, a caffeine-induced hallucination after all. Surely. Right?  

Because Jake definitely didn't avoid you on purpose. Nope. Because that would be insane. Insane, you think to yourself, as the invisible angel on your shoulder continues to whisper into your ear the same sweet words Jake's been telling you the past five months about how much he cares for you, how much he likes you—remember all those times he said it?  

Right. Right. Of course, he does. But still, you stand there frozen, trying to ground yourself, even though your hands start fidgeting at your sides anyway. Great. Fantastic. Cool, cool, cool. This is fine. 

You mentally curse yourself for not being closer to the door after all, and then, you mentally curse every single person in this room for not magically gaining telepathic powers and knowing that you, personally, were trying to have a moment.  

It's fine. You'll find him again. He's just too preoccupied with all the staff members and people to greet. Busy Jake. Social Jake. You're just imagining things. Definitely.  

Trying to distract yourself, you glance around the apartment, everything suddenly feeling suffocating. Maybe a snack. Maybe a drink. Maybe a portal to another dimension. 

Shaking your head out of your spiraling thoughts, you bite the inside of your cheek to ground yourself and turn away from the crowd, quickly settling yourself near the beverage table, pouring yourself a cup of...whatever this is—your mind too cloudy to even bother looking at the sign on the table.

You don't know how much time passes, and frankly, you don't even know if you're fully conscious. Your mind is still living in the past, lingering in that moment where you locked eyes with Jake for the first time in five months, and despite all the overthinking you did this morning of all the possible scenarios that could happen—this was not one of them.  

You're about to pour yourself a second drink just to keep your thoughts busy when you feel a tap on your shoulder.  

"Y/N!"  

Before you can fully turn around, you're engulfed in a warm hug, the familiar scent of Jungwon's cologne immediately grounding you, "Oh god, I missed you. Took me forever to find you with all these people."  

"Jungwon!" You exclaim, a genuine smile lighting up your face despite the emotional tug-of-war in your chest, because, of course, leave it to your best friend to immediately ease your inner panic. You squeeze him back, playfully ruffling his hair as you pull away, "I can't believe they made you grow out your hair. Now you actually look older than me for once."  

He stares at you, blinking. "Y/N. I am older than you."  

"Literally by a week. We all know I'm mentally older," you deadpan, crossing your arms.  

"Okay, I take it back. I didn't miss you after all," he scoffs as you laugh, pulling him into another hug for good measure just to annoy him.  

"I'm so glad you guys are back," you say as Jungwon grabs the drink in your hand and takes a sip himself as he listens to you. "I was dying of boredom without you guys."  

Jungwon raises an eyebrow, "Uh-huh. Definitely didn't sound like boredom all those nights you called Jake at 2AM."  

You freeze. Oh. Great. The one topic you were trying to avoid (how you were going to avoid it—given you're at his literal apartment, with his literal group members, and literal staff members that all work for him—you're not sure. Avoidance was a doomed plan from the start, I fear).  

But before you could answer, Jungwon continues, "So...are you guys, like, a thing now? I know you guys were just talking this whole time, but now that we're back, are you guys gonna be in a relationship and all that stuff? Because if so, I need a heads-up. As much I love you both, I don't know if I can stand you two being all couple-y right in front of me—oh, and also—"  

"Jungwon." 

"—if he hurts you in any way, I swear to god I will not hesitate to—"  

"Jungwon!"  

He stops, wide-eyed, before flashing you a sheepish smile. "Sorry. But seriously, what's happening? You haven't given me any updates!"   

You open your mouth to respond, but the words get caught in your throat. Because if he had asked you yesterday—or even an hour ago—you would've been able to answer confidently. But now? After Jake's apparent Olympic-level avoidance of you? You're not so sure anymore.  

"I...I don't know," you mumble, the words barely audible. Jungwon tilts his head, leaning closer to catch them.  

"What do you mean, you don't know? You guys haven't talked about it?" His brows furrowing as he studies your face, clearly picking up on your hesitation in true best friend fashion.  

"I, uh, I haven't...seen him yet," you admit, hoping the crack in your voice doesn't reveal the real reason you haven't approached the boy in question. "Everyone's busy, and I didn't want to get in the way."  

Jungwon gives you a look like you just said the earth is flat.  

"Get in the way? Y/N, you're insane. This is the guy who's been counting down the days to see you. If anything, everyone else is in his way."  

You give him a helpless shrug, but Jungwon isn't having it. He grabs your shoulders and spins you around, pointing across the room to one of the other snack tables past the crowds of people.

"Look. He's right there. Alone. Perfectly free to talk to you. Go."  

Your eyes land on Jake, back facing you and Jungwon, casually scooping chips into a bowl. You hesitate, scanning his relaxed posture, and the knot in your stomach tightens. Because that's exactly the problem. He's perfectly free. And if he's so excited to see you, how come he hasn't spoken to you yet?  

But before you can voice your doubts, Jungwon gives you a not-so-gentle nudge forward, "Go talk to him before I carry you over there myself."  

And next thing you know, Jake's right there. In front of you. His back is to you still, his eyes scanning the various snacks lined on the table, completely unaware of the full-on mental breakdown occurring just behind him.  

This is your moment, you tell yourself, despite the endless alarms going off in your brain. Every single nerve in your body is on high alert, screaming at you to abort mission, abort! But before you can give in to your panic, your hand is already reaching out, lightly tapping his shoulder.  

"Jake!"  

Jake turns around, and for a moment—a fleeting, fragile moment—you catch it. The way his eyes widen slightly at the sight of you. The way his lips part as if they're about to break into that familiar smile you've missed for months. But just as quickly, similar to earlier, it vanishes, replaced by that flicker of hesitation, and it's enough to make your breath catch.  

"Y/N."  

Your name on his lips used to sound like a warm promise. Now?

Now it feels like an afterthought. 

His voice is calm, steady—too steady, stripped of every ounce of emotion, and not at all like someone who's been counting down the days to see you. He rubs the back of his neck, his gaze flickering to the crowd behind you before reluctantly meeting yours, "It's been so long."  

Your stomach sinks. That's all he had to say? You were completely wrong. You spent precisely 23 minutes of your morning debating if he was even going to give you a hug—but now? Screw the hug, he won't even give you a full sentence. Something's off, and your mind races to figure out what happened, as if you missed a major chapter of your own life.  

Trying to ignore the sharp pang of something lodging itself in your chest, you offer a small smile, hoping to break the tension.  

"Are you...okay? I thought...I don't know, I thought you'd be more excited to see me," the words spill out before you can stop them, and you want to crawl into a self-dug hole from how raw and vulnerable you feel.  

Jake shifts uncomfortably, glancing at the floor, then at you, "No, yeah, of course I am. I'm just...really tired. The flight, you know. And all this," he pauses to gesture at the environment around you two, "it's a lot."  

You stare at him in disbelief, waiting for him to crack—silently begging for some sign of the Jake you thought you knew. But all you get is a shrug.  

A shrug.  

Suddenly, his words feel like a punch to the gut, let alone the way he can't even fully look you in the eyes. In just those few seconds, the invisible angel on your shoulder—whose voice sounded just like Jake's—whispering those promises into your ears suddenly disappeared with no trace in sight, as if it was never there—as if it was never yours—in the first place. Every late-night call, every whispered promise, every shared laugh. 

As if they never belonged to you.  

You swallow hard, trying to keep the growing lump in your throat from choking you, hoping your emotional turmoil isn't blatantly obvious to the boy in front of you.  

"Right," you murmur, nodding as if his excuse makes perfect sense. But it doesn't. "That's...understandable."  

The silence that follows is suffocating. Not the comfortable kind of warm silence you two used to share, but the awkward, unbearable kind that makes you claw at your own skin and makes you wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole right then and there.  

Jake shifts again, and for a moment, his eyes meet yours. There's something there—but before you can grasp it, a voice from the crowd calls his name.  

"I—I should go," he mutters quickly, stepping back. His voice is quiet, his tone almost apologetic, but his words feel like he's hammering the nails to your coffin. "I'll...see you later though, yeah?"  

He doesn't wait for an answer. He's gone before you can say anything, before you can process his words, and for the second time that night, he leaves you standing there with your heart in pieces and your thoughts in chaos.  

For a moment, you swear you're paralyzed. You can't move. Can't breathe. Your vision blurs as every doubt you'd buried for months comes rushing back, screaming in your face louder and crueler than ever. You've never felt smaller, more foolish.  

Your heart beats erratically now, fighting against the realization of the truth settling in your chest—a  heaviness so suffocating it threatens to take you under. The Jake who stood in front of you just now—guarded, distant, a stranger—was so unlike the boy who had made you laugh until your sides ached, who'd stayed up with you on countless late nights, sharing secrets no one else knew.  

The Jake who made promises.  

Your mind spirals. Maybe...maybe those promises were never meant to be kept. Maybe they were just words to fill the time.  

Maybe you were just someone to fill the time.  

Your breath starts to pick up and you're frantically scanning the room, desperate for an escape from your thoughts through any familiar face. Your eyes finally land on Ni-ki and Heeseung casually sitting on one of the couches, their carefree laughter a stark contrast to your inner implosion. You beeline to them, forcing a smile on your face as you plop down beside them.  

"Y/N!" Ni-ki grins the moment he spots you, scooting over to make room. "Where've you been hiding? Thought you ditched us for good."  

"I've been here,“ you give the boys a small smile, praying they don't notice the way your hands tremble as you sit down, “just...mingling."  

Heeseung raises an eyebrow at the faint crack in your voice, but doesn't push further, "Well, we all missed you. Pizza pig-out sesh and games tomorrow? You can tell us everything we've been missing out on."  

You laugh, trying to keep the conversation light, but it comes out shaky, your voice tight under the weight of your hidden emotions, "I think it's you guys who need to catch me up."  

Ni-ki tilts his head, narrowing his eyes at you, "Are you okay? You look...off. What—did someone spill punch on you? Lemme guess, was it Jake?"  

At his name, the knife in your stomach twists even deeper, and you look away, hoping they don't notice the way your face falls.  

But Heeseung notices. Of course. His gaze sharpens, the playful teasing in his expression replaced with a softened concern, "Y/N...what's going on?"  

"I'm fine," you reply a little too quickly, your voice a little too high. You plaster a smile on your face, turning back towards the two boys, concern written all over their faces. "Just tired. Long day."  

Neither of them look convinced, but before Heeseung can say anything else, Ni-ki nudges him and gestures towards something across the room.  

"Hey...isn't that—"  

You follow Ni-ki's gaze, and you immediately wish you didn't. 

Because just like that, your world crumbles.  

There she is—Jenn.  

You're not even wondering when she got here, how she got here, or even why she's here in the first place. No, not even.  

Because all that's occupying your mind right now is the way she's there, perched comfortably on Jake's lap on one of the couches in the distance, her arm draped casually over his shoulder.  

The way she's laughing freely at something he says, her hand lightly brushing against his as if it's second nature, her fingers briefly pushing a strand of hair away from his face.  

The way Jake doesn't even flinch, the way he doesn't pull away.  

The way he smiles at her.  

That same smile—the one you've spent weeks convincing yourself was yours—now feels like a cruel joke.  

And that does it. For the first time that night, despite all you endured, you shatter.  

You force yourself to look away, but it's too late. Your chest hollows out deeper and deeper with every passing second, until all you're left with is a final realization:  

Maybe you never really had him at all. He was never yours in the first place.  

Ni-ki and Heeseung exchange glances before looking at the expression on your face—all the color drained, as if you were merely just a body, paralyzed. Both of them open their mouths, but nothing comes out, clearly unsure of what to say, but you don't give them the chance. You're already standing, grabbing your bag at your side with trembling hands.  

"Y/N, wait—" Heeseung starts as both him and Ni-ki stand up with you, but you shake your head, his voice distant and muffled as if he's speaking to you underwater.  

"I need some air," you mumble, but you're sure neither of them hear you, your voice barely above a whisper.  

Before they can stop you, you're already weaving through the crowd, your vision blurring as you fight the overwhelming urge to break down. You stop at the door, your eyes quickly scanning the cluttered floor for your shoes. For a moment, you think you've made it—escaped the suffocating air and heartbreak clawing at your throat—but a mistake you didn't mean to make stills you.  

You glance over your shoulder, and there he is.  

Jake's eyes meet yours, and the world comes to a stop. His easy smile slips from his face and is immediately replaced by a flicker of panic, his brows drawing together as if he's just realized something, but you don't stick around to analyze it.  

Not when your heart is already in pieces on the floor.  

You quickly look the opposite way, fighting the sting of burning tears threatening to spill over as your fingers fumble desperately with the zipper of your coat when you hear a concerned voice from behind you.  

"Y/N?" Jungwon's familiar voice cuts through your haze, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder. "What—where are you going?"  

"Home," you whisper, avoiding his gaze as you finally manage to get your coat on, turning towards the door.  

Suddenly, Jungwon steps in front of you, a firm frown on his face, "Hey, hey, what's wrong? Talk to me—"  

"Jungwon, I need to go," you look up at him as your voice cracks for the nth time that night, feeling Jake's set of eyes on you still, "Please, Won."  

He hesitates, clearly confused but more worried over anything else, "Okay, but I'm driving you."  

You sigh, shaking your head, "No, it's fine—"  

"I'm driving you," Jungwon repeats, leaving no room for argument as he's already grabbing his coat and walking out the door.  

Not bothering to look behind you to see if Jake's still watching, you follow Jungwon out to the hallway, the chill of the air feeling like a fresh wave of emotions crashing over you all at once: embarrassment, anger, heartbreak.  

You're too caught up in your spinning thoughts to even notice the sound of frantic footsteps behind you until a voice cuts through the silence.  

"Y/N."  

His voice is quiet, almost drowned out by the muffled hum of music and laughter seeping from the party you should've escaped from a long time ago.  

But still, you hear it anyway—because of course you do. Because it's him. And no matter how much you wish you didn't, you'd silence the entire world just to hear that voice.  

And you hate it.  

You hate how your entire body freezes mid-step, you hate how every nerve within you comes alive at the sound of his voice, you hate how your heart stumbles, as if trying to root itself in the pain you've been trying so hard to outrun.  

You turn around slowly, against every ounce of logic telling you to keep walking. And when your eyes land on him—on the raw, desperate, almost broken look on his face—you hate yourself even more.  

Because even now, even after everything, your heart still sinks at the sight. And you hate how you give him the power to break you with just one look.  

“Can we talk?” Jake asks, his voice low and unsteady as he takes a small step towards you.  

From beside you, Jungwon hesitates, his gaze flickering between you and Jake. After a beat, he nods, "I'll get the car. Wait here."  

He spares Jake a final look of warning before nudging you for comfort and stepping into the elevator.  

The elevator doors close, leaving you and Jake alone in the hallway, the air thick with unspoken words and emotions.  

You swallow hard, your throat tight, but you steel yourself, "What do you want, Jake?"  

You shift your weight and instinctively cross your arms, a defensive barrier between you and the boy you spent too long letting into your heart. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the vulnerability in them makes your resolve falter. 

He takes a hesitant step towards you before exhaling shakily, running a hand through his hair.  

“I—I messed up tonight. I didn’t mean to...," he trails off, his words fumbling, his eyes searching yours in desperation, his heart breaking at the way your tears are a second away from falling over. 

"...to completely ignore me all night? Make me feel like nothing?" You finish for him, your quiet voice breaking despite your attempt to stay composed.  

"No. God, no. You're not nothing," he says quickly, his voice faltering on the last word. "Y/N, you matter so much to me."  

“Well it definitely didn't feel that way,” your voice is barely audible, but you finally look up at him, the hurt finally bubbling to the surface. “After everything you said—promised, everything we talked about…” 

"I know, I just—" he hesitates, his voice barely above a whisper. He takes a tentative step closer, his movements slow and careful, like he's afraid you'll break if he gets too close. "I was nervous." 

"It’s been so long, and I didn’t know what to say, how to act. I wanted to get it right—to make it perfect—but instead, I just—" he stops, dragging another frustrated hand through his hair. His eyebrows knit together in that familiar way that once made your heart flutter, but now only adds to the ache in your chest. 

You let out a hollow laugh, the bitter sound foreign even to your own ears, “Well, congratulations, Jake. You managed to mess it up anyway.” 

“Please,” he looks devastated, his hands trembling at his sides. “Y/N, please don’t think I don’t care about you. I do. More than you know. I just—I don't know how to do this. I panicked and I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear."  

"Then why was...," you look at him, your eyes still stinging from all the unshed tears as you take a shaky breath, “...why was she all over you tonight? Why didn’t you stop her?” 

He falters, his shoulders slumping under the weight of your question, “It wasn’t what it looked like. I didn’t—I couldn’t—” 

“You couldn’t,” you echo, the words spilling out in a rush now, each one cutting him deeper. “I should've known. Let me guess, she wants to get back together, right?"  

Jake's silence is deafening, and it immediately answers your question. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. The way he looks at you—eyes wide and filled with regret, lips trembling as if searching for the right words—confirms everything you were afraid of. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, a shaky breath escaping your lips—a sound caught somewhere between a scoff and a choked sob. No matter how hard you try, the wall holding back your emotions cracks under the weight of it all. The doubts you’ve tried so hard to bury suddenly resurface, crashing over you like waves, each one carrying the sting of every insecurity, every fear you’ve ever had about this moment. Your chest feels tight, your heart splintering under the realization that everything you were afraid of might be true. 

"Jake, I can't do this," you whisper, shaking your head. "I can't be the person you lean on while you try to figure out what you want."  

"No, no—Y/N, I do know what I want," he pleads, his voice cracking as he tries to step closer. "And it’s you. Always been you, Y/N. Everything I said—I meant it."  

His words hang heavy in the air, the faint echo of the party music filtering through the cracks in the door and into the quiet hallway. You look away, refusing to let him see the way your tears finally spill over.  

"You promised," you let out softly and slowly, through your sniffles. “You promised you wouldn't hurt me. You said you'd prove that I could trust you, that I didn't have to be scared. You knew I was worried, Jake. And you...you hurt me anyways."  

"And I swear I meant every word I said. I still do," Jake says, his voice desperate as he shakes his head. He steps even closer, his hand reaching out and brushing against yours, but you pull back before he can close the distance. "You have to believe me. Please, Y/N. You're the only one."  

You shake your head again, the tears now freely rushing down your cheeks despite your best efforts, "I—I don't know if I can believe that anymore, Jake. I want to, I really, really do. But tonight..."  

Jake’s face falls, the weight of your pain crashing into him all at once. His lips tremble as he struggles to hold himself together, his eyes turning glassy themselves. The sight of you—broken, because of him—cuts deeper than he thought was humanly ever possible. His voice is barely above a whisper, raw and pleading, “Y/N, I’m so sorry. I—God, please. Please give me a chance.” 

You look at him—at the boy who became your safe space these past few months—and all you feel is the ache in your heart.  

"I can't do this right now, Jake," you finally let out through your broken voice as you take a step back. "I think I just need space."  

The words hang in the air like a death sentence. His breath hitches as if your words physically hit him in the face, "Y/N..." 

Your phone suddenly buzzes, a text from Jungwon letting you know he's outside. You glance down at it, then back at Jake. For a moment, you hesitate, your heart screaming at you to stay—to give him the chance he's yearning for. But your brain knows better. 

"I have to go," you murmur softly, as you take a final step back, turning away before more tears threaten to spill all over again. You force yourself to keep walking, fighting the overwhelming urge to look back—to let him pull you into his arms, where you wished so desperately you belonged.  

Frozen, Jake watches helplessly as you walk away, his chest tightening with every step you take. Everything feels like it's caving in, regret clawing at him the more he lets you walk further away. He opens his mouth to say something—anything—but the words fail him, silenced by the weight of his own mistakes.  

To Jake, the sounds of the party are now far in the distance, drowned out by the pounding in this ears. Instead, the hallway falls into a haunting silence, broken only by the faint echo of your retreating steps—a cruel reminder of what he's just let slip away.  

The car ride starts in complete silence, the only sound between you and Jungwon the soft hum of his engine and the faint sound of whatever playlist he was playing in the background. You stare out the window, watching the city lights blur together, your coat clutched tightly under your grasp as if it's the only thing keeping you sane.  

Jungwon glances at you out the corner of his eye, his hands steady on the steering wheel. He doesn't say anything at first, but you know him well enough to sense the storm brewing in his head.  

"Okay," he finally says, as if on cue, breaking the silence. "Spill."  

You don't respond, your eyes still fixed on the surrounding city breezing by you, as if the passing view could somehow erase the memory of him. Your fingers dig further into the fabric of your coat, your knuckles going numb.  

Jungwon gives you a few more moments of silence, but when you don't make any sign of responding, he speaks up again. 

"Y/N," his voice softens, but the edge of his concern cuts through. "Don't do that thing where you shut people out. Especially me, you know I hate that."  

"I'm not—" you start, but your voice wavers, and the lie dies on the tip of your tongue.  

“You are," he exhales sharply from beside you, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. "Look, you don't have to tell me everything, but don't pretend you're fine when you're clearly not."  

The words sit heavy in the air as you swallow hard, your throat burning as you finally whisper, "It's stupid, Jungwon."  

He doesn't take his eyes off the road, but his tone is firm, "I'm sure if it's got you looking like this, it's not stupid."  

You want to argue, to tell him to just let it go, but the hurt pressing down on your chest is too much. The ache in your body threatens to take over again, and you hate it. You hate how the tears form again, how you can still see Jake looking at you like that, like you were breaking right in front of him and he didn't know how to stop it.  

Jungwon waits. He doesn't push, because he knows you. He knows you're just hurting, struggling to grasp your overwhelming emotions, so he gives you the time you need. But his quiet patience is unbearable, like he's peeling back every layer of your resolve just by being there, and eventually, you give in.  

"It's Jake," you finally choke out, the name tumbling from your lips like a curse.  

Jungwon doesn't respond immediately, but you can feel the shift in his demeanor. His jaw tightens, and his fingers flex against the wheel, "I figured as much honestly, after what I saw in the hallway, but what exactly happened, Y/N?"  

You shake your head, your voice shaky, "It doesn't matter. I—I just feel so stupid, Won. Like, how could I think..." 

You trail off, biting the inside of your cheek hard enough to draw blood. Jungwon gives you a softened glance, signaling you to continue whenever you're ready to.  

You take a deep breath before you speak up again, "How could I ever think I was good enough for him, you know?"  

There's a silence that follows after your words and you hear Jungwon take in a deep inhale.  

"This isn't on you, Y/N. This has nothing to do with whether you're enough or not," Jungwon's voice is steady, but there's a firm edge to it now. "Look, I don't want to overstep or anything...and I definitely don't want to vouch for him—especially right now but...are you sure he's not just freaking out?"  

You tilt your head over at the boy next to you, "Freaking out about what?"  

"You," Jungwon says simply like it's the most obvious thing in the world.  

"That doesn't make any sense," you start shaking your head. "Why would he—"  

"Because you're you," Jungwon interrupts, his tone matter-of-fact as he keeps his eyes trained on the road in front of him. "And Jake's a complete idiot, but even idiots get scared when they care about someone as much as he clearly cares about you."  

You blink, Jungwon's words sinking into all the cracks formed within you, "You really think he cares about me that much?"  

“Are you kidding?” Jungwon scoffs, his expression a mix of disbelief and exasperation. “Y/N, the guy looks at you like you hung his moon and stars. Trust me, I’ve seen it.” 

And you don't know what comes over you, but Jungwon's words hit you like a punch to the gut, and suddenly, the tears you've been holding back come rushing forward, hot and relentless. You cover your face with your hands, your body shaking as the sobs you've been swallowing all night finally make their way out.  

Jungwon quickly looks over at you and, without hesitation, glances over his shoulder to pull over to the side of the road, the soft clicking of the hazard lights mixing in with your cries. When he finally puts the car in park, he doesn't say anything and just leans back in his seat, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder—close enough to remind you he's there, but not too much to smother you.  

"I'm sorry," you manage to gasp out between sobs, your hands going up to wipe your face as all the overwhelming emotions finally take over you.  

"Don't," Jungwon says firmly, "Don't apologize for feeling like this."  

You take a shaky breath, trying to pull yourself together as your sobs eventually start to slow down, "I just don't understand. If he cares so much, why does this hurt so bad?"  

"I don't think it's about how much he cares," Jungwon sighs, as if carrying your pain alongside you. "Sometimes...sometimes people care so much that they don't know what to do with it. They panic. They overthink. And they mess up in the worst ways because they don't know how to handle what they're feeling."  

You look up at him, your face still wet with tears, "So you're saying it's an excuse."  

"No," Jungwon replies, quickly shaking his head fervently. "Definitely not an excuse. Jake screwed up, Y/N. Big time. And it's 100% on him to fix that, not you. But—"  

He pauses and thinks for a second, his words deliberate, "—it doesn't mean his feelings aren't real. Or that he doesn't care about you."  

You look away, glancing down at your hands in your lap, fiddling with the hem of your coat as you take in Jungwon's words.  

"It's just feels like...like I'm the only one who got hurt here, Won. Like I'm the only one who..," you trail off, unable to form your thoughts into a coherent sentence, but leave it up to Jungwon to always fully understand you.  

"You're not the only one," he says softly. "He's hurting too, Y/N. Maybe not in the same way, and maybe he doesn't deserve any sympathy, but I can see it. I've seen it. Jake...Jake isn't Jake without you. And honestly? That idiot is probably tearing himself apart right now."  

Your lips part, but the words don't find you. Instead, you let the weight of Jungwon's words sink in, unsure what to do with how true they may be.  

"You don't have to forgive him right now," Jungwon adds after a moment. "Hell, you don't even have to forgive him at all. Honestly, that might satisfy me just a bit. But maybe...maybe you owe it to yourself to hear him out. Not for him, but for you."  

You turn to Jungwon, your lips forming into the smallest pout, "But what if it just makes everything worse?"  

He gives you a faint, grounding smile, equal parts reassuring and honest.  

"Then you walk away knowing you did everything you could—for yourself. And if it does come to that," he shrugs lightly, "we'll figure it out together."  

You're quiet for a long moment, the thought of walking away from Jake and everything he means to you terrifying you…but you know Jungwon's right. You owe yourself the chance to try—even if the unknown outcome fails you.  

With a shaky breath, you nod, brushing away the last of your tears, "Thanks, Jungwon."  

"You're welcome," Jungwon hums in acknowledgement before his lips curve into a small grin, the atmosphere lightening slightly, "but, uh, could you at least use the tissues in the glove compartment before my seats turn into a snot rag?"  

You manage to let out a small scoff of disbelief as you roll your watery eyes, "You're the worst."  

"Nah," Jungwon replies with a cheeky grin as he shifts the car back into drive, but not before he reaches over to ruffle your hair playfully. "C'mon. Let's get you home."  

The knocking at Jungwon’s door comes at the worst possible moment. 

He’s halfway through organizing his desk—something he only attempts when he’s too frustrated to sit still—and the last thing he expects to see when he swings the door open is Jake, standing there looking like he hasn’t slept a millisecond all night. 

Jungwon makes no sign of saying anything or making a move, just staring at the older boy in question. Jakes shifts uncomfortably, running a hand through his messy hair, not used to seeing Jungwon in this sour, expressionless mood.  

"Hey," Jake finally says, his voice hesitant.  

“What do you want?” Jungwon deadpans, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He knows he sounds harsh, but, frankly, he doesn’t care.  

Jake falters for a moment, his gaze dropping to the ground, "I...I need your help."  

Jungwon's eyes narrow, "With what, exactly?"  

He knows what, but he's not letting Jake off that easily. Not after last night.  

"With Y/N," your name hangs in the air between them as Jake's voice cracks, and Jungwon clenches his jaw before he lets out a frustrated sigh.  

"I don't think you're in any position to be asking me for help right now."  

"I know," Jake says quickly, his hands raising in surrender. "I know, okay? I screwed up big time. I—God, I don't even know where to start, Jungwon. I just...I don't want to make things worse."  

Jungwon lets out a bitter, humorless laugh, stepping back and motioning his head to let Jake enter his room, "You've already got a good head start on that, I see."  

Jake steps inside, awkwardly hovering near the door as Jungwon moves to sit on the edge of his own bed. He doesn't offer Jake a seat, and Jake doesn't ask for one.  

"She cried, you know," Jungwon says after a few moments of silence, his voice stone cold. "I had to pull over because she couldn't even hold it together long enough for me to get her home. I've known her my entire life, and I don't think I've ever seen her cry that hard, Jake."  

Jake flinches, the words physically hurting him, "I didn't mean to—"  

"Yeah, I know," the younger boy cuts him off, his voice sharp, his anger rising on behalf of you. "You didn't mean to hurt her. But you did. And now you're asking me to help you fix it like it's that easy."  

"It's not easy," Jake mutters quietly, his hands fumbling with the edge of his hoodie. "Nothing about this...none of it is easy. But I know I messed up, and I—I can't just leave things like this, I can't lose her, Jungwon. I care about her too much."  

Jungwon deadpans at his friend, fighting back the urge to scoff in his face, "If you cared about her, you wouldn't have let her walk out of that party looking like her entire world was falling apart."  

Jake looks up, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with something Jungwon can't quite name...desperation, maybe. Or guilt. Or both.  

"I didn't know what to do," Jake finally admits, his voice still barely above a whisper, as if admitting to himself for the first time, too. "I saw her, and she looked so...broken. And I—I panicked, I didn't know what to do, and by the time I realized, she was gone."  

Jungwon leans back, groaning as he runs a hand over his face. The anger bubbling within him hasn't fully faded, but he knows there's something else now—something softer, something that makes it harder to keep his protective guard for you up.  

Because he knows Jake isn't lying.  

"You don't get to half-ass this, Jake," Jungwon finally says after he thinks to himself. "She's not some random girl you're trying to impress, she isn't Jenn. This is Y/N. If you want to fix things, you have to be ready to own up to everything. No excuses, no backing out. She deserves that much."  

Jake nods quickly, his eyes wide and hopeful at Jungwon's slight change in demeanor, “I will. I swear, I will.” 

"And don't think she's going to forgive you right away," Jungwon adds. "She's hurt. You have to give her time. This isn't about what you want—it's about what she needs."  

Jake swallows hard, nodding again, “I just want to talk to her. To explain. To tell her I’m sorry and—”  

His voice cracks, and he looks down, his hands trembling slightly. Jungwon lets out a sigh, his mixed feelings turning more into something closer to pity. Because as much as he wants to stay mad for your sake, he's known Jake long enough to know that he's a good guy—and that his heart is in the right place.  

But even more than that, he knows you. And he knows how much Jake means to you, even if you won't admit it, especially not now more than ever.  

"You're actually an idiot," Jungwon says after a few beats, his voice carrying a lighter tone now. "But for some godforsaken reason, knowing her, I think she might actually miss you."  

Jake looks up from his hands, his eyes searching Jungwon's face for any flicker of doubt, "You really think so?"  

Jungwon shrugs, standing up and moving towards his door, "I think you've got a lot of work to do if you want to earn her trust back. But...I think you still have a chance."  

Jake doesn't say anything as he follows Jungwon to the door, but the look on his face says enough—there's a new slight look of hope. It's small, but he's clutching onto it like it’s his lifeline.  

“You know," Jungwon says when he reaches the doorway. "Y/N’s not the type to let people in easily. She puts up walls—but with you…she let them down. You’re special to her, Jake, even if she doesn’t say it. Don’t throw that away. For her sake, and yours.” 

“I won’t,” Jake promises, his voice steady now. “Thank you, Jungwon.” 

Jungwon nods at the older boy before giving him a faint smile, "And just so you know, I defended you yesterday. So don't prove me wrong or I'm actually going to deck you."  

Jake lets out a weak laugh as he hangs outside Jungwon's door, "Noted. I promise I won't let her down again."  

Jungwon doesn’t respond, just closes the door with a soft click, and hopes—for all their sakes—that Jake means it.  

Jake [5:12PM]: hi Y/N   Jake [5:12PM]: i know I'm the last person you want to hear from right now. and i don’t blame you at all   Jake [5:13PM]: but i cant just stay silent and let this sit between us, and i value you too much to not respect you needing space and just show up at your door  Jake [5:14PM]: even though it’s killing me to stay away  Jake [5:14PM]: after you left the party last night, i went back inside. i told jenn that whatever we had in the past is exactly that, the past. and i swear to you, Y/N, there’s nothing between us. there hasn’t been for a long time. and it’s my fault for making it seem otherwise.   Jake [5:15PM]: and as for how i acted…i don’t even know where to start. i fucked up extremely. nothing will excuse my actions and i don’t expect you to forgive me. but i need to apologize properly, you deserve that much.   Jake [5:17PM]: please let me see you, Y/N. i don’t deserve it, and i don’t deserve you. but you mean everything to me, and i hate that i hurt you. and i promise, if you let me, i’ll do everything to make it up to you.  

