#because now i need to worry about returning it.

[nineteenninety-six]

I hope I don’t send this 1000 times but tumblr glitched

Could you write with Jack abbot , like his neighbour (reader) knocks on his door and she’s like should I go to the er and he looks down and she’s managed to cut like her palm and he ends up stitching it himself (cause of course he has a kit) and like it would kinda be a plus if she was kinda scared of hospitals and stuff cause comforting jackkkkk

Pairings: Jack Abbot x Reader

TW: Medical inaccuracies. reader get injured. Jack stitches her up.

AN: I'm gonna reopen up my requests \O/

Hurried, rapid knocking on his door pulls Jack's attention away from the hockey game he was watching and he bites back a frustrated groan at the noise. He had a rare weekend off and that meant no disruption and he had warned all his friends and family about that, the only exception being emergencies.

The knocking quietened for a moment before it started back up, and then panic shot through him. He had his phone on DND and perhaps there was an actual emergency and no one could get through to him so they came to his apartment but a check through his phone showed no texts or missed calls.

Jack pondered for a few moments on whether or not he should return to watching the game or answer the door before he settled back into the couch, watching as Sidney Crosby dangle the puck through the Oilers defence and score a goal.

"Jack…? Please tell me you're in right now." 

Jack perks up at the familiar voice that comes through the door, it was his nextdoor neighbour. You guys weren't exceptionally close, friendly to each other, greeting each other as you passed by and sometimes you would drop off baked goods to him if you had extra or felt exceptionally neighbourly. He'd always thought you were attractive but he was a good couple of years older than you and he didn't want to misstep and make things awkward.

The panic and worry in your voice brings Jack to his feet and he hurries to his door hoping to catch you before you turn away. He swings the door open and finds you there with your right arm held above your head, hand wrapped in a tea towel that was darkened with your blood.

Relief bleeds into your expression at the sight of him, "Oh thank God, you're home."

"What happened?" Jack asks, hand automatically reaching for you injured one.

"Sorry to disturb you but I remembered you're a doctor and honestly, I'm not the biggest fan of hospitals." You wince. "I cut myself whilst cooking."

Jack ushers you further into his apartment, sitting you at the kitchen island before he collects the first aid kit he keeps underneath his kitchen sink.

"Let me take a look," Jack says as he settles into the seat beside you, gently resting your injured hand on the counter before he slips his glasses on to get a better look.

Your lips tug as you watch him slip his glasses on. You knew he was a bit older than you but the visual of him needing 'reading' glasses was a funny sight.

"Keep laughing and I'll send you over to the ED" Jack murmurs, eyes still on your hand, "I'll have you know that I'm a very capable doctor, glasses or not."

Your uninjured hand covers your mouth as you muffle the laughter that erupts at his words, "I would never judge your skills as a doctor, Jack."

Jack finally finishes analysing your hand as he straightens up and looks over at you, "Good because you absolutely need stitches."

You felt your stomach twist at his words and your lunch threatened to make an appearance. You hated hospitals and you always tried your best to avoid landing in one but it seemed like your luck had run out.

Jack watches your reaction, quickly figuring out why you reacted like you did.

"I have a suture pack, I can do it here if you'd prefer?"

"Oh Jack, I'll bake you a whole tray of muffins if you can do it here." 

Jack huffs a laugh at your words before he nods, "I'll go grab it. Stay here."

You look around his apartment whilst he's gone from the room. You can see his degrees hanging on the wall, along with pictures of friends and family, the ones where he's clearly deployed abroad sticking out to you. His place was comfy yet obviously showed the signs of its owner not being in it often, twelve hours shifts keeping him busy. 

"Snooped enough?" Jack asks as he returns to the kitchen with the suture pack.

"I didn't snoop," You deny, "I merely…looked. Analyzed."

Jack began to sanitize the counter, wiping it down, along with the chairs for good measure before he set up shop. 

"Okay, I'll rephrase my question." Jack says as he waves you towards the chair, "Analyzed enough?"

"Yeah, I learned a few things about you." You say as you settle down, setting your hand down on the table.

"Yeah?" Jack spared a glance at you before he put his glasses on and snapped gloves on. "This will hurt, I don't have anything that will numb the area and you'll have to survive off of ibuprofen or paracetamol."

You nod, you'd rather deal with the pain than go to the hospital and so to distract yourself you begin to talk.

"I didn't know you were in the military," You say as Jack flushes your wound.

You half expect Jack to give you a half answer or even not answer at all but he easily answers as he begins to stitch up.

"Yeah, joined straight after high school. Always wanted to go to college and become a doctor but the traditional route wasn't for me."

You pause before you ask your next question, "Do you think it was worth it?"

Jack paused what he was doing at your question, eyes fluttering up to yours before they flick back down to the instruments in his hands but he answers as he pierces your skin.

"I lost a lot. More than I ever imagined I would," Jack's words are gentle as he focuses on what he was doing, "But I don't regret it. I wouldn't be the man I am today if I didn't serve."

"Well I'll make sure I bake you your favourite dessert for veterans day. Just for you." You say through gritted teeth.

Jack pulls back with a smile which slowly erupts into laughter, "And what about Military Appreciation Month? What do I get for that?"

"Whilst I love that you believe in my skills and talents, I can't bake you something everyday for a month." You joke, "Were you thinking of something specific?"

Jack waits until he ties off the thread and snips the extra off before he answers.

"How about a date?"

You blink at Jack in slight confusion. Sure you thought your neighbour was attractive, his grey curls and light eyes made every woman in the apartment block swoon but in the years you had been neighbours, your interactions were minimal.

"A date?"

"You can say no, don't feel pressure just because I patched you up." Jack reassures you.

"No-no! I'd really like to go on a date with you," You reach over with your uninjured hand and rest it on his thigh, "Not pressured at all!"

"When are you free?" Jack asks.

"I feel like I should be asking you that instead considering your shift patterns," You say as you pull your hand back from his thigh and hold it out expectantly, "Pass me your phone and I'll give you my number."

Jack does as he's asked and you tap your number in, drop calling your phone so you also have his number before you return his phone to him.

"I'll text you." You smile at him.

"I'll look forward to it." Jack returns your smile, "Now let me wrap your hand before I send you back home."

[usedpidemo]

Alive (tripleS Seoyeon)

15k words

—————

“For the last time,” huffs Seoyeon, tone playful but showing a tinge of disdain toward her friends, bothered by their insistence. Raising her voice through the ear-thumping club music, she says, “I’m not interested.”

“Oh come on, don’t be so cold.” Yooyeon replies, bumping shoulder to shoulder, poking at her sternness. “You haven’t gone out with us once the entire time. We’re headed back to Korea tomorrow, mind you. We don’t know when we’ll have another opportunity to spend time like this together.”

“Okay, and what about it? Someone has to be the adult around here.” Seoyeon remains uptight, crossing her arms and shaking her head. If not for the neon lights gleaming throughout the place, her face would be seen lit bright red with rage. “I’m down to follow you around and maybe have a drink or two, but please leave me out of your bullshit.”

“Bullshit? You mean us flirting with the guys here?” Xinyu points at one such man, in a ragged business suit, clearly a few bottles in and on the verge of falling over. “They won’t remember a damn thing when they wake up.”

“And what if they do remember? What about the rest of us then? Have you considered what you’re doing can harm our career, hell our personal lives?”

“Hasn’t done anything, so I think we’re good,” Xinyu fires back, as if it were a gotcha moment. Drinking another round to prove her point, she adds, “Look, I’m saying you should have fun every now and then. A little party never killed nobody, after all.”

“I don’t think that saying is true these days,” replies Seoyeon, tilting her head, unconvinced. She rises from her seat to leave, unwilling to hear any more of her friends’ yapping. “Like I said, I’m not interested. Just call when you need me to take you home.”

As she walks away from her two friends, disappearing into the energetic crowd, Xinyu and Yooyeon stare at each other, shrugging their shoulders before returning to the club’s backrooms. 

—————

“Look, for the last time, I’m not interested,” you tell your friend, looking left and right. Clubs have never been your favorite place nor have parties been your favorite pastime. Nevertheless, you’re still accompanying a few workmates there because of bullshit office culture and so-called teambuilding. For a weekday, the energy is surprisingly electric. “I don’t mind having one drink, but I’d rather be home right now over anything, so—”

“Dude, this is where all the rich people and celebrities hang out. No way on earth you’re not going,” your friend tells you, as if the last thing you wanted was to share the same space with more men and women in the upper tax bracket when you’re not even making a tenth of their monthly income. Nevermind the fact that most of you unceremoniously decided on this excursion at the eleventh hour—you’re all still in your office attire, evidently worn out and in need of a laundry service. “I mean, there are some gachas nearby, since you seem to like them a lot—”

“Hey. I haven’t bought a gacha in two weeks!” you fire back, but your reply is drowned out in a sea of colleague laughs and party music. 

You can only shake your head and sigh, taking an embarrassing defeat on your character. 

As you scan your surroundings, you can’t help but recognize that you’d fit right in with all the groggy strangers and passed out drunkards filling out the seats and the corners of the club. Your sleep-deprived brain might as well be a few rounds in with how overworked and pushed it has been with all the overtimes, assignments, and take-home work you’d been receiving. All that for the bare minimum with no consideration for promotion nor any hints indicating such. But to be fair, you’d only been around for a handful of months; most of your peers have found their careers stuck for up to years. 

And based on some of the other salarymen you’ve seen knocked unconscious, they seemingly feel the same way. So you can conclude that it’s only right that you should drink your worries and sorrows away, at least for tonight.

It doesn’t take long for jovial merrymaking and intoxication to set in. You swear that your coworkers emptied out two buckets full of alcohol bottles in mere minutes, with plenty of liquor in great abundance to pass around. It gets to a point where you have to take at least one.

And so you do—in tiny, barely recognizable sips to blend in.

Some of your colleagues are singing their hearts out, others end up on the dance floor, but most fall head first onto the table, completely inebriated. Their minds filled with poison, your cue to weasel out of there.

Making your way through the crowd, unsure of where the entrance and exit was, you head down some steps, uncaringly bumping every person that passes by you and vice versa. You’re one bad move away from an incident. It could be anyone.

It ends up catching up to you.

“Oh!” A frantic shout rips through your ears and to everyone nearby, sending you careening onto the floor—except it’s your body crouching by impulse. Glancing to your side, a phone falls onto the stairsteps with a not so audible thump. Your natural instinct is to grab it, while the party goes on without a care.

The person turns around and immediately realizes what’s happened. Reaching out her hand, it intertwines with yours. Your eyes meet. An air of familiarity flows between you two. It’s a slow-motion, time-freezing scene straight out of any cliche drama—the ones you’d make fun of for being too unrealistic and predictable. And now, you’re put in that exact same scenario. Not a soul could have written your story any better.

Looking into her eyes, you’re taken back to not that long ago, at the tail end of a busy day like this one:

—————

As the clock struck the top of the hour before midnight, a command blared through the subway station speakers, telling all passengers that there’s only 30 minutes remaining before all services will come to an end. And yet, even this late, every terminal is brimming with life. 

All the more reason to rush through the crowd and head home. Another overtime shift in the books and you’re running on fumes to get back to your apartment. You’re dead set on crashing as soon as you hit the bed or the couch, whichever is the first you see. 

You barely make it, narrowly entering the train mere seconds before the doors close. Before you’re forced to stay the night in some convenience store to get some semblance of sleep.

Inside, the carriage is filled with people from all walks of life, from single parents and families with their children, businessmen from salarymen to executives, to partygoers going club hopping. The city never sleeps. Like everyone else, you occupy yourself in your own earphones and music to get by until you reach your stop.

Shuffling your way out the train and down the steps, you recall this exact moment. It should have been an afterthought, but you still remember everything vividly: a bump—a borderline tackle—that sends you tripping down the stairs. No wonder that scream sounded so familiar.

Instead of a phone, it's a patchwork of documents and paperwork flying in every direction. The girl frantically grabs for whatever she can retrieve while you recover the rest. She’s quite apologetic doing so, repeatedly saying ‘Sorry’ in the tiniest voice imaginable, that you overlook how she’s got all your files mixed up with no cohesion or continuity whatsoever. 

“God, I’m so—so—sorry—” she mutters, clutching the last of your paper before straightening the pile she collected and handing them back to you. Bowing her head, she follows with: “I really am sorry. I was in such a rush to get home and—”

But you never hear the rest of it, because you promptly take the papers back and hurry out of there.

—————

Deja vu is working overtime. 

Your fingers are slowly pointing at each other, mouths slowly gaping, eyes also widening, stunned speechless. The girl is first to speak:

“It’s you again.”

And to be quite honest, you don’t have a response to that.

“You’re the guy I ran into at the train station last week,” she recalls, her eyes widening more, her shocked expression turning into a look of genuine delight, like you’re distant friends reconnecting after a long time apart: “I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Glancing left and right, you scramble for a quick answer. It comes out awkward: “Y--yeah. Me neither. That’s crazy.”

“Small world, huh?” she quips, quickly grabbing her phone off the floor and pocketing it. “Didn’t I also see you the morning after?”

“Morning after?” you ask, puzzled by what seems to be a second previous encounter.

“Yeah. I was going to the convenience store for some coffee and I saw you across the street,” she says, grinning from ear to ear. “You were still wearing the same suit you wore the night before.”

Knowing that you did, in fact, crash onto the couch once you got home and went to work the next day without changing clothes proves to be embarrassing. You get completely flustered. What a spectacular first impression.

“I—yeah, I—I guess I did,” you reply, scratching your head, unable to look her directly in the eye in light of this revelation. You can only chalk it up to one thing. “Work.”

The girl laughs, covering her mouth. “Can relate.”

“So,” you swallow your throat, tugging on the collar of your shirt. Feeling sweat trickle down your face and  new tension brewing. “What brings you here?”

“Oh, some friends,” she remarks, rolling her eyes seemingly at the thought of them. “I was about to leave for some fresh air. And you?”

You stifle your laugh, toothily smiling, hoping you’re not turning her away. She looks at you intently, like you have something important. “Oh, funny. I was gonna say friends, too, if coworkers qualify as friends.”

“Really now?” She scans you from head to toe and recognizes that you’re one of those men. “I’m not surprised. My friends dragged me here as well. I’m guessing you didn’t wanna come along too?”

Your eyes widen at how quick she is at reading you. Like she’s known you for so long. “Wait, how’d you—”

“I guess we share quite a lot of things, huh?” she comments, beaming. The realization hits her: it’s destiny, it’s fate. “Gosh, it does really feel like we’re meant to cross paths.”

“Now that you’ve said it, you might be right.”

The girl looks around, and a realization dawns on her: that you’ve been making casual conversation on some narrow stairs, unknowingly being a mild inconvenience to partygoers. It’s only afterward she notices the growing pileup of disgruntled people cutting past, cursing you both out for indirectly acting as human roadblocks.

Glancing up the stairs, she remarks, “I think we should take this outside, you know, so we can hear each other better. My ears are hurting.”

—————

Despite reacquainting yourself with fresh air, your ears are still reeling in aftershocks from deafening party music. 

Across the street, from the club, lies a humble cafe serving customers 24/7. Despite the music being so loud that you can still hear it from behind these walls, the place is empty and solemn. Evidently most people here prefer their drinks with alcohol, not coffee. And looking at the girl, you do seem to share something common: that you’re both fishes out of water, living in a way that your peers might describe as ‘foreign’ and ‘weird.’

She’s on her phone, sighing as she fires back text after text to what seems to be her friends, annoyed about being bothered. Occasionally shooting you a meek, apologetic smile. You can make out her name even through the little font on the screen; ’Seoyeon-unnie, where did u go?’ reads one of the messages, and she catches on right as you’re reading them, concealing it, her face turning red and cheeks puffing.

“You’re not from around here?” you ask, genuinely curious. She’s blended in with the locals effortlessly.

“Afraid not,” she tells you, rapidly mashing through her phone before putting it away. Sipping on her drink, her eyes fixate on you, reciprocating interest. She inhales deeply, adding: “We’re here on a scheduled trip, so we’ll be leaving soon. Don’t know when we’ll come back.”

If this is her attempt to dissuade you from developing this little date into something more, then she’s failed. She has a natural glow around her, a magnetic pull that has you hooked. Even when she sounds direct, she’s as gentle as a candle’s flame. You can imagine the stars revolving around her; she’s that charming.

“That’s unfortunate,” you reply, frowning, hoping to earn some sympathy points from Seoyeon.

She doesn’t really notice, or sees through your act. Either way, she doesn’t react. “Yep,” she sighs, stirring the straw on her drink, glancing down on the table’s surface. “Tonight’s actually our last night before we leave tomorrow, so we went out. Not a party animal, so—”

She should have probably led with that. Hearing that this encounter will be as brief as your previous ones rips through your hopes and dreams like a gun shot straight through your heart.