You stare at the phone in your hand, the messages feeling like salt to an open wound. The words on the screen begin to blur together as tears prick your eyes, spilling over before you even realize it. You don't bother wiping them away—the sting in your chest too raw, too heavy. Each word feels like Jake is standing right there in front of you, his voice soft and broken, tangled with regret.  

You tell yourself to stop reading. You've already gone through the same messages at least a hundred times in the past ten minutes, overanalyzing each syllable as if they hold the answers to all of your questions.  

And yet, you can't stop.  

You want to be angry. You are angry. Or, at least, you think. Because beneath the flame of your anger that's already threatening to die out? There's an ache you can't ignore—a small, stubborn part of you that refuses to let go to the sincerity in his words, clinging onto the hope that he's telling you the truth.  

You mean everything to me, and I hate that I hurt you. I promise, if you let me, I'll do everything to make it up to you.  

The ache twists harder, curling into doubt. What if he means it? What if he's telling the truth?  

But of course, the fear rises just as quickly. Because what if he's not? What if you let him back in, and it all falls apart again? What if you let yourself believe in him, giving him the second chance he's asking for, only to have your heart shattered worse than before?  

And then, there's Jungwon's voice, soft but steady, cutting through the chaos brewing in your mind: "Even idiots get scared when they care about someone as much as he clearly cares about you."  

Your breath catches.  

Because that's the worst part. Knowing that maybe—just maybe—Jake really does care. Knowing that maybe he's telling the truth—and you're the one too afraid to take the risk, ready to build up the walls Jake's managed to get through.  

Your phone screen suddenly dims, pulling you out of your thoughts and back into the moment. You blink rapidly, wiping at your face, your mind a mess of emotions you can't untangle or describe.  

Fear. Hope. Doubt. 

And something else—something you're afraid to admit, but you know is unmistakably real.  

And it's stronger than the fear churning in your chest—it's something that's pulling you forward.  

Your heart pounds almost out of your rib cage as you let out a shaky breath, the weight on your shoulders pressing harder and harder with every second you hesitate. The ache doesn't let up, but neither does your hope.  

So you stop thinking altogether, letting your heart take control instead.  

You shut your eyes, as if bracing yourself for a crash, take a deep breath, unlock your phone, and let your fingers fly across the screen, each word feeling like a leap off a cliff.  

You hit send.  

Y/N [5:30PM]: hi jake  Y/N [5:30PM]: you can come over 

The soft knock at your door startles you, even though you know it’s coming.  

“Y/N?” 

His voice. Jake’s voice.  

Your heart clenches painfully, a conflicting mix of longing and hurt washing over you all at once. It hasn't even been a full day since the party, but the weight of his absence has already hollowed you out, leaving a hole you can't ignore. You know he's the one who caused it—that the cracks in your heart are his doing—but at the same time, the stubborn part of you whispers that he's also the only one who can mend them.  

You make your way to the door, your movements hesitant as you crack it open, peek out, and...there he is.  

"Hi," Jake says softly.  

He's a mess. A beautiful, saddened mess—his hair messy, like he's been running his hands through it all day, his eyes rimmed with the kind of exhaustion that isn't just physical. One hand is buried deep in his jacket, and in the other— 

"Flowers?" You ask, raising a brow in surprise.  

Jake's ears turn red. "Yeah. Uh, I didn't know if you had a favorite, so I got—"  

You open the door wider, revealing the full bouquet—daisies, tulips, roses, all wrapped together in crinkled tissue paper.  

"—a little bit of everything," he finishes awkwardly, his voice trailing off, pausing for a second before holding them out to you with a sheepish smile.  

Your lips twitch subconsciously, despite everything.  

"Jake, you're literally allergic."  

His mouth opens, then closes, the redness from his ears now spreading to his cheeks.  

"Well, yeah, but—," Jake mumbles, shifting on his feet. "—not, like, deadly or anything dramatic like that."  

He pauses, his voice dropping into something softer, more vulnerable, "I just wanted you to have them. That's all."  

You feel your insides tighten, the sincerity in his voice getting to you. For a moment, all you can manage to do is stare at him—at the way his eyes are silently pleading, wide and unsure.  

You hesitate for a second, then step back and open the door wider.  

"Thank you," you say quietly, your fingers brushing against his as you take the bouquet, sending a flicker of warmth through you. "Come in."  

Jake hesitates, his eyes searching yours like he's not sure if he's actually allowed to. When you turn away and walk towards your kitchen, he finally steps inside, kicking off his shoes quickly and hovering by the door like he doesn't know what to expect next.  

You set the flowers down on the counter, adjusting them carefully before turning back to him. He's still standing there, stiff and uncertain, the distance between you feeling larger than ever before.  

"So..." You say, crossing your arms tightly across yourself, shifting your weight as a way to ground yourself—though the lump in your throat makes it feel impossible.  

Jake exhales shakily, his hands fidgeting by his sides and gaze darting to the floor before finally landing on you, "I came to apologize. Properly."  

You blink at him, expression unreadable, "You already said sorry."  

Your voice comes out sharper than intended, surprising even yourself, but the words leave before you can stop them. Jake flinches, just slightly, but he nods, knowing he deserved that. 

"Not like I should have," he says, stepping closer, his voice low and careful, like he's afraid you'll run out of your own apartment. "I know I messed up. I hurt you, and I hate that I did. I hate that I made you feel like you weren't enough or that someone else could ever compare to you, Y/N."  

Your arms tighten around yourself as if the words might knock the breath out of you as look away, unsure if you can meet the rawness in his eyes.  

"Last night," Jake continues, his eyes filling with guilt, "I didn't handle last night right. And not just how I handled Jenn, but I let my own insecurities and stupid fears of being perfect for you get in the way. I let it happen and mess everything up. I let you think that you didn't matter to me, and I will never forgive myself, Y/N."  

His words hang in the air, heavy yet sincere, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him as you process his words slowly.  

"And I don't expect you to forgive me either, Y/N," Jake's voice wavers before he continues, "but I need you to know that I'm so, so sorry. No excuses. For all of it—for making you feel like anything less than everything, for making you feel like you weren't my first choice. Because you are. You're my only, Y/N." 

His words hit you with a force that crashes over the walls you tried so desperately to build. They're overwhelming yet tender, like rediscovering a piece of yourself you hadn't even realized you lost. And you want to let them comfort you, you do. But the pain from last night lingers deep down, reminding you of why you built those walls in the first place.  

For a moment, the silence stretches on longer than you intend, the weight of his words settling in the air between you. Jake doesn't look away though—his gaze unwavering, vulnerable, and raw.  

As though he's laid himself bare before you, giving you the power to either accept or shatter him completely.  

When you finally find your voice, it trembles despite your best efforts, "Jake...I don't know if I can just forget what happened."  

"I'm not asking you to forget," he says quickly, taking another step closer until there's only a few feet left between you. "I just want the chance to fix us. I can't lose you like this, Y/N."  

Your breath catches at the proximity, his presence pulling you in like gravity. The pain from last night tries to claw its way back into your heart—sharp and bitter—but his warmth reminds you of something else that refuses to be ignored.  

That flicker of hope that's demanding your attention, screaming at you to just let him in—not just for his sake, but for you. 

You take a deep breath, finally meeting his gaze. "Jake, I don't need you to...to be this perfect person. I don't need you to prove anything to me."  

You pause, pushing past the lump in your throat, "Because since the beginning, I always believed you. And...I think I still do. Even after last night, I still believe you, Jake. No matter how hard I try to."  

Jake lets out a breath he thinks he's been holding in for hours, "Really?"  

"Yeah," you nod slowly, as if reassuring yourself as much as him. "But I don't need any of your promises or proof or any of that. I just...I just need you as you."  

His eyes soften at you as he nods so quickly it's almost desperate.   

"And I need you to be honest with me, Jake," you continue before he can speak. "If we do this, I need to know I can trust you. Because I don't know if I can do this...this waiting game anymore."  

"You can," he says immediately, closing the distance between you two, making your breath hitch. You can see the way his hands are trembling, the slight quiver in his lips. "You can trust me. No more hesitation. I'm all in, Y/N. This is it for me, you're it."   

You search his face for any sign of doubt, any speck of hesitation. But all you find is his sincerity—so hopeful and so real—the kind that makes you want to let him in fully and let your walls crumble all over again.  

So you do.  

"Okay," you say softly, almost as if you're testing the word.  

Jake's eyes widen, the relief and hope flooding his features. Slowly, as if asking for permission, he reaches out, his fingers brushing against yours tentatively.  

"Okay?" He whispers, his voice barely audible to you as his eyes flicker between your hands and your face.  

You nod, your own hand turning over so your fingers curl around his in an instinctive gesture that feels so natural it makes you want to scream. The warmth of his touch feels like the first real comfort you've felt in forever, and it's enough to make your resolve slip.  

"But," you add softly, your eyes not leaving the way his hand wraps around yours so perfectly, "this doesn't mean everything's fine. We need to talk. We need to figure out where we stand, and where we go from there."  

Jake nods again, his grip on your hand tightening slightly, "We will. Whatever it takes, Y/N, I'll do it. I need you to know how much you mean to me and I'll never stop trying to show you that."  

You let out a shaky breath as you take in his words, finally looking up from your intertwined hands to meet his eyes, your own slowly filling with the tears you've been holding back. 

"You really hurt me, Jake," you say quietly, your voice breaking from the sheer weight of your vulnerability being laid bare.  

Jake's face crumbles instantly, guilt etched into every line of his expression. Without hesitation, his free hand comes up to gently cup your cheek, his thumb light brushing away the tears that fall, as if he's afraid you might pull away.  

Your eyes flutter closed at the warmth of his hand, and despite the emotions raging inside you, you let yourself lean into him. It feels both reckless, yet inevitable, like free-falling and trusting—knowing—he'll catch you.  

"I know," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion he can't swallow down. "And I'll spend as long as it takes to deserve you, Y/N. I'll never make you feel like that again."  

You nod weakly, and before you can think too much, he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into the safety of his chest, his chin moving to rest on top of your head as his warmth envelops you completely.  

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself break, burying your face into his chest as the tears flow freely, the weight of everything finally breaking free as you let yourself melt into his tight embrace.  

It's not perfect. It's not a fix-all.  

But as Jake holds you close, whispering quiet reassurances into your hair, you know it's a start.  

And a start is all you need.  

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

epilogue:

“Hi, pretty.”  

“Hi, Jake.”

On the other end of the call, Jake lets out a playful scoff. Even with the slight lag, you can see his lips twitch into that familiar pout—the one that still gives you butterflies, no matter how many times you've see it now, even a year later.

“After all we’ve been through, you still won’t give me a cute pet name?” 

You roll your eyes, biting back a grin, “What do you want me to say? Hi, my handsome, perfect, kindest, funniest, boyfriend in the whole wide world?”  

Jake leans closer to the camera, his expression completely serious as if you should already know his answer, "...Yes." 

Giggles burst out of you, shaking your head at his antics. “You’re too cute to be doing all that, Jake. Pick a struggle.” 

He clutches his chest dramatically, “You know, what? You’re my struggle—I fly across time zones, run on three hours of sleep, and you still won’t give me a crumb of your affection?” 

“You’re exhausting.” 

“And yet…,” Jake trails off with a teasing smirk, his voice dropping into that playful, yet low lilt that still makes your stomach flip to this day. "Here you are, calling me at 1AM in the morning.”  

Your cheeks flush as you glance away from the screen, trying to ignore the way his teasing gaze makes you feel, "Don’t' get confused, it's not like I wanted to or anything. I just figured someone should remind you to go to bed or else you'll look like a zombie tomorrow at the fanmeet."  

Jake laughs softly, the sound grounding you in a certain way only he ever can. "You're so thoughtful, babe. My number-one hater and number-one fan, all at once. I'm so lucky."  

You send him an air kiss, the teasing grin on your face mirrored by the fond one tugging at his lips. He looks at you like he did in that first-ever call way back then—like you're his whole world, and he can't believe you're real.  

"How's the jet lag this time?" You ask, steering the conversation to safer ground.  

"It's not so bad," he shrugs, despite the clear exhaustion in his voice. "At least this trip is only for a few days. Then I can come back to the comfort of our bed."  

You raise an eyebrow, "My bed."  

Jake's eyes narrow, "Our bed. Just admit it—you miss me."  

You pause. "Maybe. Just a little."  

His grin widens, and for a moment, neither of you say anything, the conversation lulling into an easy silence—the kind of warmth that only comes with knowing someone so well.  

Finally, you shift under your blanket, getting comfortable as Jake watches you through this screen, his gaze tender, as though memorizing the curve of your smile, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear.  

"You should sleep," you murmur, holding your phone closer to your face. The glow of your phone reflecting off your soft features sends palpations to Jake's chest so loud he almost doesn't hear your words. 

"Mm, I really should," Jake sighs, though he doesn't move an inch. "I'll talk to you soon, yeah?" 

"Mmhm," you hum, your eyes closing at the softness of his voice.  

“Sleep tight. I love you,” his says, voice soft and deliberate, making sure you feel every word. 

“Goodnight, Jakey,” you tease, letting the smirk creep into your voice, peeking an eye open just to catch his reaction. 

Jake groans dramatically, running a hand down his face, “Y/N…not this again.”  

You giggle, the fondness within you growing tenfold as you take in his face—the slight pout of his lips, his messy hair, his eyes shining with unwavering adoration for you. 

“I said I love youuu,” he whines, dragging out the last word, his lips tugging into the tiniest of smiles, his entire universe reflecting from his eyes.  

Finally, you give in, smiling sweetly.  

“I love you, too, Jake. You already know.”  

And you’ve never meant anything more.  

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

Songs that Remind me of Y/N:

From the first call to forever—you've always been my favorite melody.   Yours, Jake <3

"As I Am" – Justin Bieber (ft. Khalid)  

"Daylight" – Taylor Swift 

"DIE 4 YOU" - Dean 

"Psycho, Pt. 2" – Russ 

"Heaven" – Bazzi 

"Every Kind of Way" – H.E.R. 

"Off My Face" – Justin Bieber 

"Before You" – Benson Boone 

"Sunflower" – Post Malone & Swae Lee 

"Pink + White" – Frank Ocean

"No Doubt" – Enhypen <3 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.��゜✭・.・

update! if you enjoyed this and want more of no doubt!jake & y/n, check out my sequel series linked here for drabbles of their relationship <3

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

the end! if you made it all the way, this is for you:

⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡♡♡♡♡♡

p.s. i wanted to leave the ending kinda up to interpretation—hence the time skip to a year later..but lowkey what if i wrote short drabbles/scenes of things jake does to gain Y/N's trust again, from small to big gestures etc etc..lmk if that's something anyone would wanna see !! (update — linked above now!)

<3, addie

m.list here!

tag list (love you all <3):

(i hope it let me tag everyone!)

@thesassy-mia @ikeulove @renaishun @xylatox @puma-riki @blackberryrains @dreamiestay @junislqve @lamin143 @dreamy-carat @etherealhan @vvenusoncasual @belovedsthings @somuchdard @sumzysworld @mirouie @almondtofu006 @fancypeacepersona @vivimura @hollxe1 @missthang600 @sugarikiz @sanasour @enhamonsterghoul @etherealriki

[thistlecatfics]

ALSO SNAPE. older teens/young adult period is such a ✨fun time✨in his life! so many possibilities! pre DE baby snape era… SWM era… immediately following voldemort’s defeat… right after harry begins hogwarts… he totally wouldn’t, but aaaagh i would LOVE to hear him unpack that first potions lesson with harry in therapy lmfao.

… also thanks to the snames post i now can’t help but imagine james and snape in therapy following SWM. i feel like james would be a much more… workable? client than sirius, especially if his parents were encouraging! would be a fun fic i’m just saying 👀

Ok he is the last one for the night because I was just like "oh I'll jot down an idea or two" and then I look up and it's suddenly 20 minutes later.

Adult Snape -

His character is like… DEFINED by not being in therapy. He (or at least part of him) is constantly living in the past and in each traumatic moment, and he does. not. move on. He survives. He does not heal. He is not interested in healing. 

Could you imagine Dumbledore trying to force him to go to therapy as a Hogwarts employee? LMAO. Snape would be like “You first, bitch.” 

Though I would love for Dumbledore to force him on a sabbatical where he did an intensive residential trauma treatment program for six months then six months to do potions research somewhere with no children and no one to ask him questions, and it would be the reward for completing the program. (That and a year off from teaching first through fifth years.) (I hc he actually likes teaching 6th and 7th years since he can be selective about them.) 

(I’ve never worked in non-substance use inpatient so I can’t say much about it and it would absolutely be a referral. Dumbledore’s like “so I have this guy I want in therapy…” and I’m like “... have you considered residential for him?”)

Adult Snape and I would not work well together. It would not be worth trying. (Though it’s easy to think of him as an old man but he was in his early 30s in the books lol.) 

Also if he’s being forced into therapy as an adult, he would absolutely remain silent the entire time as a test of wills with the therapist. 

Ok but younger Snape??

He only goes to therapy for Lily. Let’s imagine pre-SWM, Lily is like “I love you but I no longer like you. Go to therapy. Work on yourself. Then maybe we can be friends again.” 

Self-esteem!!! Identity! Identity in a social justice lens!! 

Definitely a lot of praise for his intelligence, but also slowly naming other values too. It would totally be a situation where I’m like “It’s ok if you disagree, but I think you have inherent worth, just as you are, separate from your intelligence. You don’t have to believe me, but I believe it. I’ll hold onto that belief until you’re ready to hold it too.” and he’d roll his eyes. Lol. 

Unconditional positive regard again as the key therapeutic factor!!

Being really careful to avoid any impulse to “fix” him and just bear witness and build trust and slowly co-create space where he can be honest about his feelings and hurt. 

As a teenager, I can’t imagine he ever mentions his family at all. I think it’s purely about his life at Hogwarts - he keeps those worlds so separate. (One of those situations where the therapist is immediately like “oh your family is FUCKED” but waits for the client to give an opening.) 

Ok post SWM???

James -

Also, yes, you’re absolutely right James would be an easier client to work with in many ways. Basically, he has a secure attachment style from parents who were able to meet a decent chunk of his emotional needs as a child, and so he is able to trust people more easily, which means therapeutic work can go deeper faster since the trust building stage is much shorter. 

I think the hard part for him in therapy would be motivation – why is he seeking therapy? He’s forced to by the school? He’d be absolutely in denial that he did anything wrong. 

I have a colleague at my old job who worked with students who were found responsible by the Title IX Officer for violating sexual harassment/violence rules (but not expelled), and I think I’d want James to go through that pretty structured program. I think I’d be too easy on him when the necessary step would really be around taking responsibility for his own actions (within a very complicated situation in which he’s not entirely in the wrong!) 

I also think he’d work better with a male therapist but maybe that’s just my bias. I’d want him to work with someone who feels more comfortable pushing him, and that’s just not my vibe. 

Snape post SWM?? 

He ABSOLUTELY shuts down. Talk to this bloody shrink about what happened?? Absolutely not. 

His main (only authentic?) relationship was just cut away (his fault, but still, it would be intensely difficult.) 

I headcanon that he really dives into dark magic during this time – not so much the Death Eaters but only Death Eaters as they are vehicles for the opportunity to explore the Dark Arts, an area where he can feel in control and powerful and so self-soothe. 

I would try to engage with him through magical theory and the Dark Arts and whatever his main interest in the present was (no judgment, confidentiality made clear), and see if we could use the magic he was creating and experimenting with as a vehicle for considering himself and his own internal experiences and feelings and needs. 

He’d be the type of client where I end up binging research after I see them to be able to keep up with them and try to be able to use it as an in for therapeutic work. 

I do think he really wants an audience for his experimentation, and so he might eventually start to enjoy talking about what he works on and we would SLOWLY build that therapeutic rapport. 

It might work, it might not, but I’d hold fast to my optimism even when it was hard. (And he would make it very hard.)

(And canonically, I think there just wouldn't be enough time to build that rapport. He'd join the Death Eaters and stop going to therapy before we get the opportunity to do some real work.)

[oliviayamaoka]

The Roseville Murders (Chapter 2)

Hi, just wanted to say I adjusted the plot slightly and will go into more detail with the story next chapter! This was a bit experimental and I wanted to write the growing relationship / rivalry between Y/N and Danny. I also wanted to write Y/N as a girlboss and to be just as witty as Danny!

Anyways, please comment any ideas or suggestions you may wanna see in future chapters! I have this planned out but would love any ideas or stuff I can add into the story! Tysm for reading!

It rained softly outside as you took a seat at your workplace. The desk was a bit cluttered with your art, notes, junk, and your papers regarding your current investigation.

One of the drawings on your desk was a sketch of Ghostface’s mask, attached to it was a few notes regarding the origin of the mask. Did Ghostface care for the history of it, anyways? You already theorized he was a narcissist who took pride in his work. Perhaps, he admired Edward Munch and his infamous “The Scream” artwork? Or maybe he based his persona off of it? You weren’t too sure but you did research the distribution and the company that made the masks. It wasn’t a particular popular company but it only distributed to the USA, Canada, and Brazil.

Ghostface didn’t seem too caring when it came to where he stabbed victims. As long as there was a lot of blood and something only he could perceive as art. And maybe you too. You felt excited, you already had a three year timeline. Maybe, you could get ahold of other states and ask if there’s been similar killings. Maybe even Brazil and Canada? You had to pinpoint a location and see if you could find just one name, any name.

Three years. Three countries. A part of you doubted he was Brazilian. Maybe Canadian? You weren’t so sure, you were pretty sure he was American. Y/N would probably have to go to the library tommorow to do research and use the slowly growing internet. Your research was suddenly halted when you knocked your sketchbook over.

Our slid a page. You kneeled down to pick it up, holding it as you examined the dark sketch. On the paper was a sketch of claws? No, they also looked like tentacles. Ever since the incident, you had dreams of these tentacle claws grabbing you and pulling you away from life as you know it. It must’ve been a sign of trauma or maybe it represented what happened through the nightmares? You slid it back into your sketchbook, deciding not to dwell on it. It would only make your room feel more depressing.

Beside your sketchbook was your leather journal. Y/N wrote everything in there, for mental health reasons. You included the incident and what Jonathan did for you. Your previous therapist said journaling your thoughts helped the healing process. It worked but journaling about how you killed your abuser was hell.

Your thoughts were suddenly interrupted when your phone rang. It was a chunky, black mobile phone you got about a week ago? Y/N reached for it and answered.

“Hello?” You answered, using your other hand to organize your desk.

“Hello?” A voice answered, it was a male by the sound of it.

“Hi, who’s this?” Y/N asked, paying no mind to the phone call as she started to put some of her stuff away. Art supplies.

“Who’s this?” He replied.

“Y/N L/N, am I who you’re trying to reach?” You asked, sitting back down.

“Ah, you’re no fun, detective.” He chuckled as you stopped, furrowing your eyebrows in confusion. Who was this?

“My apologies but, this is my personal phone. Can I ask who gave you this number?” You questioned him.

“Why does it matter, gorgeous? I know it’s you now.” He responded.

“Please don’t call me that. And yes, I am indeed a detective but I’d feel more comfortable discussing anything with you on my work phone.” Y/N said sternly.

“Oh, yeah… Detective L/N, huh? Think you’re some sort of hotshot because you’re new? Where did you come from? Washington? Gonna take more than the feds to catch me.” He said to you.

You listened intently and stopped for a moment. Catch him? Must be a stupid prank. Although, not a funny one since he had your personal phone number. An eyebrow raised as you looked at your notes on Ghostface.

“You still haven’t told me your name. Let’s not be rude, yeah?” You responded, being a little more cocky since you were off-duty.

“Awe, don’t tell me you forgot my name. I’ll give you a hint… I’ve been quite famous lately. In fact, I think you’ve taken quite the interest in me, Y/N.” The man teased. It was 100% Danny.

“I asked for a name, not an alias.” You said.

“Maybe after dinner, hotshot.” Danny said to you as you furrowed your eyebrows.

“I’m not in Roseville to play games. Either verify you are who you claim to be or quit wasting my time.” Y/N spoke with a stern tone.

“My last victim had three stab wounds to the throat. It was going to be two but their scream wasn’t as satisfying as I thought it would be. And they had a tattoo on their upper thigh. Bella Smith.” He said as you froze for a moment.

It was true. The latest murder victim was a middle-aged woman named Bella Smith who worked at a convenience store. She had multiple stab wounds but it was pretty much impossible to see she had three wounds on her throat just looking at photos of the crime scene.

“Okay and how did you get my number? I imagine the infamous Ghostface doesn’t have access to these types of things. How do I know this isn’t some sort of elaborate prank orchestrated by my coworkers?” You questioned.

“Honey, I am Roseville. Also sounds like you have experience with these kinds of things. You ever get humiliated like that?” Danny asked, grinning widely.

“No, it’s just a very logical conclusion. And why would you be talking to me anyways?” You asked him.

While you spoke to him, you quickly wrote down what he said and what he sounded like. You quickly speculated what his age may be, maybe 25?

“I keep tabs on the cops who are investigating my work and to be honest? They’re all stupid, it’s pathetic. Although, I noticed something about you. You come from one of the big cities, don’t you? You’re actually smart compared to those other pigs.” He said.

“Those pigs you speak of have tried their best in pursuing you. They have families too.” You responded.

“Really, huh? You’ve only been here three weeks? I think you should just trust me on this one because those other officers really don’t know what they’re doing. If you actually find out who I am, are they gonna give you credit? The newbie? A woman?” He asked.

“I don’t understand why gender is an issue. And why would they try to steal credit?” You questioned.

“They’re stuck in this shit hole city and I bet they could just really use a promotion right now. They want so badly to be the hero that arrests me… but first, they’ll let the freshly graduated detective do the work. It’s so easy to overshadow women in this world.” Danny said.

“Well, I don’t care. As long as you’re put behind bars.” Y/N responded.

“The bars at this station? I must say, your desk is quite cute. A bit plain but I like your style… interesting files too.” He mused.

“Huh?” You responded, furrowing your eyebrows.

“Your lil’ office at the station, I like it. This place has always been easy to break into. You noticed it too, didn’t you? Their security sucks and their morgue is just too damn small.” Danny said as you frantically looked around, shoving your shoes on.

“I’m going to call them right now and tell them you’re there. That was a stupid move on your part.” You said, practically yelling.

“So young and naive. I’ll be long gone.” He responded, chuckling as you hung up.

“Fuck, shit!” You said, quickly dialling the number to the police station.

You practically flung your door open, sprinting down the hallway and out through the front doors of the apartment complex after three flights of stairs. Your heart rate increased as you continued running down the sidewalk, feeling more frantic when there was no answer.

“Answer…!” You yelled, calling the emergency number.

“911, how can I help you?” A staticky voice answered as you continued running.

“I’m Detective Y/N L/N! Please inform the police station that there’s an intruder! He might be armed and dangerous! Do not touch anything since there may be forensic evidence!” You instructed.

“Oh—yes, right away, ma’am!” The dispatcher answered as you hung up, continuing to focus on your running towards the station.

Back at your apartment complex, there stood Danny with his own mobile phone. It couldn’t be traced back to him since it was stolen and he didn’t leave any DNA on it. If anything, it had the previous owners. Bella Smith. Your apartment complex had fire escape stairs outside your window. Easy enough, he thought. His outfit was black and had some stuff hanging off it. Strings? Ribbons? Danny was quite quick and extremely quiet when it came to climbing the set of stairs.

He reached your window, pulling it open gently and hoisting himself through, landing gently whilst kneeled down. For precaution, he had his knife gripped in one hand. This was purely for investigation and to see what you truly had on him. His head tilted curiously as he noticed your desk. Your art and notebook. His gloved hand reached out to your sketch of him.

Danny was truly impressed at how detailed and good it was. He read through your sticky notes and theories. Other than the fact he was blown away, he knew you were a threat since you successfully guessed his age range and height. Wait, his height? You did a careful examination of the footage he was in, looking at objects around him and his boots to correctly guess a height.

“What the fuck…?” Danny muttered as he looked at your notes.

The Scream by Edward Munch and a costume company? He skimmed over your notes and the psychological profile you built on him. He felt somewhat panicked since you were indeed no joke. His gaze averted towards your leather notebook. Eagerly, he grabbed it and opened it. Most of it was your thoughts and causes of your stress and anxiety. He stopped flipping through when he saw a darker page. It was dark because of the writing and how crumpled it seemed.

December 23rd, 1992

I was walking down an alleyway two weeks ago. It was cold so I had a jacket over my uniform. I suppose that’s why the man didn’t know I was an officer.

At first, I thought that he was going to try and rob me. It took me a while to realize that my money and belongings wasn’t what he was after. I suppose it would be appropriate to say that I was in shock for a moment. He never finished what he started. Despite being in shock, I was able to feel everything and the adrenaline only helped my rage.

Why? Why did this have to happen to me? After getting him off, I pulled my gun out and he stopped. I still remember the look on his face after I shot him. He was scared and pathetic, as he was in life. I don’t regret killing him. I never will. I just feel utterly violated. Never once have I been touched like that so violently. Is this what this fucked up world has come to? What if I didn’t have my gun and training?

He definitely did this to other women… he deserved to die. And I would do it all over again to him and to other men just like him. Of course, I had to call the police. They were going to charge me with manslaughter but they said that they would push this all under the rug, just as long as I never tell anybody. Did I contribute to corruption in the police force? This getting out would ruin everything. I don’t know but I do know that this was my gift.

Freedom was my gift for killing that man. It felt oddly exhilarating. I hope nobody remembers him, I hope his family know what kind of monster he was. Anyways, I’m being reassigned somewhere. They said they’ll give me my first investigation. In a smaller city.

Danny’s fingers trailed over the page. He felt angry and sad for you. That this happened to you. But, something arose in him when he kept re-reading that paragraph. You… enjoyed it? Behind the mask, he had a soft expression on his face. He imagined your beautiful face full of blood with you and your gun. He smiled gently as he kept the notebook.

He did indeed feel bad for you but he wasn’t satisfied with his limited knowledge of you. Danny decided to use this notebook of incriminating evidence to hold some leverage over you. Not only that but he figured he’d get to know you better if they had something interesting to talk to you about. Danny couldn’t help but grin when he thought about your journal entry and the sketches you made of him. So smart yet so naive.

Danny quickly took a look around your apartment to see all points of entry. He took a peak into your bedroom, it was neat and tidy. He seemed somewhat paranoid so quickly went back to your living room window, making his swift little escape. Not without taking some of your notes on him and your sketchbook.

About two hours later, you rubbed your eyes in frustration as another officer came to talk to you. There was a forensic team still investigating your little office space. Apparently, there was nobody here and your office seemed untouched. For about thirty minutes, you inspected any points of entry and tried to look for out of place shoe marks since it rained outside.

“Detective, are you certain it was the killer who called? We get prank calls a lot.” He said as you nodded.

“Yes, I’m certain. It was him, he knows I’m going to catch him soon.” You said as he nodded a bit.

“Okay, well, we’ll take it from here. Come early tommorow.” He said as you sighed.

“I will but please, don’t miss anything. I’m starting to think he was lying. It was him though.” You said as you turned, walking down the hallway towards the exit.

It seemed to be evening at this point and the rain stopped pouring. It was slightly humid but the city looked oddly beautiful when it was wet? You couldn’t stop thinking about your phone call with Ghostface earlier. Y/N already had some tech professionals try to track the number he called from and all of the information regarding the phone company. You’d have to wait two days at the latest for the results to come back.

As you walked through light puddles, you felt more and more tired. All the running and frantically searching for him was enough to just make you exhausted. It was all last-minute too. Y/N stopped dead in her tracks when she felt her mobile phone ring. You pulled it out of your pocket and answered it.

“Hello?” You asked, tired.

“Hey, gorgeous. Just wanted to apologize for my little deception trick earlier.” He responded as your eyes widened.

“Ghostface…” You responded, shocked that he had the courage to call you again.

“God, hearing that from you…” He said with a slight husk as you took a deep breath quietly to calm yourself.

“You know I’m close, don’t you?” You questioned him as he chuckled.

“Of course, I do… only these hands of mine can do wonders for you.” Danny said to you as you scoffed.

“You’re disgusting.” You say to him.

“Don’t lose your temper now, detective. There’s… things we should discuss.” He cooed.

“Things? Seriously?” You asked him, already tired of his bullshit.