It leaves you speechless for a moment. Unable to take even a little sip of your own drink too. 

And maybe it’s better off this way. Cherish the brief time you have before you part ways again. 

“Hey, are you alright?” Seoyeon asks, snapping you from your daze.

Shaking your head loose, you adamantly lie. “Y-yeah. I’m good.”

She’s leaning her head forward, staring into your eyes intently. Something appears off. “I don’t think so.”

Fucking hell. Seoyeon’s smarter than you thought.

She pulls the rug from underneath, catching you further off-guard. 

“Let me guess: work, huh?”

It’s the perfect alibi and escape. There’s some truth behind your excuse to stand on. Countless hours of a thankless job, being forced out of your comfort zone by peers that you hardly know and vice versa, when all you want is to separate your work life and personal time. Clock in, clock out.

“Yeah. Something like that. I don’t really drink; I wanna go home, but you know—”

“I understand. I mean, I’m not saying my job is as bad, but the hours eventually catch up and weigh down on you. I don’t sit behind a desk in an office for hours everyday, like you do, but the feeling is mutual.”

“Way to kick a man when he’s down,” is your reply, throwing a light jab at what appears to be a misguided attempt at empathizing. She lost you when she said she doesn’t work office hours. 

Seoyeon seems to take offense to it, shooting a pout, firing a glare in your direction. “I didn’t mean to make your life sound boring and monotonous. If anything, I’ve got it worse—well, we do.”

You remain silent. Suspect.

“Imagine getting up at two in the morning, putting on makeup, being in front of cameras at nearly every waking moment, having to put on your best behavior, no matter how tired you are. Having to sing and dance the same song a dozen times without making a mistake. And when the day is over, you only have 30 minutes of sleep before you do it all over again. Rinse and repeat.”

A dour feeling hits you right in the gut. Not even you get overworked this terribly, even if your company’s policies are borderline unethical. 

“Well—shit,” is your only response to quite the expository dump.

“Sometimes I wonder if this is even worthwhile,” she adds, pausing to take a prolonged drink. “I mean, I’m not alone; the responsibility is on all of us to look out for one another, but I wonder if they share the same feelings as me.”

Tilting your head, you reply, “Pretty sure they’re just as good as hiding it as you are. I mean—there’s a reason why my coworkers keep asking me to drink with them almost every other day.”

“I guess, but—someone has to be the levelheaded one in our group,” she says, her brows furrowing, reminding herself of the responsibility. “As much as we want to let loose, we still have to be careful. Getting drunk can be the worst sometimes.”

“True.”

Seoyeon has already emptied her drink while yours is still halfway unfinished. She looks directly into your eyes, reaching out her hand across the table, which you instinctively hold. Despite the little time you’ve spent together, your interactions mostly a string of mere coincidences, you feel a sense of warmth and familiarity with her that only close friends share. 

“Sorry for going on a tangent like that,” she says, gently caressing your hand beneath hers, resting her head on the table, her gaze staring out the window, visibly looking tired and defeated. “I get really stressed out sometimes, and I can’t show weakness in front of anyone. I’m just—” she abruptly pauses, huffing, sighing wistfully. “I’m not ready to get back out there.”

Admittedly, you hardly know her, nor will you ever get a chance to, if she’s to be believed, but you can’t let the opportunity slip away for good. There’s no way she’s confiding this much of herself in some random stranger.

“Well, we can still stay in touch, for when you leave,” you tell her, drawing her attention. “Unless you don’t wanna exchange numbers with a guy you just met properly for the first time.”

She pauses, takes a moment to quietly chuckle, before looking up at you, grinning. “Technically, we already met twice. Just not in a conventional way.”

“Still won’t let me live that down, huh?” you remark, annoyed, much to her amusement. Meanwhile, she’s straight up laughing.

“I don’t know. I think it’s cute, actually,” is her reply, her ear to ear smile and upbeat expression infectious. “Shows that you’re committed.”

“Or that my workplace has no qualms about overworking their employees to death, but sure. Committed.”

“Hey, you’re not the only one overworked here, like I said.” Seoyeon raises her arms defensively, feigning innocence. “I thought we were on the same page.”

“You’re making me look like I enjoy it.”

“Never said you did. Did you not listen to me?”

“I heard you—I just don’t see it that way, honestly.”

“Then stop being an uptight dick about and move on.”

“You won’t let me.”

“Are you this insufferable with your coworkers?” Seoyeon mocks, resting her chin on her palm, eyes gleaming with mischief.

You lean back, feigning offense. "Only when they drag me to clubs late at night on a Wednesday." She laughs—a bright, clear sound that cuts through the cafe’s drowsy hum. "Fair. But you’re bearable. Surprisingly."

"Wow. High praise," you deadpan, swirling the ice in your half-finished drink. A comfortable silence settles, the kind that feels earned. Her thumb traces idle circles on the tabletop, and you notice the chipped polish on her nails. The neon glow from the club across the street paints her face in fleeting streaks of flashing colors.

Seoyeon sighs, the playful edge softening. "This was—nice," She glances at her phone lighting up again. Another ignored message. "I should probably face the music. Literally."

The neon glow from the club across the street pulses through the café windows, painting alternating stripes of violet and gold across her cheekbones. You watch as she absently traces the rim of her empty glass, the ice long since melted into a sad, diluted puddle. There's a quiet intimacy in the way the condensation clings to her fingertips, in the way she hesitates before finally pulling her hand away.

"You don't have to go back yet." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. 

She looks up, one eyebrow arched. "Oh? And what exactly would we do instead?" There's a challenge in her voice, but beneath it—something softer. Something hopeful.

Outside, the bass from the club thrums through the pavement, vibrating up through the soles of your shoes. A group of drunk salarymen stumbles past the window, their laughter sharp and raucous in an otherwise quiet street. The contrast is jarring; the chaotic energy of the night pressing in closely against this fragile bubble you've created.

"I don't know," you admit. "Walk. Talk. Find somewhere that doesn't smell like stale beer and poor decisions." 

A slow smile spreads across her face. "You had me at 'doesn't smell like stale beer.'" She stands abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. "But if we're doing this, we're doing it properly." 

Before you can respond, she's shrugging out of her jacket and tossing it to you. "Put this on."

"Why—"

"Because," she interrupts, already pulling her hair into a messy bun, "if anyone recognizes me, I'd rather they think I'm some random girl out with her—" She trails off, gesturing vaguely at you. 

"Ugly salaryman boyfriend?" you supply dryly. 

She barks out a laugh. "I was going to say 'tragically overworked acquaintance,' but sure. Let's go with that." 

The jacket is too small around the shoulder, the fabric still warm from her body heat. It smells faintly of her perfume—something floral and expensive, undercut with the sharp tang of citrus. 

"You look ridiculous," she informs you playfully, stepping out into the night. 

The cool air hits your face like a slap, sharp and bracing. Seoyeon tilts her head back, inhaling deeply as the city lights reflect in her eyes. For a moment, she stands there, perfectly still, as if savoring the simple act of breathing. 

"Where to?" you ask. 

She turns, and the smile she gives you is different now. Less guarded, more alive. 

"Let's get lost." 

—————

The alleyways twist and turn like a maze, the sounds of the main streets fading into a distant hum. Here, the air smells of frying oil and damp concrete, of laundry hung out to dry on cramped balconies overhead. Seoyeon walks half a step ahead of you, her fingers trailing along the graffiti-covered walls as if reading some secret braille only she can understand. 

"You know," she says suddenly, "I used to do this all the time as a trainee. Just—walk. No destination. No manager breathing down my neck." 

A cat darts across your path, its eyes gleaming in the dim light. Seoyeon crouches down, making soft clicking noises with her tongue. To your surprise, the creature actually approaches, butting its head against her outstretched hand. 

"Traitor," you mutter. 

She grins up at you. "Animals love me. It's my one true talent." 

"What, and the whole singing-dancing-being-ridiculously-good-looking thing is a happy accident?"

The words are out before you can stop them, too honest by half. Seoyeon goes very still, her fingers pausing mid-scratch. The cat, sensing the shift, slinks away into the shadows. 

"Sorry," you start, but she shakes her head. 

"Don't be." She stands, brushing invisible dirt from her jeans. "It's just—strange. Hearing someone say that like it's a fact. Not a PR talking point."

There's a rawness to her voice that makes your chest ache. You want to reach out—to bridge the gap between you—but the moment stretches, fragile and uncertain. 

A distant siren cuts through the silence. Seoyeon blinks, as if waking from a dream. 

"Come on," she says, nodding toward a flickering convenience store sign at the end of the long, narrow alley. “I'll buy you a drink that doesn't taste like regret."

—————

It’s half-past midnight. The air inside Room 408 hangs thick with ghosts of cheap perfume and spilled beer. Neon lights pulse across soundproof walls as Seoyeon kneels on the carpet, her fingers hovering over the touchscreen. The menu glows unnaturally bright in the dimness, a constellation of song titles scrolling into infinity.  

“New rule,” she says, not looking up. “If you pick anything released before 2010, you automatically lose.” 

You sink onto the pleather couch beside her. The material groans, releasing a puff of dust that dances in the projector’s beam. “That eliminates eighty percent of good music.”  

“Your definition of ‘good’ is suspect.” She finally meets your eyes, a challenge in the tilt of her chin. “We’re playing ‘Answer Me.’  

“The kids’ game?”  

“Adapted.” She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The motion is quick, practiced. “I ask a question. You answer while staring at the ceiling. If you blink, you sing first. If I blink, then I do.”  

“What’s the question?”  

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”  

She rises, standing before you. The shift alters the room’s gravity; suddenly, the space feels smaller, charged. The thump of bass from next door vibrates through the floor.  

“Ready?”  

You nod, leaning back. The ceiling tiles are water-stained, patterned like old tea leaves.  

Seoyeon’s voice drops to a murmur, cutting through the muffled chaos beyond the door. “What did you wish for at the train station? That night we collided.”  

Your breath hitches, heart pumps erratically, endlessly going through a million probable answers. 

“A promotion.”  

She doesn’t move. “Liar.”  

“How would you—?”  

“You blinked.” Triumph curls her lips. “Twice.”  

You scowl, your brows furrowing. “Fine. I wished I had asked for your number when you apologized.”  

Silence. The neon shifts from blue to violet, catching the startled dilation of her pupils. Her throat moves as she swallows.  

“My turn,” she says, too quickly.  

You stand, closing the distance. Her shoulder brushes your chest. “Rules are rules. You blinked.”  

“I did not!”  

“Your left eye. At ‘apologized.’ 

She glares, but it lacks heat. “Cheap shot.”  

You chuckle.“Sing.”  

Indignantly turning away from you, she complies.

She picks the song almost a little too fast. ‘Into the New World’ by Girls’ Generation flashes on the screen. A classic. A rite of passage for every female aspirant looking to get into the industry.

The opening notes shimmer, crystalline and familiar. She takes the mic like a weapon, her knuckles clenched, white.  

“You know this one?” she asks, back still turned.  

“Who doesn’t?”  

“Right.” A bitter edge. “National anthem.”  

When she faces you, the transformation is jarring. Her posture straightens, shoulders pulling back. Chin lifted. Even her breathing changes: measured, controlled. The girl who tripped on alley cobblestones is gone. In her place: a performer. A born to be idol.

Her voice is clean, technically sound—every note placed with surgical precision. But it’s hollow. A perfect mannequin singing a perfect replica of joy.  

Halfway through, she stumbles. Not on the notes, but on the choreography. Her hand rises automatically for a fanchant that isn’t there, then aborts the motion, fingers curling into her palm. She doesn’t look at you. A glance here and there, but otherwise, you’re nowhere in sight.

The final chorus fades. The screen flashes 99.7%. Artificial applause crackles from the speakers. She smiles naturally as if she performs for thousands, not for one man.  

She drops the mic onto the couch. It bounces, hurling toward your knee.  

“Your turn,” she says, her voice tight.  

You don't pick a song. Not right away.  

“My question now.” You hold her gaze. “What did you wish for? That morning you saw me in this same suit.”  

The air conditioner whirs. A drop of condensation slides down a beer can, pooling on the table.  

Seoyeon looks down at her hands, deep in thought. A moment that could be its own eternity. She holds her breath, before her lips curl into tangible words: “That you’d look up.”  

It barely registers in your head.

“—What?”  

“At the convenience store. You were staring at your shoes. I wished you’d look up so I could wave. Say sorry properly for the stairs.” She picks at a thread on the couch. “Stupid, right?”  

You step forward. The scent of her shampoo cuts through the stale air—pear blossoms and salt. “Why didn’t you?”  

“You seemed—” She searches your face, blinking slowly. “Like you carried something heavy. I didn’t want to add to it.”  

The admission hangs between you both. Raw. Unrehearsed.  

“Just sing,” she whispers, her voice shrinking, body lightly jittering. “Please.”  

Turning around, you scroll past Hotel California, then Gee, eventually landing on Spring Day.

Seoyeon’s breath hitches. “That’s—”  

“Yeah.”  

The piano intro spills into the room, slow as honey. You don't bother to face the screen. Don’t need to. You watch her instead, keenly observing the way her lashes lower at the first line, how she knots her fingers together.  

Your voice cracks on the high note. Not idol-perfect. Human. Rough with the weight of overtime shifts and convenience store dinners and wishing for things you couldn’t name.  

Seoyeon doesn’t move. But when the bridge begins, her lips shape the words silently. A secret shared.  

On the final chorus, your voice breaks entirely again. When the song ends, the screen flashes 72.1%. ‘Better luck next time’ flashes brightly on the screen, as if it were a divine message from some higher power. You don't care in the slightest. At least you did your best, and you have no regrets.

Silence floods the room, for real this time. No fake applause.  

Seoyeon reaches out. Her fingertips graze the back of your hand: feather-light, electric.  

“You blinked,” she says, soft as the neon bleeding through the curtains. “During the second verse.”  

“I know.”  

“So I win.”  

“Do you?”  

Her thumb brushes your knuckle. A tremor runs through her. “No.” 

—————

The air in Room 408 hums, thick with the bass bleeding through the walls and the raw scrape of your own voice battling the final lines of Fix You. Hours have dissolved into a blur of flickering lyrics, shared laughter that rattles cheap speakers, and the warm, drowsy haze of cheap drinks. Empty beer cans and soju bottles gleam like fallen soldiers under the relentless neon pulse, cycling across Seoyeon’s face as she watches you, chin propped on her hand, a soft, unfocused smile playing on her lips.

Your voice, which was never strong to begin with, has been steadily ground down by belting out everything from Bon Jovi to Gee. It’s a ragged thing now, tearing on the high notes of Iris, collapsing into a cough that bends you double, one hand braced against the sticky tabletop. You try to push through, clinging to the mic like a lifeline to no avail. The sound you make is pure gravel, like a wounded animal rasping against the soaring melody still pouring from the speakers.

"Okay, okay! Stop!" Seoyeon’s laugh cuts through the noise, warm and slightly breathless. She’s on her knees beside you in an instant, her hand landing firmly over yours on the mic. Her touch is electric, sending a jolt through the pleasant fog of alcohol and shared exhaustion. "You sound like you’re gargling rocks. Give it!"

She tugs gently, but you cling on, stubbornly trying to croak out the next line. It’s truly pitiful. Painful, even.

"Seriously!" she insists, her laughter fading into genuine concern. She leans in closer, her other hand landing on your shoulder. Her face is inches away, the neon catching the flecks of gold in her wide, amused eyes. "You’re going to ruin your throat forever. Stop." There’s surprising strength in her grip as she pries away the mic from your weakened fingers. She tosses it carelessly onto the couch beside her, the clatter loud in the sudden vacuum left by the abruptly silenced backing track.

Silence crashes down, dense and immediate. It amplifies everything else: the frantic thudding of your own pulse in your ears, the soft, quick rhythm of Seoyeon’s breathing so close to your face, the faint, sweet scent of pear blossoms and alcohol clinging to her skin and hair. Neon washes over her; blue highlights the curve of her cheekbone, red stains her parted lips, green catches the sudden intensity in her gaze. She’s not laughing anymore. Just—looking. Scanning your face.

Her hand is still on your shoulder—a warm, grounding weight. You don’t pull away; neither does she. The air crackles, thick with the unspoken weight of the hours spent here, the confessions whispered between songs, the shared cynicism about work and life, the unexpected comfort found in mutual exhaustion. The ridiculousness of your dying-frog impression evaporates, replaced by something else entirely. Something fragile, terrifyingly potent, and charged with the raw intimacy of the dying night.