“Yeah! Like, this lil’ notebook of yours! Really deep stuff… Victor Houston, was it? The serial rapist? Must’ve felt real good to put him down, didn’t it? Did it feel as good as you said it did in this thing?” He asked as you froze.

You probably let out a small whimper of shock as your hands trembled. Your heart pumped hard and fast. It was all you can hear as you felt your face heat out of pure embarrassment and shock. He… read your journal? This wasn’t good, this wasn’t good.

“W-What…?” You asked as he cackled.

“God, you’re so hot when you sound scared. Don’t be offended though, babe. You still sound real sexy in your cop tone.” He said as he continued.

“Yeah, I read all about the guy you killed. And how it was all covered up to accommodate you. Are you a star student or something? It’s hard covering up murders… or has it always been easy for you?” He asked.

“I-I, um… how did you get that…?” You asked him, trembling.

“You see, Y/N… we’re the same. You and I are too smart for Roseville. It’s just that I got the upper hand this time. While you rushed to the police station, I took a quick trip into your apartment.” He said as you let out a light gasp.

“Yeah, that’s right! I know where you live, I know where you’re from, and your number. I know who you truly are, Detective Y/N L/N.” Danny said mockingly.

“And what are you going to do with it?” You asked him.

“Always so straight to the point. I might give that annoying little journalist Jed Olsen. You’re trying to work with him, aren’t you? You mentioned in one of these notes… you also think he’s handsome.” He said as you covered your eyes.

You fought tears.

“Why? Why would you do this?” You ask.

“I should be asking you that. I’m a bit jealous you find someone like Olsen… attractive. He’s so boring, so normal, so… ugh, I hate talking about him. Still though, nice to know I have another fan besides him.” He said to you.

“Where are you going with this?!” You snapped as he chuckled darkly.

“I won’t tell anybody. Just as long as you halt your investigation for a while. I still want to have fun in Roseville here and well… get to know you.” He said.

“Go to hell.” You muttered.

“How original… so what’ll it be? I kinda need to know now since I’m also on a bit of a time crunch.” Danny asked you.

“W-What the fuck do you want me to do? Sit back and watch as you kill more innocent people?! I won’t let you.” You said with a venomous tone.

“What are you gonna do? Stop me behind bars?” He asked mockingly.

“Fuck you.” You said.

“I’m sure we will. But first, I just want you to sit back and not do anything stupid. We’ll see each other eventually. I’ll call you from another phone soon.” He said, hanging up.

You held your phone in disbelief and quickly made sure you had your gun. How the hell could you have been so dumb?! It was genius, leading you away from you apartment and finding such leverage against you purely out of luck. Your breath trembled as you walked back to your apartment, having your gun ready in your pocket as you did so.

[year2000electronics]

Malcom Challender and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good Very Bad Day

(just a little goofy ficlet set after episode 2 bc i wrote day 11 when i wasnt feeling very good about myself so i think my cool and awesome sona should be able to hang out with vils cool friends :^) )

The sun shone through the crack in Malcom’s windows, and he waved off the pigons that had somehow slipped into his apartment- as they often did, with his bird-whisperer of a roommate around. He swore it was like Player let them in on purpose sometimes. He squinted, avoiding the light as he transferred himself from his bed to his wheelchair, kicking the brake back in.

...Yes, he slept in his clothes. Don’t lie! You do it too, sometimes!

Malcom made his way into the kitchen, pouring himself a bowl of cereal. He pondered to himself where his housemates had gone off to, but he decided against questioning where they went. They were more active than he was, certainly- Player, when he wasn’t feeding the birds in some park, was off using his gym membership or playing bingo with some old ladies. Darnold was probably attaching rocket boosters to things that weren’t supposed to have rocket boosters.

And they were both video game characters that had become real.

God, Malcom’s life was fucking weird.

He could at least take the day to relax- after all, he didn’t have a stream until the weekend. Summer was right around the corner, which meant he could start using all his outdoor gimmicks for streams. Neo had even suggested doing a carnival stream! How would that even WORK?!

He shrugged it off. Malcom was sure Neo had some crazy ideas in his head, anyways. That was just how the dude worked.

Malcom’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud banging on his dining room window. His head jerked up in surprise when he heard some especially loud banging. Someone was… knocking on his window? From THIS high up?!

And it was…

No.

No fucking way.

That beautifully-styled curly brown hair. That signature sleazy moustache. That suave all-black ensemble. That surprisingly sleek ship they rode.

CAPITAL M?!

They said… well, they said something. Malcom couldn’t hear them through the window.

Both of them paused for an incredibly awkward while, until eventually, Malcom quietly rolled the window down.

“As I was SAYING. HELLO, GAMER BOY! AS YOU CAN SEE, I HAVE CAPTURED YOUR PRECIOUS FRIENDS!” Mothra shouted, cackling.

Malcom was… unimpressed. All there was were a bunch of birds flying around the ship, with some of them landing near Malcom in a panic.

“Why the hell are you BACK? And second of all, is this some kinda fucked up psychological warfare to say I don’t have friends?! I do have friends, asshole! I have good traits! I know cos my therapist told me!” Malcom shouted in a huff.

“Oh- No, these are- Okay-” Capital M fumbled, hauling a giant, futuristic-looking gun out of vil’s storage compartment. “So first of all, I was just at a resort. And some… people there got me back into the groove.”

“AND SECOND OF ALL!” He posed with the gun. “BEHOLD! MY GUN THAT TURNS PEOPLE INTO BIRDS!”

“AHAHAHAHA!”

“...Birds,” Malcom said in disbelief. He looked down at the birds currently waddling around on his table. They were… unremarkable. Of course they were, they were birds!

“Yes. Birds. It’s perfect cos Player will never allow it to be changed back. Ever.”

“Ever?”

“Ever.”

Malcom snorted.

“Yeah, well, what. Are you gonna turn every world leader into a bird so you can demand ransom or something?” He said flatly.

“That’s exactly it! PREPARE FOR A GLOBAL DEBT, MALCOM CHALLENDER!” Capital M proclaimed, pointing at him.

“That is…” Her face twisted into one of mischievous glee. “Unless someone were to… stop me…? Hmmm?”

Malcom sighed. “Dude.”

“We need to get you some superhero friends or something.”

“I am a TWITCH STREAMER. I have JOBS I do for MONEY. And I have NO POWERS.”

“PAH! You have your silly stupid power of friendship, don’t you?!”

“..Besides. I know for a fact you don’t stream today,” Mothra muttered.

“...Are you following me on Twitch…?”

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, gamer-boy.”

“AND NOW I DEPART!” Capital M shouted, flying off and leaving Malcom with a lot of birds.

“Great. So, uh, who’s who?” He asked the group. “...Nevermind that, actually. No way to tell.”

It was just then his phone rang.

‘DO NOT ANSWER is requesting FaceTime…’

Malcom sighed, picking it up as a squished-together group of scientists took over his entire screen.

“Hey, Doc. Half of us got turned into birds by Capital M,” Malcom said. “You wouldn’t have anything to do with this, would you?”

The mad scientist’s face lit up. “Birds?! Oh, splendid, splendid! They really are coming back with a bang!”

“I’d GREATLY prefer it if they came back with a bang elsewhere? Maybe to the universe where people actually have powers? Like the admins, maybe??” Malcom shouted, as one of the birds let out an angry tweet.

The taller, purple scientist behind Doc guffawed. “Sorry, man. You’re the biggest dork here, so you’re easy pickings. Maybe vil just likes you.”

“It’s a great honour to have a nemesis, you know!” Harold piped up.

“AND HOW!” Doc and Sleepless both chirped.

God, they were all such a happy family. It was contagious. BLECH.

“Either way, I’m not smart enough to make an anti-bird gun. So can you guys PLEASE come over and fix this mess?” Malcom said with a sigh.

“I WOULD like to see how Capital M is doing… When we parted ways, it seemed like things were off to a good start…” Bubby mused.

“Yeah, they’re real excited about this. Just like usual, I guess,” Malcom said with a chuckle.

“Hey, is B’s service cooperating? Can we get him over too?”

The old man shook his head. “I’m afraid his feed was more like… a mosaic.”

“Damn that 2002 phone he has,” Malcom grumbled. “Oh, well. I’m sure you guys can help just fine. C’mon over.”

“Will do! We’ll bring the arsenal of weapons, too!” Tommy said excitedly.

“Like my new invention, BETTER TOASTER!” Doc yelled, holding up a toaster with mechanical spider legs and what looked like a flamethrower.

“Or the evil saxophone!” Sleepless said, and Malcom knew that was his sign to log off, as he cut them off mid-note.

“Okay, Malcom. Your friends are birds and your other friends are Saturday morning cartoon villains. Wonderful.” He sighed, sitting back in his wheelchair.

“And your OTHER other friend sure has a weird way of showing their appreciation.”

He laughed.

“Damn, I love being me.”

[btsslowburnfic]

The Arrangement Ch. 18

Story summary: Desperately in need of money, you answered the questionable ad. AKA-Arranged marriage AU featuring Y/N and Yoongi

Chapter Summary: Part two of the photoshoot

Previous Chapter here 

----------- Jimin was right. It was pretty boring. Yoongi would pose with the props, get told to make a certain face. Hold that pose. Switch poses. Touch up make-up and hair. Move slightly, change outfits, repeat. Once the newness wore off, you found yourself just sitting in a chair, watching the images on a screen they had facing you, Bongcha, and Alice. 

“He’s getting sweaty. Water break.” You said. At the next cut, you grabbed a water bottle and took it over to the pretend kitchen. He was leaned over the counter, scrolling through his phone.  You placed the water bottle on the countertop in front of him. “Hydrate.”

He stood up. “I thought I was your boss,” He rolled his eyes, but opened the bottle and started drinking it nonetheless.

“I gotta make sure you don’t wilt. Wilty models don’t take good photos. Here,” You handed him a small towel to blot his face.

“Thanks. These lights are hot. We should be about halfway done.” He took another large swig of the bottle, completely emptying it. He handed it to you. “Thanks.”

Bongcha walked over with her make-up apron. “You ready?” She asked him.

“Yep,” He responded. “Hold on,” he pulled out a stool to make his face more accessible. He then sat still as she started to pull out brushes.

You took the now empty water bottle over to the recycling bin and walked over to your prep table. You watched as Bongcha delicately re-applied the eye-makeup and then powdered his face. You saw him say something, the crinkles of his eyes slightly moving into a smile and she laughed. You felt something. Was that...jealousy?

You shook it off. This is an office setting ma’am. They were coworkers. You and Yoongi were coworkers. Even if you lived together and are supposed to start dating. Eventually. Apparently. Even though he hadn’t brought any of that up since your interview and the one time to tease you. You scrolled through your phone for a few seconds to distract yourself.

“Hey,” You heard Alice say as she walked up next to you. “Oh man...Bongcha has such a crush on Yoongi. They look so cute together, don’t you think?”

What was that feeling in your stomach? That nauseous feeling. Jealousy? No. You looked back over. She was reapplying his lip gloss as he pouted out some words and she laughed. Yes. That was jealousy. 

You stood there, staring. You couldn’t control your thoughts, but you could control how you reacted to them. You repeated your therapist’s  words as the Director yelled for photography to start again. Bongcha walked over to you and Alice, smiling brightly. 

“Heyyyy. I’m going to go grab some coffees. Do either of you want anything?” You asked, needing an excuse to take a break for a few minutes.

“We couldn’t ask you to do that,” Alice politely declined.

“Really it’s fine. I need the caffeine and Yoongi will probably get the shakes since it’s been more than three hours since he last had coffee. I don’t mind.”

“Ok I’ll take an iced latte.” Alice responded.

“Bongcha? Can I get you anything?” 

“Sure, I’d love an iced Americano. Here, let me get you some money.”

You smiled tightly. “That’s ok, BigHit will be paying for this round.” You picked up your purse and headed out to get some air and caffeine.

You walked a little further out of your way to Chachacha Tea and Kaffe since you knew Yoongi didn’t like Grindhouse. You took out your phone.

YG: Where are you?

YN: Coffee run for you and the stylists. Do you need something?

YG: Can you grab an outfit from Hoseok on the way back up? They forget to send a piece.

YN: You got it!

--------------------

You returned with the coffees and garment bag perched upon you. Alice was kind enough to grab the drinks from your right hand, leaving you with just the outfit. “Thank you,” you mouthed as the Director was in the middle of giving Yoongi directions. You walked over to the garment rack and unzipped the outfit. It was a green sweater and jeans. Tied around the hanger was a bag with the purple scarf, a silver brooch, and belt. A note was attached: Use with glasses #34 or #56.  No detail left out by Hoseok. You looked back where Yoongi was posing on a chair. Just sitting there. Looking all hot. You rolled your eyes and walked over to the table where Bongcha, Alice, and the coffees were. They had kindly waited for you as you distributed the drinks. You took a sip.

“Cut. Alright, next outfit.” You heard the Director of Photography yell.

“Hey...do you mind if I take this over to Yoongi Oppa?” Bongcha asked, an excited smile on her face.

You felt slightly like the air was knocked out of your lungs but you managed a “No, of course not.”

Bongcha picked up the twin to her coffee and headed over to Yoongi, her long ponytail happily swishing behind her.

“You ok?” Alice asked, sensing your change in demeanor.

“Oh yeah. You know, just my ladytime. Day two is always rough.” You half-lied. 

You watched as Bongcha handed Yoongi the coffee. Stupid feelings. You sighed and then headed over to the racks to get the next outfit into the changing room. You didn’t see Yoongi looking for you as Bongcha handed him the coffee. 

Yoongi made small talk for a minute and then stood up. He headed over to the dressing room, walking up behind you. “Hey,” he said. Causing you to jump slightly. “Thanks for grabbing this,” he gestured to the outfit,  “and the coffee.”

“Yep,” you forced a smile. “Just doing my job. Alright. Get this on. I have to go grab the glasses from the accessories trunk.” You walked away quickly.

Yoongi looked confused for a second and then went ahead and changed into his last outfit. He was thankful it had only been four hours. Sometimes these shoots ran into the night. He was glad the team was all working so well together.

You walked up to the curtain on the other side of the changing area. “Ok, I have your glasses ready. Hair and make-up are ready to manhandle you some more.” You said before you could stop yourself. You clamped your hand over your mouth. To your surprise you heard Yoongi laughing hard behind the curtain. Hearing him laugh made you smile even though you were in a shitty mood. The curtain opened. 

“How does it look?” He asked, jokingly striking a pose. At this point you knew he was trying to make you feel better. 

“It’s just ok. I guess. If you’re into looking super hot. Watch out. These girls are oppa hungry enough.”

Yoongi smiled awkwardly and said quietly, “I know, I’m the one they manhandle.” 

You returned in a hushed tone, “Oh please, what a terrible problem to have. Your glasses, sir.” You handed him both pairs and then headed back over to the main area. 

You picked your coffee back up from the make-up table and watched Alice sit on the couch and hairspray the shit out of Yoongi’s hair while Bongcha reapplied some make-up that had transferred off while he was changing. You felt better, but still weird. The two of them walked back over. 

The shoot wrapped up about twenty minutes later. "Thank you everyone for your hard work!" Yoongi said, having changed back into his regular clothes. Everyone clapped. You overheard Alice loudly whispering to Bongcha "Just ask him. Do it. Ask him!" 

"Ok ok.” She replied in a hurried tone to her friend. 

You felt like you were suddenly in slow motion as Yoongi walked over to you, and Bongcha walked towards Yoongi. You wished yourself invisible, but it didn't work. You were still there, standing in between them, as Bongcha asked, "Hey! Do you want to go out and grab drinks?" 

Yoongi could not have been more oblivious, you thought, as he rubbed the back of his neck and said, "No. I need to go wash all this makeup and hairspray off. Good job today, ladies." 

You actually felt bad for her. You stood there awkwardly as he turned to you and said, "See you tonight :]" He left the area, leaving the three of you girls standing there. 

You cleared your throat and smiled awkwardly. “I’m going to return the clothing pieces to the style department. I’ll see you ladies around. It was nice to meet you.” You wanted to get the hell out of there.

You hung all the clothing back on the hangers, put the accessories in their bags, and the glasses back in the trunk. You rode the elevator alone down to the 6th floor. Ugh. This was so awkward. You felt bad for Bongcha. And then you felt weird. You were jealous. Why? Did you like like Yoongi? You’d known him a week. This was too soon to like somebody, you reasoned with yourself. It was a natural byproduct of spending time together with someone so nice. (You don’t feel this way about Jimin// Quiet brain!) But it was good you like him, because you guys were supposed to get closer. Right? Ugh. This was confusing.

The elevator opened and you walked into the style department. It was dead. Like a sack of deflated rainbows.  Everything was packed up for today. You walked over to the big door and knocked. “Hoseok?” You waited a minute and to your pleasant surprise, he answered the door. Gone was his jacket, but the rest of his sunny outfit remained.

“Hey. I wasn’t sure if anyone from styling was going to come get these so I thought I’d return these myself.”

“Well, aren’t you the most thoughtful thing? Thank you. I was going to come grab them later.” He looked over the pieces, draped a dress shirt over his arm and rubbed the material between his fingers. “How did the shoot go? Did Yoongi really like any of the clothes?”

“It’s Yoongi sooooo…” You shrugged. “Maybe he’ll write a song about one of them and then we’ll know.”

Hoseok laughed, his whole body shaking. “Ok. Well If you had to pick one for him to keep, which would it be?”

“I like the green shirt and jeans. And the brooch. It’s pretty.”

“Noted. Well thank you.” He said in a rare serious moment.

“You’re welcome. Ok, I'm off to make sure the food gets packed up. Did you get some strawberries?”

He smiled, “Yes, I had one of my staff sneak some up here for me.”

“Great. See you,” You waved and turned around. Today had been busy and invigorating and awkward. NEXT CHAPTER  @lidda  @anpanman-sonyeondan   @firefairy1  @cuteipat  @sugaslittlekookies  @janeelizabeth1216 @deeepvibes @gxldenhunny @livelyjay @niniita-ah @bobbyboops @honeysunandsoil @deathkat657​

[collarious]

lessons that i’ve learnt so far

I haven’t been on this space for a couple of years. Revisiting this space is like a step back into a part of my past self - the part that’s most anxious and depressed. When life got too difficult, I would leave traces of struggle in the form of words. Punching the ‘post’ button always felt so strange — it wasn’t cathartic, it never truly encapsulated what i felt, it didn’t exactly make things feel better — but at least those thoughts were out of the mind and contained in a space. 

Recently, I’ve rediscovered this space, reread my entries and realised how far I’ve come through the years. I guess I want to summarise the things that I’ve learnt so far, in this journey of life and hope to continue practising. Excuse the shabbily typed out brain dump. 1. Be humble, learn about yourself + the world

The brain is extremely tricky and stubborn. More often or not, we probably don’t know ourselves as much as we think we do. We tell ourselves narratives of who we are, especially when life is hard and we’re not feeling good.

Know yourself, in and out, through objective means. Cross-reference like crazy using personality tests (Attachment styles, MBTI, enneagram etc), horoscopes, ask your friends what they think of you. Constantly question: who am I really? 

Read and research repeatedly — read self-help + non fiction books / listen to talks + podcasts by renowned professionals that debunk your understanding of you and the world. I personally love watching Youtube vlogs of people I look up to - especially when I’m feeling down. The change in perspective is almost always refreshing.

From there, you can break the narratives that you tell yourself everyday. Knowledge is powerful, it keeps us humble and open. 

This journey of self-discovery has no end. But that’s the fun of it, because we are always changing as time goes. We’ve got to understand ourselves because no one else will do it for us. Truly understanding ourselves really is the first step to knowing what works for our lives.

2. Acknowledge your shortcomings, but celebrate everything As we learn about our strengths and weaknesses, there comes a point when we have to accept our shortcomings. Accept, then take action to improve on the things that we can. There’s going to be so much inertia at times - some days feel fine while others make you feel like you’re back to zero. 

Track your progress, celebrate the small wins. Encourage yourself constantly, be your biggest cheerleader. 

3. Your feelings are not you. Feelings come and they go.

Feel. Do not push away your feelings, even though they are so intense & you feel like you want to disappear. 

I find solace when I think of them as: 1) The sky. Yes, the weather changes, there are seasons. Rainy days, sunny days. But the blue sky can be there, at the core we are that beautiful calm sky. 2) The ocean. The waters are always different. Waves roll in as they roll out. Despite how the ocean behaves, you can’t help but think how beautiful and vast it is.

It’s so easy to attach yourself to intense feelings as they come, because you feel every ounce of it so deeply. The brain naturally attaches to painful feelings much easier than the good ones - its really our job to try to rewire its preference against negativity.

Fear, anxiety, sadness - they are real. But so is love, grit, resilience and all the wonderful emotions we have the pleasure to feel. 

4. Take good care of yourself. Find healthy coping mechanisms.

You are your biggest asset – believe it with all your heart. 

It can be really difficult — sometimes life feels so intense, there’s so much destructive energy, and a lot of times we take it out on ourselves if not on others. My question is — will you ever want the people you love to do the same thing, to suffer? No.

Instead of doing things that simply distract you, replace them with things that uplift you. There are things that are proven to work if you stick to them — journalling, working on what you love, exercising, meditating, hanging out with people who support you. Healthy coping mechanisms look different to everyone and they change over time - so find the things that help you feel better and hopeful about the future.

Taking care of yourself; no one is going to take that job and frankly, do we really want to pass that responsibility on to someone else? When we take care of ourselves, we then have the strength to tend towards those we love. 

5. Set boundaries

Boundaries. If only they taught that in school. 

Know your triggers. Set boundaries that protect you from your triggers. Communicate your boundaries, make sure to uphold them. Find people who respect your boundaries. 

Yes, there are some people who will shit on your boundaries, gaslight you blabla. Do not give them the power to affect your reality. Distance yourself if you can. Cut toxic people out of your life. If you can’t, try to do what’s within your means to not let them take away your energy.

We have a limited amount of energy in a day. More when we are having a good day, less when we wake up to a bad one. Where you place this energy, is where you choose your focus. Focus on the good, always.

6. Learn to plan

Some people are natural planners, but others are not due to their personality or the environment that they grew up in. It took me so many years to understand the power of planning, even more to learn how to do it. I’m still learning every day.

When you’re someone with emotions that come so intensely, planning takes a whole lot of stress off for your future self. Having a plan can also feel like hope. When the mind is depressed, at least there’s a routine to follow. Learn to plan the way that works for you + your life. Kickstart this by learning how other people plan (Youtube, I love you so much) & tweak it to your liking.

So many days when I felt like doing absolutely nothing. But doing absolutely nothing will only make you feel even more shit and its just a downward spiral.

Do the easy shit first, feel good about the easy shit, then do a slightly harder task and another and another. Remember to congratulate yourself always, even if that task is ‘eating a proper meal’. 

Oh yes, there are gonna be days when you can’t do anything even after planning .. when you absolutely can’t, don’t beat yourself up for it. Rest, recharge, try again.

7. Get up and learn

There’s going to be many bad days + failures. It’s life, we just got to accept that. But really what matters is getting up and learning from them. There’s always something positive to be learnt. A mistake not to be repeated. If your failures look similar, its life giving you the same lesson.

Getting up and learning is resilience, grit and humility. There’s nothing more romantic than this. 

8. You are not alone. Seek help.

We can do a lot, but sometimes there comes a point when we are just struggling way too hard. Ask for help. Reach out. A friend. A lover. A therapist.

You’ll find love and support in ways that you can’t imagine, plus the strength to live again, fuller + brighter.

9. The Breathe

It truly blew my mind when I learnt about the power of breath through yoga and meditation. When the mind is going absolutely batshit insane, don’t think - just breathe. There’s no point adding fuel to the fire. Breathing and being present in the moment - it recentres, grounds and resets.

Learn about the breath and how it affects you + the world around you. Sometimes — when I stop to properly breathe, I feel connected to the universe again. It’s simple but endlessly interesting.

That’s all I can remember for now. May peace and joy be part of your every day.

[aueua]

Marona’s Fantastic Tale (2019) AU where the dog lives and others are happier. Idea bounced with @mushrium a few weeks back; details under cut.

Yes, I am aware that hardly anyone knows of this movie (but maybe more’ll know it now due to the streamer albeit even then this is unlikely to be a proper fandom, maybe, maybe not). Doesn’t matter. This now exists for archiving purposes.

First and foremost: Spoilers abound, don’t seek further if you don’t want them by any means - with that said, also good luck if you aren’t aware of what the movie is but I’ll do my best to give some context as necessary. (Post-edit: No clarification. Very sorry.)

See also: The movie is not for everyone but it can be appreciated artistically for its fluidity and variety of styles. There is also a lot of symbolism and the dog narrator is impeccable. I love Nine. I love her, I do.

Okay! Here we go.

Recall the [Lost Dog Sign] that is posted some scenes after Nine (protagonist, dog) left Manole (red and yellow, acrobat entertainer) and she’s picked up by Istvan beloved (Tumblr nose, big guy). Istvan may be driving and potentially distracted; however, he absolutely sees that sign. And it doesn’t quite click, not yet. He’s worried about his mother, his wife, himself, this dog. Dog... Dog! This doesn’t register until he’s arrived at his ill mother’s home. That dog on the wanted sign looks eerily like the one he just picked up... and come to think of it, it did seem well cared for...

So he fudges around, figures out what the number is.

An answer. And with one thing leading to another, Istvan figured that this guy is sincere: He loves this dog much like he does. (But he believed that Manole loved her more, deserved her more, and it isn’t likely he can bring her quite anywhere...) So. They meet up. Guy really is nice, but Istvan can see it - the acrobat’s nerves are a bit shot after all that worrying and desperation to find this dog again. Ana (dog), was it? (There was an inkling that he should call her Sara but Ana is also quite the nice name. It’s fine. And thank goodness, that he did not name her, since goodbyes would be worse.)

They part, and that is that. Istvan checked on his mother, returned to his choking snake of a wife (yellow skin ostritch, black fluff); Manole reobtained his beloved boy (girl, he knows), managed to get a contract that allowed him to work with her in the La Circe (???) troupe thingamabob since it was either them or nothing. Both of these two keep in touch with each other as Istvan is worried and, admittedly, attached to the dog after those moments in the dumps viva la his loneliness. Plus Manole’s a fun personality. He’s considered going to see one of his acts, once, but his wife’s a bit overbearing.

A bit overbearing, as in a time skip occurs and he still had yet to leave her toxic self, nor could he bear to see his mother but still stuck it through.

Come to think of it though. Manole is obviously happy, and so is the dog. He can’t recall a moment with his wife recently where he felt... happy, sincerely. Perhaps in the past, when he’d strum his guitar and skate around - free and without the exhaustion of judgment and micromanagement? He deserved better. There’s just no right timing, though, as he can’t find the motivation to work himself up and tell his wife they need a divorce for both of their own sakes.

And then his wife gave him the ultimatum: Her, or that stupid acrobat with the dog and his mother.

Well, well. Fine. He doesn’t need to pack much, and he doesn’t need to say anything. He’s rearing to go. The wife? Cocky. All until she realized quite quickly that he was serious, dead serious, and she begged and pleaded and smothered herself all over him trying to get him to obey her every whim just like before. That it was a joke, an act, a test to see where he would be really happy but she needed him and who else would indulge her needs and fluff up her ego with the beefcake of a man?

Too bad! He’s gone, but he’s also an incredible mess and it was incredibly short-notice and maybe he should’ve thought things out better, but he’s free. He’s never felt so relieved. It’s quite cold, dark, and alone, but everything seems so much more colorful and bright now but also he really should find a place to say and strangely, his immediate thought is to call up Manole -- but he’s asleep, isn’t he? Or working? He shouldn’t bother him, he should go to his mother. But...

He called. Decided that if he did not get an answer, he would let him know another time (never, really). And nobody picked up. So as he’s ready to drive out, he gets a call: It’s Manole. He picked up, and he heard the groggy-confused voice of an acrobat ringing out with the delightful barks of Ana in the background to give him the image that oh, she must have woken him up, and oh, he’s smiling. They chat for the night. As in. They meet up again, and the two take a quiet stroll out with Ana, and Istvan gets to vent, tell his story. (His little audience is quite expressive too, he noted. Loose red strings of disbelief and high-pitched barking. Dramatic flailing of arms, a growl.)

In the end, they have to rest. Manole and Ana depart (with Manole insisting that they continue their little interactions and that Istvan finally comes to one of his showings, he swore he’d make it worthwhile - Ana agreeing in her little pip), and Istvan is home. A home of memories. Bad, good, but a place that made him nevertheless and he supposed... he should probably go to that therapist Manole recommended. He gave his word that she was fine; she had helped him back then, too, when things were dire.

Solange was her name. And oh, she was understanding - the best, at least for his circumstances. He revealed his feelings, and she helped him through most of it - enough that he was in better shape than before. Enough that he can lift his head high even with his impressive stature. But - he did ask, out of polite curiosity. What was it that made her want to be a therapist?

And it was an easy answer, the way she’d told it. A deadbeat father, a single mother with a cat and her father - her own grandfather. She had been... rebellious, in a sense, and she was a menace to her family. They had financial issues, relationship issues, the works. It was only until they’d discovered the (grand)father dead that things really started to change. Viva la insurance money, they were able to handle most of the debt and loans. She felt more inclined to... help, seeing as how badly-shapen her mother was, mourning and all. And during that - she realized it was something she wanted to pursue wholeheartedly.

Overall, they’re happy. Istvan and Manole eventually get together (after a long amount of time, only when Istvan was ready to open himself up again - easier, when he’d started acting as accompaniment as (a tech) crew and occasional musical act in the streets and they realized how well they clicked). Ana thrives (with a few other secret nicknames that the others gave to her; well. She doesn’t mind.) Solange occasionally helped out in using her artistic skills with some of the advertisements.

They’re all comfortable. They’re living.

That is all.

 SUMMARY:

・[Overall] The canon diverges with Istvan actually noticing and recognizing the missing dog poster Manole put up. Manole and Ana are reunited. Istvan eventually divorces his wife and gets therapy from Solange, and Istvan is later friends (or more than that, ah-heem) with Manole.

・[Manole] Acrobat for that dreamy circus, but with a dog.

・[Ana] Dog! Beloved! Living! Happy! SO Happy. Maybe gets to meet her old litter of siblings again.

・[Istvan] No more toxic wife that tries to control and restrain him with false affections and silly desires built on creating a dumb image! Musical fun time! Also lifts and flexes.

・[Solange] On good terms with mother now! Grandpa is deader than dead but it’s for the better, promise. Insurance money and her mother made her realize she’d wanted to be a therapist. Occasionally does art for Manole’s circus thing.

No I did not proofread this. I do not care. I have self love, and this is, in fact, indulgent.

[westcoastrry]

Tracing The Stars Chapter 6

Blair's POV

"I didn't mean that," I quickly retorted, slapping my mouth with the palm of my hand, not believing what I just said to the boy in front of me.

I don't know if it was the blunt I smoke or the three vodka shots I had before I got here, but I just asked Harry fucking Styles to teach me how my clit work.

If that isn't embarrassing, I don't know what is.

"Hey, hey, don't get shy on me now love."

"I mean, I meant that. I only meant that if you wanted to, but if you don't, I completely understand, and we can just move on with our lives like I never said that, because it didn't, But we can do that if you want that to happen."

"Do you want this to happen?" Harry asks, moving his face closer to mine.

Our foreheads were about a centimeter away from touching, and I had to take a deep breath to calm myself down.

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable. Only if you want me to help, I'll help," He reassures me.

The best I could do was not my head in confusion. I was not confused because I didn't understand what was going on, but confused because Harry Styles, a guy I thought would never find me remotely attractive, is offering to help me get off. My brain was overwhelmingly confused with the events that were unfolding right in front of my eyes.

"I need you to use your words Blair."

"Yes," I whisper, making direct eye contact with him. "Yes, I want this."

Harry's eyes search mine for any doubt before speaking. "Can I kiss you?"

"Yes, fuck Harry. I need you to do something," I wine, squeezing my thighs together.

His lips find mine, and I can't explain the sparks that went off in my stomach. My fingertips felt like there was electricity flowing through them and the ache between my legs only intensified as Harry kept his lips on mine.

I was clearly nervous about everything, but Harry remained confident, taking control, parting my lips so that his tongue could slip in.

This was major progress for me, and I knew when I got home, it would be the first thing I would write down in the journal my therapist gave me. A couple months ago, I would have never kissed a boy, let alone be in the same room as one. I was proud of myself and definitely excited for the reward that was about to come.

Harry tilted my chin up with his fingers, giving him access to my jawline. He presses light kisses there, bringing his hands down to my side, rubbing up and down.

"Does that feel good love?"  

The only response I could give him was in the form of a weak whimper.

"What about here love?" He asks again but continues his trails of kisses down to my neck.

"S-so good."

"So you like my lips on your neck, good to know," he mutters, ghosting his lips over the sensitive area.

"Where can I touch you?" He hums out, keeping his lips attached to my neck.

"Anywhere," I answer, slightly out of breath. "But I want to keep my clothes on. If you are okay with that."

Harry frowned at me, spinning me around, so I'm facing him. He places one finger under my chin, lifting my head so that we could make eye contact. "Blair, I'm okay with anything that makes you comfortable."

"Sorry, I just-"

Harry cuts me off. "No. You don't owe me an apology. You don't owe anyone an apology, got it?" Harry's voice became assertive and almost worrisome.

I don't respond, and this time Harry doesn't say anything. He gently pulls me onto Gabe's bed, securing his arms on my hips, pulling me on top of him.

"You're so cute," Harry mumbles, placing kisses near my ear. "So cute."

I grind myself down on Harry's length hoping for some kind of relief. He throws his head back and lets out a groan, letting his hands run up and down the sides of my body. I didn't know that this could feel so good, just out two clothed bodies rubbing on one another.

"Jesus fucking christ Blair," Harry moans softly, placing his hands on the swells of my back, watching me grind myself onto him, with his mouth forming the shape of an "o." His hips moved in sync with mine, and my core because more and more sensitive every time I rolled my hips with his.

"God, Harry please," I beg at him, not exactly sure what I'm asking for.

"I know baby, I know, give me one second."

Harry closes his eyes and takes a deep breath while I keep moving my heat against him. He completely halted his movements. It looked like he was trying to gain his composure. My brain started to rack the reasons why he would stop. Maybe I was hurting him? Maybe he didn't like what I was doing?

I didn't want to overthink the situation, so I kept grinding my hips down on him, trying to relieve myself.

"Sit with your back facing me." He demands.

Harry sits up against the headboard, and I turn around resting my back against his stomach.

He places kisses on the back of my shoulders and in that moment, I swear all my nerves have completely melted away.

"I'm not gonna take off your pants, but I do need to unbuckle your jeans and pull them down a little lower. Is that okay?"

"Yes," I wine, squirming in between his legs. "Please do something."

"Hey, hey, hey, baby, I need you to relax for me, mkay? This will feel much better if you relax. I'm not going anywhere. Not until you cum for me."

I nod my head while Harry's fingers unbutton my jeans, slightly pulling them down, so they sit just a little lower on my hips, revealing my pink lace panties.

"You okay?" Harry asks, still peppering kisses on my shoulder.

"Harry," I groan in frustration.

"Let me know at any time if you want me to stop and I will."

Harry brings his hands to the tops of my shoulder and runs them down my arm until he reaches my hands. He picks up my right hand and brings it close to my mouth.

"Open," He instructs, tapping my fingers against my lips.

I follow his demands, taking my fingers in my mouth, and sucking on them. I haven't done anything this sexual in my whole eighteen years of life. Something so simple as sucking on my fingers while Harry held them up to my mouth was absolutely thrilling and such a turn on.

Once Harry is satisfied with how wet I have gotten my fingers, he pulls them out of my mouth and runs them over my slit.

Harry guides my hands slightly away from my core, and I watch as a string of my arousal drips off my fingers.

"Jesus, you are soaking Blair. How long have you been like this, hmm?" He coaxes in my ear. "Were you just going to let yourself get this wet and not even ask for my help?"

I turn my head to look at Harry slightly and his bright green irises have turned a dark shade of green, and he has a very primal look on his face. I can also feel his tough erection pressed against my back. It looks like he is trying to hold himself back from what I'm not exactly sure.

I was going to tell Harry I was good. I wanted to let him know I was okay, but he takes my finger and starts to rub my clit with it, and I end up choking on my own words.

"Just like this. Circular motions."

"Goddam," I hissed at the pleasure gripping the bedsheets.

"Just relax for me doll, and let me guide your hands, okay?"

I nod my head in response and let the pleasure start to take over my body. He continues to kiss me, starting at my neck and making his way to the corner of my mouth.

"Want you to pleasure yourself, so you are familiar with your body and how it works. Never rely on a man for pleasure."

His tone is lecturing, and I feel myself getting wetter and wetter by the moment. He catches me slightly off guard when he curves one of my fingers and places it directly into my heat.

I yelp out at the pleasure as everything starts to hit me at once. The pit of my stomach is burning, and as I try to shut my legs because of the overwhelming pleasure, Harrys takes his feet under mine, flexing his muscular legs so I couldn't shut mine.

I start to feel my pussy clenching around my finger. A shiver follows down my spine when I feel his soft hands run up and down my inner thighs, causing my legs to buckle and shake.

"Want me to finish you off love?" He asks, removing my hands from my sensitive area.

"Yes, Harry. I need to cum. Please."

He wasted no time dipping his fingers into me. His fingers are much longer and wider than mine. He curves up just at the right angle, hitting the most delicious spot.

"Look at you clenching around my fingers. No one has ever pleased you this good before, right? I know your dick of an ex-boyfriend can't make you feel this good. He couldn't even hold your hand in public."

He noticed that?

"Oh God, Harry, I'm gonna cum," I yelp helplessly.

"C'mon Blair, Cum for me."

I let out a silent cry as the power of my orgasms takes over. It takes me a moment to realize Harry still has not let up yet, pounding his fingers into my pussy.

I thrash around at the overstimulation, but Harry snakes his free around my waist, letting his forearm hold me still while his thumb goes to work on my clit.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, Harry."

"C'mon babe. I know you can push another one out for me. Wanna watch you feel good."

My second orgasm hit me when I was completely lost in pleasure and unaware of what my body was doing. I'm left screaming Harry's name as I stare down at my pussy, watching myself squirt all over the bedsheets.

Harry sucks in a sharp breath by my ear. His hands find mine that are fisting the bed sheets and gripping them tightly.

I fall back against Harry's chest, not having any energy to move and trying to calm myself down. He starts to pepper encouraging kisses all over my body.

"Did so fucking good for me baby. See nothing broken. Everything works just fine down there."

I'm completely out of breath and stunned at our actions. My head is spinning from my orgasms, and there is a couple seconds of complete bliss before Harry speaks, snapping me out of my high.

"You okay there Blair?"

"Yeah, yeah," I responded, taking steady breaths trying to gain my composure.

Harry slips himself from behind me, causing me to fall back on the bed completely. He grabs some tissues from the nightstand and stands at the bottom of the bed, cleaning me up before fixing my underwear and hoisting my pants back up.

"So I'm assuming it is not broken?"

How dumb am I?

"Considering you squirted all over Gabe's sheets, no your pussy works just fine," Harry answers sarcastically.

Harry must have noticed how my cheeks flushed in embarrassment because he quickly spoke up again.

"It's a good thing Blair, means you enjoyed yourself."

"Uhh, Thank you."

Harry smirks at me."Don't gotta thank me for fingering you right."

I sit up on the bed and the first thing I see is the growing bulge in Harry's pants. My eyes go wide at the outline that is showing through skinny jeans.

"I gotta take care of that." He said, acknowledging where my eyes have wandered. "I also gotta change Gabe's sheets."

"You don't want me to help?"

"Nah, don't worry about it. This was about you, and I enjoyed it."

I don't know why all of a sudden, I'm completely embarrassed. What do I have to be embarrassed about? I just had the best orgasm of my life.

"Alright, well I'm going to go."

I think Harry was about to say something to me, but I closed the door as quickly as possible. I needed a second to breathe.

I make my way to Gabe's backyard breathing in the fresh air. I took out my phone to look at my appearance and I looked quite literally fucked. My eyeliner was slightly smudged, braids all tangled, and the sleeves of my shirt loosely hung off my shoulders.

"Blair, what are you doing out here?"

The sounds of his voice were ingrained in my head. I knew it was him. I didn't even have to look up. I instantly started to feel like my old self again, just when I started making progress.

I haven't seen Justin since we broke up. He had messaged me many times, threatening me to come back to him. I never told my parents about that. They were already so stressed about paying for my therapist and dealing with my trauma. I didn't want to put anything else on my plate.

"Blair." He says a little more aggressively.

I wasn't sure what I should do. Even if I wanted to do something, I was so stunned I couldn't even move. There weren't many people outside in Gabe's yard, so we were pretty much isolated from everyone else, but I doubt Justin would do anything stupid considering one scream, and someone would come outside.

"Blair, baby, how have you been?" Justin asks, walking closer to me. "I've missed you."

He reached out for my hand, but I pulled it back quickly, taking a few steps away from him.

I wanted my voice to come out confident and assertive, but instead, it came out more like a whisper. "Please leave me alone."

"Blair, do you really want me to do that? I know you have missed my di-"

Suddenly Harry appears a couple feet behind Justin with Gabe by his side.

"Hey. What the hell is going on?"

"Fuck off Harry. I'm with my girl."

Harry lightly pulls at my hip placing me behind him. "Last time I checked, she wasn't your girl."

"Oh, and is she yours?" Justin answers back with a sneer. "Oh, so your fucking her, huh? Well, I'll let you know now, she is a screamer, could barely take my dick."

Harry is fuming at this point. He pulls his hand back as if he is gonna sock Justin right in the face, but Gabe swoops in just in time, placing his hands on Harry's chest, pushing him backwards.

"Woah, man. Chill okay? You just made the team. You know if you start a fight coach will find out. And you." Gabe states, turning around pointing his finger at Justin. "You finna get the hell out of my house."

Justin bows his head. "See you around, Blair."

While Harry is busy watching Justin walk off the property, Gabe walks up to me, placing his hand on my shoulder.

"Yo Blair, you good?"

"I'm fine. I just didn't know he was gonna be here."

"I didn't know either Blair, I'm sorry. I know he is an asshole," Gabe says running his hands up and down my arm.

"You want to go?" Gabe asks, which causes Harry to turn around and look at me with soft eyes.

"Yeah, I do, but Megan is my ride home. I have to find her."

"I'll take you," Harry offers. "My car is just down the street."

"Please. I just want to get out of here."

[hermywolf]

ranking my favorite characters about random shit part 5

ranking my favorite characters (clarke griffin, dean winchester, fox mulder, rose tyler, newt, kaz brekker, samwise gamgee, charles xavier, bill denbrough, lord asriel, steve rogers, scott mccall, anna milton and barry berkman) about random shit. this is entirely self-indulgent

Part 5: How they’d react to a breakup (i’m imagining a completely random oc as the one breaking up with them because if i start thinking of the people i ship them with breaking up with them i WILL cry)

1- NEWT

he’s the sweetest man on earth he’d want to talk about it and understand his partner’s reasons and he’d be so kind and understanding even though he’d be sad lemme tell you this man is a SAINT

2- STEVE ROGERS

sweet understanding KING. absolute TREASURE. he’d be so confused and sad at first but he’d be SO understanding UGH i am in love with this man

3- SCOTT MCCALL

remember when allison sorta kinda broke up with him and he was all sweet and kind about it and said that he believed they would find their way to each other again eventually. yeah. iconic behavior. king shit

4- SAMWISE GAMGEE

he’s the PRESIDENT of ‘let’s stay friends!’ squad he’ll definitely stay in touch with all his exes they’re all his absolute besties

5- CHARLES XAVIER

mr telepath mindreader therapist teacher man absolutely sees it coming from a thousand miles away and he might even be the one to bring it up so that his partner doesn’t worry about it. he will be sad but he gets over it in a healthy way because he’s (MOSTLY) in touch with his feelings

6- ANNA MILTON

for a fallen angel with a bit of a god complex she’s surprisingly well adjusted. i think she’s the kind to definitely stay friends with her exes except like two of them which she’s got five different plans to murder each. all in all if it’s a healthy breakup they stay friends if it involves cheating she’s out to get you motherfucker and you know what you deserve it i mean who the FUCK would cheat on ANNA MILTON of all people istg

7- DEAN WINCHESTER

whoever thinks dean is emotionally constipated enough to be the ‘i didnt like u anyway’ kind has NOT seen spn 1x13 road 666 like GUYS. he pretends to be this no-chick-flick-moments and no-attachment kinda dude but we all know he actually cares SO much and if you look at his relationship with cassie or lisa he’s actually pretty open and communicative and sincere and he geniunely tries to talk about shit with them?? so he does have a constructive and heartfelt conversation and says he understands but he also WILL cope by either going on more hunts to distract himself or by locking himself in his room with pizza and movies in his hotdog pants and send noods socks, s14 style. TONS of ice cream. he’ll ghost his ex for a while when he’s coping with it but then later on they do end up being besties (yes i AM on the team dean-becomes-bff-with-all-his-exes don’t mind me just spreading my dean being besties with anna, cassie, lisa,amara, benny and crowley agenda)

8- BILL DENBROUGH

he’s pissed and sad and offended and grumpy and confused he just feels a LOT of shit at the same time like he’s having a full breakdown inside but from the outside his reaction is pretty much ‘what. oh. ok’

9- LORD ASRIEL

he does not, and mark my words on this one, give a single fuck. he IS what kaz pretends to be and what ketterdam thinks he is. asriel does not give a FLYING FUCK he’s like ‘well ok then see you around i guess’ and then just moves on. he was probably cheating on his partner anyway if we’re being honest here, he’s just that terrible. god why is he my favorite character again- oh right he’s insanely hot and wants to murder god right right that tracks

10- FOX MULDER

he’s extremely sweet and compassionate and understanding but then he disappears for like five months to chase down an alien in guatemala or some shit and then comes back pretending as if nothing happened at all

11- CLARKE GRIFFIN

she’s NOT happy about it and gets all grumpy and pouty and will angrily rant about it to her friends for ages but then once she’s over it she’s like. OVER over it. she completely moves on, like full on flip the switch and the feelings are GONE

12- ROSE TYLER

full breakdown in her room with tubs and tubs of ice cream wondering what she did wrong and then probably gets offered by a friend to go throw eggs at their house or some dumb shit. rose says no but she ALMOST did it. she keeps asking if there’s someone else even when it’s very clear that there’s NOT.

13- KAZ BREKKER

allow me to introduce you to the pettiest bitch on EARTH. he will definitely not hurt his ex in any way but he’ll do his absolute best to show them how much they’re missing. like he’s PETTY about it he’ll hold a gruge months, no year, no DECADES after it happened. he shows absolutely no emotions whatsoever you’d barely notice there’s been any change in his behavior, he’s not, like, sad or angry or anything, he’s just suddenly VERY devoted to the fact that everyone must know how AMAZING he’s doing and how rich and powerful and feared he is and how much a hypothetical ex-partner is missing. like this bitch probably has a full twenty pages long plan about what to do in case he gets dumped so that his ex will regret it terribly. and the worst is that kaz is a smart bitch who knows people’s weaknesses and how to exploit them so it WORKS it works and he absolutely loves it, jesper is like ‘dude how come every single time you got dumped they came back asking you to get back together only for you to reject them EXACTLY five months later’ and kaz hiding the twenty pages long binder with his elaborated plan behind his back as if it wasn’t carefully calculated and just shrugging like ‘idk i guess im a catch’ he makes everyone SO angry and honestly good for him!

14- BARRY BERKMAN

two words: murder spree. healthy coping mechanisms WHO we don’t know her in this house he’s sad and angry and he’s going to make it YOUR problem. guns out angry bill hader face ON baby. pew pew motherfucker it’s murder time. bam thirty casualties. rip to them. and he doesn’t even feel better after it either he’s crushed by guilt and having ANOTHER breakdown which will result in MORE ptsd and more sadness and anger and eventually ANOTHER breakdown and ANOTHER murder spree. its a lose-lose situation for everyone. except for his partner who’s free of his shit now i guess so true of them

[innuendostudios]

The newest installment of The Alt-Right Playbook - Endnote 4: How the Alt-Right is Like an Abusive Relationship - is a little different. This installment was presented live at Solidarity Lowell, and includes a bonus Q&A section. This video expands on the ideas put forth in How to Radicalize a Normie.

If you would like more videos like this to come out, please back me on Patreon.

Transcript below the cut.

He is intriguing, yet unpredictable. He demands unconditional loyalty. He seems to have an intuitive understanding of what people want to hear but no actual empathy; he treats others as simply bodies or objects. And he’s surrounded by a network of subordinates but the personnel is always changing.

Does it sound like I’m describing The President? Because these are, according to Alexandra Stein, qualities of a cult leader.

Hi. My name is Ian Danskin. I’m a video essayist and media artist. I run the YouTube channel Innuendo Studios, the flagship endeavor of which is currently The Alt-Right Playbook, a series on the political and rhetorical strategies the Alt-Right uses to legitimize itself and gain power. And, if that sounds interesting to you, and you haven’t already, please like share and subscribe.

The most recent episode of The Alt-Right Playbook is about how people get recruited into these largely online reactionary communities like the Alt-Right, a subject which, as it turns out, is real fuckin’ hard to research.

What I want to talk about with you today is how I go about studying a population that is incredibly hostile towards being studied. It involves finding the bits and pieces of the Alt-Right that we do have data on - the pockets of good research, the outsider observations, the stories of lived experience - as well as looking at older movements the Alt-Right grew out of, that have been extensively researched, and spotting the ways the Alt-Right is continuous with them, and trying to extrapolate how those structures might recreate themselves in the social media age.

So it’s… a lot. And, in the process of researching, I found a wealth of interesting perspectives that, by focusing the video on recruitment specifically, I barely dipped a toe in. All that stuff is what I’d like to get into with you today. But I’m trying to thread a needle here: you don’t need to have seen my video, How to Radicalize a Normie, to follow this talk, but, if you have seen it already, I will try not to be redundant. This talk is one part making my case for why I think the conclusions in that video are correct, one part repository for all the stuff I couldn’t get into, and one part how I’ve come to look at the Alt-Right as a result of this research, including some pet theories I wouldn’t feel right claiming as truth without further research, but I do think are on the right track.

This talk is called Isolation, Engulfment, and Pain: How the Alt-Right is Like an Abusive Relationship. We’re going to cover a lot of ground, from information processing to emotional development, but we’re necessarily also going to cover racism and violence and abuse dynamics. So this is an introduction and a content warning: if some of these subjects are particularly charged for you, no offense will be taken if you at any point leave the room. I have to research this stuff for a living, and it is rough, and sometimes I have to step away. We don’t judge here.

Now. Requisite dash of self-deprecation: don’t give me too much credit for all this. I am proud of the work I do and I think I’m genuinely good at it, but much of this video was compiling the work of others. Besides research I had already done and my own observations, the video had 27 sources: three books, five research papers, six articles, one leaked document, three testimonials, four videos, four pages of statistics, and one Twitter joke. I also spoke to four professional researchers who study right-wing extremism and one former Alt-Righter.

Without all their hard work, I would have nothing to compile.

OK? Let’s begin.

We’re gonna center on those three main texts: Alt-America by David Neiwert, a history of the Alt-Right’s origins; Healing from Hate by Michael Kimmel, about how young men get into (and out of) extremist groups, be they neo-Nazi or jihadist; and Terror, Love and Brainwashing by Alexandra Stein, about how people are courted by and kept inside cults and totalitarian regimes.

I began with Kimmel. The premise of Healing from Hate is that extremist groups tend to be between 75 and 90% male, and that you cannot understand radical conservatism without looking at it through the lens of toxic masculinity. Which makes it all the more disappointing that Kimmel has been accused by multiple women of bullying and harassment. I found the book incredibly useful, and we’re still going to talk about it, I just need to caveat here that retweets are not endorsements. Also, if I spoil the book for you then you don’t need to buy it, give your money to someone who isn’t a creep.

Kimmel’s argument is that extremism begins with a pain peculiar to young men. He calls it “aggrieved entitlement.” I call it Durden Syndrome. You know that scene in Fight Club where Tyler Durden says, “We’ve all been raised on television to believe that one day we’d all be millionaires and movie gods and rockstars, but we won’t, we’re slowly learning that fact, and we are very, very pissed off”? Yeah, that. As men, the world promised us something, and the promise wasn’t kept.

Some men skew towards social progressivism when they realize this promise was never made to women, or men of color, or queer or trans or nonbinary people, and recognize the injustice of that. Some men skew towards economic leftism when they realize that every cishet white man being a millionaire rockstar movie god is mathematically impossible. But they skew towards reactionary conservatism when they feel the promise should have been kept. That’s the life they were supposed to have, and someone took it from them.

Hate groups appeal to that sense of emasculation. “You wanna feel like a Real Man? Shave off your hair, dance to hatecore, and let’s beat the crap out of someone.” Kimmel notes that the greatest indicator someone will join a hate group is a broken home: divorce, foster care, parents with addictions, physical or sexual abuse. The greater the distance between the life they were promised and the life they are living, the more enticing Real Masculinity becomes. Their fellow extremists are brothers, the leaders father figures.

The group does give them someone to blame for their lot in life - immigrants, feminists, the Jewish conspiracy - but that’s not why they join. They’re after empowerment. According to Kimmel, “Their embrace of neo-Nazi ideology is a consequence of their recruitment and indoctrination process, not its cause."

But once an Other has been identified as the locus of a hate group’s hate, new recruits are brought along when the group terrorizes that Other. Events like cross burnings and street fights are dangerous and morally fraught, and are often traumatic for a new recruit. And experiencing an emotional or physical trauma can create an intense bond with the people experiencing it with him, even though they’re the ones who brought him to the traumatic event in the first place. The creation of this bond is one of the reasons some hate groups usher new recruits out into the field as early as possible: the sooner they are emotionally invested in the community, the faster they will embrace the community’s politics.

This Othering also estranges recruits from the people they are supposed to hate, which makes it hard to stop hating them.

So there’s this concept that comes up a lot in my research called Contact Hypothesis. Contact Hypothesis argues that, the more contact you have with a different walk of life, the easier it is to tolerate it. It’s like exposure therapy. We talk about how big cities and college campuses tend to be liberal strongholds; the Right likes to claim this is because of professors and politicians poisoning your mind, but it’s really just because they’re diverse. When you share space with a lot of different kinds of people, a degree of liberalism becomes necessary just to get by. And we see that belief systems which rely on a strict orthodoxy get really cagey about members having contact with outsiders. We see this in all the groups we’re discussing today - extremists, cultists, totalitarians - but also religious fundamentalists; Mormons only wanna send their kids to Brigham Young. They are belief systems that can only be reliably maintained so long as no one gets exposed to other people with other beliefs.

So that’s some of what I took from Kimmel. Next I read Stein talking, primarily, about cults.

Stein’s window into all of this is applying the theory of Attachment Styles to what researchers calls totalism, which is any structure that subsumes a person’s entire life the way cults and totalitarian governments do. Attachment is a concept you may be familiar with if have, or have ever dated, a therapist. (I’ve done both.)

So, for a quick primer:

Imagine you’re walking in the park with a three-year-old. And the three-year-old sees a dog, and ask, “Can I pet the dog?” And you say yes, and the kid steps away from your side and reaches out. And the dog gets excited, and jumps up, and the kid gets scared and runs back to you. So you hold the kid and go, “Oh, no no no, don’t worry! They’re not gonna hurt you! They were just happy to see you!” And you take a few moments to calm the kid down, and then you ask, “Do you still want to pet the dog?” And the kid says “yes,” so they step away from you again and reach out. The dog jumps up again, but this time the kid doesn’t run away, and they pet the dog, and you, the kid, and the dog are all happy. Hooray!

This is a fundamental piece of a child’s emotional development. They take a risk, have a negative experience, and retreat to a point of comfort. Then, having received that comfort, feel bolstered enough to take a slightly greater risk. A healthy childhood is steadily venturing further and further from that point of comfort, and taking on greater risks, secure in the knowledge that safety is there when they need it. And, as an adult, they will form many interdependent points of comfort rather than relying on only one or two.

If all goes according to plan, that is Secure Attachment. But: sometimes things go wrong when the kid seeks comfort and doesn’t get enough. This may be because the adult is withholding or the kid doesn’t know how to express their needs or they’re just particularly fearful. But the kid may start seeking comfort more than seems reasonable, and be particularly averse to risk, and over-focus on the people who give them comfort, because they’re operating at a deficit. We call that Anxious Attachment. Alternately, the kid may give up on receiving comfort altogether, even though they still need it, and just go it alone, developing a distrust of other people and a fear of being vulnerable. We call that Avoidant Attachment.

Now, these styles are all formed in early childhood, but Stein focuses on a fourth kind of Attachment, one that can be formed at any age regardless of the Attachment Style you came in with. It’s what happens when the negative experience and the comfort come from the same place. We see it in children and adults who are mistreated by the people they trust. It’s called Disorganized Attachment.

According to Stein, cults foster Disorganized Attachment by being intensely unpredictable. In a cult, you may be praised for your commitment on Monday and have your commitment questioned on Tuesday, with no change in behavior. You may be assigned a romantic partner, who may, at any point, be taken away, assigned to someone else. Your children may be taken from you to be raised by a different family. You may be told the cult leader wants to sleep with you, which may make you incredibly happy or be terrifying, but you won’t be given a choice. And the rules you are expected to follow will be rewritten without warning.

This creates a kind of emotional chaos, where you can’t predict when you will be given good feelings and when you will be given bad ones. But you’re so enmeshed in the community you have noplace else to go for good feelings; hurting you just draws you in deeper, because they are also where you seek comfort. And your pain is always your fault: you wouldn’t feel so shitty if you were more committed. Trying to make sense of this causes so much confusion and anguish that you eventually just stop thinking for yourself. These are the rules now? OK. He’s not my brother anymore? OK. This is my life now? OK.

Hardly anyone would seek out such a dynamic, which is why cults present as religions, political activists, and therapy groups; things people in questioning phases of their lives are liable to seek out, and then they fall down the rabbit hole before they know what’s happening. The cult slowly consumes more and more of a recruit’s life, and tightly controls access to relationships outside the cult, because the biggest threat to a Disorganized Attachment relationship is having separate, Securely Attached points of comfort.

And at this point I said, “Hold up. You’re telling me cults recruit by offering people community and purpose in times of need, become the focal point of their entire lives, estrange them from all outside perspectives, and then cause emotional distress that paradoxically makes them more committed because they have nowhere else to go for support?”

Isn’t that exactly how Kimmel described joining a hate group?

Now, these are commonalities, not a one-to-one comparison. A cult is far more organized and rigidly controlled than a hate group. But Stein points out that this dynamic of isolation, engulfment, and pain is the same dynamic as an abusive relationship. The difference is just scale. A cult is functionally a single person having a very complex domestic abuse situation with a whole lot of people, #badpolyamory.

So if we posit a spectrum with domestic abuse on one end and cults and totalitarianism on the other, I started wondering, could we put extremist groups, like ISIS and Aryan Nations, around… here?

And, if so, where would we put the Alt-Right?

Now, I have to tread carefully here. There are reasons this talk is called “How the Alt-Right is Like an Abusive Relationship” and not “How the Alt-Right is Like a Cult,” because the moment you say the second thing, a lot of people stop listening to you. Our conception of cults and totalitarianism is way more controlled and structured than a pack of loud, racist assholes on the internet. But we’re not talking about organizational structure, we’re talking about a relationship, an emotional dynamic Stein calls “anxious dependency,” which fosters an irrational loyalty to people who are bad for you and gets you to adopt an ideology you would have previously rejected. (I would also love to go on a rant puncturing the idea that cultists and fascists are organized, pointing out this notion is propaganda and their systems are notoriously corrupt and mismanaged, but we don’t have time; ask me about it in the Q&A if you want me to go off.)

So I started looking through what I knew, and what I could find, about the Alt-Right to see if I could spot this same pattern of isolation, engulfment, and pain online funneling people towards the Alt-Right. And I did not come up short.

Isolation? Well, the Alt-Right traffics in all the same dehumanizing narratives about their enemies as Kimmel’s hate groups - like, the worst things you can imagine a human being saying about a group of people are said every day in these forums. They often berate and harass each other for any perceived sympathy towards The Other Side. They also regularly harass people from The Other Side off of platforms, and falsely report their tweets, posts, and videos as terrorism to get them taken down. (This has happened to me, incidentally.) I found figureheads adored by the Alt-Right who expressly tell people to cut ties with liberal family members.

We talked before about Contact Hypothesis? There’s also this idea called Parasocial Contact Hypothesis. A parasocial relationship is a strong emotional connection that only goes one way, like if you really love my videos and have started thinking of me almost as a friend even though I don’t know you exist? Yeah. Parasocial relationship. They’ve been in The Discourse lately, largely thanks to my friend Shannon Strucci making a really great video about them (check it out, I make a cameo, but… clear your schedule). Parasocial Contact Hypothesis is this phenomenon where, if people form parasocial feelings for public figures or even fictional characters, and those people happen to be Black, white audience members become less racist similar to how they would if they had Black friends. Your logical brain knows that these are strangers, but your lizard brain doesn’t know the difference between empathy for a queer friend and empathy for a queer character in a video game. So of course the Alt-Right makes a big stink about queer characters in video games, and leads boycotts against “forced diversity,” because diverse media is bad for recruitment.

Engulfment? Well, I learned way too much about how the Alt-Right will overtake your entire internet life. There was a paper made the rounds last year by Rebecca Lewis charting the interconnectedness of conservative YouTube. (Reactionaries really hated this paper because it said things they didn’t like.) Lewis argues that, once you enter what she calls the Alternative Influence Network, it tends to keep you inside it. Start with some YouTuber conservatives like but who’s branded as a moderate, or even a “classic liberal.” Take someone like Dave Rubin; call Dave Rubin Alt-Right, people yell at you, I speak from experience. Well, Dave Rubin’s had Jordan Peterson on his show, so, if you watch Rubin, Peterson ends up in your recommendations. Peterson has been on the Joe Rogan show, so, you watch Peterson, Rogan ends up in your recommendations. And Rogan has interviewed Gavin McInnes, so you watch Rogan and McInnes ends up in your recommendations.

Gavin McInnes is the head of the Proud Boys, a self-described “western chauvinist” organization that’s mostly known for beating up liberals and leftists. They have ties to neo-fascist groups like Identity Evropa and neo-fascist militias like the Oath Keepers, they run security for white nationalists, and their lawyer just went on record that he identifies as a fascist. And, if you’re one of these kids who has YouTube in the background with autoplay on, and you’re watching Dave Rubin? You might be as few as 3 videos away from watching Gavin McInnes.

There’s a lot of talk these days about algorithms funneling people towards the Right, and that’s not wrong, but it’s an oversimplification. The real problem is that the Right knows how to hijack an algorithm.

I also learned about the Curation/Search Radicalization Spiral from a piece by Mike Caulfield. Caulfiend uses the horrific example of Dylann Roof. You remember him? He shot up a church in a Black neighborhood a few years ago. Roof says he was radicalized when he googled “Black on white crime” and saw the results. Now, if you search the phrase “crime statistics by demographic,” you will find fairly nonpartisan results that show most crimes are committed against members of the perpetrator’s own race, and Black people commit crimes against white people at about the same rate as any other two demographics. But that specific phrase, “Black on white crime,” is used almost exclusively by white racists, and so Roof’s first hit wasn’t a database of crime statistics, it was the Council of Conservative Citizens. Now, the CCC is an outgrowth of the White Citizens Councils of the 50’s and 60’s which rebranded in ‘85. They publish bogus statistics that paint Black people as uniquely violent. And they introduce a number of other politically-loaded phrases - like, say, “Muslim fertility rates” - that nonpartisan sites don’t use, and so, if Roof googles them as well, he gets similarly weighted results.

I have tons more examples of this stuff. I literally don’t have time to show it all. Like, have you heard of Google bombing? That’s a thing I didn’t know existed. The point is, the same way search engines tailor your results to what they think you want, once you scratch the surface of the Alt-Right they are highly adept at making it so, whenever you go online, their version of reality is all you know and all you see.

Finally, pain. This was the difficult one. Can you create a Disorganized Attachment relationship over the internet with a largely faceless and decentralized movement? I pitched the idea to one the researchers I spoke to, and he said, “That sounds very plausible, and nearly impossible to research.” See, cults and hate groups? They don’t wanna talk to researchers anymore than the Alt-Right wants to talk to me. Stein and Kimmel get their data by speaking to formers, people who’ve exited these movements and are all too happy to share how horrible they were. But the Alt-Right is still very young, and there just aren’t that many formers yet.

I found some testimonials, and they mostly back up my hypothesis, but there’s not enough that I could call them statistically significant. So I had to look where the data was.