You see the shift in her eyes, a softening, a question forming in the slight tilt of her head. Your own gaze drops to her lips, then flickers back up, held captive. The scant distance between you feels like an impossible chasm and a magnetic pull all at once. The noise of Shibuya, the weight of her impending flight, the looming dawn—it all recedes, muffled by the soundproofed walls and the sudden, profound quiet binding you together. You lean in, your movement barely a fraction. An unconscious yielding to gravity. Her breath catches a tiny, audible hitch. Her eyes widen slightly, dark pools reflecting the fractured light, but she doesn’t retreat. Her fingers flex slightly on your shoulder, not pushing away, not pulling closer. Just holding. Waiting.

Her face is but a hair away. You can see the faint smudge of eyeliner beneath her lower lashes, the almost invisible scar just above her left eyebrow, the delicate flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. The scent of her is intoxicating—floral, malty, and something uniquely, essentially her. The world narrows to the point where your noses might brush, where shared breath mingles in the charged space between your lips. Her eyelids start to drift shut, long lashes casting feathery shadows on her cheeks, a silent surrender, an unspoken invitation held in that fragile darkness. Your own eyes begin to close, the chaotic neon dissolving into warm anticipation, the space between you measured in heartbeats. You lean in further, the distance collapsing into millimeters, the world reduced to the scent of her and the roaring silence—

The door crashes open with a force that rattles the entire booth.

"Unnie! There you are! We were wondering where you—" A woman’s voice, shrill and triumphant, cuts through the intimate silence like shattering glass. It dies instantly, choked off into a stunned gasp. 

You jerk back as if electrocuted, your heart pounding unceasingly against your ribs. Seoyeon recoils violently, snatching her hand from your shoulder and scrambling backwards on her knees until she bumps the low table, sending an empty can clattering to the floor. Her eyes, wide and dilated a moment ago, are now huge with pure, unadulterated panic. Not embarrassment, but fear.

Xinyu and Yooyeon stand frozen in the doorway, silhouetted by the harsh fluorescent glare of the corridor. Their faces, flushed with alcohol and the thrill of the hunt, morph from gleeful excitement to slack-jawed disbelief. Xinyu’s mouth hangs open, her finger still raised in a pointing gesture that now feels accusatory. Yooyeon’s sharp eyes dart rapidly: from Seoyeon’s flushed face and dishevelled hair, to your proximity, to the scattering of empty beer cans, the discarded mics, and finally, landing pointedly on her jacket shared between your shoulders. Her expression hardens, a flicker of cold betrayal sharpening her features into something diabolical.

The silence is absolute, heavier and more suffocating than before. The only sound is the relentless, cheerful thump of an uncaring, soulless pop song bleeding from the room next door.

Seoyeon finds her voice first, thin and strained. "Xinyu. Yooyeon. What are you—"

"We’ve been looking everywhere for you!" Xinyu explodes, stumbling into the room, her voice regaining volume, thick with indignation and cheap soju. "Ignoring our calls! Texts! We thought you got lost! Or mugged! Or worse!" Her gaze sweeps over you again, lingering with undisguised disgust on the jacket, now spread on the couch after falling away. "And this? This is where you vanished to? Cozied up in a karaoke booth?" She spits the word like it’s filthy, her finger pointed at you like you’re dangerous. "With��him?" 

The pronoun is a weapon. A curse. A byword.

Yooyeon steps in beside Xinyu, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her voice is lower, colder, cutting through Xinyu’s drunken hysteria. "Manager-nim has called eight times, Seoyeon. Eight. He’s downstairs in the lobby. Right. Now." Her icy gaze flicks over to you, then back to Seoyeon, heavy with accusation. "Care to explain? Or were you too busy?"

Seoyeon flinches as if she were physically struck. Color drains quickly from her face, leaving her pale and suddenly fragile looking. The vibrant, almost luminous girl from moments ago is gone, replaced by a cornered idol, defenses visibly crumbling. She pushes herself shakily to her feet. "I—I just needed air. Somewhere quiet. We—we ran into each other. We were—talking. Singing." The lie is paper-thin, pathetic against the evidence littering the room and the intimacy they had shattered.

"Talking?" scoffs Xinyu, stepping further into the cramped space, invading it with her presence and the smell of stale cocktails. She gestures wildly at the scene: the beers, the mics, the close proximity. "In a private karaoke booth? At 2:00 AM? Looking like that?" She waves a hand dismissively at Seoyeon’s messy bun and slightly smudged lip tint. "Singing? Is that what they call it now?"

"It’s not what you think," Seoyeon insists, her voice gaining a desperate edge. She takes a step towards her friends, but Yooyeon’s glacial stare stops her cold.

"Funny," mocks Yooyeon, her voice dangerously quiet. She takes a deliberate step forward, her eyes locked on Seoyeon’s. "That’s exactly what it looks like. Looks like you ditched us. Ditched all of us. After all that righteous indignation earlier." She lets the words hang, sharp as knives.

Seoyeon swallows hard, looking worse by the second, evidently guilty. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, don’t play dumb," Xinyu cuts in, her voice rising again. She steps right up to Seoyeon, jabbing a finger near her shoulder. "Remember? Back at the club? ‘I’m not interested.’ ‘Leave me out of your bullshit.’ ‘Someone has to be the adult!’" Xinyu’s mimicry is viciously accurate, laced with venom. "You looked down your nose at us for wanting to have a little fun, for maybe flirting with some harmless, wasted salarymen." She spits the last word, her eyes flicking contemptuously towards you. "And then you sneak off to do what? Exactly the same thing? But oh, it’s different when you do it, right? Because you’re the responsible one? Because your taste in men is so much better?"

The accusation lands like a wicked blow. Seoyeon’s face crumples for a split second before she forces the idol mask back on, but it’s deeply cracked. Her hands, clenched at her sides, tremble slightly. You see the shame flood her eyes, hot and bright, before she looks down at the garish carpet.

"It’s not the same," Seoyeon whispers, the protest weak, barely audible.

"Isn’t it?" Yooyeon presses, her voice blisteringly cold, simmering with a deeper hurt. "You judged us, Seoyeon. You called it bullshit. You acted like you were above it. And now here you are, hiding away, drinking," she gestures at the cans, "getting cozy with some random office drone you bumped into on the subway. What’s the difference? Because he looks a little more pathetic than the ones we were talking to? Because you feel sorry for him?"

Each word is a lash on her back and her heart. Seoyeon flinches with every syllable. The hypocrisy laid bare is brutal, undeniable. The jacket you’ve gripped with your fingers feels suddenly heavy, suffocating, a symbol of a critical lapse in judgment. You want to speak, to defend her, to deflect, but the words choke in your raw throat. You’re paralyzed, a spectator to her public flaying.

"We were worried," Yooyeon continues, the ice cracking slightly to reveal genuine anger. "We were looking for you. We thought something happened. But you were—here. Doing exactly what you scolded us for. Only sneakier."

Xinyu snorts derisively. "Yeah, real adult behavior."

Seoyeon says nothing. Her shoulders are hunched, her head bowed. The vibrant spark that animated her while singing, while arguing, while laughing with you, is utterly extinguished. She looks small, defeated, drowning in the harsh light and her friends’ cruel judgment.

Yooyeon lets the silence stretch, thick with condemnation. Finally, she sighs, a sharp, dismissive sound. "Whatever. Manager-nim is waiting downstairs. We’re leaving in five hours. Get your things. Now." 

It’s not a request. It’s an order.

Xinyu grabs Seoyeon’s discarded wallet from the floor. "Unbelievable," she mutters again, loud enough to carry, shaking her head as she turns towards the door. "Just—unbelievable."

Seoyeon doesn’t look at you, nor does she look at her friends. She turns mechanically, her movements stiff, robotic. She walks towards the door, shoulders slumped, head still down. As she passes Yooyeon, the taller girl grabs her elbow, not roughly, but with firm, impersonal efficiency, steering her out into the harsh corridor light.

Yooyeon pauses in the doorway, turning back. Her gaze sweeps over the wreckage of the booth—the cans, the couch, the abandoned mics—until it finally lands on you, still frozen on the couch. Her expression is unreadable, a mix of disdain and something colder, more calculating. "Stay away from her," she commands, her voice flat, final. "You’ve caused enough trouble."

Moments later, they’re gone, pulling the door shut behind you with a soft, definitive click.

—————

Silence. Not the warm, charged quietness of moments before, but a hollow, echoing void. Once again, you’re all alone. The relentless neon continues its mindless cycle—red, blue, green—flashing idiotically over the empty couch, the scattered cans, and the silent microphones. Her jacket now hangs over your shoulders, the scent of pear blossoms now sickly sweet, a cloying reminder of an intimacy violently ripped away. The phantom warmth of her hand on your shoulder lingers, a faint touch against the sudden, profound chill settling into your bones. This karaoke booth, previously a sanctuary, a pocket universe, now feels like a desolate crime scene. The taste of cheap beer persisting in your mouth has turned into ash. The city outside, hurling relentlessly towards dawn, feels vast, indifferent, impossibly cold. The space where her lips almost met yours is a vacuum, sucking all the air from your lungs. 

You sink back against the groaning pleather of the couch. Deathly silence presses in, broken only by the relentless, mocking, cheerful beat bleeding through the wall from the next room, a grotesque soundtrack to your shattered intimacy. The echo of Xinyu’s mocking words—’Because you feel sorry for him?’—reverberates in the hollow space, sharp and corrosive, scathing.

You can only stay here for long before it feels like a prison sentence. A crime for breaking from a predetermined path. A crime against normalcy.

The click of the karaoke door shutting behind you echoes with unnatural finality in the suddenly oppressive hallway. The cheap, overloud music from surrounding booths feels like a physical assault after the hollow silence you left behind. You’re adrift, unmoored, with Seoyeon’s jacket still draped awkwardly over your shoulders like borrowed skin. The scent of pear blossoms and lager clings to the otherwise soft fabric, a cruel, intoxicating reminder that feels invasive now, tainted by Xinyu’s sneer and Yooyeon’s glacial dismissal.

You walk. The corridor stretches, gaudy and endless, each numbered door leaking its own brand of musical chaos. The sticky linoleum tugs at your soles. You don’t look back at Room 408. That booth, as far as you’re concerned, is tainted and cursed. You wouldn’t wish it on anyone, even your worst enemy. Elsewhere, the lobby is a blur of overtly bright lights and the tired, vacant stare of the night attendant. The automatic doors hiss open, releasing you into the pre-dawn chill of Shibuya.

The city breathes differently now. The frantic, electric pulse has dulled to a weary, dead thrum. The crowds have thinned, leaving behind stragglers—stumbling groups clinging to each other, lone figures hailing cabs with the desperate focus of the profoundly exhausted. Neon signs still scream into the fading darkness, but their messages feel hollow, advertisements for a party that’s already moved on. The air is cool, damp, smelling of exhaust, stale beer and litter. It washes over your face, a feeble attempt to clear the fog of cheap drink, raw emotion, and the phantom sensation of Seoyeon’s breath so close to yours.

You keep walking, directionless for a block, her jacket heavy on your shoulders, every step dragging your feet. The memory of her cowardly flinch, the shame flooding her eyes under her friends’ assault, replays in your mind on a loop: 

"Because you feel sorry for him?" 

The words scrape like sandpaper against your raw throat. You shrug the jacket off, clutching it bunched in your fist instead of wearing it. The pear blossom scent is stronger now, released by the movement, a bittersweet assault.

A vacant taxi crawls past, its roof light a beacon. You raise a hand, the motion muscle memory. It pulls over, the tires whispering on the slightly worn asphalt. Opening the rear door, the vinyl seat feels warm against your legs. The interior smells faintly of pine air freshener and old cigarettes.

“Sorry,” you rasp, your voice still wrecked from all the singing, from all the tension. You give the driver your address, your own apartment building, a place that suddenly feels impossibly distant and devoid of anything resembling comfort. You lean against your seat throughout the ride, closing your eyes, the city lights streaking past the window in blurred ribbons of color. The jacket rests on your lap as a crumpled weight.

The taxi navigates the quieter streets, leaving the core of Shibuya’s nightlife behind. The buildings grow more residential, the neon less aggressive. You recognize the familiar turn onto your street, a canyon of mid-rise apartments and shuttered family-run shops. The taxi slows, pulling towards the curb opposite your building. You fumble for your wallet, motions sluggish, your mind still trapped in that neon-lit booth, in the shattered moment before the door crashed open.

You pay the fare, the transaction silent and efficient. The driver somberly nods in appreciation, the partition sliding shut as you open the door and step out onto the pavement and back out into the real world. The cool air hits you again, now sharper. You take a step towards your building’s entrance across the street, clutching the jacket. You need water. You need silence. You need to avert your mind from thoughts of pear blossoms or panicked brown eyes or the acidic taste of hypocrisy.

“Hey! Wait!”

The voice slices through the pre-dawn stillness, high-pitched, slightly slurred, but unmistakable. Her voice.

Your heart stutters, then drums hard against your ribs. You freeze mid-step, turning slowly, disbelievingly, towards the sound.

She’s standing maybe twenty feet down the sidewalk, on the same side of the street as your apartment building, swaying slightly. Seoyeon. No Yooyeon, no Xinyu, no manager. Only her, silhouetted under the harsh glow of a singular streetlamp, wearing the same jean shorts and thin top from the karaoke booth, her arms wrapped around herself against the relentless cold. Her hair is way messier, escaping the bun entirely on one side. Her eyes are wide, searching, slightly unfocused.

“You!” she says again, pointing a finger that wobbles unsteadily in your direction. She takes a stumbling step forward. “You have—” her voice rises and falls, as if she were winding up. “You have my jacket!”

You stare, dumbfounded. The taxi pulls away, its taillights disappearing around a corner, leaving you stranded on the curb facing her. The street is completely deserted. The only sounds you can hear are the distant hum of the city and the frantic pounding of your own pulse.

“Seoyeon?” Your voice is rough scraped gravel. “How are you here?”

She ignores the question, focusing entirely on the bundle in your hands. “My jacket!” she insists, lurching towards you with more determination than coordination. “Give it! They’ll—they’ll smell it on you—or something,” Her logic is drowned by the evident alcohol still swirling in her system. She covered it better in the booth, fueled by adrenaline and shared rebellion. Now, outside, alone, the full weight of the drinks hits her like a truck.

She reaches you, close enough that you catch the stronger scent of layered soju and see the hectic flush high on her cheeks under the streetlight. Her eyes are glassy, pupils dilated, but beneath the intoxication, there’s a frantic, almost panicked energy. She makes a grab for the jacket crumpled against your chest.

“Seoyeon, stop,” you say, instinctively taking a half-step back. “You shouldn’t be out here alone. Where are the others? Your manager?”

“Fuck them,” she slurs, swiping at the jacket again. Her fingers brush the fabric. “Judgy—hypocrites—‘Feel sorry for him’—fuck them!” Her voice rises, echoing slightly in the quiet street. “Just gimme my jacket!”

This time she lunges with reckless abandon, off balance, her weight tipping dangerously forward as she snatches at the bundle. Her fingers clutch on the fabric, tugging hard. Caught by surprise, you instinctively hold on for a split second. The opposing forces—her drunken momentum, your reflexive resistance—are disastrous.

She gasps, her eyes flying wide with sudden, sobering terror as her feet teeter and tangle. She pitches sideways, not towards you, but towards the unforgiving pavement of the sidewalk.

Instinct screams louder than thought. You drop the jacket and lunge forward, shooting out your arms. You catch her not gracefully, but desperately, one arm hooking awkwardly around her waist, the other hand grabbing her upper arm right as her knees buckle. Her weight slams into you, solid and warm and terrifyingly limp. You stagger back a step, boots scraping loudly on the pavement, struggling to keep both of you upright.

For a heart-stopping moment, she’s dead weight against you, her face buried against your shoulder, her breathing ragged and hot through the fabric of your shirt. The scent of alcohol, pear blossoms, and sheer, unadulterated panic washes over you. You tighten your grip, bracing your legs, holding her suspended inches from the ground.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” you repeat, your own heart hammering against your ribs. “I’ve got you. Don’t move.”

She doesn’t struggle. She sags against you, a shudder running through her frame. “Told you,” she mumbles, her voice muffled against your shoulder, thick with tears, or exhaustion, or both. “Screw them. I just—wanted my jacket—”

The near-disaster shocks some clarity into the situation. She’s out here alone, drunk, stumbling, and clearly in no state to navigate back to wherever her group is staying, let alone face her manager. The memory of Yooyeon’s icy command—’Stay away from her’—wars with the immediate, undeniable reality of Seoyeon trembling against you, inches from cracking her head open.

You look across the street. Your apartment building entrance is right there. Safe. Contained. A world away from judgmental friends and furious managers.

The jacket lies discarded on the damp pavement. You ignore it for now. Carefully, shifting your grip to better support her weight, you turn her slightly, keeping one arm firmly around her waist. She doesn’t resist, leaning heavily into your side, her head lolling against your shoulder. Her eyes are half-closed now, the frantic energy draining away, replaced by sheer, drunken exhaustion.