My fellow YouTuber ContraPoints made a video last year - in my opinion, her best one - about incels (that’s “involuntary celibate,” men who can’t get laid). Incel forums tend to be deeply misogynistic and antifeminist, and have a high overlap with the Alt-Right. If you remember Elliot Rodger, he was an incel. Contra’s observation was that these forums were incredibly fatalistic: you are too ugly and women too shallow for you to ever have sex, so you should give up. She described a certain catharsis, like picking a really painful scab, in hearing other people voice your worst fears. But there was no uplift; these communities seemed to have a zero-tolerance policy for optimism. She likened it so some deeply unhealthy trans forums she used to visit, where people wallowed in their own dysphoria.

And I remembered the forums I researched five years ago in preparation for my video on GamerGate. (If you don’t know what GamerGate was, I will not rob you of your precious innocence. But, in a lot of ways, GamerGate was the trial run for what the Alt-Right has become.) These forums were full of angry guys surrounding themselves with people saying, “You’re right to be angry.” And, yeah, if everywhere else you go treats your anger as invalid, that scratches an itch. But I never saw any of them calm down. They came in angry and they came out angrier. And most didn’t have anywhere else to vent, so they all came back.

I found a paper on Alt-Right forums that described a similar type of nihilism, and another on 8chan. What humor was on these sites was always shocking, furiously punching down, and deeply self-referential, but it didn’t seem like anyone was expected to laugh anymore, just, you know, catch the reference. I found one testimonial saying that having healthy relationships in these spaces is functionally impossible, and the one former I talked to said, yeah, when the Alt-Right isn’t winning everyone’s miserable.

So I think it might fit. The place they go for relief also makes them unhappy, so they come back to get relief again, and it just repeats. Same reason people stay with abusers. I wanna look into this further, so, I’ll just say this part to the camera: if there are any researchers watching who wanna study this, get at me.

Finally, I read Alt-America by David Neiwert, a supremely useful book that I highly recommend if you wanna know how the Alt-Right is the natural outgrowth of the militia and Patriot movements of the 90’s and early 2000’s, not to mention the Tea Party. Neiwert also does an excellent job illustrating how conspiracism serves to fill in the gap between the complexity of the modern world and the simplistic, might-makes-right worldview of fascism.

Neiwert also provides an interesting piece of the puzzle, suggesting what people are actually looking for when they get recruited. He references work done by John Bargh and Katelyn McKenna on Identity Demarginalization. Bargh and McKenna looked at the internet habits of people whose identities are both devalued in our society and invisible. By invisible, what I mean is, ok, if you’re a person of color, our society devalues your identity, but you can look around a room and, within a certain margin of error, see who else is POC, and form community with them if you wish. But, if you’re queer, you can’t see who else in a room is queer unless one of you runs up a flag. And revealing yourself always means taking on a certain amount of risk that you’ve misread the signals, that the person you reveal yourself to is not only not queer, but a homophobe.

According to Bargh and McKenna, people in this situation are much more likely to seek online spaces that self-select for that identity. A fan forum for RuPaul’s Drag Race is maybe a safer place to come out and find community. And people tend to get very emotionally tied to these online spaces where they can be themselves.

Neiwert points out that the same phenomenon happens among privileged people who have identities that are devalued even as they’re not actually oppressed. Say, nerds, or conservatives in liberal towns, or men who don’t fit traditional notions of masculinity. They are also likely to deeply invest themselves in online spaces made for them. And if the Far Right can build such a community, or get a foothold in one that already exists, it is very easy to channel that sense of marginalization into Durden Syndrome. I connected this with Rebecca Lewis’ observation that the Alternative Influence Network tends to present itself as nerd-focused life advice first and politics second, and the long history of reactionaries recruiting from fandoms.

So I can see all the pieces of the abuse dynamic being recreated here: offer you something you need, estrange you from other perspectives and healthy relationships, overtake your life, and provoke emotional distress that makes you seek comfort only your abuser is offering. And I found a lot more parallels than what I’m sharing right now, I only have half an hour! But the thing that’s missing that’s usually central to such a system is, an abusive relationship orbits around the abuser, a cult around the cult leader, a totalitarian government around a dictator. They are built to serve the whims of an individual. But I look at the ad hoc nature of the Alt-Right and I have to ask: who is the architect?

I can see a lot of people profiting off of this structure; our current President rode it to great success, but he didn’t build it. It predates him. It’s more like Kimmel’s hate groups, which don’t promote an individual so much as a class of individuals, but, even then, their structure is much more deliberate, designed, where the Alt-Right seems almost improvised.

Well… one observation I took from Stein is that cult recruiters often rely on two different kinds of propaganda: the winding diatribe and the thought-terminating cliche. The diatribe is when someone talks at length, sounds smart, and seems to know what they’re talking about but isn’t actually making sense, and the thought-terminating cliche comes from Robert Jay Lifton’s studies into brainwashing. So, I went vegetarian in middle school, and, when I would tell other kids I was vegetarian, some would get kind of defensive and say things like, “humans aren’t meant to be vegetarian, it’s the food chain.” Now, saying “it’s the food chain” isn’t meant to be a good argument, it’s meant to communicate “I have said something so axiomatically true that the argument need not continue.” That’s a thought-terminating cliche; something that may not be true, but feels true and gives you permission to think about something else.

Both these techniques rely on what’s called Peripheral-Route Processing. So, I’m up here talking about politics, and, Solidarity Lowell, you are a group of politically-engaged people, so you probably have enough context to know whether I’m talking out of my ass. That’s Direct-Route Processing, where you judge the contents of my argument. But if I were up here talking about string theory, you might not know whether I was talking out of my ass because there’s only so many people on Earth who understand string theory. So then you might look at secondary characteristics of my argument: the fact that I’ve been invited to speak on string theory implies I know what I’m talking about; maybe I put up a lot of equations and drop the names of mathematicians and say they agree with me; maybe I just sound really authoritative. All that’s Peripheral-Route Processing: judging the quality of my argument by how it’s delivered.

Every act of communication involves both, but if you’re trying to sell people on something that’s fundamentally irrational, you’re going to rely heavily on Peripheral-Route tactics, which is what the winding diatribe and the thought-terminating cliche are.

I noted that these two methods mapped pretty cleanly onto the rhetorical stylings of Jordan Peterson and Ben Shapiro. But here’s the question: cults use these techniques to recruit people. But can I say with any confidence that Jordan Peterson and Ben Shapiro are trying to recruit people into the Alt-Right?

The thing is, “Alt-Right” isn’t a term like “klansman.” It’s more akin to a term like “modernism.” It’s a label applied to a trend. In the same way we debate the line between modernism and postmodernism, we debate the line between Right and Alt-Right. People don’t sign up to be in the Alt-Right, you are Alt-Right if you say you’re Alt-Right. But the nature of the Alt-Right is that 90% of them would never admit to it.

So are Peterson and Shapiro intentionally recruiting for the Alt-Right? Are they grifters merely profiting off of the Alt-Right? Are they even aware they’re recruiting for the Alt-Right? Part of my work has been accepting that you can’t know for sure. It would be naive to say they’re unaware; when they give speeches they get Nazis in their Q&A sections, and they know that. But how aware are they? I suspect Shapiro moreso than Peterson, but that’s just my gut talking and I can’t prove it. Like 90% of the Alt-Right, it’s debatable.

I don’t know if they’re trying to be part of this system, I just know they’re not trying not to be.

A final academic term before we say goodnight that’s been making the rounds among lefty YouTubers is “Stochastic Terrorism.” There’s a really great video about this by the channel NonCompete called The PewDiePipeline. Stochastic Terrorism is the myriad ways you can increase the likelihood that someone will commit violence without actually telling them to. You simply create an environment in which lone wolf violence becomes more acceptable and appealing. It mirrors the structure of terrorism without the control or culpability.

And I hear about this, and I look at this recruitment structure I see approximated in the Alt-Right, and I remember something I learned much earlier in my research, from Bob Altemeyer in his book The Authoritarians. Altemeyer has been studying authoritarianism for decades, he has a wealth of data, and one thing he observes is that authoritarianism is the few exerting power over the many, which means there are two types of authoritarians: the ones who lead and the ones who follow. Turns out those are completely different personality profiles. Followers don’t want to be in charge, they want someone to tell them what to do, to say “you’re the good guys,” and put them in charge of punishing the bad guys. They don’t even care who the bad guys are; part of the appeal is that someone else makes that judgment for them.

So if you can encourage a degree of authoritarian sentiment in people, get them wanting nothing more than to be ensconced in a totalist system that will take their agency away from them, putting them in the orbit of an authoritarian leader, but no leader presents themself… can you just kind of… appoint one?

Like, if you don’t have a leader, can you just find yourself an authoritarian and treat him like one? And, if he doesn’t give you enough directives, can you just make some up? And, if you don’t have recruiters, can you find a conservative who speaks in thought-terminating cliches just because he thinks they win arguments; find a conservative who speaks in meaningless diatribes because he thinks he’s making sense; and then maneuver those speeches and videos in front of people you want to recruit? If you’re sick of waiting for Moses to come down the mountain with the Word of God, can you just build your own god from whatever’s handy?

Every piece of this structure, you can find people, algorithms, and arguments that, put in sequence, can generate Disorganized Attachment whether they’re trying to or not, which makes every part plausibly deniable. Debatable. You just need to make it profitable enough for the ones involved that they don’t fix it. This is a system created collaboratively, on the fly, with the help of a lot of people from hate movements past, mostly by throwing a ton of shit at the wall and seeing what sticks. The Alt-Right is a rapidly-mutating virus and the web is the perfect incubator; it very quickly finds a structure that works, and it’s a structure we’ve seen before, just a little weirder this time.

I’ve started calling this Stochastic Totalism.

Now, again, I’m not a professional researcher; I do my homework but I don’t have the background. I have an art degree. This isn’t something I can prove so much as a way I’ve come to look at the Alt-Right that makes sense to me and helps me understand them. And I got a lot of comments on my last video from people who used to be Alt-Right that echoed my assumptions. But don’t take it as gospel.

Mostly I wanted to share this because, if it can help you make sense of what we’re dealing with, I think it’s worth putting out there.

Thank you.

[goatsandgangsters]

For the trans asks! 1, 6, 14, 18, 25, 41?

1. How did you choose your name?

So the majority of people in my life call me either Em or EJ, though some people still call me Emeline (which is my given name). I don’t think I’ll ever consider it a deadname, because I do have some attachment, but I think the nicknames Em and EJ suite me better. People are welcome to use any of those options. While I’m particular about people getting my pronouns right and using neutral- or masculine-coded language, I’m kind of shrug emoji when it comes to names.

Em is actually largely @meyerlansky‘s doing (still suspended, rip), because they just... have a tendency to shorten people’s names and started calling me Em several years ago. And it just caught on! Particularly among online friends or mutual IRL friends, I looked around one day and was like “oh huh, a lot of people call me Em now, don’t they?” 

EJ has a bit more of an intentional story behind it: I first thought of EJ back in mmmmaybe late 2018? I saw a post on tumblr that was like, “I think it’s cool how there are a couple different Categories that transmasculine names tend to fall into” and listing those out. And one of them was initialisms—with examples like AJ, CJ, TJ. And I noticed, you know, J is always the second letter. And EJ is ACTUALLY MY INITIALS. And I just instantly felt really good about that, because here was a Very Gender Neutral Name, but it still already felt like a name I’d had my entire life. It was fresh and familiar all at once. It fit into this J pattern while also still feeling unique, because EJ is not as common as other -J initialisms. I first tried it out when I started going to a trans group IRL, so I have an entire trans friend group that only calls me EJ. The majority of people at work also call me EJ—similarly because nicknames just spread sometimes. I left my official documentation under Emeline, but mentioned to a couple people that I also go by EJ and then I blinked and almost every single person I work with calls me EJ. 

Both Em and EJ amuse me, because I’m surprised at how easy it is for people to pick up a nickname. I’ve found that people adjust to using a different name WAY more easily than they adjust to changing pronouns? Which is on the one hand an interesting observation, but on the other hand, it’s unfortunate because I CARE MORE ABOUT THE PRONOUNS PEOPLE USE THAN MY NAME

6. When did you realize you were transgender?

Short answer: 2012. I was a sophomore in college and one day I found out some people actually want to be their assigned gender?? I had thought we were all just miserably putting up with it. 

(There’s a longer answer here about realizing my gender in 2012 but then spending years and years overcoming my internalized guilt about “not being trans enough” and constantly moving my own goal post of “well I’m not trans enough because I don’t do x” and then doing x and going “OKAY BUT I HAVEN’T DONE Y” and then doing y and going “YEAH BUT I DON’T DO Z” and then wanting z and finally realizing, hey uh, how many times are you gonna move this goal post and also you’re eventually going to run out of goal posts—and finally having to go OKAY FINE, YES, I’M TRANS ENOUGH. I’M OUT OF EXCUSES TO INVALIDATE MYSELF.)

14. How long have you been out?

2018 was the first time I started telling people directly to use they/them pronouns for me. (I know, I know, took SIX YEARS RIGHT? But processing that is what my therapist is for.) But before that, I was definitely like in that vague place of “blogs about gender feelings and nonbinary stuff often enough that everyone who follows me like probably knew for a number of years before I said anything directly.” But in 2018, I was finally being Concrete and Direct about it, put it in all my socials, etc. Then in 2019, I came out to my parents and at my job for the first time. So officially, 2–3 years overall! 

18. How does your family feel about your trans identity?

If you asked them, they would tell you that they love and support me and they’re proud of me and they fully accept my identity. 

If you asked me, I would tell you that while they do love and support me, trans stuff is COMPLETELY BRAND NEW to them, so they don’t always know the right ways to show that support. It’s one of those “sometimes I wish it didn’t take work, but I know they’re trying and they mean well” situations

They ARE making progress, albeit more slowly than I’d like. Neither of them had ANY IDEA what I was talking about when I first came out. They very much... did not understand what I was telling them. So I made them both read a very good book on the subject, which they did read, and that helped lay some groundwork.

My dad has been consistently good about using neutral language from the start and as of a couple months ago started consistently using my pronouns! My mom still has not used my pronouns ever, which is kind of a bummer because she’s had... two years. She’s at the stage of “notices when she gets it wrong” or “aware enough to avoid pronouns,” which is better than not noticing at all, but it’s still not as good as getting it right. iT’S A PROCESS. I’m trying to be patient with it. They mean well. But god I wish it could just be easy, like a light switch. 

I still haven’t told them about my plans for top surgery. I’ve been putting off that conversation for....... months. It was actually the “pin in that for next week” comment to my therapist when we were wrapping up. But like, IDK IF YOU’RE STILL WORKING ON PRONOUNS, I FEEL LIKE “SURGICALLY REMOVING MY BOOBS” MIGHT SOUND LIKE A LOT?

25. What do you wish cis people understood?

I MEAN, QUITE A LOT. But if I have to get specific, I wish there was more understanding of why pronouns are actually important. I get the sense from a lot of cis people who are older and who don’t have a lot of understanding about queer stuff to begin with, that they think of pronouns as like “something they have to be PC about” and if they use the wrong pronouns I’m going to be mad and offended and they’re going to be sent to pronoun jail by the language police. Like, people approach pronouns by thinking “I need to remember that she uses they/them pronouns, so I need to only call her by them/them pronouns.” 

But actually, I’m asking that they stop seeing me as a woman. I don’t want a linguistic bandaid slapped over internal misgendering. If you can’t internalize that I’m not a girl, then pronouns will continue to be a struggle. I’d rather people call me the right thing than the wrong thing, but I don’t want to only be called the right thing. I want to also be seen as the right thing, too. It’s like one of my friends had a coworker call them by the wrong pronoun and the coworker came to apologize and then was like “alright, see you later girl!” with apparently no cognitive dissonance whatsoever. Pronouns are important, but they’re also not JUST language. Pronouns are important because they signify seeing people authentically. I want people to get my pronouns right, but I don’t want getting my pronouns right to be ALL that people do. 

Also, the idea that trans people are “angry and offended” when you misgender them because everyone is so sensitive and political correctness has gone too far, instead of like “it’s a painful reminder that you never get to just exist as your gender the way that cis people do, that no matter what you do there are always people who’ll use the wrong pronouns—sometimes unintentionally, sometimes intentionally, and it’s death by a thousand cuts” is a whole other rant I could go on. But if I get into how the myth of trans people being “easily offended” is dangerous, unfair, and untrue, we’ll be here all day. 

41. What is the place (blog, website, forum, IRL space) you get most of your info on being trans or on trans related things?

When I was first starting out, I did—for better or worse—get a lot of information from tumblr. On the one hand, I can’t shit talk, because it did allow me access to information that at the time I couldn’t find anywhere else. On the other hand, tumblr is often an ugly place for information (and whatever nonbinary discourse and misperceptions might exist now, it was 38475785 times worse in 2012. good god. just fuckin wall-to-wall trusc*m). I can’t tell you how many “HOW TO PASS AS A MAN (FTM)” articles and blogs I read back in 2012 as well. I absorbed any information I could find about anything, anywhere, because it was not as widely available. 

In the interceding years, I feel like I don’t know exactly where my information comes from. I just absorbed so much of it, wherever it could be found, that I don’t have a strong sense of where it comes from. I’ve watched countless “1 month on T / 3 months on T / 6 months on T / one year on T” videos on YouTube. I’ve trawled transbucket and facebook groups looking at people’s top surgery results. I’ve read lots of articles on fitting clothing and masculine style onto bodies that weren’t necessarily intended for those clothes. 

Spending IRL time with trans people though has been by far the most enriching and healing, though. It wasn’t necessarily where I learned the basics like different methods of top surgery, but it was where I started un-learning a lot of the emotional baggage I’d picked up along the way. 

[Trans ask game! What has been your gender journey?]

[turtle-steverogers]

hi mikey! Sarah Margaret anon again. do u have thoughts on Steve n Bucky's parenting styles?? in my head Steve isn't really worried about her being hurt physically, he's just glad she's healthy, but he worries about her picking up more Emotional Issues. whereas Bucky is over here like "if u bring anything sharp withing ten feet of here i will kick ur ass" bc even knowing she's serum enhanced he still worries. so like, Steve is tossing her Gently n Bucky runs up like Oh No U Don't! much love!

omg i love this so much!!! im going to simply offer my take-- you can take it or leave it! i am soooo excited to see what you do with these characters and i know its gonna be amazing

tbh i feel like it would sort of be the opposite? and here's why:

bucky had sisters. younger sisters. much younger sisters. so he knows where the boundaries lie-- he's very protective, but he also has seen first hand how they handle themselves, what needs gentle guidance, and what needs teaching. and honestly, he sees a lot of becca in sarah! so he knows she's a tough cookie. having helped raise sisters means he's already sort of got the very basics of parenting in his head. how to help her grow and blossom while also being an example for her and allowing her room to make mistakes. but also yes, if you bring anything sharp within ten feet of her, he will Kick Ur Ass

steve on the other hand had... there's a psych term for this hang on. he grew up with a disorganized attachment style home. sarah was a wonderful mother, don't get me wrong, but i personally headcanon joseph rogers as an Asshole^tm like he is in the comics (aka,,,, alcoholic abuser). of course, sarah sheltered and protected him where she could, but she was a victim, too and that breeds a difficult rift between them. even after joseph was gone. he of course saw how the barnes household was and again, sarah was wonderful, but he didn't have as much of an example growing up as perhaps bucky did, so he's a little more worried about how his parenting will go. he does all those things bucky does-- gentle correction, giving her room to grow, explaining why he's reacting certain ways (explaining why something is a "no" and whatnot), but there's a big red flashing light in his head half the time as he makes an effort to break that cycle of abuse that his father fostered. he's never done anything that joseph did, but the fear is very much present. he's working on it with his therapist ;)

anyway! again that's just my take!!!! id love to see what you do with your thoughts!

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Lover, I Was Lonesome || Morgan & Deirdre

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @deathduty & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Morgan and Deirdre struggle to find a new normal

CONTAINS: brief mentions of parental abuse, dysfunctional death gals

The day after she’d screamed and fought, Morgan put herself on three different therapist’s waiting lists.‘The strain of the holiday season makes this a very high traffic time for us, unfortunately,’ one receptionist said. To which Morgan replied, ‘Gee no kidding!’ before fumbling with her Decap while the lady assured they’d get to her as soon as possible. Then came the embarrassing Google searches, followed by the books, most with not-so-fun fill-in-the-blank work sections. Between learning about her anxious attachment style and questioning some of the healing codependent advice (why shouldn’t she put her partner’s needs first as often as possible?), Morgan hit her limit within a few hours most days and spent the rest of her time cooking and trying to be normal. She made a lot of casserole, a lot of soup, and spent the quiet hours searching for a conversation that wouldn’t hurt or turn complicated. Today the special was broccoli and cheddar with a soft baguette from the grocery store. Morgan smiled hopefully as she presented the tray. “Hope this tastes as good as it looks. How’re you doing today?”

Deirdre had developed a system, or rather, had devised a plan. She was ready and willing to do whatever she needed to make things okay, and had spent her hours staring off and running scenarios in her head. She could do this, or that and each thing had its risk and success rate and for a while, for the moment, she felt confident she could fix things. She felt hopeful. Caring for Morgan was a thought she welcomed into her mind, far more desirable than the other thoughts that lingered. She straightened up and beamed at her girlfriend as she entered, soup on a tray. “Well it smells great, thank you.” In truth, she was a little tired of the soup, the constant liquid meals had started to make her feel like she didn’t have teeth. Sometimes she snuck around for an apple just to remember how to bite things. But she smiled, shifted, and welcomed Morgan to her. This was part of the plan, and the plan had been carefully thought out. It needed to be perfect. It began in a way she considered simple, with the fae. “I’m doing well, thank you. Actually, I’ve been thinking a lot about the Mirrored District. Did I ever tell you what the fae did for Lydia?”

Morgan set down the tray and busied herself with making Deirdre more comfortable, piling and fluffing the pillows around her and elevating her legs. She didn’t mind Deirdre straining herself where exchanging comfort was concerned, but anything else seemed cruel now. Slowly, she eased herself into Deirdre’s side, resisting the urge to tangle up completely. “Where should I touch you, or is there a tense spot in your muscles I can try to work out? I’m okay with doing that for you, right now.” She gave a guilty half-smile, acknowledging there was no guarantee how long she would feel this way. “And no, or I was too upset to listen. I remember you said it was beautiful, and kind. I am glad to know that much. I’d want that to remain somewhere.” She tried to imagine something kind coming out of the fae funerary rites Deirdre had allowed her to partake in. It didn’t seem possible, but stranger things had happened in this world.

Deirdre shook her head; Morgan wasting her time worrying about her was not a part of the plan. “Oh, it’s fine. You’re tired now, and if you stop suddenly, I don’t think I’ll remember not to look hurt about it. Like that time when you were massaging my back and got that phone call?” Morgan’s back rubs were a strange occurrence; though more welcome as time progressed. So welcome, in fact, that when Morgan had paused to look at her phone, Deirdre had twisted around with such pain and betrayal in her eyes that she rivaled Anya being told she could not have the food from Deirdre’s plate. Needless to say, such a look could be a powerful thing. And her plan was important. But even so, moods to be doting should be answered, especially if it was what Morgan wanted. “Here, take my hand.” Her wrist was still wrapped from the burn (it would scar, much to her chagrin) but her nails had great luck growing back. “It feels stiff from the nails and, you know, it’s fun to hold.” And she didn’t think she’d suffer too greatly if Morgan abandoned her task. “Well, often, the fae plant trees, or flowers or whole gardens, and take great care to grow them in a certain fashion. Not all fae have the same rites, but I’ve found that practice to be the most common form of remembrance.” She closed her eyes. “There’s this beautiful tree for Lydia in the local aos sí.” She opened her eyes and turned to Morgan with a soft smile, more telling in its emotion than she meant it to be. “I wanted to ask if you’d like to come with me to see it, one day. I’d like to take you.”

“Just in my head, my body doesn’t really, you know...” Morgan mumbled in protest, but she didn’t really mind taking on something more chaste and less charged with memory. She settled in and took Deirdre’s hand, carefully massaging the muscles in her palm and fingers. When Deirdre made her offer however, Morgan went stiff. “Are you…” Sure? That sounded so stupid. “I just mean, I know how important those spaces are to you, and what they’re probably going to think of me, and you by association. I don’t want you to get hurt or wind up in some local fae politics mess because of me when we’re not even--” Together. Us. “I don’t want to taint Lydia’s memory or the closest thing she has to a grave for you. You should be sure…” She finally lifted her eyes to meet Deirdre’s and stilled again, jaw slack, as she took in her expression, how openly she dared to want this. Morgan swallowed thick and shivered, feeling her fear rising. “I always want to be a part of your world, Deirdre,” she whispered, just as earnest. “Of course I would like to. I want you to show me everything, I just...you shouldn’t risk your world for me right now. One day when things are better with us, when you’re really, really sure…” She nodded. Yes. Please. Morgan couldn’t think of anything more precious for them to share, and Deirdre made it sound so simple, even effortless she wondered at her inability to grasp it.

“Well, when your head gets tired…” she let the sentence trail off with a kiss to Morgan’s forehead, as if she could bring life and energy back to it—or bring it rest. “We’re not even—“ Deirdre repeated, filling in the gap. She blanched. “A-are we not still dating?” Had they broken up in some silence that she wasn’t aware of? She knew their circumstance now, but even so, she continued to think of Morgan as her girlfriend. She wasn’t sure if she could think of her any other way. Her plan didn’t include it, didn’t consider it. She faltered.  “Oh, uh, I can just tell them you’re important to me then. They should understand that.” She swallowed. “And it’s us. Our world. The fae world is...yours too. You’re not fae, no, but you’re important to me and I’ve already told you that I don’t want to be where you���re not welcome. I won’t let them say anything about you.” Most fae she spoke to already knew she was in love with a non-fae, and she bore their judgement with a smile. “I’m already really, really sure, I promise. But if it’d be better shared when things between us are less….as they are now, I can wait.” She met Morgan’s eyes and grinned. Hope fluttered in her chest, and gratitude mouthed from her lips. “I’m okay with it,” she assured again. She had been okay with it for quite some time. Gone were the days of fear. She loved Morgan completely now, unrestrained. She couldn’t imagine loving her any other way. “You might still get some harsh comments though...but hopefully we can set them right.”

“I don’t know what we are right now,” Morgan said. More than friends, less than lovers in the strictest sense. They cared, deeply, and Morgan knew that the quiet days ahead of them would be spent figuring out how to be better to each other and themselves. But it didn’t seem right to call this by the same name as what they had before. For the earth’s sake, until recently, Kaden had been more of an emotional support than Deirdre in the wake of Lydia’s death. As Morgan held Deirdre’s gaze, squeezing her hand through her fear, she realized that she took a little comfort in having an escape hatch, in the freedom to think of Deirdre as whatever she needed to from one moment to the next. “I think we’re figuring that out. Or I am, at least,” she said.

But Deirdre was certain. To hear her speak of Morgan as someone to turn away from this place for, to find joy in, you’d think nothing had happened between them at all and Morgan’s choice was a foregone conclusion and everything would somehow be alright even though Morgan’s heart still throbbed with hurt, burning to run and hide. Morgan sputtered for words. “Let’s wait, please, ask me again, l-later, I-I—-” Don't understand how this is so easy for you. I just told you I could hurt you again and I have every good reason to, this shouldn’t be easy for you, but you weren’t the one dropped on her ass and shut out so maybe— Morgan shut her eyes, doing her best to block out the sudden deluge of thought. “I’m scared,” she whispered, voice tremulous. “Can we just lay here?”

“Oh.” Deirdre’s eyelids fluttered, blinking rapidly. Her voice was a quiver, small enough to get lost under any other sound. It nearly did; suffocated by their ticking clock. “I understand,” she said, though she didn’t really. Not entirely, at least. There was a small chance Morgan would emerge from her thoughts, and from the passage of time, and decide that she enjoyed being unattached from Deirdre. Her stomach twisted. Her plan began to crumble. “That’s okay.” But it wasn’t really. “I can wait, no matter what conclusion you come to.” And she could, but now her waiting was plagued by strange thoughts. Did she tell people? Would Morgan? Was it wrong to hold her then? Would Morgan be kissing other people? Should Deirdre? Why did Morgan want her here then, if that was the case? What exactly was there to figure out? She asked none of them, and smiled slowly, her brows pulled together. Whatever Morgan came to, Deirdre would accept, what else was there to do? She bit her lip and willed the conversation to move on before she cried quite pathetically about the topic. It was her fault, anyway, and she needed time to parse a new plan in her head.

“I’m sorry,” she croaked. For several things, but for the moment, right then, for speaking of Morgan as her love. Perhaps it was a thing to roll out cautiously now; she’d have to think about it. “We don’t have to talk about that. I’m sorry.” She held her tighter, shaking her hand from Morgan so she could clasp both around her. “It’s okay. Yeah, we can just lay here. I’ll be quiet.” She swallowed.

Morgan buried her face in the crook of Deirdre’s neck, eyes squeezed violently shut. Even if the sad puppy swell of Deirdre’s eyes didn’t give her away, she could feel the other woman hurting underneath her. Morgan considered getting up. Don’t do this, don’t make me feel guilty for what you started, don’t make me sorry for being hurt— But more frightening than Deirdre’s devotion was Morgan’s own frustration. She hurt from her loneliness, from the memory of being shut out and rejected, and from backing away from this. This world Deirdre occupied so happily was so close, Morgan could sink her hand into it, but her skin felt like it would erupt in spikes if she did. Everything was fine a minute ago, she could almost believe in sleep again, almost believe in falling into this piece without having to think about it again,  it was so, so fine. Why was she thinking about running now? Why couldn’t she get a grip and just explain herself? (Because her trust was shattered, and her faith in the future as a matter of course along with it. She knew this, but that didn’t make her prickle with something like self-loathing all the same.)

Morgan tried to distract herself with slow, stiff breaths, wrestling her panicked mind for control as she worked her words as steadily as she could get them. “You don’t have to—I didn’t mean it like—I just need a minute. You have to give me a minute, give me time…”

“I’m sor—“ The words died on Deirdre’s tongue. She loosened her grip around Morgan, freeing her to leave if she needed to, yet steady enough against her if she wanted to stay. Morgan had said a minute, and Deirdre counted dutifully in her head. She didn’t speak anymore, nothing about how it was okay or how much she loved her. Her face held a tender expression, though under her affection, she didn’t offer anything more—no pain, no sadness, no confusion. This wasn’t a part of her plan, and she imagined it, Morgan would have been soothed by the show of devotion. It was a look, I still love you, I still want you, I’m here, we can have this. It had been ten seconds when Morgan hadn’t left, Deirdre’s hold tightened. Thirty seconds, she was still there, Deirdre pulled her in again. Sixty seconds. “It’s been a minute,” she said, loosening her grip again. “Do you need another?” She paused before she started the count again. She dared to try something more bold—or in their case, more gentle. “We can go outside. It’s supposed to be cold tonight.”

Morgan scrambled to sit up. “Yes, I need another,” she hissed. There was no anger this time, only a clenched, earnest effort at self-control. “I need five, ten, I don’t know!” Outside sounded good. Calming. Quiet. Morgan made to rush out of the room, maybe what she needed was in the fresh air, or in more time to herself (stars, she’d had so much fucking time to herself already)—Morgan stumbled, crashing into the wall as she slipped on Deirdre’s cane. Deirdre. Right. She picked it up and fumbled to lean it against the couch within reach. Her hands were clumsy and shaking, but at least when it fell for the third time, it was somewhere close. “Ten,” she said suddenly. “You can find me in the garden in ten and ask if I’m ready.” She looked at Deirdre’s sad, giving face, and didn’t know who she was upset with more. She rushed herself back to the door, calling hoarsely behind her, “I’m not where you are right now. You pushed me away too good and I’m just not there right now, I’m—” Sorry, she wanted to say she couldn’t afford to apologize for this. Morgan ran the rest of the way out of the house. It was funny, even when she curled up on the brittle winter grass, riding out her panic with tearful gasps, she curled her hand against herself as if Deirdre’s was still in it.