“Come on,” you say, your voice low, firm. “My place is right there. Across the street. You need to calm down. Get some water.”

She mumbles something incoherent, but allows you to guide her, her steps shuffling and uncoordinated. You half-walk, half-carry her a few steps to the curb, glance quickly for non-existent traffic, then navigate the short distance across the street to your building’s entrance. The automatic door slides open with a soft sigh.

The fluorescent-lit lobby is starkly quiet after the street. The night concierge glances up from his phone right as he’s about to walk away from the front counter, his expression carefully neutral as he takes in the scene: you supporting a clearly inebriated, strikingly beautiful young woman inside. You avoid his eyes, steering Seoyeon towards the elevators. She stumbles again on the smooth floor, and you tighten your hold, pulling her closer. Her warmth, her weight, the softness of her hair against your jaw—it’s overwhelming, charged with a different kind of tension now, born of necessity and shared vulnerability.

Punching the elevator button, waiting feels eternal under the concierge’s silent observation, but he eventually leaves you alone to your own devices before the doors finally slide open. You maneuver her inside, leaning her against the mirrored wall as you press the button for your floor. The reflection shows her slumped posture, her flushed face, her eyes slammed shut. She looks impossibly young and utterly spent. You pick up the jacket from where you’d managed to grab it off the pavement without dropping her.

The elevator ascends in silence, the hum of machinery the only sound. The mirrored walls amplify the awkward intimacy, the sheer strangeness of the situation. You hold her upright, her body a soft, trusting weight against yours, the events of the last hour—the singing, the almost-kiss, the shattering interruption, the street rescue—collapsing into a single, surreal point of contact in this sterile, ascending box. Her jacket, previously a symbol of stolen connection, now feels like a burden, a complication clutched in your free hand. Dawn is creeping closer, and with it, her inevitable departure. But for now, she’s here, leaning against you, breathing softly, entirely in your care.

It takes a herculean effort to fish the keys to your apartment from your pocket, with the weight of Seoyeon on your shoulders, but you unlock the door and take her inside your flat. Approaching the lone couch in your living room, you gently lay her down on her back as she releases her grip on you, settling in and taking up every little space. Leaving her to rest, you rush to the kitchen fridge and grab a glass and a pitcher of water, pouring it as you return to her, sprawled and deeply wasted. Well aware of the dangerous precedent you’re setting and its disastrous consequences, you can only pray she comes to her senses.

Placing the half-full glass of water and the pitcher on the table, you gently mutter, “Oh, Seoyeon. If only—” 

The rest are words you don’t have the heart to openly declare. You share equal amounts of accountability as her, except you won’t get half the lashings, whether from her friends or from upper management.

As you scan her, peaceful and asleep, you come to the realization that she genuinely does not want to get on that plane in the morning. Beneath that quiet exterior lies unfettered frustration and rage against her so-called friends. The one time she decides to loosen up and have a night all to herself, it almost causes a near career-ending situation. She’ll probably live with that guilt for the rest of her idol days. Such is the unfortunate nature of the beast, of the industry. To be perfect always, to make no mistakes.

As the night approaches the point of fading away, you’re reminded of your own path. So different, yet so similar to Seoyeon’s. And considering what you’ve been through these last several hours, that’s a lifetime till you’ll get to experience something like this again. Admittedly, it’s liberating. A breath of fresh air from your otherwise repetitious life.

The only thing you want to see is her glow, that bright sparkle permeating from her face. If only you had more time.

Once you’re certain she’s unconscious, you hop from your crouch and walk away, readying yourself for a brief night’s rest, only to hear her faint, incomprehensible mumbles, drawing your attention.

“Seoyeon? What’s up?”

The cool plastic of the water glass beads with condensation against your palm as you turn back. Seoyeon hasn’t moved from where you laid her on the couch, a crumpled starfish against the worn dark fabric. Her face is turned towards the back cushion, half-buried. The soft, distressed mumble comes again, muffled.

“Seoyeon?” You crouch beside the couch, setting the glass and pitcher carefully on the low table. The floorboards creak under your knees. “Hey. Can you hear me?”

She stirs, a small, restless shift. One hand flails weakly, fingers brushing the air before falling back onto her stomach. Her eyelids flutter, but don’t open. “—no,” she slurs, the word thick and indistinct. “—don’t wanna—”

“Don’t wanna what?” You keep your voice low, gentle, trying to pierce the fog of alcohol and exhaustion. The pre-dawn light seeping through your thin curtains paints everything in shades of weak blue and grey, making the scene feel fragile, unreal. “Water? Here.”

You reach for the glass, but her hand flails again, this time connecting loosely with your forearm. The touch is startlingly warm. “—go,” she breathes, the sound catching on something wet. Perhaps a tear or her saliva. “—don’t make me go—”

The fragmented plea hits you like a physical weight. ‘Don’t make me go.’ Back to the hotel. Back to the manager. Get on that plane. Back to the life where moments like tonight are impossible, dangerous contraband. 

You lower the glass. The urge to brush the stray strands of hair stuck to her damp temple is almost overwhelming. You curl your fingers into your palm instead.

“Nobody’s making you go anywhere right now,” you murmur, the lie tasting like ash. Dawn is making her go. Responsibility is making her go. Millions of fans around the world are making her go. The harsh reality Yooyeon and Xinyu represent is making her go. “No one else is here but me. Please rest.”

A small tremor runs through her. “Liars,” she whispers, the word barely audible, aimed at the cushions or the universe. “—all—hypocrites—” Her breath hitches, a soft, wet sound that twists something inside your chest. She’s crying. Silently, drunkenly, the tears escaping beneath closed lashes, tracking paths through the faint smudges of makeup still clinging to her skin.

The sight undoes you. The fierce performer, the exasperated friend, the girl with the sharp tongue but secret softness—reduced to this shivering, tearful vulnerability on your worn out couch. It’s a raw exposure far more intimate than any almost-kiss. It’s the crumbling of the last wall.

Carefully, slowly, you reach out. Not to touch her face, but to gently pry the crumpled jacket from where it’s still tangled near her hip. You smooth it out, the familiar scent of pear blossoms rising faintly, and drape it over her like a makeshift blanket, tucking it loosely around her shoulders. The gesture feels absurdly inadequate.

As the fabric settles over her, her hand moves. Not a flail this time, but a slow, searching crawl across the couch cushion. Her fingers brush yours where they rest near the edge of the jacket.

You freeze.

Her touch is hesitant, clumsy with intoxication, but undeniably deliberate. Her fingers, cold at the tips, curl weakly around your index finger. A silent cry. An anchor.

You don’t pull away; you let her hold on, her grip loose but desperate. Her crying softens to hitching breaths, her face still turned away, hidden. The silence stretches, filled only by her ragged breathing and the frantic drumming of your own pulse in your ears. The pale light strengthens incrementally, outlining the contours of your small, cluttered living room—the overflowing bookshelf, the takeout containers forgotten on the table, the silhouette of her curled form on the couch, clutching your finger like a lifeline.

This is the precipice. This quiet, tear-stained connection in the fading dark. The world outside—the furious manager, the judgmental friends, the looming flight, your own precarious job waiting in a few short hours—presses in like a crushing weight, an inevitable that will pull you apart. But here, now, there is only the warmth of her hand around yours, the slight tremor running through her, the impossible fragility of the moment.

You shift slightly, settling more fully onto the floor beside the couch, your back against its sturdy arm. You don’t speak. There are no words that won’t shatter this. You simply stay. You become the anchor she’s silently asked for. Your finger rests in her loose grip, a point of contact in the vast, terrifying loneliness of her world and the quiet desperation of yours. The pitcher of water sits forgotten on the table, beading coldly. Dawn is no longer approaching; it’s seeping into the room, minute by minute, a slow, inevitable tide washing away the fragile sanctuary of the night. But for now, you hold the line. You hold her hand. You watch the light grow stronger on her tear-streaked face, and you wait.

The apartment is quiet, but not silent. Only the faint hum of the fridge and the soft whistle of wind nudging the balcony glass. Dawn creeps in inch by inch, peeling shadows off the room like skin from fruit. You shift slightly, your back pressed against the arm of the couch, her fingers still curled loosely around yours. Seoyeon hasn’t moved, but you can feel her breathing change—steadier now, more aware.

Her fingers tighten.

You look up and find her eyes open, red-rimmed and puffy, lashes clumped from dried tears. She doesn’t say anything at first, merely stares at you, as if trying to anchor herself in reality. You hold her gaze, patient, silent. The world beyond this room is still waiting to collapse around her. You both know that. But right now, it hasn't.

“You stayed,” she whispers, hoarse.

“I said I would,” you reply, matching her softness.

A beat passes. Then another. Her eyes search yours with something deeper than gratitude—something raw and reverent. And then, without warning, she pulls herself up, slowly, until she’s sitting beside you again. Her legs are folded beneath her, her hands rubbing nervously at the sleeves of the jacket you returned to her sometime in the night.

She doesn’t meet your gaze now. Instead, her voice, tentative and low, breaks the stillness like a ripple across glass.

“I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

You don’t need to ask what this is. The industry. The expectations. The constant dissection of her every move, every breath. The public self, flawless and unbreakable. The private self, unraveling at the seams.

“I try to be the adult,” she continues, fingers curling into fists in her lap. “The one who keeps everyone safe, who doesn’t step out of line. But it’s so exhausting. I'm tired of holding it together just because I'm the one who looks like she can.”

She finally glances at you, eyes trembling. “And then I meet you. And it’s so stupid—this random accident. A bump on the train. A karaoke booth. But it’s the first time in a long time I felt like I didn’t have to—perform. Like I could truly be myself.”

You don’t speak. You reach out instead, brushing your thumb across the back of her hand, and her breath catches. Slowly, cautiously, she leans forward. Her forehead comes to rest on your shoulder. Then her whole body follows, small and warm and vibrating faintly with emotion as she folds into you.

You wrap your arms around her without thinking.

She smells like soap and sleep now, the faintest trace of pear blossom perfume clinging to the crook of her neck. Her body melts into yours, burying her face in your shirt as though trying to disappear inside your ribs. You hold her there, unmoving, your cheek resting against the top of her head.

“I’m scared,” she whispers. “That I’ll forget this. That I’ll go back tomorrow and none of it will matter.”

You close your eyes, fingers threading gently through her hair. “Then don’t forget about tonight. Don’t forget about the good times.”

She shifts, enough to glance up at you. Her eyes search yours again, but this time, the desperation is replaced with something quieter. Trust. The kind of trust that hurts because it’s so fragile, so undeserved, and yet she’s giving it to you anyway.

Her hand comes up, cupping your jaw with tentative care. You lean in without hesitation, like gravity’s been pulling you this way all night. She closes the distance the last few inches, her breath warm against your lips. 

And then—she kisses you again.

It’s not careful; it's fierce—urgent. Like she’s trying to pour all the things she can’t say into the press of her lips against yours. Her fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer. You respond in kind, sliding your hand up her back, pressing her into you, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.

The kiss deepens, not messy, but aching. Like a dam bursting. Like the moment before a fall you no longer want to stop.

She tastes like citrus, alcohol, regret, and everything else in between, like all the things you should have said earlier. Perhaps this night was always meant to end here.

When she finally pulls away, breath shallow and lips red, her forehead rests against yours, your noses brushing. Her eyes are closed, her voice small. You can hear her heart through her gentle breaths.

“I’m not sorry.”

You shake your head. Neither are you.

Her breath mingles with yours, shallow and unsteady, the heat between you both rising in quiet, unstoppable waves. Seoyeon’s hand remains against your cheek, her thumb gently stroking your skin, but there's tension behind the softness—an urgency beneath the surface, waiting to break through.

Then it does.

She kisses you again, harder this time—less hesitant, more driven. The kind that demands something, not just offers. Her fingers tighten at the back of your head, pulling you closer, until your teeth barely graze and your breaths tangle, ragged and warm.

Your body moves on instinct. You shift, climbing onto the couch, one knee sinking beside her hip, the other anchoring you against the cushions as your hands cage her in—one planted beside her head, the other skimming her waist. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t falter. Her eyes burn into yours for a fleeting second before she tugs you down into another kiss, fiercer than the last.

Your hand slides up her side, her thin shirt wrinkling beneath your touch. You feel the tremble in her breath as your fingers graze the hem. She answers by hooking her hands beneath your shirt, tugging it upward in fits and starts between kisses. When she finally peels it halfway up your chest, she lets out a soft, frustrated sound and rips it the rest of the way. The fabric stretches, then tears at the seam near the collarbone.

You blink. “That was my—”

“I’ll buy you another,” she murmurs against your mouth before pulling you back in, her teeth catching your bottom lip with intent. Pushing it off you, she tears the rest of it off your body, landing on the ground. She takes lease of your bare chest, claiming you as hers. “It was looking worthless anyway.”

You can’t even argue. In fact, you’re too far gone to care. 

Your hands fumble at the hem of her shirt now, working fast, your pulse roaring so loudly in your ears it drowns out the city beyond your window. Digging through her shirt, slowly lifting it off her svelte body, eventually getting a little assist from her hands. Over her head, then sliding it off her shoulders, tossing it aside and joining the other discarded piece of clothing on the floor.

Seoyeon pulls you flush against her, her legs parting slightly to make room as you sink into the cradle of her hips. Your lips move along her jaw, her throat, her collarbone—tracing heat and longing across every inch of skin you find. She gasps your name into the quiet, and it doesn't sound like a whisper. It sounds like a need.

The moment has the weight of something irreversible.

You pause, your forehead resting against hers, your chest rising and falling against her ribs. Her hand rises to the side of your face, her eyes searching yours through the hush.

There’s no pretense left. No posturing. No industry rules. No office culture. Just the two of you: lonely souls, pressed together in the dying hours of a borrowed night, clinging to something fleeting and real.

And when she pulls you down again, lips parted, body arching to meet yours, it’s more than passion—it’s rebellion. It's a confession. It’s all the things she can’t say with a manager waiting in the lobby, with fans watching her every breath, with friends who pretend support but demand perfection.

Your mouths meet again. And again. The world blurs around the edges. Time unspools into something slow and molten.

Neither of you have anything left to lose. But in this fragile, fleeting moment—you have each other.

As the clock goes from 4 to 5, your kisses intensify, burning brighter than the neon lights that have blinded your eyes for hours. Your hands are all over each other, exploring the other’s bodies, leaving no opportunity wasted, leaving no room for regret. She kicks up a leg, giving your hand new territory to travel. Wrestling skin and fabric, your primal urges get the best of you. Like your mind hasn’t already hit the gutter, the temptation is something you can barely fight.

Still, you never forget your place. Hiking your hand up those jean shorts of hers, you ask her: “Can I?”

She nods vigorously, seemingly wanting it more than you. 

You oblige, slowly working through the buttons, followed by the zipper, sliding it down along with the rest of the obstructive fabric. Getting a feel of her thighs, she trembles; whether it's due to the cold seeping in or from your touch, you have no clue. But what do you know is there’s barely anything beneath. A thin piece of black underwear separates you from her heat.

Dipping between the lines, the space between you merely breaths, you slip a finger through—and she keens.

Letting out this airy, thick sigh as your digit curls into her slit. Her core aches. Her mouth hangs wide, singing a profound note that’s music to your ears. 

“Oh my God—” she whines, holding onto that last word with every fiber of her being. The newfound pleasure is heavenly.

“Don’t worry about anything, just focus on me,” you mumble, softly kissing down her neck between commands, hitching your breath as you feel her pussy begin tightening around your finger. 

With her grip slowly arresting you like a vice, you slip a second digit in, eliciting a nasally moan from her saccharine lips. The chant is clear. ‘Need it, need it,’ she repeats, every word heavy, like it’s her lifeline, like it’s something she can’t do without. 

Keeping your focus on her pleasure-laden face while her features are constantly shifting and morphing. Your fingers are pushing into her cunt, pressing the buttons that make her go wild. As she writhes and wriggles beneath you, you’re holding her steady with your other arm to keep you both from falling off that couch. She grows more and more restless with each pulse, each stroke, the sensation becoming too overwhelming to resist.

“Ah—fuck—this—is—so—” Seoyeon can’t help but rattle on, even with the endless rush of ecstasy flowing through her nerves. Still having the clarity to remember everything. It’s embedded into her mind like a deep scar. “Bet they’re jealous that you’re fucking me—”

You immediately cut her off kissing her hard on the lips, stretching that cunt a little too deep for comfort. She hums into your mouth, her body fighting against you by instinct before you quickly pull away. Gently shaking your head, you hush into the air, comforting and reassuring her, “Remember. Only me.”

She nods emphatically, bracing for impact. Through the talking, your fingers remain buried inside her cunt. They’re a match made in heaven, like she’s meant for you.

Fast on her clit, you’re regaining your rhythm as quickly as you’ve lost it. Everything falls naturally into place. Seoyeon lets out these quick whimpers, unable to keep herself together under duress. She looks so good like this, so vulnerable, so helpless in your grasp. With each sigh supplementing her moan, her body pushing against you in kind like you’ve been railing her for hours. You can feel how long she’s bottled it up, and how you’ve unlocked this side of her.

“Yes—God—yes—” she mewls, wrapping her arms around your neck and dragging you close, releasing any hope you have of letting go. Not that you had any intention to, considering how alarmingly wet and tight she feels around your grip. You can only imagine what it’s like when you finally make the move on her. 

But at this moment, you can only focus on bringing her to that apex. Everything around you blurs except the heavy breaths and sighs, the natural squelch of her cunt with every drag of your fingers, and the tiny, desperate pleas for more.”‘So close,” she murmurs, biting harshly on her lower lip, using what remains of her dwindling resolve she has left to hold on, but she knows she’s on borrowed time. You’re there to accelerate the process.

Anytime now, she’ll come undone in your arms, so you savor every moment you can get. 

“It’s okay, babygirl,” you whisper, your fingers inside her delicate, but ardent. “Cum for me. Cum all over my fingers. You’re so wet, God.”

Your voice activates her. Sets her off in a way that only you can.

Arching her back, you feel every inch of her fighting—resisting—only to fold right after. Her walls tensing, rigid against your digits, before it all comes together in a perfect concoction. 

Seoyeon’s jaw drops hard. Lips forming a shape vaguely resembling an O, letting out a guttural whiny as her body locks beneath you, violently trembling. Brain going blank, having no other thought but the climactic bliss, the culmination of a dramatic night reaching its expected end. Fucking all sense and sanity out of her, if there’s even anything left to begin with. Your fingers take it all: a torrential downpour of slick and nectar coating your filthy digits, spilling onto your already worn couch, now past the point of repair. 

You guide her through the aftershocks, never moving an inch inside her needy cunt, showering her with heaps of praise and soft, tender kisses on her skin. “Good girl—you’re cumming so much for me—” you tell her, comforting and reassuring your presence will stay for as long as she wants.

As her breaths shift from quick and erratic to slow and heavy, you take this opportunity to scoop her in your arms, taking her to somewhere a bit more—spacious. Your bedroom.

Her body instinctively clings to you, arms hooked around your neck, legs coiling around your hips as she finds an air of solace from the madness. Resting her head on your shoulder, you figure that she’s actually light as a feather when she’s not burdened by the weight of her world. Caressing streaks of raven colored hair and back, unhooking her bra and letting the panties halfway down her legs fall to the floor, leaving a trail of your whereabouts. 

Gently setting her down on the bed, still in a wayward haze from her climax, the rest of your clothes follow; pants, shoes and boxers all kicked aside as you join her. Your bodies are pressed together, chest to chest, both of you sharing another passionate kiss. There’s nothing in between keeping you apart. Seoyeon looks incredibly pretty like this: so delicate and peaceful, the afterglow of her orgasm and her sticky juices clinging to her skin making her glow under the little light.

Already hard and finally loose, you line your cock on the edge of her aching core, the touch setting her alight, rekindling a dying fire. She keens, bites on her teeth, bracing herself for what’s to come, though she knows she’s not ready.

“Gonna put this inside you, babe,” you whisper , dangerously close to leaving a bruise on her skin, calling you to mark her, to claim her. She waits with bated breath, nodding vigorously in approval, as eager as you are. “Tell me if it’s too much,” you add, leaving pecks from her cheek down to her chin, finishing up at her lips. You don’t know when you’ll get a chance like this again, so you’ll make every moment something meaningful. “I’ll ease into you, but I won’t hurt you. Promise.”

“I know you won’t.” sighs Seoyeon, tilting her head back, gently smiling. “Not like you can hurt me as much as they have.”

“Need I remind you that we’ve only known each other for hours?” you reply, much to her amusement. She laughs, heartily—like you didn’t fuck her to pieces minutes ago. 

“Not bothering to ask me if I’m on the pill?” she says, trying to throw you off. 

“You’re an idol. I think we both know the answer to that.”

“And what if I wasn’t?”

You remain silent, brushing strands of hair blocking her otherwise perfect face away, seeing through the facade.

“Gosh, I will seriously get in so much trouble. I mean—they’re probably looking for me right now.” Seoyeon looks away, finding some clarity through her mostly drunken haze, even if her words feel heavy. “And if they see me here—with you—”

“Don’t worry about that,” you interrupt with a kiss, shaking your head. “Just—don’t forget this night. Forget about me, but not tonight. Ever.”

With that, you slip your cock inside her spreading core, feeling the sensation of her walls stretch against you upon making contact. Looking into Seoyeon’s twinkling eyes, seeing lifetimes in each other’s gaze, before the clench utterly breaks her. More than anything, more than your fingers ever have with a single stroke.

Lips parting, moaning against you, breath hot, laced with a dangerous concoction of  alcohol and ecstasy. Her eyes slam shut as she takes you in. It’s all too much for Seoyeon to handle at once. 

“Oh, holy fuck. Holy fuck,” she cries, her breath hitching, her body nearly jumping at the depths you’re reaching. “You feel so large inside me—”

“Does it hurt?” is your first question. It’s your top priority, caring more for her wellbeing than your own gain. Because fuck, she’s incredible. Too much for words to explain. Tight, intoxicating warmth envelops your cock as you bury yourself deep in her sopping cunt, unwilling to release you from its ironclad grip.

Vehemently, she shakes her head, her face burning red from sheer pressure. “It’s okay. I can handle it, I can handle it,” she pants, though her tone remains low, giving you second thoughts. But then she follows up with: “Don’t worry. There’s nothing you’ll do that can hurt me. Not when you’re giving this to me. Like you said: let loose.”

Further spurring you on is her hand delicately brushing up and down your arm. The only thing to really seal the notion is a kiss signed with her lips.

It takes every bit of strength to draw your hips back; she has you wrapped in a magnetic pull. Slick, wet, hot. Testing your resolve with every second you stay embedded inside her pussy, daring you to break right then and there. It’s nothing like the porn you’ve been watching during the little time off you have from work.

Swallowing your throat, holding onto a breath like you’re drowning (you are), the sound is sloppy yet so satisfying. Her juices coat your shaft, making it easier to plunge right back in. Stretching her cunt a little deeper with every thrust, overwhelming your muscles with a rush of adrenaline and blissful rapture as you fuck Seoyeon at a steady, perfect rhythm.

Doing all the little motions in between: kissing her temple, burying your face against her neck, finally leaving a bruise as a memento, whispering all the things she wants to hear.

“So fucking tight—” you mumble, brushing up against her ear, letting your tongue have a taste. As daylight begins to break and the night dies, you’ve never felt more alive with anything or with anyone than with Seoyeon, especially when you’re fucking her like this. Raw, intimate, passionate.

You can feel her body respond in kind. Her nails leave scratches all over your back, hugging you so tightly it’s suffocating. Moaning with desire, with intent. Demanding you go harder, she’s not as fragile as you believed.

“More, baby—” she whimpers, kissing your side, her embrace now inescapable. “This fucking cock—it’s so, so good—”

It’s now beyond your control. Hammering into her cunt, pinning her deep into the mattress to the point of splitting it in half. You’re working her throat overtime; unfazed and barely muffled, her voice strains and cracks with every curse and whine, clearly breaking apart at the seams. She leaves chills down your spine through vibrations of her obscene noises against your ear, accompanied by the echo of your skin slapping skin. It’s only pushing you further and further over the edge.

Pushing your hips against hers, your noses create a connection, allowing you to meet halfway in a torrid, frenzied kiss. You can hardly call it a respite, as you continue to pound into Seoyeon without quit, like you’ll burst into flames if you ever stop. Hardly a thought worth considering when you feel the intrusion of dusk piercing through the windows of your apartment bedroom. 

She doesn’t have much time left—and so do you.

“Promise you won’t ever forget about me,” you beg, despite going against your own word and Seoyeon losing herself in her own bliss. A few minutes more and she might disintegrate into nothing right before your very eyes. Forget about pace at this point, it’s only about surviving the night till the world comes calling again.

“Never,” she manages to spit, moaning against your face, body trembling. Pulling you close to her like you’re her lifeline, shifting into millions of pieces that have no well-defined identity. “Not when you make me feel this good, this alive—”

God, no wonder you’ve fallen so hard for Seoyeon. Even when she’s shaking and pressed beneath your grip, she still finds ways to make your heart flutter.

“So close, again—” she whines, and that’s all you needed to hear. “I hope you are too—”

She activates something in your head. Right there, she’s set your body on fire. Like a ticking time bomb, minutes turn into seconds in an instant. As if her clench stifling your lungs wasn’t enough. Your senses are working overtime to salvage what’s left. It’s right there—the inevitable, the end. 

You just have to give in.

A couple more thrusts into her; you’ve stopped thinking about it and choose to let go. Seoyeon keens, and then: she softly grins.

“There you go—give it all to me—”

Surprisingly, it’s a quiet affair. A deep moan escapes your mouth, sure, and it’s mostly you filling up the air with your weak groans, but she lets the moment pass by with an air of peace and finality. Like she’s already accepted her fate. And you pour it on; shot after shot of cum painting her cunt, not wasting a single drop. Falling beside her, burying your face into the sheets, now you’re the one desperately clinging to Seoyeon. 

It should feel euphoric, a grand triumph. But knowing what’s waiting on the other side, it isn’t. It’s bittersweet.

You kiss her. Leave a second bruise on her neck. It will eventually disappear, but the memory never fades.

And so remain together like this: glued to each other in bed, while your orgasm dies and the morning rises. You don’t wanna look; the sight of Seoyeon’s little smile is the last image you want to remember. It finally catches up to you: the fatigue, the drunkenness, the wear of your emotions. 

Eventually, your world fades to black.

————— Sunlight slants through the half-drawn curtains, painting stripes across the rumpled duvet where Seoyeon had been. The space beside you is hollow, the indent of her body already fading. A crushing weight settles on your chest, immediate and suffocating. The vibrant, tangled intimacy of the night—the moans, the desperate kisses, the raw vulnerability, the fierce claiming—feels like a dream punctured by the sterile silence of your bedroom. 

The digital clock on the nightstand screams 10:47 AM. You’re catastrophically late.

Panic flares, cold and sharp, but it’s instantly drowned by a deeper, more profound realization: she’s just—gone. Like the last notes of a song fading into silence. 

You push yourself up, the sheets pooling around your waist, the phantom warmth of her body against yours still palpable. The room feels too big, too quiet, haunted by the ghost of her laughter, the memory of her trembling beneath you, the echo of her whispered confessions against your skin. The faint, sweet scent clinging to the pillow is a cruel reminder of what you lost.

Stumbling out of bed, legs unsteady, the pleasant ache in your muscles a stark counterpoint to the hollow feeling expanding inside you. The living room is a tableau of the night’s chaotic intimacy: your torn shirt discarded near the couch, the empty water pitcher and glass on the low table, the cushions still bearing the deep impression where you’d coaxed her climax with your fingers. The memory is visceral, electric, making your breath catch. But the space feels abandoned. Sterile, despite the mess.

Then you see it.

Draped carefully over the back of the armchair, not crumpled on the floor where you’d both shed clothes in a frenzy of need, is her jacket. The soft, expensive-looking one she’d made you wear, the one that smelled like her. It’s folded with a care that feels deliberate, almost reverent. And beside it, resting squarely on the seat cushion, is a single, tiny square of paper, torn from something larger. Maybe a receipt, maybe a notebook page.

Your heart stutters, then hammers against your ribs like a trapped bird. Crossing the room slowly, the worn carpet feels rough under your bare feet. The silence is eerie, deafening. You pick up the paper. The handwriting is small, neat, a little rushed, but unmistakably hers:

> Had to go. Flight. Idol stuff. You already know. 

> Don’t forget.  

> 010-XXXX-XXXX  

> - S1

Below the number: a single, hastily drawn puppy. Like something she might doodle in a margin during a boring meeting.

The simplicity of it steals your breath. No grand declarations. No promises she couldn’t keep. Just a lifeline. 

‘Don’t forget.’ 

As if you ever could. 

The scent of pear blossoms seems to intensify, rising from the jacket, from the paper held tightly in your suddenly trembling fingers. It’s not the scent of loss anymore. It’s the scent of her, preserved. A tangible connection.

You trace the numbers with your thumb, the ink slightly smudged, but real. The frantic worry about work, the looming dread of facing your boss, the mountain of emails undoubtedly piling up—it all recedes, muted by the sheer, staggering significance of this tiny square of paper. She didn’t merely slip away. She left a part of herself. Deliberately. Hopeful.

You remember her fierce kiss in the grey dawn light, her whispered "I'm not sorry." You remember her vulnerability, the tears, the way she clung to you like an anchor. You remember the rebellion in her touch, the way she shattered her own carefully constructed walls against your skin. She wasn’t merely escaping her friends or her manager last night; she was claiming a moment of pure, unvarnished self.

And she wants you to remember. She wants this—this connection forged in shared exhaustion and unexpected understanding, the intimacy that bloomed in the cracks of their pressured lives—to mean something beyond the frantic hours before her flight.

You pick up her jacket. It’s soft, still holding a whisper of her warmth or maybe the memory of it. You bring it to your face, inhaling deeply. Pear blossoms, beer and soju, the faintest trace of her perfume, and underneath it all, something uniquely Seoyeon. Not the idol, but the girl who tripped on subway stairs, who rolled her eyes at her friends, who confessed her fears in a quiet cafe, who kissed you like it was her final act of defiance.

A slow, hesitant warmth begins to spread through the hollow ache. It’s not happiness—not quite. It’s something quieter, more profound. A fragile kind of hope, delicate as the paper in your hand. The world hasn’t changed. Your soul-crushing job still waits. Her life as an idol, governed by rules and scrutiny, continues relentlessly. The distance between Seoul and Tokyo remains vast.

But—she left her number. She asked you not to forget. She reached back.

The frantic panic about work resurfaces, much sharper now. There will be consequences. The weight of your ordinary, monotonous career presses in. Life goes on.

Yet as you stand, still holding the jacket and the precious slip of paper, the dread feels—different. Manageable. It’s merely noise. Background static to the quiet hum of possibility resonating from the number in your hand.

You carefully fold the paper, slipping it into the pocket of your sleep pants, a lucky charm against the mundane hell awaiting you in the office. You drape her jacket back over one of the dining room chairs, not putting it away. Let it stay. A reminder.

You head towards the shower, the hot water a necessity to face the day. The steam rises, filling the small bathroom. As you close your eyes, letting the water sluice over the scratches on your back—her marks—the image that surfaces isn’t of spreadsheets or your boss fuming. It’s Seoyeon’s face in the dim karaoke light, fierce and alive as she sang, then vulnerable and trusting as she fell apart on your couch. It’s her smile, small and real, in the grey dawn after. It’s the lone puppy drawn beside her number.

The day ahead is a gauntlet. Deadlines and apologies and the ruthless grind of an indifferent corporate world. But beneath the surface tension, beneath the fatigue and the lingering scent of her on your skin, something else thrums. A quiet, persistent current. A purpose.

“Don’t forget.”

—————

(A/N: Thank you for the commission! Again, would like to apologize for the inactivity, semester just ended and thesis work is brutal. But I am getting into tripleS a little. A bit too many members to remember, but I really like Sohyun especially. Haven't had time to listen to their new music, but Girls Never Die was one of my favorite 2024 songs. What started as a fun prompt turned into something a bit more emotional and sentimental. I do wonder if I'm just repeating elements from older works, especially since it takes a lot from Instant Crush. Hopefully with more free time, I can post a bit often than usual, even if it's only temporarily. Thank you for reading!)

[jabber-simper]

Making Them Jealous By Accident - Hotarubi

You didn't realize you weren't giving your loving boyfriend enough attention but when he starts to complain about you spending time with someone else it dawns on you. You better make sure to assure him he's the only one for you.

Sinostra | Frostheim | Jabberwock | Hotarubi | Obscuary | Mortkraken | Vagastrom

Haku Kusanagi

Haku is generally very confident in your relationship with him

However, one day on his way back to Hotarubi he spots you and goes to make his way over only to see you talking to Rui

He sees the blush on your cheeks as Rui is his normal flirty self and he can't help the stab of jealousy he feels

He comes closer and wraps an arm around your shoulders

"Hi princess sorry to interupt."

"Hey Haku, i was just saying hi to Rui"

Haku shoots Rui a look that you don't see since he's next to you

"Ah and Haku's my cue to get back to Obscuary before more people show up i have to dodge, see ya later cutie"

Once Rui is gone you turn to look over at Haku and he grins at you

"Have an interesting conversation princess?"