Deirdre sat up with Morgan, releasing her from her arms. “I’m sor—“ the words died in her mouth again. She wanted to know what she had done, or what she could’ve. Did Morgan want longer than a minute? Should she not have counted? Her answers came tumbling at her, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from apologizing again. She watched Morgan stumble, and her hands reached out and receded like it were a dance. Every time she wanted to help Morgan, she remembered that she had caused this and pulled back. But every time she pulled back, she remembered that she wanted to help her. “Ten.” She repeated; she could do ten. “I didn’t push you awa—“ She swallowed and shut that sentence down. She had been gone for days not by her own desire, and she had grieved so clumsily not by her own understanding. But the semantics weren’t important. Morgan was hurt still. And Morgan needed time. Ten minutes, to be exact. She didn’t ask where Morgan thought she was right now; the only place she’d ever been was where she loved Morgan devotedly and pure. She didn’t ask what it meant that Morgan wasn’t there. (Would Morgan be kissing other people?) She sat still, she watched Morgan leave, and she counted. After two minutes, she realized ten was a long time to be staring at their patio, and turned to the soup. Broccoli and cheddar was a nice flavour, all things considered. It occupied her until six minutes ticked by. It took another two for her to grab her cane and move outside. She leaned up against the frame, calling out, “are you ready?” She moved closer and asked again in a quieter voice.

Morgan had never timed her bouts of panic before, but she could tell a minor episode from something more serious. By the time Deirdre came out, her tremors had ceased and her mind, so tired, was floating somewhere beyond her dead eyed stare into nothing. Maybe it was with the stars. Deirdre had loved to comment on those. The world unfroze at the sound of her voice and Morgan nodded mutely before she realized it was evening and she was laying in the grass and she should probably use her words. Slowly, she pushed herself up until she was sitting. She did not meet Deirdre’s face but she did call out, “...Yes. Thank you,” with only a little embarrassment about her gracelessness.

Deirdre nodded, she had been prepared to start the count again, but wouldn’t act like she wasn’t happy to be by Morgan’s side again. She dug her cane in the ground and limped over there until she was close enough to throw her cane aside and fall to the ground. “What does it?” She asked, trying to scoop Morgan back into her arms. “Is it holding you too tight? Kissing your skin? Is it my words?” She wasn’t sure she could stop, if the answer was loving Morgan, but she could sidestep her displays of affection, if it would help. And though she might just have been asking to be run from again in trying to figure it out, she couldn’t stop until she knew how to be better for Morgan. She needed her answer, she needed her plan, and if it took another ten minutes and another after that, she’d wait. “Should we not talk about us? Whatever’s better, please tell me.” Her arms found their place around Morgan, anchoring herself against her. But loose, as she learned to, until she knew it was okay.

Morgan sagged against Deirdre without protest. It was nice here, in the curtain of her hair, the soft pillow of her chest. She didn’t rush to speak, just in case something clear and helpful came to her out of the ether. When it didn’t, she said, “It’s just so easy for you. I don’t understand how it’s so easy for you. All these plans, these things you want, just talking about them like of course it’s gonna happen and there’s nothing to be afraid of, nothing that’s gonna go wrong...” The Deirdre she’d first known wasn’t like that at all and she found herself envious at this one’s fortitude. Morgan pressed one of Deirdre’s arms harder into her body. “It’s not holding me, I felt okay when you were. Fuck, it even felt good. Everything about how we were on the couch made me feel like, maybe we can do this, maybe it won’t be so hard. We were together and I felt like I was helping you and you were so kind even after the way I’d just been—” Morgan shut her eyes, chasing the memory. “And then you tell me about this huge thing, this amazing, important huge thing you want to do like it’s already decided, or almost decided, and you were so hurt when I said I don’t know what we are, but how could I possibly know? Everything broke! I was alone for almost a week, I spent days before that thinking you would go from pushing away my hands to not wanting to touch me or be with me at all. It’s not easy for me. None of this is easy and I can’t rush it or skip it. Yes, I still have my feelings for you, but that didn’t do anything to help me before this. And yes, I actually felt safe for just a few minutes, but none of that tells me when or if I’m going to be able to trust you enough to really be with you again. I don’t have that to give. And maybe I’m being stupid, but what freaks me out is—I feel like you’re asking me for that trust that I don’t have and I get scared that my only options are to cough it up or hurt you, or else it’s already being decided for me and I’m just supposed to come around...” Morgan pressed the end of her palm to her eyes, a preemptive measure against tears. She might still be on the downslope from her panic if her avalanche of thought was anything to go by, but Deirdre asked, and Morgan wanted to be good to her.

Deirdre eased them down, against the cool grass. “Loving you has always been easy,” she said, as though that might explain it. “Accepting that love...less so, but now that I have...it’s also easy. In that it comes naturally, at least. Like instinct, like the only thing I want to do.” She stared up at the stars, she missed how easy it was to look at them all the way up there and forget what was happening down below. She’d lost that ability sometime in her youth, when looking at them, all she could think about how much it hurt her neck. But that ease had returned to her sometimes, in moments. “The ones we made,” she said after a while. “You asked me once what stars I liked. It’s the ones we made together up on that roof—the line, the squiggle. I tried to tell Lydia about it once, I don’t think she was so amused. But I like to look for them when I need it, they’re easy to find because they’re always there. It’s like that. It’s easy for me because nothing has changed in my heart or mind; it’s always there.” She closed her eyes, committing herself to the darkness without the line, the squiggle. Her heart thrummed slowly in her chest, each beat seemed to say the same thing—a song to Morgan. I love you, I love you, I love you. “I didn’t mean to make it sound that way. I just offered it. I’m just offering all of this. I don’t expect anything from you. It, um—it was sad to hear that you didn’t know what we were. I’m sorry I didn’t hide that better for you. But you don��t need to have it figured out, or trust me, I’m not asking I’m just...offering. Like you can or you can’t or you can sit in the middle it’s okay to me, all of it.” She sighed. “That’s all I meant.” The line and the squiggle, though steadfast, did not bring her answers. Her heart, though singing, did not give her the words to speak. And her mind, though hopelessly devoted, couldn’t untangle this mess. “Let’s just stay here, outside.”

Morgan shifted in Deirdre’s grasp, restless, until she flattened in the grass so the ground held as much of her as possible. For a while she didn’t speak, but stared up at the stars, trying to decide if she really did need to run again. Was it her fear making her skin itch, or was it her beast? Why did she still feel so relieved to have Deirdre next to her if she didn’t want to bundle herself off to deathly ever after? “It was easy for me too, before this,” she said at last. And it’s not a question of if I—love you.” She barely got the words out, breathing them more than speaking. Every time Morgan felt the words on her lips, she feared she was signing herself away to the unknown or admitting to something criminal. But stars above, she really did love her still, so much so it felt like a liability. There wouldn’t be anything to discuss or wait for if she didn’t. “It wouldn’t be fair to be with you without trusting you. And I don’t think I’d want to anyway, not after what we had before. But I don’t want you to feel like you can’t have your feelings either, even if—” She laughed dryly as she finally realized their completely batshit reversal. “Even if, yes, from my own experience trying to date you, sometimes stuffing feelings that frighten the woman you want to spend more time with is the way to go. You follow her cues, you take her bursts of affection and her sudden silences, you try to figure out when she needs to be followed, when she needs you to keep away…” Morgan shrugged. She couldn’t help the way she was now anymore than Deirdre had been able to back then. “I am trying to be better too. This is at least better than what we did the last time I ran out of the room, right…?” Give me some credit for effort here, she asked silently.

She couldn’t help but look up on their constellations with fondness. “You can see both the squiggles out tonight,” she murmured after awhile, leaning a little closer so she could point them out and trace them with her finger. “There’s the little one, and the big guy. And the crooked bone, the pentagram, the great line…” Morgan lowered her hand, letting it fall next to Deirdre’s. Her fingers twitched, hesitating, but eventually slipped underneath the banshee’s and cradled them. She tickled gentle caresses along her fingers and lightly scratched letters into her palm (D-E-I-R-D-R-E). They had played this game on her shoulder once. Deirdre guessed wrong no matter how fast or slow Morgan moved, and she suspected it was just so they could have another innocent excuse to be touching. She could sense that soft place they’d shared on the couch like fresh cookies from a few rooms over. Not close enough to have, but she could find the way eventually if she tried. If she coaxed Deirdre into touching her hair again, or kissing her cheek, something to thrill her out of her fear... Morgan continued to play with their fingers as she thought. Their hands fit so right, and though the touch was only a whisper on Morgan’s own skin, her heart melted and quieted at once. If their world could just be a starry sky and thin grass and flowerbeds, if they could just fall in the water of memory and things hidden and wash themselves free of the past two weeks, there would be no question of if or maybe. Why did she need these questions so badly when ‘together’ was the thought that soothed her the most? She wasn’t sure, only that she did.

Morgan rolled herself until she was nestled against Deirdre, taking the banshee’s hand to cuddle with her. “This isn’t going to be easy for me. You know my history, Deirdre. I’m going to be a mess about this...” She kissed Deirdre’s knuckles and turned to the stars again. “Maybe we need some new constellations. What do you think?”

A thought rattled around in Deirdre’s head. A desperate explanation that she hadn’t left Morgan by her own choice; those days they spent parted were unfairly stolen from her, and her grief was a new creature she didn’t know how to tame. And then wouldn’t it all be okay? Wouldn’t that make all of it one silly mistake? Did she really need to accept that this could be one long, drawn-out ending? Things should’ve been okay, shouldn’t they have? But she had grown tired of fighting for herself; all she wanted now was to hold Morgan. And if this really was the end, she didn’t want to waste precious moments talking about herself. She shifted and tightened her hold, pulling Morgan flush against her body. “But I can’t have my feelings…” she mumbled, chasing the thought away with a sigh. “No, you’re right. It wouldn’t be fair. And anyway, don’t worry about me, it’s not so bad.” No, it was terrible. It was worse than bad, worse than worse. For a moment, she was lulled into thinking the comparison of this to how Deirdre had once acted would make the weight easier to carry. But this felt personal; it was her fault. She wanted to go back and ask that Morgan if it had felt personal to her then. Then she’d say it wasn’t, and ask if this was. “You want to feel good,” she said plainly, “and I can’t do that for you, not the way you’d need it now. You could get other people to make you feel good. I’m sure you know that already...but I just wanted to say it was okay. It might just be better...so it’s less scary.” Deirdre summoned forth every piece of training she knew about keeping her emotions hidden. She prayed that the tremble in her body and the quiver in her voice was invisible. “I mean you could sleep with other people, if you want.” She thought she did a good job of sounding measured, despite the circumstance. “A-and it was better. Thank you for that. And I’m sorry.” She’d gotten to the point now that she stopped knowing what she was apologizing for—every sentence dribbled apologetically. She might as well apologize for breathing or blinking or being herself; anything to make it right. Maybe time would take pity on her and skip to the end.

But she didn’t want Morgan to feel bad, and so she shut her mouth and dug her face into the crook of Morgan’s neck. Humor bubbled inside of her—wasn’t that what Morgan had tried when she was grieving? But where humor boiled and popped, where she pulled the strength to cover her emotional tracks, guilt toiled. She didn’t like keeping herself from Morgan like this, and especially not when she’d made the commitment to be more honest. It was wrong. It felt wrong. She raked her teeth along her skin, nipping at her shoulder; a distraction that went both ways. She couldn’t tell what Morgan was drawing in her skin, and she couldn’t ask to have it again. She got lost somewhere at the fourth line, so she made her own words roughly against Morgan’s flesh. Symbolically; even Deirdre thought it would be gauche if she started moving her teeth around in the shape of letters. Some acts of devotion were better left in the mind. “I like your mess,” she mumbled there, lifting her head up to take in the stars again. “And it’s fine, however it comes out, whatever you decide…” she trailed off. Sure enough, there were both squiggles, the bone and the pentagram. “I like our old constellations,” she smiled despite the pain that thrummed along her body. “But we can get new ones.” Deirdre lifted her free hand and traced the outline of one—once part squiggle and pentagram. “That one kind of looks like roadkill. See, it’s all flat and there are the ears.”

“Oh. Right.” Morgan burrowed her face into Deirdre, trying not to pout too obviously. I don’t want to sleep with other people, she wanted to say. Which was weird, because if Deirdre wasn’t so steadfastly monogamous, there would be a few friends in town she would consider propositioning for some casual fun. But Deirdre was that way, and Morgan didn’t want to hurt her. Please don’t say this, don’t hurt yourself like this. But could she really say that when she was asking for things to stay more open ended? Wasn’t that just more confusing, more cruel? Morgan shivered. What if they made contingencies for getting through the day more easily? What if Morgan could just stop feeling the echo of her world coming apart whenever Deirdre flexed her devotion like it was this great, infallible thing? “I um...don’t really know that I could...do that with someone else,” Morgan said, doing her best not to sound too upset. “But thank you. For...offering, for what this means…” Another, more distressing thought caught her: what if Deirdre wanted this too? Did she miss being pleasured, kissed, doted on? She wouldn’t, right? She wouldn’t be trying this hard if she felt like Morgan was too much of a broken mess to be with again, right? “Y-you know, it’s not even that I need to feel good,” she tried to explain. Well, it sort of was, she was so tired of her hurt and of herself. Any kind of relief from that with someone would do so much, she couldn’t even imagine it. But she didn’t want to invest her energy into looking somewhere else. She wanted this. “I just…” Need to be less terrified of going to pieces again. Need to feel like she wouldn’t. Not like she had on those days. Morgan shrugged, haplessly. She didn’t feel like it would make any sense, or any difference.

Stupidly, she found herself flashing a wide eyed look of affection at Deirdre as she said she liked her mess. “Really…?” With all the crying and the going from cuddling to panicking because stars forbid she surrender to some euphoric safety so absurdly complete there was nothing to catch her if she fell. Morgan kissed Deirdre’s knuckles again, harder, more urgently. I know it sounds fucked up when I can’t make up my mind, but please don’t give up on me, she wanted to say. Don’t build me a road away from you, just give me time, let me figure out my time… She cleared her throat, swallowing anymore building waterworks and followed Deirdre’s finger paint a new constellation. “Oh, I see it,” she said, beaming through her distress. “And what about that cluster over there, wait, that’s just Mars, but around it, there’s...maybe a chicken foot? Or maybe it’s a funny smile?” She wanted to press herself in harder, but she worried for Deirdre’s injuries, and how much she’d hurt herself for Morgan already. If only their hurt could unstitch itself and reform in a new shape as easily as their made up patterns in the stars.

Deirdre had rolled, more or less, practically, right on top of Morgan. “Hey,” she cooed, trying to stamp Morgan’s thought out. “It’s okay.” She pushed her face against her cheek, pressing her nose there and then her lips. “You could just make out with them. Or—well, it doesn’t matter so much. Just, whatever you need. It’s okay. If you change your mind about this tomorrow, it’s still okay. Or if you don’t want to, that’s fine. I just wanted to make sure you don’t—“ She swallowed, trailing a series of rough kisses back from her cheek to ear. “—stop yourself on my account. That’s all. That’s all.” She wasn’t sure why she was arguing a point that made her insides twist with fear. But by way of her instincts, she felt some manner of distress in Morgan, and moved to soothe it—even though she wasn’t entirely sure what she was soothing, or if she had. She held her lobe between her teeth, tugging gently before she pressed another firm kiss there. The desire to capture Morgan’s lips started small, so small she could ignore it as she lingered there, trying to soothe. But it spread quick and vicious, like wildfire raging up and across her body. It would have been okay if only she didn’t lean back, if only she didn’t catch Morgan’s eyes on her for the flicker they had been. Her body shook. “Fuck,” she hissed and rolled back, still pressed against Morgan as firm and tight as she could be, but now acutely aware of the places they touched; they fit. Their legs tangled, her arm around her, Morgan’s lips against her knuckles. She burned. Every injury faded away until all that was left was desire, longing, and Morgan. It was bound to happen to her again at some point, she figured. But even flush with want, she could put herself aside.

“It—um—“ Deirdre swallowed, her voice was a deep rumble, but she chased the sound away by clearing her throat. “I—I’m not sure I like the funny smile. Feels like it’s laughing at me, and I can’t ask it what’s so funny. But a chicken foot I can deal with. You mean a dead chicken foot, right?” Not that there was any other noteworthy kind of chicken foot. But like this, she could distract herself with the stars. Or so she thought. Even as she lifted her hand to point to a new design, she brushed Morgan and the fire found fuel all over again. She hated the stupidity of it; Morgan wanted time and Deirdre wanted to give it to her but her body could be strangely impatient. It didn’t understand why they couldn’t be together. Now it burned, and the fumes claimed bits of her thoughts. Her fingers curled against the cool grass, pulling it up. She could remember each time they’d laid down—when they’d just kissed, when they’d done more. Over there was where Morgan had her fire for Beltane, where she held tenderly the memory of the Morgan who wept because she’d felt good finally. And, yes, as her body wanted to remind her, where they’d had sex. “That one looks kind of like another piece of roadkill.” She pointed it out. “Maybe a raccoon though, it’s got a long tail—see there?”

Wherever Morgan’s fear lived, it wasn’t where Deirdre’s lips touched her. She pressed into the touches, mewling quietly in the back of her throat as Deirdre sank her teeth into her. She dug her hands into her arm, fastening them together. This was the place she missed, where she was unfolded so carefully, she almost didn’t feel herself letting go at all. She couldn’t stifle the needy whine that came out of her when Deirdre rolled back. Morgan was still close, and she could rest Deirdre’s fingers against her lips and take a fingertip gently to her mouth and imagine that shore in their imaginary world washing over them. She reached for Deirdre’s cheek and stroked it with great care as she spoke. Morgan didn’t need her full sense of touch to know she was hanging on by a thread. Her voice quivered out of control, her hand trembled in her grasp, and for some reason Deirdre was willing to send her off to some woman’s bed if it would make her feel better and break and keep breaking, until Morgan was whole enough to come back on her own. Stars above, she couldn’t bear for them to be like this.

Carefully, she pulled herself close until their foreheads touched, and drew her hand down until her fingers brushed along Deirdre’s lip. She smiled with all the tenderness she had in her. “I did mean a dead chicken foot,” she said with a breathless laugh. “But that’s not what I really want to say. What I want to say is…” So much. Too much. Did Deirdre really love her so much that she would offer up a freedom that would break her own heart? But Morgan knew she did, even if it didn’t make sense. It was in her eyes, in her painful restraint. Her poor banshee, conditioned to withstand so much and falling apart so horribly because Morgan had insisted so many times that her feelings were precious. Would Deirdre take back this gift, maybe? No, Morgan had made her need to choose freely. It wasn’t the outcome she was especially concerned with (her heart would come home to Deirdre’s comfort, or it wouldn’t and she would make do with something much less after all). What Morgan wanted most was to have the power, and the choice. There was comfort there, in being the one with all the cards, but she didn’t want Deirdre’s heart to be one of them. That wasn’t something she wanted to play with or deliberate like it was a neutral object. It wasn’t. Stars help her and her mess, it wasn’t. So what did she want to say? How did she ask for what they both seemed to want so desperately?

“I think what I’m most scared of right now is falling apart as badly as I did again, and I don’t know if that’s something you can be sorry for, or fix,” she said at last. “And whether that’s just this moment and being close enough to really feel you after so long and knowing you’d let me go if I asked, or if that’s how it really is, I think I want to be done punishing you for what happened. Those are different things, see? And, yes, I still want to know what you believe in after all this, what your principles are going to be now, how you want to live with what you did to those people and who you want to be, that’s a really important conversation we need to have, but I don’t want to do it right now.” She paused to brush her thumb along Deirdre’s lip and meet her gaze, trying to gauge how well she was following her. “I’m not, um, not not-scared, like I said, but what I want right now is to take away a little bit of our pain. And I want you to know where I...feel like I’m home. And I’d like to do that by kissing you. Really, really kissing you. I don’t know what to do about what’s going on with me, but I know that much. But only if you want, if it won’t hurt.” Her thumb plucked Deirdre’s lower lip as she lowered her hand to cup her chin. They were so close, they might even be touching already and Morgan just didn’t notice.”You’ve hurt enough. Just tell me…”

Deirdre was sure she was dreaming. The cool of Morgan’s forehead against hers, the feeling of Morgan’s fingers—gentle, too gentle—across her face; all of it was too good to be true. She closed her eyes and opened them again; Morgan was still there, still touching her, still gentle. She looked up to the sky with its lines and squiggles, pentagrams, roadkill and chicken feet; Morgan was still there, still touching her, so gentle. Wasn’t this too much for her? It was almost too much for Deirdre, who didn’t have the heart or capacity to run away from it. “T-the roadkill…” she tried to fill the silence. She felt like begging her; please, please, look at the stars and not me. If she couldn’t kiss her, if she couldn’t love her, this was too much. But she couldn’t summon the words to tell her to stop either. Did it help, she wondered. Did this tenderness not mean the same to her as it did to Deirdre? Questions she would not ask. Instead, she watched Morgan, waiting. Searching her eyes for the answer that would fall out of her mouth a moment later.

It would have been easy to lean in and take what her body burned to have, what Morgan seemed to want to give. But for all of her desire, her heart continued to be stuck in one place. “But what about you?” She asked, sitting up, rubbing her eyes and forcing her body to stop all of its whining and yearning. “If it’ll hurt you more to do it, if it’ll confuse you or tamper with your choices then I don’t….I don’t want to.” She turned to look at Morgan. Her lips parted and drew together into a thin line, parted and thinned, parted and thinned. “I–I understand what you’re saying, I think. But please don’t worry about my pain. It’s fine, it’ll go away. But you–you–“ Her gaze fluttered around their backyard, as if answers might’ve lurked in the shadows. When she turned to look at Morgan again, she asked this time if she was sure. If she knew exactly what she was asking and exactly what it would mean. If she was okay ignoring her fear for the moment. It was a lot for her expression to say, a whole conversation unto itself, but she needed to know. Is this okay? Would it be? Was she sure? “You don’t have to, you know that, right?” Of course she did, of course she thought about that. Maybe they needed to have their conversations first before they crossed this line. They had their practice from the past, and the hodgepodge order of romantic operations they followed. But Deirdre had always liked their mess, their freedom of affection, and she leaned back down beside Morgan, forehead-to-forehead. More than anything else, she knew this: she was tired of all the time she wasted not being with Morgan when Morgan was all she wanted. And whatever it meant to be with her—waiting, not-kissing, holding her in silence—she would do it. There was nothing else she’d rather do. “Will it be just once?” She asked. “Because I can’t—well, I can, if that’s better. But you have to tell me so I can take as much air into my lungs as possible first. If it’s just one, I’d like to make it as long as I can.” She paused. “Only if it won’t hurt you too.”

Morgan probably should have thought of Deirdre’s questions in the half second she’d played this in her mind. But in her surprise, she only went still, following Deirdre’s movements, trying to keep up with her arguments, which endeared her with their selflessness as much as it maddened her, because here they were on the same page with their desire, again, and no one was crying and Morgan’s head buzzed with want, and how could they seriously be waiting while their stars aligned this perfectly and there was no telling how many minutes or hours it would be until they fell out of place again? Impulse control had never been their strong point when they were apart.

“Where I’m at right now is wanting to kiss you more than I’m afraid of breaking because of you,” she said simply. “And yeah, that’s new, and I don’t know how long it’ll be this way but...I mean, we already have safewords and touching games, right?” They didn’t have any for this situation yet, but Morgan trusted herself to come up with one in a minute if she needed to. “We can do things to manage our comfort levels and check in and make us...more safe.” She gave Deirdre a meaningful look that she hoped expressed how much she was trying despite the impulsiveness of her idea. “Tell me to stop or pause and I will. And you’ll do the same for me. Hasn't that always been true anyway?” She knew she was flattening a complicated situation into a few measures for the here and now, but ‘now’ was all Morgan could understand with any confidence. “I don’t ask you for things I don’t want. Which, considering my last few requests, this might seem weird and confusing, but that’s what this already feels like for me! Everything I’ve said to you tonight has been true, I promise!” She laughed sadly, well aware of the contradictions at play. “Even this part, about wanting to kiss.” She brushed her nose against Deirdre’s as she laid back down, welcoming her into her arms. “You can say no, we can go inside and get you cleaned up first, you can do whatever you need, whatever you want. But I don’t feel like it’s gonna hurt.” Morgan let out a shaky breath to steady her voice, hoping desperately that she was right. “I think it’s gonna be like having you back, and having a good piece of us back, too. And I definitely want that one big, long kiss to start with, but I’m feeling very open to more after that too.”

Deirdre nodded; at some point, she’d stopped parsing what Morgan was saying and had been watching her lips. At another, the blood thrumming in her ears had grown so intense she stopped hearing her entirely. Once she understood that this was okay—through some kind of osmosis—the rest didn’t seem so important. She moved, more or less, practically right on top of Morgan, and closed the distance between them. It had been weeks since she’d last kissed Morgan like this—fierce and heady—but her body remembered it just as much as it did breathing. She knew what Morgan liked, how Morgan liked it. She had one hand pressed against the small of her back, urging them closer. And the other tangled in her hair, tugging her back. It was a system of pushing and pulling, one her body ached to explore. Morgan was right, in the end, it didn’t hurt. And it did feel like being home, being them, having a shard of their world back. For as long as Deirdre could keep her mouth to Morgan’s—she would later thank her banshee lungs for their service—she could forget why exactly she wasn’t supposed to take this in the first place. It was always like this, just the two of them. Like they carved their own pocket of space and time and curled up in it together. She kissed her like she loved her more than air. She kissed her like she was sorry for the things she’d done, and hadn’t even done yet. She kissed her like she’d forgiven her for her sins too. She kissed her like revelation and benediction. Then she kissed her like a woman whose lungs were burning, but was too stubborn to part. She imagined that having passed out because she wanted to keep kissing Morgan for longer was funny, but ultimately meant that if there were to be more kissing after, she’d miss it. Now, if her mother had said while drowning her that these were skills she could use to make out with the woman she loved for longer, she would have been notably more excited about it. But she hadn’t, and now panic and old memory threatened to bubble over if she continued.

With a whine, she parted, rolling onto her back as she heaved in air. The world drizzled back into focus. First with the grass, cool and sharp. Then the wind, sporadic and whistling. And finally the sky, brilliant and familiar. Deirdre turned to Morgan, pressing her forehead to hers again. Her lips brushed hers, as if to ask quietly if she was still feeling open to more—and if that openness meant right now. There were mistakes to correct in that other kiss, after all. Things she had to make better. “How are you?” She breathed. “Are you feeling okay?”

Morgan devoured Deirdre’s lips as they kissed. She was starving. Stars above, the ache in her chest was starving the whole time for this: her touch, hard and tender and loving and right; the tickle of her tongue; the bite of her teeth; the home built by the push-pull of her hands on Morgan’s body and Morgan’s needy sounds in reply. There was no history, no pain, and no fear. Whatever between them mingled back and forth was beyond that. Morgan whined against Deirdre’s lips in welcome as much as longing. She could tumble head first into Deirdre like this and think nothing of it til it was too late. It was so easy, the snugness of Deirdre’s hold was almost like warmth, and it had been so long since she’d been warm. With each pull, the gravity around their affection grew heavier, and Morgan couldn’t quite remember why she wasn’t supposed to make herself a wholesale offering, not when this was the best she’d felt in weeks.

When they parted, Morgan stayed where she lay on the ground, gathering her bearings. Her body was still whole, her heart was still quiet, the world was still in place. I am here, she told herself. I am here. I am. I am. I am.

The smile she gave Deirdre as she came close again grew all its own, its tenderness unbidden and unbothered. “I’m okay,” she said, pressing a chaste kiss to emphasize her point. “In fact, I just had an idea for us that I think you’ll like. The first of which involves carrying you back inside. And I’m not accepting negotiations on that one. I can already see your nose turning color from the cold.” Morgan gave it a gentle boop, then sat up, gathering Deirdre and her cane into her ams and carrying her back to the great room. She set her down with care, and, eager to stay latched to her body in case the spell of comfort was broken by distance, settled herself at her side, cheek resting against her shoulder. “This is related, but before I explain anything, can you tell me how your body feels? I know there’s a lot to negotiate between your pain and healing and wanting to be like this, but I really don’t want you to hurt right now, Deirdre.”

“Actually, I don’t think I’m turning color from the cold but—oh!” Before Deirdre could get out some clever words about the heat of her body, she was up in Morgan’s arms, laughing as they moved. It felt beautifully normal for them, and with the ease, a pang of guilt. She remembered now why her body craved Morgan’s with such intensity, and why she couldn’t ask the things she wanted to ask. I missed you, she had wanted to say. I love you. Her laughter fell off her lips just in time for her body to fall on to their couch. Should she not be so happy now, knowing Morgan was still in the place of decision? But she was made blissful by simple things and, namely, Morgan-related things; kissing her, being with her, talking to her, listening to the things she had to say. Deirdre swallowed. “It feels…” she wrapped her arms around Morgan and thought about it. Confusion crawled across her face, but she continued to answer the question. “It feels fine? Good, even...if that’s okay. Light.” Happy. But even if that part was obvious, she didn’t admit it. The body could be such a simple creature, happy when held or loved. It didn’t understand, but Deirdre did. “Uh, you mean the pain from the injuries, right? They’re okay. The more you forget about them, the less they hurt.” And she had forgotten about a great deal in moments prior. “I’m okay, I mean. Are you? Is something wrong? What did you want to say?”  

Morgan lifted her head to kiss Deirdre’s cheek once, then twice, close to the sly curve at the corner of her mouth she so loved to feel against her lips when she was alive. “I’m okay. And what I’m going to suggest we do tonight is hopefully going to help us stay okay. Or um, me, I guess.” She nuzzled her and tried to ignore the constricting feeling creeping into her chest. In their house, the world seemed real again, and she saw the ghost of her begging Deirdre to talk to her playing alongside the ghosts of them dancing and making love and wiping each other’s tears. Morgan fumbled quickly for her phone and brought up the timer app. She set it to three minutes, but didn’t start. “You once told me when I was really afraid of something good to just take it in small pieces, a little at a time. So what if we did that, but with...touching.” She met her eyes slowly, hoping this didn’t sound stupid or insulting. “We take turns, we say how we want to be touched for the next three minutes, and that’s as far as we have to think or agree to go. You could tell me you want me to play with your hair, or whisper in your ear or...anything. Anything you want me to do in three minutes, I’d like to try. And I’ll tell you, you don’t have to guess or worry, because I’ll just be telling you, for the next three minutes, I want you to hold me like you used to and kiss me slow and play with my hair. Please. A-and we can renegotiate if the other doesn’t want to do it, obviously. We don’t have to start the timer until we’ve agreed. And we can call stop at the end of an interval if we need, or before, but it’s just three minutes so I don’t think there’s going to be time for any weird surprises.” She bit her lip, balanced on the edge of excitement and embarrassment. “What do you think?”

Upon hearing this was something that would help Morgan, Deirdre perked up. She half sat up, so she could look at Morgan better, propped up on her elbows. She braced for the worst of it; actually, no more kissing ever, I hate you and your breath stinks (the last part was strange because Morgan couldn’t taste or smell, really, but she worried about it all the same). But giddy from their kiss, she felt like she could take anything--even the stinky breath bit. Still, her relief then, to hear that it wasn’t that, was palatable. Though she felt like she could laugh--did I say that? Actually I meant take the good in really large pieces, like one hour at a time. “May I?” She asked, reaching out for Morgan’s phone. She held it tenderly in her hands and stared at the timer. It took her awhile to figure out how to work the app, but once she got it, she flipped it back around to show Morgan: 00:03:01. “One second extra. Can I ask for that? Just one second more.” She held the phone back out to Morgan and smiled. By any standards, one second wasn’t a lot, but it was just enough. To hold her one second more, kiss her one second longer, feel her here just another second...that felt like its own infinity to her. A small gift, she thought, if it didn’t feel like too much for Morgan. If one second wouldn’t make the difference between good and bad. “I think it’s a fine idea, actually. I like it. If you wanted more than three minutes, you’d ask for another go? And what we’re doing right now, this would count as touching, right? And if you wanted me to stop, you wouldn’t have to say anything you could just...end the timer early.” She paused, her smile grew just a little more. “I like that.”    

Morgan nodded, “We just go three minutes at a time, taking our turns, until we want to stop. We don’t have to think about how long or short it’s going to be in all. We just take our little steps. You give to me, and I give to you, whatever we’re comfortable with having. And that way...maybe this part doesn’t have to hurt, for either of us. The stopping or the...any of it.” She looked down at the extra second, frowning slightly. Three was what she trusted herself most with. Three was more than one and less than five, which was where things could start to get dicey, she felt. Was it really that measly? Couldn’t it be enough if there was another coming right after? Did Deirdre need more from her that badly? It was just a second. Behind it, yes, there were a million and one wants, but it was just a second. An extra second was a lot less to ask for than a trip to the magic fae village where they might stay an hour and come home a week later. It’s just a second. “You can have one more second, yes. That’s okay,” she said. Then, clearing her throat. “I don’t know about how much just being next to you counts, but maybe it should, or...I don’t know. I came up with this sometime in the last five minutes.” She scoffed at herself, wondering if she was just throwing in another complication. This was too much thinking, not enough kissing, or cuddling, or-- “Can we just try now? What I said before, about holding me like you used to, with me kind of in your lap, and kissing me slow, and my hair-- if that’s still okay, could you please just be doing that? And then you can tell me how you want me to touch you after that?” Her brows met in a timid plea. Her hand clenched around her phone, thumb hovered over the start. Could this be enough? Could this be simple and enough right now?