You ignore his attempts to turn the topic, you know him to well at this point

"Haku, were you jealous of Rui?" You tease and he gets a fake look of hurt

"Princess what would I have to be jealous about?"

"Oh i don't know, the fact that Rui is a total flirt. But even if you weren't jealous i hope you know that all he has are empty flirts, none of the real emotion I have for you" you assure

Haku does relax as he pulls you into his arms

"Well good, because I have real emotions for you too"

Subaru Kagami

He felt so bad for the stab of jealousy he felt

He didn't mean to feel it, but coming in late for lunch his apology dies on his lips when he sees you and Lyca sitting side by side, your hands gently grabbing Lyca by the chin to clean off whatever he smeared on his face this time

The gentle look of concentration on your face as your attention was focused solely on the werewolf made his stomach turn because it wasn't directed at him

And that just made him feel worse because Lyca was just your friend and he knew that

"SUBA! You finally came!" Lyca called out and you turned to see your boyfriend

You could tell by the look on his face something was wrong, but before you could ask he smiled and apologized for being late

You didn't get a chance to bring it up until after lunch when Subaru was walking you back

"Suba? You okay? When you showed up before you seemed like something was going on and I just want to make sure you're okay."

"You're so kind to worry MC, though I'm sorry i caused you to worry, nothing is going on."

You frown and stop, making him stop as well

"You can tell me Suba" you pout and now he feels worse

"It's nothing really, just when I saw you and Lyca I-" he cuts off "I'm so sorry, please forgive me MC"

"Suba..were you jealous of Lyca? You have nothing to be sorry for."

"But i know you and Lyca-kun are just friends and.."

You cut him off "Suba, it's okay. But for the record, i love you and only you. If you ever need me to remind you of that, then I'm more than happy to."

"Thank you MC, and I love you too"

Zenji Kotodama

Zenji hadn't seen you for a few days, you were off on a mission with Vagastrom and he was composing epics for you when you returned

When he heard from Haku that you were back he made his way out to search the school to find you rather than waiting for you to come see him

Afterall who was he to make his muse walk more than needed when he didn't waste any energy at all to look for you

When he did find you it was outside that foodtruck on the campus where you were laughing and smiling at something that the white haired ghoul who ran the food truck had said to you

He couldn't help the pang he felt as he watched the two of you, knowing he couldn't give you the comforts of physical touch like that guy could

Zenji turned and left, not wanting to interrupt you

"Hey, what's up with that doll?" Sho asked you suddenly, gesturing behind you

You turned to see Zenji's doll watching you, but saw no sign of your boyfriend anywhere

"Hey Sho, I've gotta go, but I'll see you later"

You went up to the doll and followed after it as it went through the campus

Eventually it lead you to Zenji

"Zenji!" You greeted happily "I missed you"

He turned to smile at you, though his smile didn't quite meet his eyes

"My dear, my heart wept for you every moment you were away. Though, I do want to ask..did you truly miss my presence so much when you have all these other around you that you can truly interact with"

"Of course I missed you, nobody here makes me feel like you do. I love you Zenji, no matter what"

"But my doll, I cannot cradle you close in my arms and cherish you with all the love I could present you with if I'd still had my body. I'll admit, I'm jealous of the interactions you can have with the others."

"It doesn't matter to me if we can touch or not. You show me your love through your amazing compositions and poems. That to me is a deeper show of your love than a touch ever could be"

Zenji had tears in his ghostly eyes "Oh my dear, i do not deserve you" he sobbed

"You do Zenji, because you deserve happiness, and I'll love you always"

[00lunect]

★JD with Braces: Take 3★

Translation:

JD: It huuuuuuuuuuuuurts~…

Bruce: Calm down, John. We'll get ice cream later.

Clay: No ice cream! You heard the dentist: his mouth is a mess. The last thing he needs is more junk for his teeth!

Floyd: Don't be so hard on him. The dentist also said it would take a few weeks for the pain to go away and that it would be good if we did our best to cheer him up…

Clay: You're being very soft. John asked for it by not taking care of it when he could!

Bruce: The underbite isn't something you can prevent by just brushing your teeth, Clay.

Branch: But the tartar, the three cavities, and the broken tooth that they also had to treat can.

JD: Shut up…

So, I decided to add a little ✨angst✨ to the whole JD braces thing because in my last doodle, the man didn't suffer enough, and my brain came up with more lore about it. (⁠ ⁠╹⁠▽⁠╹⁠ ⁠).

So, it turns out the underbite isn't the only thing wrong with John's mouth when they go to the dentist. While getting checked out, the doctor discovers the man has been living with a considerable amount of tartar, three cavities, and a broken tooth between his teeth for a few years, which obviously worries the brothers greatly and causes them to scold John for having neglected his oral hygiene so badly. At least for the first few years he was away from the Troll Tree. Apparently, his teeth started hurting about two or three years after Brozone separated, which is why he was forced to return home (also because he missed his family terribly, of course, but the cavities simply made him rush to get there faster and see a dentist).

Unfortunately for him, he found the Troll Tree empty, and, devastated by all this, he ends up neglecting his hygiene even more for a while, until he manages to make his own toothpaste. Years later, he discovers the other tribes, but unsure of what to expect from his medicine, he doesn't dare visit a local dentist for a checkup. By now, he'd gotten used to living with the pain as a kind of punishment for abandoning his family, so he just sticks to getting proper toothbrushes and real toothpaste. Since then, he brushes every day after every meal to prevent his dental problems from worsening and tooth loss, and somehow it worked, as even the dentist was impressed that he still had a set of teeth to save.

The rest of Brozone is horrified by the revelation and extremely worried for their older brother.

John Dory receives THE scolding of his life, plus special treatment to restore his teeth to their former glory (or whatever they once were before the split), which is pretty easy for the Pop Trolls considering their high-sugar diet, so performing miracles regarding cavities was their specialty. The broken tooth and tartar were more difficult, but the dentist managed. Finally, after several weeks of constant (and painful. Really painful) treatment and making sure John Dory's teeth didn't fall out anytime soon, they finally address the initial problem: the underbite. By now, John Dory has already had a terrible time with the other treatments, barely able to sleep after someone drilled into his teeth for hours and put some weird, bad-tasting stuff in them to fix them. So, braces are the icing on the cake. The pressure in his mouth is unbearable, and according to the dentist, he'd have to deal with that pain for a few more weeks.

Long story short, JD was going to suffer for another month, and he's exhausted and almost traumatized by it all. The only thing his brothers can do in the face of such a pathetic sight is try to make him feel better or keep him comfortable until it passes, and John can only last a few hours before finally being overcome by the urge to cry…

But don't feel sad, people, this is all for his own good. And once the discomfort from the braces passes, he'll look so cute with his new smile! (⁠✿⁠^⁠‿⁠^⁠).

…Even if he hates it…

Here are Take 1 and Take 2 of this whole thing, in case you were wondering where this idea of JD with braces came from. Just a silly little thing I thought of the other day and wanted to capture. You'll also notice that the John Dory drawing in this post has facial hair, which the previous one didn't have, so I decided to add it. I don't know, I felt like he needed it. In my previous doodle, he looked very young.

And here's the drawing without text and enlarged, so you can appreciate my boy having a bad time. ✧⁠◝⁠(⁠⁰⁠▿⁠⁰⁠)⁠◜⁠✧

Thanks for reading!

[witchthewriter]

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐇𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐈𝐟 𝐕𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐋𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐀 𝐂𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐄𝐠𝐠𝐬?

inspired by @hallowed-harpy.

a/n: this is a long post, it also includes what the eggs look like, their names and the reaction to the eggs. Also how it affects the plot...

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

𖤓 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃: a clutch can have 3-5 eggs in it.

Viserion, had been absent for a while now, and Dany was getting worried. Where was he? With so much happening and enemies seemingly surrounding her, she wanted to make sure Viserion was okay. And he had been acting differently...So, she climbed atop Drogon and they went looking.

・Viserion had always been affectionate; the most affectionate out of the three dragons.

・Dany always thought of him as a 'mama's boy,' but as she flew over mountain, sea and sand, she finally realised.

・Viserion was not a 'he' afterall.

・Drogon and Dany watched as Viserion huddled against a mound.

・To anyone else, it looked like a pile of rock, but as Dany got closer, she saw the clutch.

・It wasn't overally large, so Dany guessed there were three. Three eggs. Just like the ones she was gifted all those years ago.

・Drogon landed, in Viserion's eyesight; a respectful distance. Physically telling Viserion that he was not there to dominate.

・Dismounting, she walked the rest of the distance.

・When reaching her youngest dragon, she was hit with a wheel of emotions; heart ache, love, shock, benevolence and fear.

“Ñuha jorrāelagon, Viserion.” (My beloved Viserion)

・Dany cried out, moving slowly toward her daughter.

・Viserion made a crooning near-whine, when she saw Dany.

"Oh my girl," Dany cried, coming to touch Viserion's face.

・And it felt like seeing her properly, for the very first time.

・The golden dragon huffed, and nudged her nose toward the enclosed eggs.

・Dany knelt down and she was astonished.

・The eggs pulsed with life, such a contrast between these and Dany's own eggs.

・Drogon swooped overhead, guarding the area. Eliminating all threats.

・Since Viserion had kept her clutch a secret for so long, Dany decided the eggs should stay there. Only a dragon could reach that cave. Or a dragonrider.

・Only a chosen few are told about Viserion and her eggs, i., Missendei, Greyworm, Tyrion. Yet somehow the rumors spread.

・This becomes so much more than the war for the Iron Throne.

・Now it's about legacy. It's about what will change in Westeros.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐠𝐠𝐬

So, Vis birthed four eggs.

Not heavy in weight; they are lighter than stone.

As they grew, the shells hardened.

They were warm, pulsing with life. Colourful and vibrant. They thrummed when touched. It felt like a tickle, to them.

Rhaegal will not approach them. Drogon, seen far off in the mountains, hasn’t returned since they were laid.

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐄𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭

The information spread like a wildfire, no matter how hard Dany tried to conceal it.

Assassination attempts multiply. Priests in red, white, and black arrive to declare omens of doom.

They send envoys to buy the eggs with gold, slaves, ships

Archmaesters declare her a second Maegor.

They declare that she is 'Not just a Targaryen, but here to End Man’s Rule.'

And they have that last part true...

𝐀𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐟𝐭

Those who were once allies out of strategy begin to see Daenerys not as a liberator, but a founder of an age.

Tyrion stops thinking like a Hand. And starts thinking like a man writing a new world.

Missandei grows more devoted. She watches the eggs with wonder. There is no fear in her. Only awe.

Grey Worm triples the guard at Danerys' side.

The alliances she has with other Houses, are now different. She is not the one seeking allies for politics. She has now become formiddable.

Soon people will be begging for a union. And any kind at that.

Dany doesn't need to marry for alliances; she can marry for love.

She has now become the top predator.

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐀𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐃𝐚𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐬 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟

Dany grieves. Because this was never meant to be her path. She cannot birth a child, and now her dragon can? Danerys weeps, quietly, one night with her hand on the eggs. But not with jealousy. But with hope. A clear vision of what she must do. Who she must be. However, she does feel fear. And a lot of it. Because Viserion’s clutch is not a symbol. It is a weapon of nature, born without cost—and therefore without balance. So...what will best the cost? Who will she lose?

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐬

🌈 The new dragons might have deeper ties to the world’s mystical forces:

𝑪𝒐𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝑶𝒍𝒅 𝑽𝒂𝒍𝒚𝒓𝒊𝒂: As the eggs didn't lay dormant for centuries like Dany's had. They may carry Valyrian magic. Potentially unlocking secrets about the old dragonlords and maybe even their ancient spells.

𝑰𝒏𝒇𝒍𝒖𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒏𝒗𝒊𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕: The presence of dragons often corresponds with the resurgence of magic. These dragons might further amplify that magic, this creates opportunities... the good and the bad kind.

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒉𝒚𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅 is changed abundantly. Where Viserion chose to lay her eggs, the area and beyond - began to grow, and in ways never seen before. Beautiful greenery with vines twisting over stone as if pulled toward the eggs. There's blooming flowers ... even those out of season. Some people were most amazed when herbs long thought extinct begin to appear in unexpected places.

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒛𝒆𝒏𝒔' 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅 began to change; even their dreams. Those that were closer to the mountain, dreamt of the future. Of more dragons. Of magic.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠.

𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐬?

𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐥, 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐝𝐲𝐧𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐲. 𝐄𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞. 𝐈𝐦𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 14 - Inside and Out

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: We're about to go crazy.

Chapter title from Frankenstien by Rina Sawayama

Word Count: 8.1k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You go back to your place, and start to make a choice. Usual warnings, slight emphasis on mental health/emotional abuse.

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff

Chapter 13 - Chapter 15

Read on A03!

You didn’t want to leave. 

Happy had gotten all of your security together—although it wouldn’t matter if Miles got his way, which he usually did—and you had to go back to your apartment. 

It’s so big. So needlessly cold and big. And you’ve always liked it for the view, but suddenly you just feel like you’re being suspended over the world, never allowed to rest down somewhere soft.

And you’d been given that, for a few nights. Bucky’s place had been small, and a little bare, but it also hadn’t been lonely. You hadn’t gotten as much work done, but he’d been right about that. No one had died. And the pain hadn’t eased, with the rest, but it hadn’t worsened either. It had simply become on almost low, constant hum up your spine as the Mist rioted. And you’d still wake up with your lungs being ground to dust and sweat on your brow, but then you’d stumble to the bathroom and strong arms would catch you halfway there, helping you settle onto the ground and holding your hair out of your face. 

Miles never did that. You’d be vomiting in the bathroom after the longer and darker nights, a different type of pain in your body—bigger and hollower and made of you, this is your fault, fucking waste of space—and Miles would pretended he couldn’t hear you.

Although people don’t normally aid the pain they cause. 

Bucky would never do that. Hurt you like that. At all. You have evidence for it now, and it’s not helping anything. He cares, and you can know it, but it doesn’t matter. If Miles tugs on your leash, you’ll have to follow. 

But you want to stay. And be cared for.

It’s pathetic.

You don’t need it. You don’t. You’ve survived the bond your whole life, and you saved yourself from your past, and you don’t need Bucky. Making someone else care for you has never ended in your favor, because they couldn’t. Your parents are gone, and all your partners saw you as a good, shiny little investment, and you don’t know if Miles ever cared for you, or if he’d simply seen how malignant you were from the start and decided to put you down.

But Bucky had seen you too.

And he cares.

For you.

It’s a little easier to be you when he’s there, and you’re not forcing yourself to stifle or strange anything for the sake of the Show. It’s nice to fall apart and not worry you’re going to be thrown onto the street for it. It’s good to be known, and reassured, and not feel like you’re committing a hedonistic and foul crime for it. 

You don’t need this.

But fuck, it feels good.

And you don’t want to go back to your apartment. To looking at the cameras and wondering if anyone is watching you. If you’re going to be saved from this high, barbed tower that you can’t stop building, or if you’ll just have to keep going up and up and up until you either tumble down, or walk straight into the Sun. 

You don’t think Bucky’s been checking them. The cameras. There are odd, lingering elements of him being from the 40s, and while one of them isn’t modestly, it’s something close to it.

Chivalry.

That’s why he always opens the door for you. While when you’d changed at his place—in the bathroom, behind two closed doors—he’d always be keeping his back to you until you returned to the living room. You got to choose dinner, and TV, and he’d always carry you to bed instead of just letting you sleep on the couch.

“I know you’re fakin’.” He’d muttered in your ear on the second night, and you hadn’t been able to stop your eyes from flying open. “There she is-“

“Shut up.” You’d grumbled, rolling slightly until your face was pressed to Bucky’s chest.

It wasn’t cheating. And Miles wasn’t a hound dog. He wouldn’tsmell Bucky on you. By the time he got back, this would just be a memory you’d buried in your arteries, to be dug up on lonelier nights and make you feel more alive. And Bucky hadn’t protested. He’d only held you a little tighter.

It hadn’t helped the slowly growing and spreading feelings. It was starting to bloom in your intestines. 

Dangerous. 

But Bucky had laughed, and you couldn’t really be fucked to try and stop it.

“And there’s the smart mouth. And it’s a good try, but I’m not sleepin’ on the bed.”

“But it’s your bed.”

“And you’re my guest, and the one bein’ body guarded. You get the bed. End of discussion.”

You’d sighed, grumbling against his body. “This is an abuse of power.”

Bucky had chucked, and it had vibrated in his chest, dislodging something that sent a new wave of the Mist flooding through your body.

It had clouded over your head and drowned out most of the world, almost knocking you out with the sheer force of it.

Bucky’s words had still made it through.

“We both know I don’t have any real power here, Butterfly.”

You don’t know if you’d responded. 

You do know that he’d been wrong. So incredibly wrong. Bucky cared, and you trusted him, and he was the only person you’d met who didn’t try to grab you and hold you down like your parents, run faster than you like Tony, or allowed you to roam with watchful eyes like Sam. 

Bucky just matched you, step for step, bite for bite, grin for grin. And he had power, because you wanted him to know you, and stay. 

He could break you, you think. If he looked through all your stained glass and folded tapestries, all the way down to that winged, loud, beaten-down core, and decided you weren’t worth it. You’d survived worse. 

You really don’t want to find out if you could survive that.

And you hadn’t wanted to be his guest. You wanted this to, maybe, be it. Everything. And Bucky would sleep at your side and be there when you woke up, just like in your dreams, and maybe the bond would kill you, but you’ve died before.  

You think you’ve died before. 

You’ve been having a lot of really, really strange dreams. 

There’s no one left in the world but you, and the flowers. Blooming through the ash as it turns back to air, then to dirt, then to soil, and everything starts to grow once more.

Everything but you. Wandering this prison alone. 

It’s one you created. And there’s no life left but you, but it will return. Everything will recover, and maybe civilizations will be built once more, and you will become nothing more than a ghost story. A lonely phantom at the edges of the universe, more alive than anyone else, except where it counts. 

They’ll give warnings about you. Whatever evolves into the next dominate form of life will tell tales about the strange looking girl that all the shadows move towards, how the wind is haunted by Her tears, and how She never moves from Her place. How they should dread the day She does, for everything will feel it when Her grief becomes too much to bear once more. 

Then it won’t matter, for them. They’ll all be ash, just like those before them, and you’ll sit here another million years.

Barely more than a stature with a heartbeat, although your heart is buried in the dirt, blooming with moonflowers and never holding you again. 

You wake up from this one with only blood-burning pain and the Boy, nudging your face with his nose and curling on your chest when you start to pet him. 

You’re back in your apartment. In the big bed you hate sleeping in, with the longest shadows creeping over the mattress and under your skin until dawn breaks the sky. 

You’re starting to worry about the dreams more. How they’re getting more and more vivid, and echoing in the world around you, and how—the more they come—the more pain there is in your body. But you can’t tell anyone. It would involve talking about how fast the bond is fraying and snapping, even when Miles has barely been gone a week. 

And Miles wouldn’t care. You can’t even get him on the phone to help with the bond. 

And you know you can’t tell Bucky. He would try to do something about it. You’re sure of that now.  

He cares, and he’d try to free you, and it would end horribly.

“Listen.” He’d said the morning you were heading back, and you hadn’t missed the way he’d angled himself over you at the table, as if he was trying to give himself more authority.

It had been kind of adorable. For him to think he didn’t need to just use the commanding voice and eyes, and you wouldn’t feel like some sort of hazy spell had been cast over your body. 

“Are you listening-“

“I’m listening.” You’d crossed your legs under your body, raising your brows. “You need to talk, though.”

He’d rolled his eyes, but pressed on. “Alright, smartass. You need to listen-“

“I just said-“

“All the time.” Bucky had snapped, narrowing his eyes. “Not just now. I know we’re past our deal of how this works, but I’m fuckin’ serious. If I tell you not to do somethin’ for your safety, you listen. And if you’ve got a problem with it, you use that mouth of yours to tell me. We’re a team. Stop tryin’ to do everything by yourself.”

“I- I’m-“ Your heartbeat had been in your ears, and it hadn’t been the pain. It had been Bucky’s glare, driving right into you with care. He cared. For some fucking reason, Bucky really cared, and his jawline was really sharp when he glowered, and his eyes were so blue and focused on you and-

He’s looking at you again. The way only Bucky’s ever looked at you, where he can see right into you and find nothing but beauty in it. There’s nothing to be said. Nothing that needs to be said. Your breathing is shallow and the world is spinning, but when you stumble, Bucky catches you and doesn’t let go. There’s a sound like a drum building in your ears. A feeling like you’re being frozen and burned alive all at once, and it’s coating your skin like poison, but Bucky just keeps holding you. You could hurt him. He knows you could hurt him. And there’s nothing to stop you, but he’s still just holding you, and he needs to let go-

You must say that aloud, because Bucky shakes his head, and only holds you tighter.

“I’m keepin’ you, Butterfly.” He picks you a little up off the ground, and you drop your brow to his shoulder without thought. “I know, sweet girl. I’ve got you.”

The vision had faded back into nothing, Bucky had grunted your name, and you’d nodded nervously. 

“Okay. I- I’ll stop pushing it-“

“No, that’s not-“ Bucky had sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t care that you’re pushin’ it. I know you’re going to push it, kid. Just stop trying to push it without me. I meant it.” He’d leaned forward, his features neutral but nostrils flaring slightly —you still didn’t know what that Look meant—and held your wide-eyed gaze. “You’re important. And I’m not letting anything happen to you. So stop trying to test that.”

You’d swallowed and nodded, a small fear in your chest that if you spoke, you’d tell him. The truth. All of the truth. About the bond and Miles and how you’d like some help there too, please.

That was too much to ask. That wasn’t something a friend asked of another friend.

Although the lines between what friends did and didn’t do was becoming blurred.

The week continues to pass, and Bucky’s boots are living next to your door. 

You don’t know if he misses you too, when you’re not there. You know you miss him. You know that when he parks in the garage after work, and you both stare at each other for an impossibly long moment, there’s always a fear in your body that he’ll just go, and you’ll spend the rest of the night alone.

But he doesn’t go. 

For three nights in a row, he’s helped you out of the car, rolled his eyes as you hummed what a gentleman, and followed you upstairs.

He might just be trying to keep an eye on you.  

If he is, you can’t really bring yourself to be mad about it. 

It means that Bucky, at the end of it, just cares. Enough to make you go to bed the moment you yawn. To not snap at you when you talk over the TV, looking at you with a vague amusement and small grin on his face, his arm over the back of the couch and his own comments short and dry and easy.

Having Bucky here is so easy. 

He’s slotted himself into your life with an impossible ease, and now you can’t imagine him being anywhere else. Next to you, holding your hair back, driving you up the wall in a way that makes you feel—for the first time you can remember—comfortably alive.

“No.” Bucky grabs your laptop from your hands before it’s even fully out of your bag, holding it high over your head with the vibranium arm. “You’re takin’ the night off, kid.”

You scowl, crossing your arms over your chest and raising your chin. “You’re not my boss, Buck. Give me back my computer.”

“You can have it if you can take it.”

“I- You fucking asshole-“

“I know.” He grins down at you. “C’mon, sweetheart. Give it a shot.”

There’s no way you can physically take it from him. He’s a super solider, and you’ve been getting lightheaded when you stand up. 

He’s smirking. He knows that. 

“Asshole.”

“You already said that.”

“I’m saying it again.” You stick your tongue out at him, holding your ground. “What can you possibly be gaining from this, James? Do you feel like a big man, keeping my computer hostage?”

He just laughs. “Yeah, I do. You were going to type it to death, I’m doin’ it a favor.”

First plan of attack, a failure. “You suck.”

“I’ve also heard I’m an asshole.”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The Mist rushes you, and suddenly you’re swaying slightly on your feet. 

Bucky catches you. He always catches you. And when the dark spots over your vision clear he’s frowning down at you in his arms, the laptop moved somewhere you can’t see as the vibranium hand brushes hair from your eyes. 

“You alright?” Bucky mutters your name, and your fingers curl in his neck. 

You’re alright. Bucky’s got you. 

He’s got you. He’s always got you. 

There’s something worse than Hell roaring for you in the ash, but Bucky’s got you. 

And nothing is going to hurt either of you again.

Something is happening to you. Something with the Mist, and Bucky, and so much pain that’s never going to stop.

“This.” Bucky mutters your name, so soft you’re not sure if you’re supposed to hear. “This is why you need to slow down. You’re gonna burn yourself out.”

You won’t. You’ve moved faster and faster for far longer and through more pain. 

But now it’s Bucky asking you to rest. With him. 

So you can only nod, and hum an okay.

“Good girl.” He mutters, helping you fully to your feet, and that’s not helping anything. 

Now all you can imagine doing is jump onto him and seeing how he’ll catch you then. If he’ll receive the building pressure between your thighs, every time bare skin brushes yours or he smiles at you from his eyes. 

He keeps smiling at you from his eyes.

“If I gotta take a night off, you do too.” He drawls, herding you to the couch. “But, in case you’re thinkin’ of being a brat, I brought you shit.”

“You-“ It takes a second to compose yourself. You think Bucky might be trying to kill you. “Are you trying to bribe me, Sargent Barnes?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not very ethical.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He gives you a flat look, dropping down to fumble through his backpack. “You want your bribes or not?”

You swallow, and give him a small nod. “Yes, please.”

“Sit.” 

He’s using the voice, but you don’t think he even knows there is a voice. His eyes even flash with slight surprise when you listen immediately, and his nod is slow. 

“Alright.” Bucky draws back up from his bag, his hands set behind his face. “First, for the Boy.”

“For the-“ You squeak as Bucky tosses you a small bag. “Oh.”

Cat treats. 

Bucky bought you cat treats.

And that shouldn’t be making a small lump form in your throat, but it is. He bought you cat treats. The same cat treats you’d been giving the Boy, when you’d been at his place. He’d noticed what treats you bought, and he’d gotten them for the Boy, and this isn’t fair. It would be so nice to make this permanent, but it won’t be, and you’d love for Bucky to be yours for a long time—maybe until that end of world you’ve been dreaming about—but he can’t be.

“Shit, I- Are you-“

“I’m good.” You whisper, offering him a small smile. “I’m really good, Buck. Thank you.”

He blinks at you, a small frown on his lips and his stance a little more tense than usual, but he still nods slowly.

“Yeah. That’s- alright. You want the other thing?”

You nod—words don’t seem wise right now—and Bucky clears his throat.

“I know you said this a while ago, and you mighta been jokin’, but I figured best to give it a shot. So, uh- Here.”

Bucky holds out a small stack of papers, and you frown up at him. “I have paper, Buck. You got me paper.”

“This isn’t paper. It’s got words.”

“It’s-“ You lean forward, and it does indeed have words. 

Not typed, though. Written in a tight, neat script, signed JBB at the top. 

“Bucky?” You glance up, and find him shuffling awkwardly on his feet. “Is this a book report?”

“Yeah. I- You said I could know the Boy’s real name. If I did the book report.”

“Oh.” You didn’t think he’d actually do it.

There’s no way is hell you’re going to be able to not tell him now.

“Do you want me to… go get him?” You ask, fighting a smile at Bucky’s confused expression. “The Boy. For the big name reveal.”

Bucky’s nostrils flare, his voice suddenly a little hoarse. “You’re gonna tell me?”

“I said I would, didn’t I?” You give him a mock-offended expression. “I’m wounded you’d think I’d lie.”

His lips twitch. “Yeah. Don’t know where I ever woulda gotten that idea.”

“I know.” You give a full, unrestrained smile, and you really don’t care if he sees you anymore.

You want him to.

“Are you ready?”

“Born it, Butterfly. You want me to guess, first?”

“No, you won’t get it.”

“You’ve got so much faith in me, sweetheart-“

“Shut up. It’s Behemoth.”

Bucky blinks at you. “Beeheemot.”

“Beh-heh-mot.” You correct, and as if he was summoned, the Boy jumps right up to your lap. “It’s a biblical sea monster. Just like you.”

You boop the Boy’s nose, he blinks at you slowly, and Bucky clears his throat. He’s staring at you, an odd, heavy Look—maybe confusion, although he’s not blinking enough—written over his face, and you frown.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, uh-“ He coughs, shaking his head slightly. “Just not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“Not sure.” He’s still making a strange face. “How’d- Uh- How’d you come up with that?”

“I dunno.” You shrug. “Read it somewhere, I guess. Don’t really remember.”

“Huh.”

You nod absentmindedly, the Boy nudging your hand with his nose. “Yeah, it’s um- It’s one of those glossy memories I was talking about. I- I just try not to think about them-“

“You don’t have to,” Bucky mutters, dropping onto the couch at your side. “Just an odd name. But,” he gives you a small grin, and it’s still from his eyes. “You’re kind of an odd person.”

You smile at him. “You’re an odd person too, Sargent Barnes.”

“It’s the metal arm, isn’t it.”

“No.” You hum, scratching behind the Boy’s ear, and Bucky sighs.

“You’re gonna make me guess, aren’t you.”

“Maybe.” You throw him an open, teasing look. “You gonna tell me why I’m odd.”

“You wanna know?”

You shrug, holding his gaze, and Bucky leans forward.

Far forward.

His knee is bumping yours, and it’s a little mind numbing, and suddenly nowhere in the worlds exists outside of Bucky, and his deep, amused voice. 

“I think you’re odd.” He drawls your name, holding your gaze. “Because you’re mean, and the kindest person I’ve ever met.”

“I- Oh.”

“Never seen someone be so mouthy and sweet all at once,” he hums, and it’s good you’re already sitting down. “It’s fucking captivating, Butterfly. Didn’t understand why everyone loves you at first, but now I do. You’ve got some sort of spell. Doesn’t make any sense otherwise.”

Your voice is small, when you respond. “Everyone doesn’t love me, James-“

“Yeah, they do.” 

“No-“

“Only people that don’t are the suits, and they don’t love you cause they know you’re better than they are. Everyone else? You’ve got them hooked.”

You can only stare at him. People don’t love you. They tolerate you, because they haveto. Because you’re the boss or the toy or the charity case. The too alive girl that’s eating Herself in the corner, and is best left alone or She’ll eat you too. 

But Bucky’s saying it like it’s a fact. A given. 

And the Mist is going to split your nerves apart.

“Why am I odd? C’mon, I showed you mine-“

“I like you.” 

Bucky blinks, frowning slightly, but you push on before he can speak. 

“I- I don’t like a lot of people. Not really. Not to talk to, or hang out with, or-“ You swallow, shaking your head. “I just prefer being alone. Easier. But I- I don’t want to be alone, if talking to you is an option.”

And that’s dangerous. Is what you should add. I can do things no one person should be able to do, and it’s all under the control of a vile man I can never escape, so you should run before I hurt you more than you’ve already been hurt. More than you deserve. Please run, Bucky, now. 

He doesn’t run. He just stares at you, and whatever spell he was talking about, you’re the one under it. Bucky’s holding your gaze, and you’re like a fly in a trap. You’re not going to be the one to move. You can’t be.

You’ll do something really, really stupid if you’re the one to move. 

Maybe it’s good, the door flies open when it does. That you kick into the show based on pure instinct and scramble back across the couch, because no one else walks with those stomping steps and barges in without knocking. Like they own the place.

And they don’t. You do.

But it’s Miles. 

So that schematic doesn’t matter at all. 

“Honey, go put on the red dress, we’re going-“ Miles freezes when he sees you.

With Bucky.

And freezes is the wrong word. He goes still. Like a fucking predator.

Bucky doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t know he should. That with one word from Miles, you might be turned into a cruel, unforgiving animal. 

He has no way to know. You haven’t warned him. 

“Barnes.” Miles says, his voice cool, and your blood shivers when his attention turns to you. “What’s the sidekick doing here.”

Bucky shifts in your periphery. “I was-“

“Didn’t ask you, buddy.” Miles snaps, not looking away from you. “What’s he doing.”

“I- We’ve been getting some extra threats at the office,” you whisper. A half-truth is better—and safer—than a lie. “Sam asked him to do a sweep of our apartment. To make sure we’re safe-“

Miles snorts at that. “Tell Wilson to keep that shit to himself.”

Bucky tenses, but you know Miles’ dismissal isn’t for the reason he’s thinking. It’s not that Miles doesn’t care if you live or die—he does, though mostly because you’re a good asset—it’s that he knows if someone were to try and hurt you, at least while he was here, they’d be the one in danger. 

How you’ll fare on your own doesn’t seem to occur to him though, as he stomps across the carpet and you keep your eyes fixed on his shoes.

“We’re going out.” He snaps your name, and you keep your head bowed. “Go put on that dress. I got a party I need you at. And you,” his voice turns venomous, and you know he’s looking at Bucky. “Get out of my apartment.”

Bucky doesn’t move. And you can feel his gaze on yours, giving you a silent permission he doesn’t understand the weight of. If you ask him to stay, he will.

You can’t ask him to stay. It will get him hurt. You don’t care about the punishment that will follow as well—Miles either abusing the bond until you’re worn thin, or neglecting it until you’re too weak to get out of bed—but you care what will happen to Bucky, if you’re to selfish, and beg him to stay.

To save you.

And in all those stories with happy endings, where the Princess gets saved from the dragon, the Princess and the Dragon are never the same. She’s never asking to be saved from the chain she wrapped around her neck, that painted itself as blanket, then wound itself a little too tight. 

Bucky can’t save you. But by just standing and walking to your room—the Boy squeaking and following after you—you’re saving him. 