Deirdre frowned and reached back for the phone, adjusting the time back to its plain three minutes. “No,” she sighed, her voice warm with care, “not like that. Not if it sounds like it just might be too much. Not if what you’re thinking is that it’s just a second.” She eyed the time, devoid of her special second. Guilt surged; what was she thinking? “They add up. Three minutes is a time you decided on to feel safe with, I shouldn’t have asked for more. I’m sorry.” Deirdre shifted, leaning up against the arm of the couch. Suddenly, she couldn’t remember the ways in which she used to sit. She wiggled awkwardly, trying to find it. “Of course we can,” she smiled softly. Three minutes was a lot, three minutes was more than enough. Yet there was something strange about knowing it was numbered; that without fail, in three minutes, it would end. There was a comfort in uncertainty, a hope. Could hope live in three minute intervals? There was something to cling to in the extra second, but not here--not in the three minutes. “Do you want to come closer first? I’ll start the timer as soon as you’re ready.” She smiled, setting Morgan’s phone on the table, her finger hovering over the button. She waited for Morgan’s okay before she pressed it, scooping her love into her arms. Her mind kept its own time, but even with the ticking clock, she was careful not to rush herself. In these moments, she never loved Morgan like there was a number on her mind, and she wouldn’t now. She kissed her slow, as instructed; played with her hair as though she might always; and held her tight, as if she didn’t know what it meant to let her go. In three minutes, they wouldn’t have this anymore. But until then, the world was theirs.

Morgan surrendered to Deirdre’s touch, pulling herself as snugly into her lap as she could. She was everything she had asked for and more, with the care that went with each pull and stroke. The tension in Morgan’s shoulders eased just a little and she moaned little encouragements to her as they kissed deeper, harder. Her hands clenched around Deirdre’s shoulders when the alert on the timer went off. Morgan reached to silence it, then brought her hand back to its spot cupping the back of the banshee’s head. Her lips tingled from the rough pull of the last kisses and the sensation made her grin with a hint of heady satisfaction. “That was really nice,” she whispered in Deirdre’s ear, tracing the tip of her finger around the shell. “It’s your turn, if you want it. I feel okay, good even.” She pulled away to meet her eyes and gauge her response. “You just have to ask.”

Deirdre knew the three minutes would end before the alarm pierced across their air. She kept time in her head faithfully; she had always been good keeping measure. And as she had guessed, three minutes was hardly enough, and there was no extra second to cling to. She closed her eyes, knowing they often revealed far too much to Morgan, and laughed the rest of her thoughts away. Three minutes was better than none, she reasoned. And if this was what Morgan needed to feel safer, then she wouldn’t complain. In truth, Morgan was doing a lot to keep them whole and Deirdre knew she should’ve felt better about it. But it was like this:

Counting time made it real. Marking their ends and beginnings gave them life. In three minutes she would be born to die when an alarm told her to. And she would know, every time, that it would only be three minutes. Not a second more. Then she’d pick from a list of her body’s desires for the most acceptable piece of affection that could break itself to fit in three minutes. And again, she would be born to die. When she was drowned to her mother’s slow internal clock--if she said two minutes, it was never two minutes--it summoned a similar sense of dread. Knowing at the end, she’d do it again. Another three minutes.

But three minutes was better than none. And even if hope couldn’t be born then, perhaps kindness could be. Deirdre opened her eyes and smiled. Her body did thank her for this, and her lips burned with remembrance. But beside her strange distaste for the measuring of their affection, she had a stronger aversion to being made to decide things. There were a lot of things she wanted to do, one was not better than the other. One was not more important. And only a few were acceptable for the moment, even less for Morgan’s current state. “Can’t I just give you my three minutes?” She asked. “I’d rather do what you want and I just...I just want to hold you, that’s all I can think of right now. But it sounds kind of--” Like a mood killer, and more so after just making out. “I’m just a little put on the spot right now.” She shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe you can give me my three minutes to think this over? No--don’t--don’t! That was a joke.”  

Morgan withdrew her hand to give Deirdre a break from her teasing. “That’s okay,” she said. “But I do think...I want you to feel okay asking for things, and for us to be more comfortable making adjustments without getting really sad about it. I know decisions aren’t your favorite, but you don’t have to overthink it. Whatever comes to you at the moment is good. If you wanted me to hold you or just stroke your side for three minutes, I think that would be time well-spent. If this, us, is going to work even better than it used to, we should both probably put at least a little of our energy into thinking of what we want and not just how we can serve each other, as wonderful as that can be most of the time.” She smiled kindly and picked up her phone before settling back against Deirdre’s chest. “But this is pretty spur of the moment, so I hope you know you don’t have to feel obligated to ask for anything just for my...weird game, either. Would it be okay if you just played with my ear like I was before with you and gave me little kisses all over while you hold me for three more minutes? And then we can do something else if you’d rather not keep up with this.”

“But I don’t...want...anything…” Deirdre sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “No, your idea is good. And it’ll help you, and it’ll be good for us I just…” Morgan settled against her and Deirdre’s arms rose up, but hovered around Morgan. If there were going to be rules, she needed them to be clear enough to follow. “C-can I hold you now or should that be timed?” She asked, arms raised and quivering. “It’s just---it’s the time. I can’t know it’ll be three minutes and not a second more. If you just make it less than three minutes, but you don’t tell me how long, that’ll be better. I could do that.” Her arms sagged, victim to gravity. “No, your ‘weird game’ is a good idea, Morgan. I’ve just always enjoyed the...freedom of our affection. Of just doing what felt good one moment to the next. But I know this will be better for you, so I want to try it. And I don’t mind, really. Ironically, it’ll take me some time to get over the three minute part. Because it ends, Morgan. It ends and you know it does and you can feel it and then you have to feel it again. And maybe that feels like a relief to you but it is tormenting to me. But not if I don’t know it. I know so many things, Morgan, but I don’t want to know how this ends.” She shifted again, finally finding her place on the couch. “If you can just let me hold you for some random amount of time under three minutes, I think I’d feel better about it.” She paused and eyed the phone. “A-and maybe if the alert wasn’t so jarring. But at that point, I’m asking for too much, and I shouldn’t, I shouldn't.” She sighed and went back to massage the bridge of her nose. “B-but I can do what you want, I don’t mind doing that. I can do that. I can play with your ear and kiss you over.”

Morgan took Deirdre’s hand from her nose and cradled it carefully. “First of all, unless I indicate otherwise, holding can be a freebie. Secondly, neither of us knows how this,” she emphasized the word meaningfully to hold the two of them and everything they were and could be, “ends. There’s so many possibilities for us, and I think more than a couple of them are pretty good. Thirdly, I will adjust the time the way you’ve asked me to, and I can lower the volume on my phone or set it to vibrate. Fourth: you are allowed to ask for things. I want you, very much, to ask for and tell me what you need and want.” She threaded their fingers together and gave Deirdre’s hand a squeeze. “I’d show you the time as proof, but that would spoil the surprise,” she said softly. “Take a little bit to collect yourself, okay? And you can tell me when to start, if you still want to.”

If she closed her eyes and just let Morgan’s words wash over her, it was like nothing had happened at all. Deirdre blinked, perplexed. Was this how Morgan had felt, earlier? But that was different because Deirdre’s heart hadn’t changed. She stayed still for a moment, watching Morgan. Then, suddenly: “why are you being nice to me?” Was this, perhaps, the moment of affection before Morgan would leave? Those she had almost come to expect now, those brought with them the familiarity of pain. But this kindness was not as habitual as the changing of bandages or cooked meals. This was a special kindness, a girlfriend-kind of nice. “You know what I want,” she said. “As for what I need that’s just...well, I don’t really know. But I don’t understand why you’re--you said that you--we’re not--” She swallowed. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m sorry.” But she had no more hands to get to her face with, claimed by Morgan’s grip. Her plea turned desperate, sincere, “what am I supposed to do, Morgan?”

Morgan’s heart sank. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for right now, Deirdre,” she murmured. “There’s no reason to be sorry, you don’t have to be. Hey--” she cupped her face and met her eyes, “I’d like to bring you close to me and wait for your breathing to steady a little. Is that okay with you?” Deirdre’s face was one big look of confusion, but she didn’t withdraw or tense, so Morgan went ahead and shifted them on the couch so she could hold her in a more comforting position. “Those are some...really big questions and I don’t know how many answers I’ve got, but I'm going to think while you breathe how we like to.” Morgan tapped the counting rhythm on Deirdre’s shoulder and tried to figure herself out.

She had thought, when the idea came to her, that their game would be the perfect blend of sentimentality and relationship building practice. Like a model student, Morgan had been attentive to her reading. Not taking disagreements and rejections personally was a little hard (they spent so much of their waking lives together, how could it not be a little personal? How could there not be something for her to change or fix to make things better? Herself better?) but it came to her mind now as she tried to coax Deirdre into breathing steady and focus on what was before her rather than thinking of all the ways she’d dug her heels into the ground about this in the first place. She probably should have cracked open a book or two about managing intimacy before trying this, but at least she was able to tell herself she didn’t really know better than this necessarily...

At last Morgan said, “So, I don’t actually know what you want right now in an immediate, tangible, practical sense. There’s that.” The only short answer she had to offer. Maybe she should’ve thrown in some more adjectives to make it last longer. Morgan sighed and let that go. Just be honest, she reminded herself. “I love you, Deirdre. I need more freedom and space than usual right now because I feel really, deeply broken and I desperately need to heal into a different shape than the one I had before. But I love you, and you are where my heart feels at home. What I want, long term, is a life with you that’s good and makes us both happy and fulfilled. What I want short term, is...kind of a mess, if you haven’t noticed.” She laughed dryly. “And you know, maybe there’s a textbook or three out there that’ll tell me it was a huge mistake, but kissing you in the grass made everything hard disappear and I actually felt strong enough to try something to help us instead of being afraid of our feelings and running or shutting down or lashing out. So, it was good for something, even if it was maybe really impulsive.” Fuck, she hadn’t answered anything outright yet. “I don’t know if I’m making much sense, but I’m being nice because you matter to me and I would rather us stay together than anything else, even if needing some of the stuff I’ve asked for makes it seem otherwise.” She pressed a lingering kiss to the top of Deirdre’s head. “What do you want to do, Deirdre…?”

Though in the moment it felt unnecessary, Deirdre breathed as Morgan had taught her months ago. In. Hold. Out. In. Hold. Out. And as she breathed, she waited and she listened and she noticed: Morgan didn’t sound angry like she had before. She didn’t sound as plagued by fear or hurt. Knowing this, Deirdre found some part of her uncorking, as if it was safe to slither out. Like they might be able to talk like they used to. “Okay,” she breathed, she reached over to the table and grabbed one of the markers she’d used for her whiteboard. She rolled up her robe sleeve and uncapped the marker, screwing it into the back. “I want to help you, Morgan,” she said. This was both simple and true, and perhaps true because it was simple. “But I can’t do that properly because I don’t know what you need.” She started writing on her arm; no touching, no kissing, no holding for too long, no declarations of love. “I don’t mind giving you what you need. If that’s space, or time, or less affection...that’s okay. That’s always been okay. But I can’t understand your boundaries because you haven’t told me. I’m not your girlfriend but you won’t see other people. And kissing wasn’t okay, and we agreed on waiting a week, and then it was. And holding you was sometimes too much but not when done for three minutes at a time? And saying I love you was bad but now it’s fine?” She scribbled around her arm, trying to make amendments until all she was left with was a black mess. She stared at it, hoping it would make sense.

“I want us too, in the long term. And I love you too. And I told you I would wait, and I don’t mind space or time or anything else...and I understand if your mind changes, or if one thing that wasn’t okay now suddenly is...but I didn’t know what was okay to begin with. I don’t.” Deirdre looked up, rolling up her other sleeve, this arm was covered with bandages but she’d write across the bumpy surface if she had to. “I just want to know what I can do; what’s good for you and what isn’t. That’s what I want for the–um–short term, the immediate. Please. I-I know you blame me for—I know it was my fault but I—“ Deirdre sighed and slumped, “I’d just like to do what’s right for us. And I’ve wanted to talk to you, like we always do, but you were so angry or sad or it was too much and I just...I can’t figure it out by myself, Morgan.”

Morgan winced at the black scrawl taking over Deirdre’s bandages. She averted her gaze, mumbling a sad, “I get it, I get it…” She waited for Deirdre to finish before saying anything else. “I swear to you, I didn’t ask for those things to be cruel or confusing,” she said quietly. “I don’t even know what my rules are, they keep changing. Letting go of some of that anger and starting to forgive you the other day helped a lot, I think, but I know that’s not a full answer. I do get it. I’m just...a mess. I don’t know how else to put it. I’m still figuring things out for myself. If I had to guess, as far as today goes, telling me to take a trip with you that might zap away weeks of our life out here was terrifying because that’s a couple’s thing, and a serious risk, and a serious commitment. But kissing only lasts as long as you want it to, and I missed feeling you so much…” she brushed back Deirdre’s hair, massaging her scalp as she did. “I thought it would be good, if I stopped running away from wanting to touch you a little. We were good at that before we were good at being girlfriends, and maybe that could be something to get back that’s not so complicated. And we’d always moved with our impulses before anyway. But if it’s not good…” Back to the drawing board. “Right now, what I know is: I love you is okay, but it feels sticky when I say it sometimes; touching is okay, especially holding, but nothing past third base; involved plans for the future scare me; you can call me whatever you want, but I’m withholding terms of endearment until we’re more settled. I don’t want them to get ruined with my indecision. Other than that…” She shrugged haplessly. “Some stuff I have to be the one to fix.” Her hand moved down to cup Deirdre’s cheek and draw her head upward. “I am sorry I haven’t been able to talk. I just...it was what you said, being angry or heartbroken or scared or whatever else, and I just couldn’t, I was just that broken, nothing that did come out was right, and so I mostly didn’t. And I don’t know if I’m going to psych myself out tomorrow and feel less...me. But I can tell you I’ll try hard not to. Is this...helping? Is this making things worse…?”

“I know.” Deirdre smiled softly, “I didn’t think you meant to be cruel. And I meant it when I said I don’t mind the mess, I just want to know how I can help. Whatever that means for the moment.” She started writing the new rules on her arms as Morgan spoke, finding trouble writing with her off-hand but powering through anyway. “And the kissing...is that only for three minutes at a time?” She looked up. “And I never understood that baseball metaphor but so you’ll have to explain that later, in case I have it wrong. Our impulses are fine, but sometimes your impulses are panicking or hurting and we’re both trying to minimize that, right?” She scribbled some tentative words about that down. “And what about if I say ‘I love you’? Or if I want to say your eyes are like the frozen skin of a corpse? Would it be better for you if I just called you Morgan then, instead of ‘my love’?” She paused. “Do you still blame me? For all of it?” Deirdre looked down at the shaky list on her bandage. “Sad you is easier to talk to, she usually just wants to be held and she nods at least, when I ask her things. Angry you is harder because she doesn’t want to talk about the things we need to, she just wants to be angry. Panicked you is strange, because you’ve always let me hold you when you’re scared, but if what you’re scared of is me holding you...then there’s nothing I can do. Tired you is the one that wants to sleep, but can’t. Most of the time they mix together; you’re sad and angry, tired and scared, sad and angry and tired and scared. Your emotions are important to me, Morgan. And they’re not new to me, even if some displays of them are. But I’ve only known what to do to help because you’ve trusted me. And now that you don’t I…” Deirdre slumped, sighing. “If you could just tell me, even if it’s just to say you don’t feel like talking or that you do feel like talking...I can stop guessing about it. If that’s something you can try to do, I think it would be good.” She closed her marker and offered a small smile. “This is helping, thank you.”

Morgan tried her best to keep up with Deirdre’s questions. Kissing could be longer, but only if she asked for it first. Third base was another way of saying no sex or heavy under the clothes action, but everything else was fine. She wasn’t sure about the terms of endearment. She didn’t know why sometimes they were a comfort and sometimes they made her feel pressured. Same with I love you and the rest, but less so.

It was around this time that Morgan’s body started to curl in on itself. Her head slumped to bury itself in Deirdre’s hair and she held on a little tighter, for her own sake as well as her banshee’s now. “I don’t mean to make you guess…” she mumbled. “I’m guessing too.” At last Deirdre ran out of words for the time being and Morgan shuddered, relieved for just a breath of a moment. “I’m getting overwhelmed…” she said. “I don’t have answers for everything. But I trust you enough to kiss you. I trust you enough to let you hold me almost whenever you want. I—” She hesitated, shuddering. When she spoke  again, her voice was careful and quiet. “I’m trying not to blame you for everything. I know I didn’t always help. I needed you so badly, I was just in pieces and reacting and that didn’t help. And I know you didn’t mean to. But sometimes I walk into a room and it just hurts all over again. And sometimes I get scared, because if you didn’t understand what you were doing then and you couldn’t hear me, what if you don’t realize something’s happening and hurting me some other way and I lose you again. If it happens before I figure things out, maybe I’ll break again. And I don’t want to be the kind of person who ends up on the floor because you won’t look at me or talk to me. That’s why I need to do things differently this time…” Her voice warbled, growing sad. “If you need more answers, we can keep going, but I need a break first. Please… I just don’t know how to explain some things good or at all. Can we do something else for a few minutes? We don’t have to go back to kissing, we can just lay down if that’s better and then pick up the talk wherever you need us to. I know if it feels like too much for me it must be worse for you, but I need a break…”

Deirdre looked at her arm list, the lines shaky but the words clear to her. In her head, finally, she’d been able to create a picture of what Morgan needed. And now that she had it, she could help. Which was all she wanted, really. “No, no,” she smiled and wrapped her arms around Morgan, tight and steady. “This is perfect, thank you. I don’t need to ask you anything else.” All she’d needed was a modicum of guidance from a version of Morgan that wouldn’t shut her out, and then say it was her fault. ‘I don’t know’ was a perfectly acceptable answer but it wasn’t a helpful one, and not all their whims could be obeyed. And not all their instincts would be good. And the thread that the two operated on, once the same, was not one they could walk again. She understood that Morgan was saying they needed better, stronger threads; not a tightrope that led to each other. But it was because of this new shift that she needed to know, and if Morgan wasn’t walking it, then Deirdre couldn’t either. But she’d figure out what was to be done with herself on her own. “No, it’s okay. Thank you, Morgan. Really. I know these were hard questions, but I needed to know, and you answered them for me, and thank you.” She put her marker down and grabbed Morgan’s phone, showing her the timer. “Do you want me to kiss you now? I could do that thing you were saying, with your ears? Or, uh, yeah, we could just lay here.” She glanced over at the timer with a fond smile, as though staring at an old enemy whom the tides of time had softened her feelings for. In reality, three minutes was less terrible when she understood everything else. It would still end, and it would still ring, and she’d still keep count in her head and loathe the rigidity of time...but it wasn’t so bad. Not anymore. She turned back to Morgan, smiling just a little bit wider. “Thank you again,” she whispered, “it means a lot. Thank you.”

Slowly, Morgan unclenched her body and unfurled her legs to stretch over the cushions. She lifted her head, eyes still shut, tried to take a long, satisfied breath. She could feel something familiar and dangerous around the edges of her heart asking, Are you sure you’re not mad? I’m sorry this isn’t better, I’m sorry… Morgan winced, knowing better than to voice that. But it begged that much harder in her silence, and Morgan couldn’t shake the desire for being comforted. At last she lifted her gaze to Deirdre’s and felt whatever sad, hesitant question she’d been working on dissolve in her mind. Her face was so affectionate and warm, her smile glowing with the beginnings of confidence. It told her already, as if it knew she would ask, it’s okay. It’s okay.

Morgan smiled back, small and tentative. Her throat relaxed, and her words suddenly fell out with ease. “I just want to stay close right now, that’s the only part that’s really important to me. But if that’s still okay with you—” Then yeah, the last thing Morgan was going to turn down was the chance to be petted and soothed. “That would be really nice. But you never said what you wanted for yourself. I’m glad that you did something to take care of us. It was good and it does make sense, even if it was a little—” Morgan shuddered and wiped the corner of her eye, still tense from the experience. “But I want to give you something for you. After this, though. Or later. Just...sometime?”

Deirdre had never been great at thinking for herself, about herself, about the things she wanted. It was not selflessness that created her confusion, but a life that refused to value her desires. For years, as far as she was concerned, she didn’t have any, and she didn’t want any. And so, as Morgan mentioned it, she frowned and shifted. “I just want to take care of you; help you,” she said. Which was true, and she knew in some way she’d never be able to worry about herself if her mind was occupied with worrying about Morgan. But as she said it, she knew it wasn’t the right answer. “I—okay. We can do something for me, after. Sometime.” And as she thought about it, her ideas were either thinly veiled ways to make Morgan feel better or actions that were so inconsequential that it wouldn’t matter if they didn’t do them. She shifted again. “I just—“ She swallowed, abandoning the avenue of explaining her desires. She just wanted Morgan to be happy, and she saw nothing wrong with keeping that her singular desire. If she was disobeying her family, then she might as well put her whole heart into it. Unwavering devotion wasn’t new to her.

She lowered herself, pressing her lips to Morgan’s cheek, jaw, neck. Her mind enjoyed being occupied with the woman, and nothing else. There was nothing wrong. She didn’t need anything, and she certainly didn’t want anything. She wasn’t a person, she hadn’t been for a long time now, if ever. She worked her way back up to Morgan’s lips, mumbling there. “Thank you again,” she kissed once for each syllable. “I’m sorry to have asked it so roughly but thank you. You’re doing good; thank you.” And a dozen more for each of these. Her hand found familiarity tangling into and playing with the strands of Morgan’s hair. Her other moved to trace the bones of her features: cheek, jaw, neck. She was careful; above the clothes, chaste. She was dutiful, as asked by Morgan, as performed by all she knew of Morgan’s desires. What more was there to want? She wanted them good and okay again. She wanted what Morgan wanted. If a declaration of love was too much, she conceded: “thank you for worrying about me; I worry about you too.” Her affection was clear enough in the rest of her, all she didn’t say about loving her, wanting her, that it was all okay and that she would stay, was said in touches, breaths and kisses. She could do this, it’d be okay. And she didn’t want anything else. No, not at all.

Morgan’s icy fear melted under Deirdre’s assurances. Gradually, she flowed with her touches, pressing in, sighing, whispering the odd plaintive tease for more (I’m doing good? I am?), and ghosting her lips and hands over where she ached to touch back when she got her turn. The three minutes ended, silent this time, and Morgan thought the sting of pulling slowly back was sweet. Longing was hope in something like this, wasn’t it? Her watery eyes were softer than they had been a long time when she smiled at Deirdre. She reached out for her face, fingertips stopping just a breath away. “Thank you for helping me,” she said. “And for...assuring me, following all my strange impulses, choosing to come back home to me, trying to love me.” She was already leaning in, remembering how she’d decided that they should hold each other for free. It was as much a part of spending time together as looking into each other’s eyes. “I’m good to give to you back, if that’s something you want too,” she said. “And you could show me how you want to be touched, if you feel strange saying.” She offered her hands. “But only if...I mean, I want to be as good to you as I can be. We can just watch something, and I’ll fix dinner in a couple hours and we’ll stay here until you fall asleep, if that’s better. That’s okay. I just...I can give you my love like before right now. I can. But I’ll do whatever you want.”

Deirdre met Morgan’s fingers with her own, leading them the rest of the way, letting them greet her face. “Loving you is a choice I make glady, and not one at all--all of it, in the same breath. It’s a matter of fact.” The fondness had gone to her head, and in the moment, she’d forgotten why the Deirdre of days past refrained from such explicit words of love. “You don’t have to do that…” Her voice was warm. Tender. A no, let’s focus on you instead. Morgan had been denied her love for longer than Deirdre ever wanted, and she was keen to fill the space. “And how can I ask you to kiss me, hold me, touch me, when your heart has ached?” When three minutes was all Morgan could handle at a time and their affection had to be played like a game. How could she, when it was clear enough to her that someone else needed it more? She pressed her palm over the organ in Morgan’s chest that no longer thumped its fast, steady rhythm. “I can’t ask, Morgan. Your love is precious to me, and you needn’t strain yourself for it. Whatever it is you want, whatever it is you’d like to give, I will have gladly. But you’ve been through so much, and so much still yet lingers in you; the power it takes to remember how you once were, what you once had and could do when so much uncertainty plagues you, is too great for me to ask you for.” She thumped the old beat of Morgan’s heart against her chest. “You’re good to me just doing what you do. You don’t need to kiss me to make anything fair, you don’t need to love me like you did before when you find yourself with the energy to. I am not a plant you forgot to water. I am a woman who loves you, and I’ll be fine just like this.” She smiled, drawing her hand back. “Which is to say, I understand you’re hurting, Morgan. Your heart deserves rest. Love me as you want to, not as I ask--and if you can’t, if you find there’s no love you can give, don’t worry about me. It’s okay, Morgan. Right now, you can be selfish. All of it’s okay.”  

It took Morgan a moment to understand what Deirdre was saying. Don’t take it personally, she reminded herself, trying not to wilt too much. The more Deirdre went on, the more it became clear that her no that wasn’t a big ‘you’re taking too long and now I don’t trust you, so there’ kind of no, but something more complicated that maybe even buried a conditional yes. “But I want you to ask. I mean, not if it hurts, and obviously I’m...it must be kind of shitty, not knowing which me you’re gonna get, but the answer right now is going to be yes.” But that wasn’t everything. “It’s not like you’re a strain, I mean sometimes the stuff I carry makes other things feel hard, but--” That wasn’t the heart of it either. Morgan went quiet and leaned closer against Deirdre, chest to chest, searching for the simplest way down through her hurt. “I wanted to love you back so badly, before you disappeared,” she whispered. “For you to let me. For you to...want me. I think I went crazy trying to find the right, magic thing that would make you see me right or decide I was good enough or...I don’t know what anymore, it was stupid, but I would’ve given anything to be able to give to you and have it mean something. I know you were just hiding your injuries now, but...” She swallowed thickly and gave a resolute smile, trying to remind herself even as she coughed up more gooey, awful hurt, that she would not lose her shit and take things to heart if Deirdre decided keeping things one-sided was better. “It’s different if there’s something in you that doesn’t feel right with me touching you while I’m like this, if it hurts or it’s confusing or something else. But I don’t want you to be afraid or guilty if you want me. Because I do too. I’ve missed...I’d just really like to, and to know it’s good.” She met her gaze slowly. “Can wanting to make you feel good for a little while be selfish too?”

Vaguely, Deirdre knew she had a way of speaking that was coated in too much metaphor and thick with confusing language. It was like a fae to never say anything plainly, she was told. But Morgan had always been so good at translating her mind that there was a manner of freedom she found in speaking simply as she wanted to. She didn’t need to decode her mind, a task she often struggled with anyway. “Is it not like how I think it is?” She blinked, “to me it’s...like this: you’ve cut your hand. What kind of a person would I be if I asked you to pick something up for me? Shouldn’t you rest your hand?” Deirdre sagged as Morgan went on. No, it wasn’t like resting her hand at all. “I did love you back…” She mumbled quietly. “I was trying to let you, I just didn’t want you to worry. I did--do want you. It wasn’t ever not good.” She raised her arm, surveying her list. Being asked for what she wanted wasn’t something Morgan had told her before, and she hadn’t put it down. To say she wanted to touch Morgan was one thing, to say she wanted Morgan to touch her was another. The hand was cut, wasn’t it? Why wouldn’t it rest instead? As much as Deirdre ached to give Morgan everything she asked for, this was one thing she could not do. Her desires weren’t so simple, they never found voice easily. “What am I supposed to feel, if not afraid or guilty?” She dropped her arm, and its rules that she thought were supposed to help her. “It’s not that I don’t feel right with you touching me, it’s that I don’t feel right asking for it. I don’t want to--I don’t want--I--” She paused. “I don’t want.” She shifted, frowning and deciding she might as well just say anything and move them past this. But as she opened her mouth, no desires could form on her tongue. She thought about the hand. What about the hand? Why wasn’t anyone thinking about the hand? “I do want you, and I do feel guilty, so I won’t ask. I can’t ask.” Deirdre shifted again, frown growing. “Why is it important that I ask?”

Morgan shrank inwards, her reminder playing in a loop. “You’d just never pushed me off you like that before, and you wouldn’t explain. I didn’t understand...” she whispered. But litigating the details of their mistakes wasn’t what she wanted to be doing. Morgan gathered herself and spoke more clearly. “For me it’s like I’m stuck. We were walking somewhere, holding each other like we always do, and then you fell and we both went down and let go or lost each other or something but now you’re ahead of me and I’ve got my feet stuck in a hole or tar or something and all of it hurts, staying in and sinking or trying to get out, all of it. But I want to get out. I need to. And I want you to help me get out of this stupid hole, if it won’t pull you back down with me.” She shrugged. “You could tell me instead, if thinking about it that way makes it easier.” She scoffed at herself, knowing the semantics were really not the point. “Maybe being so desperate to know anything you wanted over those weeks is part of it, but I...I really want to know when I touch you that it’s really for you, really what you want and not just another stupid wild guess or projection or a gross one-sided thing. And if we’re going to heal better, I think you really do have to come around to letting yourself want and expressing that, eventually. I’d kind of hoped this would be an easy one to start with, but we don’t have to do that tonight, okay?”

It was simple, very simple. All Deirdre had to do was say something she wanted for herself, something Morgan could give her. She opened her mouth. I want you to hold me. No, the holding was free. Her lips pulled back down into a frown before they parted again. I want you to play with my hair. No, how could she ask for something like that. It’d only be three minutes, and what if Morgan didn’t want to? What if it was too much work? Too much pressure? What if she grew too fond of the feeling of Morgan there and couldn’t bear the pain of losing her? Deirdre’s face twisted with pain. A kiss was too much to ask for, too serious. Anything else was too little, and would’ve been done anyway. And then there was the matter of the three minutes, the problems she’d had with it before arose again. This Morgan wanted her now, but what of the Morgan tomorrow? Would she resent the affection Deirdre asked for? Like the first kiss she’d wanted when coming home. Like the anger that seemed to follow the times she first asked Morgan to come to bed, before she learned to stop asking. “Couldn’t you just touch me and then I could tell you that it’s okay? Why do I have to--” She swallowed, shifted. If they were going to heal, as Morgan was saying it, then she needed to ask for things. But she didn’t want to ask for things. She didn’t want things. She didn’t want to ask. She just wanted Morgan to be okay. She opened her mouth. All she had to do was ask for something, and that didn’t seem so hard. She wanted a great many things: Morgan’s fingers intertwined with hers, absently against her skin in a way that was so soft--too soft--and just for her. Their legs tangled together where they couldn’t be told apart or undone. That easy way Morgan smiled, happy and ignorant to pain. The way Morgan looked at her, with love unspeakable, just for something she’d said or done and her own puzzling, trying to figure out what had done it this time, if it was anything at all. Where Morgan loved her just because. She wanted their lips, pressed together and pressed to skin anywhere they could, and just the places they knew the other liked. She wanted them, as they were; free and happy and timeless. But that wasn’t something she could ask for.

“I’m sorry,” Deirdre slumped, sinking to the couch and trying to curl herself between it and Morgan. Morgan had hoped, and Deirdre could not deliver. She could just say anything, she knew. Hold my hand. Squeeze my fingers. Poke my side. Just anything to make it feel like it was just for her, but none of it was honest. There was one thing she had grown comfortable with admitting she wanted, and from there all of her other desires had started to take shape. But she couldn’t have that thing anymore, and all she could do now was wait until Morgan’s foot wasn’t stuck anymore. “We can just lay here,” she said, wondering if that counted for asking for something. The defeat in her voice couldn’t have sold it as much of a desire, though. How could she want things when Morgan was hurting, and why was the concept so wrong? Morgan herself had said Deirdre was ahead of her, and the rich ought not to eat while the poor starve. Or so the metaphor went in her own head, but she couldn’t find the words to explain. “Or we can do something you want. But I can’t….I don’t want--” She closed her eyes, hissing at herself.  

Morgan sank down, hiding her face on Deirdre’s chest. She was struggling to keep her face even and confident. Deirdre would feel the tears building up at the corners of her eyes, but maybe if Morgan kept her voice even and she didn’t see, it wouldn’t make her feel worse. Don’t take it personally, don’t take it personally… She couldn’t help but feel as though her hand had been slapped away. Why was this hard and complicated? If they couldn’t feel better, they should at least get to have things be simple. Straightforward. Morgan sniffled as silently as she could and pressed timid hands around Deirdre, reminding herself that they held each other for free. (But what if Deirdre didn’t want it? What if it hurt? Would she be pushed off again, after all this?) Morgan waited until she was sure she could trust her voice and said, “I want to give to you without being in my head about it, wondering if I’m doing it wrong. I want it so badly. But not at the expense of your comfort. I don’t want you to hurt anymore, I don’t mean to. I want you to be okay. I want to make this better...” She just also wanted to feel like she was doing something good. She wanted to be loved and trusted enough to be allowed to love back sometimes and not have to makeguesses. But she could deal. Try differently. She could, at the very least, try to be fair to both of them. “You don’t have to be sorry, it’s okay. We can just lay here. Make things easy. It’s okay. It’s okay…”

A better woman could have done it. A better woman would have no trouble declaring her wants and needs, would be less wildly sensitive, always say the right things. Deirdre trembled, quietly, she begged herself not to have these thoughts; she was tired of them, and she wanted to be good. But if there was a better world, where her actions sat well and everything was okay, she hadn’t found it. And if there was hope, she’d forgotten the way. She wanted to be good now just as she had for months, when would she realize the problem was with her? Morgan’s turmoil was born out of the factors she couldn’t control, and beg herself as she did, the truth of it grew increasingly clear in her head. It was her own hand that she’d cut, and she picked things up so pathetically with it—but it didn’t heal, it hadn’t healed. If it did, it’d only bleed again. “I want to give to you without being in my head about it either,” she said. And her head was such a terrible place to be. “If I figure out how, I’ll let you know.” Focussing on loving Morgan and fixing them was as welcome a distraction to her searing self-hatred as anything else, but loving Morgan wasn’t something she did well, as it turned out. She couldn’t just say what she wanted, stupid and simple as it was. She couldn’t have risen out of her grief long enough to be good, she couldn’t pick her broken body up and run home. It all made perfect sense when it was her fault, but it didn’t offer any bit of the control she so desperately desired. She couldn’t help it, she couldn’t help anything—Morgan, Regan, Kaden. She was a terrible banshee and a worse person.

Deirdre shut her eyes tight, tears still escaped under her lashes, rolling down her face. The last voice that begged to be rid of these thoughts cracked and yielded. She thought she could lay still and quiet and make things easy. She thought she could do at least that much. But to lay, as Morgan said it was okay, she would’ve thought there was just one thing she could do right: nothing at all.

[lokispettigerr]

To Summon a Witcher: Chapter 5- Geralt x Reader (NSFW)

Summary:  Reader lives and works in one of the most romantic cities in the US, Charleston, SC. However, because of the city’s colored past, romance isn’t the only thing that can be found there– it is said that ghosts, goblins, ghouls and the like make the city their home. When Reader meets one of these creatures she has to get the help of someone not quite so human in order to be free, but he frees her from much more than she ever expected.  

Word Count: 1,987

Warnings: Angry Daddy, Violence, Spooky shit that Daddy protecc reader from

A/N: So far, with the exclusion of chapter 1, this CHAPTER IS MY FAVORITE!

Taglist: In reblog

When I awoke Saturday morning I left my room to find Geralt laying on the couch. His eyes, as stunning as the sunrise, were already open.

“Morning,” I said with a yawn.

“Mmm,” he replied, his voice sounding rougher with the fading tendrils of sleep. I shuffled into the kitchen and started making breakfast. Normally, I wouldn’t eat breakfast. I wasn’t much of a breakfast person, or much of a morning person. I was certain my heavily muscled guest however, needed nourishment.

I put down enough slices of bacon to fill an old cast-iron pot.

The mapley, enticing scent filled the air as the bacon grease heated and popped. “Smells wonderful,” Geralt said. I jumped, turning to face him. How long had he been standing there?! “Timid, Enchantress?” He asked with a smirk. “Not usually!” I exclaimed. “Can’t you make more noise? How are you this quiet when you move? You’re huge!”

Geralt looked down at his waist. He shrugged, clearly indifferent.

“I can hum.”

I had a hard time imagining the aggressive Witcher of last night humming tunes as he walked about.

“Nevermind,” I snapped.

The bacon cooking was growing increasingly louder and I had a hard time hearing anything over it, but I was certain I heard him chuckle.

After I scrambled some eggs, buttered toast, and whipped up southern style grits, we sat down to eat. I had a cup of coffee, almost too hot in my hands. “Would you like some?” I offered. He hmphed and I took that to mean he did.

I drank my own coffee black and didn’t add anything to his either. If he wanted something, he could tell me-- though he didn’t seem to be particularly verbose. We sat in silence other than our utensils scraping the floral plates and the muted thump of coffee mugs on the wooden, four-seater table. I nibbled at a slice of crispy bacon then cleared my throat. “Well, I… I’ve had an entity attached to me, Witcher.”

“Hm…” He sipped his coffee, “Tell me about it.” I felt like I was about to tell my life troubles to a therapist. Perhaps I should go lie down on the couch and ask Geralt to put on some reading glasses while he looked over the rim of them at me and scribbled madly away in a leather-bound notebook. “A few months ago, during a storm, I walked home through a local cemetery.” He snorted, “Why would you walk home through there?”

“I wouldn’t have, had it not been for the storm,” I said, “I know I wasn’t alone there.”

“In the cemetery?”

“Yes.”

“No, you wouldn’t be,” he stated. “Something out there, made of shadow and chilled wind followed me home. It hasn’t left since.” “Why do you think it followed you?” The Witcher asked. I wanted to evade his question-- very few knew my secret. If people knew, they would think I needed to be hospitalized. But, if I wasn’t completely honest with Geralt he may not be able to help me, or things would go awry. “I see it,” I sighed, “I feel it.” He shook his head and took a sip of his steaming coffee, “You see things happening around you, inexplicable things?” He asked. “Well, yes. But I see the entity as well, Witcher.”

For the first time since his arrival, Geralt looked surprised.

“What you are claiming is extremely rare. During my time the ability was nearing extinction. I would imagine that during your time-- what’s the year now?”

“2020,” I answered. He paused, “2020 then. I would imagine that the ability does not exist at all.” “I’m not lying. I see it. It has pointed ears that sit on top of its head. Deep red eyes that look like clotted and cold blood. It’s hunched over with arms that near the ground. It looks perverse! This shadow thing! Like it should walk about on all fours, yet it stands on its hind-legs. “For days it will seem as if it has finally left me. Hope will begin to grow in my chest. But then, when the sun has set or is hidden behind the clouds, I’ll feel its frigid breath on the back of my neck. The noise it makes… A whisper of nails against a chalkboard or gravel turning under someone’s shoes as they run away from a murder.” “Take me to the cemetery,” Geralt demanded.

I nodded, though I had no desire to ever return to the graveyard, I knew better than to refuse his demand. I took one last nibble of bacon, finished my coffee, and told him once I was done washing up I would take him there.

My hands shook as I walked away from him. What had I gotten myself into now?

The sun shone brightly overhead. Though it was chilly out, walking under the rays of the sun made it seem warmer than it was. What few red and orange leaves were left on the trees clung desperately to the limbs, shaking and quivering like a death rattle.

Surprisingly, the french quarter was quiet with the exception of a few people walking their designer-suit-dogs and people returning from a stop at the local market, their arms hoisting bags laden with the freshest finds, aromatic baked bread, and carefully arranged bouquets.

I watched as any person passing by Geralt would cross to the other side of the street, giving him a wide berth.  

I sniffed. He didn’t smell bad, on the contrary, his scent was inviting-- like freshly crushed pine, saddle leather, and the smell of smoke still wafting from a campfire that had long been put out but still burned with hidden embers. I looked at the towering man walking silently beside me, at his hands that he held relaxed along his side, at the manly sway of his big shoulders, at the way the breeze twirled his loose silver curls, and how the sun glinting off his hair made him look like some cast down angel of destruction. Geralt must have felt me watching him, our eyes met briefly and I looked away. I pointed at the wrought iron gate before us covered in twisting vines, “It’s there.” The cemetery looked less threatening in the bright afternoon light. Birds flew from tree to tree, singing their gay songs and squirrels scampered up and down thick-girthed trunks whose roots came under the fence line and pushed through cracks in the cobblestone. In the summer, the smell of the magnolia blossoms and the honeysuckle would lay thick in the soupy air, but now it reeked of decay from the dead, molded leaves, mixing with the clay underneath. I moved behind Geralt, my fear letting me step back for the familiar stranger to take the lead. I fought the urge to reach out and grab the back of his graying tunic or to link my fingers in his. Instead, I crossed my arms under my breasts. Geralt looked back at me before opening the gate. “You’re cold, Enchantress?” He asked with a small smile. “I’m fine.” Geralt shrugged and pushed through the gate, the rusted hinges creaked loudly in protest. Geralt walked along the overgrown path and I followed in his footsteps. We traveled as far back as the south end of the graveyard. Geralt looked around us before stepping off the path and into a walled group of headstones, many of them dating back to the early 1800s. I wondered if he noticed the dates on the headstones and what it would feel like to see the dates of the dead from his future, but in his present, from the past. If he was disturbed or conflicted, his face did not show it.

He moved between the headstones comfortably, looking like death himself. He led us to a shadowed corner of the graveyard, compared to the rest of the graveyard this area was wild chaos. It was obvious, the place had been forsaken by the groundskeeper long ago. A stone crypt reached up toward the sky. A dog looking gargoyle stared down at us from above the door. It was a gruesome looking thing. Did it wake at night, wandering about the cemetery? I wondered if it would still be here if we were to come back tomorrow. The gargoyle seemed to hold authority both in its stature and in its gaze as if it held dominion over all the residents in the graveyard.

“Witcher,” I said, my voice wavering. “What are we doing here?” He turned and looked over my head, making sure we weren’t being watched. Though the door of the crypt was bolted shut and chained with aged links, with one shove Geralt opened the door.

For a moment, I thought about waiting for him outside of the crypt. A cloud passed over the sun, causing a chill to race up my spine.

I darted into the crypt after him.

In the gloom of the crypt, I could barely make out Geralt’s hard form. He stood still, not even appearing to breathe.

I heard rustling and my heart jumped. We were not alone!

“Come to me! Now!” Geralt growled, his arm reaching for me.

“But--.”

“Now!” He roared.

I leapt towards him, unsure if I was more afraid of whatever was in the crypt with us or Geralt.

His hand palmed the side of my hip and pulled me behind him-- blocking me with his body.

And, oh my, I was shocked at how tiny I felt up against him.

I peeked around his thick arm.

From behind a bolted sarcophagus, a huge, long-haired, black dog prowled.  His lips were drawn back to expose his pointed teeth and a snarl ripped from his throat. It was clear we were trespassing.

“Geralt! What is that?!”

Without thinking, I wrapped my arms around Geralt’s waist, it was like hugging solid steel. I couldn’t even clasp my hands together. He was huge and I didn’t think I would ever get used to it.

With a sudden and sharp movement of his hand, a wave of force emitted from his finger-tips.

Amazingly, it sent the ferocious dog flying back.

It hit the wall of the crypt with a solid thud and let out a frantic yelp. The dog got to its feet with its tail tucked between its legs as it ran from the crypt, out into the graveyard.

I let out a sigh and Geralt moved me around to face him.

He held me tight against his chest, my face buried between his pecs.

From beneath my waist, a solid thick poke stabbed into me-- must have been the adrenaline again. “Geralt--,” I started. “Are you alright?” His voice was filled with sincerity.

“I-I’m fine.”

He instantly let go of me as if realizing for the first time that he had been clinging on to me desperately, and tight enough to crush me.

“Come on, then,” he said in a hushed tone.

Geralt was silent as we left the graveyard. When we finally made it back to the house, the sun was setting in the sky.

“So…,” I said. “The entity following you is not just any entity, Enchantress. A Grim has attached itself to your soul. For why I do not know. It doesn’t make sense. But I am certain, none of this will end until it drives you to madness, or death, or both. It would cause your soul to be separated from your body, driven by insanity, making your soul ever restless.”

The words fell, heavy in the air and covered me like a net of fear.

Geralt must have seen the anxiety in my eyes and he moved closer to me.In a murmur that sounded like the most comforting of lullabies, he said, “Everything will be alright. I won’t allow that to happen. I swear it.”

And with that, I knew it would be. Everything would be alright.

[ragnarachael]

jukebox hero (stars in his eyes) — give her every reason to accept that you’re for real (i know i’m in love)

Pairing: Stephen Strange x ER Nurse!Reader

Word Count: 4,389

Series Summary: The five times you caught Stephen singing as he did work around the hospital and the one time he caught you.

Chapter Summary: Stephen Strange is new to the whole.. love thing. Thankfully, he figures it out with a little help.

Author’s Ramblings: HAPPY YEAR ANNIVERSARY TO JUKEBOX! it’s officially been a year since we’ve started this journey together! i’m so glad i started this story, and i’m thankful for everyone who has supported it through the year! anyways, i’m gonna stop rambling! this is it! we’re close to the end! (the gif has NOTHING to do with the content.... he just looks so nice in it okay)

also, since it’s the year anniversary, i’m having a little celebration kinda deal! here’s the post that talks about it more if you’re curious! enjoy the chapter!!

track one track two track three track four track five (you are here)

MASTERLIST !  FEEDBACK !

Stephen went back to his apartment that night and paced until he was about ready to pass out from lack of sleep.

He's messed up. He's very, very aware.

It's uncharted territory.

Stephen's never really... liked anyone this much before. And because of that, he was shifting gears to go into panic mode. While he was up pacing, he was trying to think of ways to tell you that it was all about you.

It's always been about you.

All he could come up with were grand displays of affection. Those weren't much his style. Nor yours, so that was out before it was ever in.

When he finally fell asleep, his dreams were about you and him. The relationship you two could have if he didn't mess it up.

That's when he knew he needed to ask for help.

Stephen never goes to anyone for help. Ever. Usually, he’s got everything under control, and fixes it no problem (ignore the fax and printer machine from that one time and the other time when he almost, almost broke some important thing when he was just starting his residency).

But this time was.. different.

"Please help me out, Christine. You're my only hope."

"I cannot believe I'm basically your Obi-Wan Kenobi right now," Christine stressed as she buried her face in her hands with a groan. She took her time sitting up properly at the nurse's station on the fourth floor of Metro-General before clearing her throat, the pads of her fingers moving to rub her temples. "I am not your only hope, first of all. And second: what the hell did you do now?"

"Wait, hold on, I'm not Leia—"

"Stephen, yes you are. Now what did you do?" Christine demanded, her hands landing onto the desktop harshly. Stephen let his jaw drop momentarily at her outburst before sighing, trying to loosen up his tense shoulders.

"You know how I was trying to get the courage to tell Y/N about how I feel?"

Christine let out a soft sigh, letting her hands slip from the desktop to her lap. "I remember. Did she not take it well?"

"No! She— Well," Stephen started hopefully as if he was about to lie about your reaction before huffing and rubbing a hand over his face. "Yes. She didn't."

Christine tried to hide the groan of frustration she let out as she buried her face in her hands.

"You're a damn idiot."

"Yes I am," Stephen agreed immediately, moving to cross his arms over his chest. "I don't know how to fix it."

Christine let her hands run down her face before finally letting them rest just under her chin to hold her head up. "You're asking me to ask Y/N out for you?"

"No—"

"That's such a smart idea! I can't believe—"

"Christine!" Stephen said sternly, letting his hands slam on the counter top that the desk was placed in front of. "That's not what I'm asking."

"Then what are you asking?"

That made Stephen stop and think.

What was he asking?

Stephen seemed frozen as Christine studied him as he looked for the answer. The words he was thinking of to describe what he needed help with weren't coming up easy.

This is what his mother meant when he was younger when she said he was hard to help, didn't she? Stephen noticed the look Christine was giving him. It looked as if she was concerned.

"Do you.. Do you not know what to do to win Y/N over?" She questioned gently now, starting to realize just how serious this was to Stephen. He was never this silent for long.

"I.." Stephen stopped to take a deep breath and push off of the counter. "Yeah. I don't know what to do."

"Really?"

"Yes really, Christine," Stephen heaved. "If I didn't care so much about this I wouldn't have asked for help. I've already messed up so much, I want to be able to come back from this, y'know." Stephen felt terrible after he said that. He sounded rude. And if he wanted help right now, he should act—

"Okay, okay. I'll help you."

Stephen's shoulders relaxed immediately at her reply before thanking her profusely. Christine could only laugh at his sudden joy and eased him down. "You're welcome, now shut up and get back here so we can plot."

Stephen was never faster to get behind the nurse's desk in his life.

He flung himself into the empty office chair in front of the free computer next to Christine, right leg bouncing nervously.

“So,” Christine started easily, pulling out a small note pad out from a drawer and grabbed her pen before crossing a leg over the other and holding it as if she were a therapist. “What have you thought of so far?”

When Stephen started listing his ideas—starting with extravagant and ending with simplistic—he didn’t expect pouring his lovesick heart out to Christine would be this easy. She was supportive and understanding with some of the ideas he originally had and was also willing to completely call him out on how the idea was a stupid one.

Stephen was feeling thankful he was on her good side for once.

He and Christine agreed to put down everything in two different columns.

One was deemed the “Definitely Useful”  and the other was deemed “Bad Ideas”. And the bad ideas weigh out the useful ones after they took a few minutes to talk it all out.

“I mean, I could start trying to drop hints when we talk? Maybe you could try to serenade her—”

“What?” Stephen questioned, suddenly scared as he sat up straight. “No way.”

“What do you mean no way? You sing all the time around here anyways—”

“Yeah, when I’m alone, not in front of people on purpose, Christine—”

“Oh my god—”

“What’s going on?”

Stephen and Christine looked up from the writing pad quickly to see you looking at the two them confused. Stephen seemed to let out a groan of thought, his mind completely moving elsewhere as he took in your appearance.

This was the first time he was seeing you since last night, and he could definitely feel the guilt wrapping around his heart when he noticed your eyes were a little redder than usual.

"We're just.. uh, we were just—"

"We're talking about making a technique together," Christine said, letting out what sounded like an agitated sigh. "But someone is too picky and won't choose something that could be improved on."

Stephen got the hint. He could hear it in Christine's voice.

He just couldn't come up with words. It's like after seeing you last night he can't form sentences.

"Yeah. Uh. That."

You couldn't help but eye the two of them behind the counter, shifting the bag you had on your shoulder. You were just getting in for your shift, it seemed.

"Well, as much fun as I'm having," Stephen started, his voice wavering with what he could assume was nervousness as he got up from the chair he was sitting in, "I've gotta dash. I've got a.. A uh.. thing."

"A thing?" You questioned, your voice practically dripping with what sounded like annoyance. Stephen tried to put on a confident face as he nodded in response, slipping past the opening of the nurse's station.

"A thing. I'll see you both later?"

Stephen didn't wait for a response from you or Christine as he sidestepped past you and moved into the hall that led into the hospital and out of the first floor of the ER.

His heart was pounding. It always was after talking with you. But this time? This time it was pounding out of fear and anxiety.

Maybe Christine was right. Serenading you could be an option. If he could even speak when he interacted with you the next time.

Running his hands over his face before letting his hands slip into his hair, Stephen sighed harshly while absentmindedly traveling to the wall of elevators to get to one of the floors he was set to operate in for the day, not even hesitating to slam his hand into the buttons on the panel that was attached to the wall.

The rest of his day was spent thinking about you, and all of the possible songs that he could even use to serenade you. Billy had actually played a few decent songs while they were in the OR together, but they just didn't fit.

He also kept coming back to ABBA and more stuff by The Eagles, but he just didn't think any of their songs fit the situation either. Well, some ABBA songs probably did. However, he didn't want you to correlate him with ABBA, since he knew that you'd hate him even more than you do right now if he did that.

He figured it out when he got in his car after his shift, already having another awkward interaction with you under his belt and another round of scolding from both Christine and Claire.

Billy Joel.

It was the first thing that came on when he started the car. Billy Joel's Tell Her About It. If he recalled correctly, from his 1983 album "An Innocent Man".

Why did it just hit him now? How the two of you met, months ago, he remembers calling you Billy Joel fondly. Why didn't he think of that sooner?

He really was an idiot.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath as he turned the volume dial of his car radio up after buckling himself in, preparing for his drive back to his apartment.

That night, he listened to most of that specific album on a repeat, finding it in a small stack of vinyls he happened to have thanks to a friend of his who thrifted them. Everything felt as if it was falling into place as he sang along to the song for the third time in a row as he got ready for his shower.

But the next day at work most certainly did not matter.

Stephen had come in his favorite pair of scrubs—the dark purple ones—and actually shaved prior to coming in, only to find that you weren't there.

Obviously, his first stop on his way in as he finished his coffee was the nurse's station to find Christine hunched over some paperwork.

She somehow knew that it was him who was about to speak up and relayed the information.

"She's not here today."

"Wait," Stephen said, his face scrunching up in concern. "Really? Like, not at all—"

"No," Christine replied with some laughter, looking up from the paperwork she was doing, "Y/N had a family thing to attend upstate."

Stephen clicked his tongue as he nodded, looking around the empty waiting room of the main floor. "Got it."

"Did you figure out what you're going to do? Is a serenade in the cards?" Christine questioned, her eyebrow wiggle accompanying her slight dramatized tone interest as she spoke.

"Maybe. Thank you for the cover from yesterday, by the way," Stephen replied, placing his cup of coffee down on the desk for a moment. "A new technique?"

Christine rolled her eyes as she smiled, shrugging.

"What can I say? I'm the best! Now go clock in. I have paperwork to do."

Stephen let out a dramatic whining noise as he grabbed his cup, turning to the doors that led into the rooms of the ER. 

He was quick to get to the locker room after clocking in, already singing the Billy Joel song quietly under his breath in between gulps of coffee. Even though Stephen considered it stupid to sing the song even though you're not here, it's stuck in his head. So he really couldn't help it.

However, Stephen learned Christine lied the second you ran into his chest. You were leaving the locker room as he was coming in.

And Stephen was forever thankful that his coffee was pretty much gone when the cup fell out and onto the floor, not even spilling as the plastic lid popped off.

"I'm sorry—"

"I'm so sorry—"

After you both spoke at the same time, you took a step back to get out of Stephen's personal space. The awkward air was tangible. 

"Uh, hey!" You exclaimed with a forced smile.

Stephen greeted you back with a stressed laugh, noticing you were wearing some scrubs that had planets and stars speckled on the fabric. That meant..

"You're here for work?"

"Yeah! Actually.. yeah I am," you started as your hands slid into your pockets. "The thing I had got... cancelled, so I just decided to come in."

Stephen had a feeling that the story was a cover up now. He shouldn't be so quick to judge, but he has a hunch. Maybe you were lying to him just so you could avoid him?

He's really messed it up that much, hadn't he?

"Oh? A thing? That's a shame," Stephen replied evenly, ignoring the pang of sadness he felt in his chest when he realized that, yes, you were probably trying to avoid him now. 

"Yeah, but it's rescheduled for two weeks from now, so it's all good," you explained quickly, almost as if you didn't want to stop talking to him.

It made something in Stephen's chest soar. He ignored his racing thoughts to pay attention to what you were saying once you cleared your throat awkwardly.

"I noticed you were singing uh... Tell Her About It? That Billy Joel song, right?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, off his 1983 album An Innocent Man."

"That's such a good album," you said softly, taking a breath before shaking your head and giving a genuine smile that knocked the wind out of Stephen's lungs. "I'll uh, catch you later."

Stephen agreed quietly as he watched you leave the locker room, scrunching his face up in confusion as he leaned to pick up his empty coffee cup and plastic lid.

Were you catching on? Or were you just coming to terms with the mess that Stephen had made that you had no clue about?

One thing that stood out in his mind though, was that he was headed in the right direction. Now his only goal was to try and stay in it.

He wishes there was more time to dwell on it, but after he put everything away in his locker, the day was nothing but being occupied with multiple surgeries and sitting in on other operations. Stephen barely had time to stop and think about everything that's already happened in the first half of his shift. However, for the second half, he was determined to sing under his breath whenever he could. 

Stephen barely bumped into you. Even after clocking out to go home, you were nowhere to be found.

Day two of.. whatever he was trying to pull was almost exactly as the first one. Busy, full of surgeries and singing Billy Joel whenever possible, and barely running into you. Part of him was starting to wonder if he should just bite the bullet and talk to you out right.

But that genuinely scared him. The idea of confrontation, especially with a topic he can't quite get a whole grasp on yet? He'd rather take his chances singing under his breath.

However, the third and final day of what he deemed as "Subtle Serenading" after sitting and realizing he needs to try and speed this process up, Stephen changed the song.

Billy Joel's Leave A Tender Moment Alone was shoved into his head and he was going to make sure that it didn't leave at all until he actually got to see you for the day.

Stephen's shift was going well. Although it was a night shift—his least favorite—he still found ways to be productive while he sang the slow song. Some of his coworkers did watch him sing a little too loud as he made copies of some paperwork to place back in a file he was working in, though. That made him a little self-conscious.

When he was doing some rounds for information on some patients he had helped operate on, he caught glimpses of you and Claire behind the counters of the floor you were all working on. 

He also noticed your choice of scrubs today was just a regular dark green color, which made him wish he chose to wear his pair, it would have been terribly ironic, but maybe it would start conversation rather than intense stares across the halls of the quiet hospital.

Around midnight, he decided to get coffee. It was his third of the night already, sure, but he had seven hours left in his shift. He was sure he needed the caffeine to keep him from losing his mind.

Stephen was trying to hold back the volume of his singing as he made his way to the break room, dramatically bopping his head back and forth before throwing the door open. His voice faltered slightly as he saw you working on paperwork in the middle table.

The very same table that you tried to nap at on the day you almost—

"What's got into you?" You questioned suddenly as Stephen felt the door hit him square in the back. He let out a grunt, moving over to the countertop where the coffee pot was placed.

"I just.. didn't expect you in here."

"In the break room?"

Stephen felt the sudden urge to slap himself, realizing how stupid his reply was. He let out a quiet sigh  as he started to mess with the coffee machine, getting ready to make a fresh pot.

"Yeah. It's.. It's one of those days."

You seemed to take that as an answer, humming in agreement before all the two of you could hear was the scratching of a pen on paper.

It took Stephen a bit to work up the courage to actually start singing again, but he started singing the chorus of the song just under his breath as he placed the filter in the coffee machine's required compartment before filling it with one of the vanilla flavored coffee grounds that someone had left in the designated coffee cabinet. 

The silence was a little tense, but Stephen didn't mind. He would never turn down time with you, whether you were conversing with him or not.

You had decided to speak up as he started to sing the song over.

“Could you please stop with the Billy Joel?”

Stephen turned around after he finished checking that the coffee machine was ready to be started before pressing the start button. “I’m sorry?”

“You’ve been singing Billy Joel for the past three days and it’s been driving me  crazy,” you explained as you continued filling in what looked like paper work at the table you occupied.

Stephen rose a brow, starting to feel his heart to pick up speed, “may I ask why?”

You paused writing on the paper and took in a deep breath before continuing.

“Because you sing the songs perfectly and it's making me wish that—” You cut yourself off as you realized how frantic your voice was getting. You took a moment to collect yourself before huffing. “Nevermind. It’s not worth it.”

“Hey,” Stephen said gently as he pulled up a seat to sit next to you as you finished filling out the page you were on, “it’s worth it if it’s bugging you. You know you can tell me, right?”

“I-It’s stupid.” You placed the pen down slowly after capping it, rotating it in your hands to avoid Stephen’s eye contact.

“It’s not stupid, Y/N,” Stephen said sternly.

You finally glanced at Stephen and he felt his heart clench in his chest from worry. He watched you hesitate and take a deep breath before speaking.

“It’s making me wish that... That it was about me. The singing, or whatever.”

Stephen froze. 

His mind was racing with your confession. You wished it was about you.  It was about you. You just didn’t get that. It’s always been about you since the first day you actually talked to him. It’s never not been about you.

Stephen’s brain was kicking into overdrive. This wasn’t the plan he and Christine had decided on at all. He usually stays on script. He can’t stay on script.

He may as well be throwing caution to the wind with the rest of your relationship you have with him, if he could even call it that—

You let out a shaky laugh, gathering your papers together into a small stack.

“It was dumb. I told you. I told you. Let’s forget this ever happened, ‘kay? Cool—”

“Can I tell you something?” Stephen said quickly his hand reaching out to grasp your own that wasn't holding the paper, making sure to make eye contact to let you know in his own way that he’s serious. You hesitated again before sighing, everything in your hands abandoned onto the table top.

You gently pulled your hand from Stephen's and waved it. “Knock yourself out.”

“The other night, in the parking garage,” Stephen started slowly. How the fuck did he even get to this point? The plan was far in the rearview mirror. He had to keep moving forwards and bite the bullet. 

He took a deep breath and ran his hands over his face with irritation. You can do this.

“I was talking about you.”

The silence you had in response was deafening. Stephen didn’t dare breathe while he waited for a reply.

“I.. You..  What?" Was all you could reply with. 

Stephen didn’t know if that was due to shock or happiness.

“It was about...  you, Y/N. All of it. I didn’t mean to make it sound like it was someone else—I’m not too sure how I could, if I’m honest—but that doesn’t matter. It was about you. When you talked to me and Christine a day or two ago, I was asking her for help on what I could do to.. to fix this mess, I guess.”

Stephen took a moment to glance up at you now, no longer looking at his hands that were trying to avoid picking at his nails. He couldn’t read your emotions on your face like usual, so he took it as a cue to keep going as he stood up from his chair to start pacing around the break room rather than try to think about bouncing his leg.

“I knew it looked suspicious but I couldn’t figure out what to do, and--and it was just so hard for me to figure it out on my own because this is the one thing I didn’t want to try and mess up with—”

“Stephen—”

“—And I don’t know what I would do with myself if you ended up hating me. I can’t stop thinking about you almost every time I turn the radio on and hear a classic rock song. It’s like the radio is hooked up to my brain and just knows I’m thinking of you in some way—”

You tried to interrupt Stephen again, but he continued rambling.

Stephen Strange never knew how to shut up once he got started rambling. Whether it came to his studies or you, apparently.

“Stephen,” you said, cutting him off for the third time, standing up and placing your hands on his chest to stop him from pacing. “You’re rambling.”

Stephen looked at you before you watched his face turn a fairly cute red color as he realized.

“I-I’m.. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to start rambling. This is turning out just great—”

The words in Stephen’s throat died just as quick as they started spilling out again, your hands curling around the collar of his scrubs to yank him down and finally, finally kiss him.

Stephen was in a state of shock for a minute, taking a moment to realize that yes, your lips were on his.

After he came to his senses, he kissed you back gently, as if he was trying to hold back. Still unsure of your answer, even though your answer was in the kiss.

Sadly, you had to pull away, knowing that Stephen had to breathe, since you had cut him off while talking.

Although, something told you that he would continue kissing you, with or without air in his lungs.

Your hands were still wrapped around the collar of his top, your shared breathing soft as another blanket of silence fell over the two of you.

It was... relieving. As if the kiss you just shared cleaned the slate and you knew where you both stood.

Which is why Stephen leaned back in for another kiss. Except this time, it was more desperate and almost like he’s been waiting to let himself out of his own head and just act on his instincts like he did with everything else.

When you met him in the middle, throwing your arms around his neck as your lips molded perfectly with his for the second time today, you found yourself kissing back with the same amount of hunger. You tried getting up onto your toes to makeup for the height difference, but Stephen’s arms wrapped around your waist and lifted you slightly as he shuffled the two of you towards what you could only assume was the counter top.

It turns out you were right as your lower back ran into the edge, causing you to squeak against Stephen’s lips as your hands gripped handfuls of his hair in the process of your shock.

That made Stephen pull away to chuckle breathlessly just inches away from your lips, pressing his forehead to yours. His laughter was extremely contagious, and you found yourself giggling with him as you let your head fall back slightly.

Stephen’s anxiety was for nothing, he realized in this moment.

His panic to try and make amends  with grand gestures wasn’t as dire as he believed it to be. All he had to do was get himself rambling and it all worked out.

It all worked out perfectly.

"So," you started quietly once your eyes were locked with Stephen's once again, the giggling out of your system. "You take song requests now?"

"For you, Billy Joel? Anyday."