And you need to find a way to tell him that. Somewhere no one else will hurt either of you, where you’ll explain it and beg on your knees for him to do nothing. But he can’t think you’re just walking away. You never want to walk away. Not from Bucky. He’s slowly becoming the best place in the world to be, and you’re not strong enough to fight that anymore.

So you’ll tell him. 

Somehow, you’ll figure out how to tell him everything. If he sees this pathetic, weak part of you and somehow stays. 

He might not stat. Not after this. He might be angry for how you just let Miles kick him out, and you won’t be friends anymore. 

And you have bigger things to worry about than if Bucky will still like you. But that doesn’t stop the thought from looping in your head, over and over, until you’re certain you’ll have driven yourself insane by the end of the night.

“Why was he on the couch,” Miles spits your name as he stomps into the room, and you flinch slightly. 

You messed up your eyeliner. 

Now you have to start over, or the entire Show will fall apart.

“I was being polite.” You don’t look away from the mirror as you scrub everything off, and then go a little further. Until your skin is stinging and red. “He finished the sweep, and it felt rude to kick him out-“

“I don’t give a fuck what’s rude.” Miles is standing behind you. His hand has found its way to hold your waist, and you have to give him a sweet smile.

It looks wrong on your face. Like it’s more rotting than really, truly sweet. Like opening the core of an apple to find it filled with worms.

But Miles doesn’t seem to think anything is wrong.

So you’re playing your role well.

“Next time that ass shit tries to make a move on you, say no.”

The flush rising up your cheek is, for once, genuine. “I- He wasn’t-“

“Don’t be stupid.” Miles rolls his eyes, squeezing your hip. “I know men, honey. He wants to get into your pants.”

No, he doesn’t. You would have noticed if he did. 

You would have. 

You’re not sure what Bucky wanting you would look like, but you’d be able to figure it out. You think you’d be able to figure it out. He may stare at you all the time, but he stares at everyone. He always drawls your name, but he drawls everything. It’s the Brooklyn accent. And it slips out when he’s comfortable, so-

Comfortable.

Bucky’s comfortable with you. 

That doesn’t mean anything. 

But it could.

And you’re lucky Miles never really looks at you deeper than the surface. Otherwise he might have seen that tiny break in the show, and it would have ended in a locked bathroom door and a lot more makeup.

“I bet he made the threat himself.” Miles is muttering, changing out of his blood-red tie into a different blood-red tie. “Just to have an excuse to push his way into you. Grab the damsel then bend her over the couch.”

Bucky hadn’t bended you over any couch. He’d carried you to bed, then held your hand. 

You’re not allowed to do anything but focus on your mascara.

“You know, this is exactly fucking why you should quit that stupid fucking Stark job and move with me. I’d be able to keep an eye on you, and Barnes would never know where the hell you went. Would leave you the fuck alone, keep his grimy metal hands off my shit-“

Your hands are shaking slightly. 

Deep breaths. Swallow the vomit, and take deep breaths. You can’t slip a second time.

“Hogan’s been fucking avoiding me. I’ll track the dipshit down. Just because he was in Stark’s circle doesn’t mean he gets to ignore me, and Stark’s fucking dead-“

Shit. 

There’s a stain of mascara on your upper cheekbone. If you’re careful, you can turn it into a beauty mark. 

“Do my tie.”

That’s an order. And it’s not a pull on the bond, but you still can’t disobey. It’s not like you’ve never done Miles’ tie before. You know exactly how to force your fingers to be steady, and keep yourself small and meek as you stand before him. When you’re done, you’ll take a step back and keep your eyes on the ground until Miles approves your own outfit, and then the real show begins. 

It's a tightrope. You belong to Miles, but you’re not the creature he’s beaten into submission. You’ve chosen to latch to his side, and there will be crude things said behind your back—questions of how wide your legs can spread to fit Miles and Tony, jokes about you being a secret dominatrix behind closed doors that Miles can’t be allowed to hear—but you’re okay with them. They certainly don’t sting a layer deeper than anyone can ever see, and any hitch in your breath is from public arousal rather than fear. 

Miles keeps himself around you because you’ve asked him to. Because you like the sensation of his body—always so strangely white-hot, feeling more like stone than flesh—over yours. And you only smile at him pathetically because you are, always, just a lovesick little girl. 

“How’d you manage to put a leash on the Cattle Prod, Toper?”

Miles laughs, and you keep your smile plastered on your face. 

It’s funny. You’re too ditzy to understand how it’s funny, but you’re still supposed to be aware that it’s funny. The Show means that you just keep fucking smiling, and when Miles’ hand wanders down to squeeze your ass in front of all these other suits, you like it. 

No bile can make it past your throat. No pain can do more than fog your vision and cause your head to spin. 

You just giggle like some silly idiot, and flutter your eyes up at Miles as he spares you less than a glance.

“You just need a whip, Johnson.” Another squeeze of your ass. Keep fucking smiling. “You got the right one, then they just come back begging you for more. Isn’t that right, honey?”

“Hm?” You bat your eyelashes—too long, and little sticky on your face—up at Miles, and he laughs.

You nailed your line.

You just have to keep getting through the night. 

And these parties are almost always the exact fucking same, so you’ve had practice. Stay at Miles’ side like he’s glued you there. Never look him or anyone else in the eye, or they’ll take it as an invitation. Keep walking that line of sweet, small little bunny for Miles and lustful, whoring bitch without stumbling, or everything will fall to the ground. If someone asks you about the Foundation, don’t answer unless Miles repeats the question. If you need to go to the bathroom—for any reason—hold it. Eat and drink whatever is handed to you. Never say no, or there will be consequences, but don’t do anything where people think you might say yes. 

Miles says if men think you’ll say yes, they’ll ask. And in your experience, he’s not wrong. 

But Bucky doesn’t do that. 

He’ll ask when he knows you’re going to say no. He holds your gaze and stays a pace behind you all the time, letting you lead the way then grabbing you whenever you stumble.

Catching you.

Bucky always catches you, and he lets you talk all you want, and if you need to go the bathroom he waits at the door until you’re done. 

And when you no, he may push it, but he still respects it. No cameras until you say so. No questions about your past until you’re volunteering the information. No days off until you’re crashing and burning, and he’s fucking catching you.

He’d hate this as much as you do. He’s hate all the suits and their over-postering, and mutter in your ear that it’s not even proper posture. That in the military the shoulders go back, and the chest puffs out naturally. If you’re puffing out the chest on its own, you’re doing damage. 

Bucky would agree that the food was shit. Tiny portions that taste like either nothing, or shit. Not a single bit of flavor or spice to be found. 

And you’d tell him that Sargent Oatmeal isn’t allowed to grumble about flavor, and he’d say that he’s earned it. And all these assholes are babies compared to him. There’s no spice because they couldn’t handle it.

You’d agree with that. Miles can’t handle spice. He refused to even touch it.

And all these assholes are babies, compared to Bucky. Throwing tantrum about their money and trying to show off their shiny toys. 

Bucky would stand with you silently in the corner. No forced conversation with strangers who might want something from you.

It could just be you and Bucky, in the dark, talking about whatever you wanted. 

But Miles wants you to meet someone. And it’s not useful to compare them, but that doesn’t stop you. Bucky’s hand wouldn’t feel like an intrusion on your body, and he’d be guiding you rather than pushing you. It would be easier to keep your pace in these too-high heels, because Bucky would match your pace. 

And he wouldn’t shove you out onto the roof without a jacket-

The roof.

Why the fuck are you on the roof.

“Miles.” You whisper, and your voice possible lost to the wind. “I- I’m not-“

“Quiet.” He grunts, his voice in your ear crawling over your very bones. “We’ve got some business to take care of, honey. The more you behave, the sooner we go back to the party.”

You bite on your inner cheek, and nod. You should have fucking known. It’s never just a party. It’s a place for Miles to remind you of your place. Remind you that you’re his attack bitch, and it’s only when you remember it that everything can be easy. If you don’t fight your leash, and don’t bite his hand, then that’s it. You do go back inside, and he’ll leave soon, and the pain gets to lessens as the edge from the bond is removed. 

But the pain has been so much worse. The bond has been fraying too fast, and there’s always another party, and your leash has always felt like more of a noose. 

It doesn’t matter. 

You always have too much to lose. And you’re always still just the vicious, ugly, bitch. 

So you bow your head, and close your mouth. 

There’s a small, weedy man pacing back and forth. He’s positioned himself away from the edge of the building—he must have heard, for somewhere, that Miles Toper doesn’t do clean business—but it won’t matter. 

You’re the real danger here. 

“Listen, Toper, I-“ The man cuts himself off, his eyes widening on you. “Who the hell is this? You said we’d be meeting alone.”

“We are meeting alone.” Miles sighs. He’s keeping you in front of him. 

A shield.

“I don’t know if you’re blind or stupid, but there’s a fucking lady-“

“This is my girlfriend, Eric. And don’t worry, she’s just a pretty face.”

You’re not a pretty face. There’s something hideous ripping its way up your spine in anticipation. It knows what’s coming, just as you do. Just like Miles does.

Poor Eric hasn’t quite caught on yet.

“She might say something, Toper-“

Miles laughs. “No, she won’t. She doesn’t bark, isn’t that right, honey.”

You keep your smile wide and sweet, even if it’s all full lips and no teeth. You’re not supposed to have teeth yet. Not until Miles orders them out. 

“See?” Miles drawls. “Isn’t she pretty?”

Eric shakes his head. “Man, I just- I want to get this over with-“

“Tell her she’s pretty.” Miles repeats, and you don’t have to look back to see the sneer on his face.

“You- You’re very pretty, miss-“

“Say thank you,” Miles says in your ear, and you can’t fall over from the dizzying fucking pain. It’s everywhere, and it’s biting at all the nerves over your skull and driving like an ice pick into your brain. 

“Thank you.” You whisper, and Miles chuckles. 

“See? We can all have civil conversations, can’t we? Have you given my offer anymore thought, Eric?”

“I- I can’t- You’re asking for more than I can afford-“

Miles scoffs. “You’ll be able to afford it. Everyone can afford it-“

“I can’t-“

“Even you’re not that bankrupt.” Miles snaps, and Eric flinches. “And you’re desperate. I know you’re desperate. And I’ll be able to take care of everything, if you’d just fucking sign you human ballsack.” 

Eric swallows, and—in a feat of bravery you don’t think the man knows he’s doing—stands a little taller, and shakes his head. “No. I won’t.”

Miles sighs, but you know he expected this. 

He wouldn’t have brought you if he didn’t. 

And he says your name, his grip bruising on your arm, and you just have to keep fucking smiling. “Make him understand.”

You nod, and it’s right at the edge of your fingertip, trying to sear its way into the air. If you don’t let it out, it will turn in and kill you. 

But still, even as you look Eric right in the eye and he sees it—you, the last part of you, the hateful and dark and bloodied part that even Bucky hasn’t been able to find—you mouth I’m sorry. 

You truly are. 

This is going to hurt you, too. 

Eric’s mind is made of files. It’s neat, and cold, and mostly empty. From in here, he seems like a lonely, boring little man. 

But as you wander the halls—god, it’s annoying when people are halls, but it’s better than the mazes—all the brightest bits of him are blinding. He has a son, and the kid has the same bump on their forehead that your little brother Tommy always used to get. The one that means they move too fast and always get right back up, before sporting the lumping bruise like it’s a badge of honor. Eric has a dog, too. And it’s a loyal little thing that, in all the files you can open and find, is always trailing after him and wagging its tail. 

He thinks mostly in fear. In what ifs. What if he’d gone to a different collage. What if he’d moved away from home. What if he hadn’t run that night, what if he’d been braver and said how he felt. But it’s quiet. The fear of a man who’s already accepted it’s all he’ll be. 

It’s even more impressive that he told Miles no.

And even more tragic that it doesn’t matter.

God, you don’t want to do this. He volunteers at soup kitchens and eats from the same Greek restaurant every Friday night, because he has a crush on the owner. And he knits, and he’s shit at it, but he still does it because it makes him happy. 

Miles said you had to make him understand, though. He’d shoved you in here, and now if you don’t, you’ll die. And your brother won’t have anyone, and the Boy will be put out on the street because Miles hates him. You may deserve this fate, but they don’t. You’re here for them. For anyone but yourself. 

It’s easier to do this quick. To do as you’re told, and get out.

Eric’s center is a big, white room with a lot of faded images pinned neatly on a corkboard. You place your palm flat on the floor, and whisper into the soupy torment of this poor, sad man.

“Be more open. Be more careful. Be a little selfish, and do as he asks.”

You fly back out, you’re on the floor. Miles hadn’t caught you, when you’d gone under. You wish you knew how to do it without going into a mind—your mother said you’d been able to do that before, but the secret of how is gone with her—but you don’t hate how you can’t see it happen. The only visible aftereffects on Eric are the scratch marks on his face and the clump of hair in hands. 

It would be nice to make it not hurt, too. But at least you don’t have to hear them scream. 

And Eric’s not a strong enough man to fight what you did. His eyes open slowly, a cautious, but curious expression on his face, and Miles grins.

It’s such an ugly fucking smile. It’s like a shark. Sharp, white teeth, and a dead look in his eyes right before he swallows his prey whole. 

Miles says your name, and doesn’t even spare you a glance. “Go inside. I’ll get you when I’m done.”

You nod, and stumble away. Back into the glittering lights and stifling air that’s too hot and too cold. 

The pain should be gone, now. You used your power, and the bond should be like an iron chain, and you should be better.

You’re not. The Mist is back, and it’s churning in your gut and making your throat ache, and why the fuck isn’t the pain gone. It should be gone.

There’s an open bar. Miles might be a while, and even if he’s not and you get in trouble for drinking, there’s nothing he’ll do to you that you don’t fucking deserve. 

The first whiskey burns, but not more than the pain, and not enough to numb it. So you take another. And another. And a woman with lipstick that’s a really ugly shade of red comes up to you and ask for your name, and you’re not sure if you tell her. Then another man puts his hand on your waist, and you stumble away to a dark corner of the room. 

A waiter finds you there. Offers you champagne on a fancy silver tray.

It still hurts. You just want it not to hurt.

You take the glass. 

And the fourth whiskey shot. And the vodka shot. And Miles is taking forever, and you just want to go home but you’re not allowed to yet, so when another woman with curly hair in the bathroom offers you some absinthe, you take that too.

The room is spinning with light like a disco ball. The Show isn’t dropping yet. It has to keep going, until you crash and crash and crash. 

You’re getting closer. 

You’re never quite there yet. 

Someone grabs your wrist, and you smile at them. The Show doesn’t let you say no.

It’s a strange, older looking man. Broad. A worn face and heavy features, scanning over you with his brow furrows. His skin is clammy on yours, and his eyes are beady, and the whiskers of his beard look like they’re trying to fall off his face. 

“You.” He whispers, scanning over your face. “Are so beautiful, Левиафан.”

“Левиафан.” Another man is standing over you. This one is wearing gloves. 

That must be your fault. 

You must have touched something, or someone, and now they’re trying to put it back together. This man doesn’t want to be broken too. 

“Tree.” He nods to the sapling in front of you. “Kill it.”

You don’t want to. But if you don’t, they won’t let anyone visit you. 

People barely visit you at all. 

You still don’t think you can stand to keep being alone. 

Your fingers rest on the weaker bark, and you’re never sure how to do this. It’s just a hum under your skin, cool and soft and turning all the time, and if you can weave it into something beautiful in your head, then-

It happens suddenly. A leaf twitches. Then a second leaf sprouts out. 

Then the tree shoots up. The trunk grows thick, and the ground shakes as roots break through the concrete floor, and the man is shouting for you to stop but you don’t know how. Everything is just waxing and turning in your body and grabbing it back down would hurt so fucking much, and-

Something releases into the air with a hiss, and white smoke clouds your vision, before it all goes dark. 

When the vision clears, you’re stranded. In the middle of the crowded room, with hundreds of people who are better than you—who have never felt all this fucking pain—blurring around you and never once sparing you more than an odd glance. 

The man is gone. 

And nobody can fucking see it. See how you’re going to bend, going to bow, going to fall to your knees under the weight of this and never be able to get the fuck back up. They’re all moving so fast, but still too slow, and you want to scream but your voice is stuck to the walls of your fucking throat and- 

Your knees are weak. And you can’t tell if it’s the drinks that are making your every step unsteady, or the way you’re so lightheaded you’re sure you’re going to be pushed violently down, but your balance is off. You’re bumping into sharp corners, and you’re going to fall-

The door of the coatroom slams behind you, and your fingers fumble for the lock.

There’s a click. 

And you stumble back, and sink down to the floor with a hand over your mouth. 

It hurts. Everything hurts, and you’re cold and alone and trapped. 

You want to be saved, but you can’t even stand or call out. And you certainly don’t deserve it. 

You’ll have to drag the Show back together. Just enough to get home and collapse like this on bathroom floor. Maybe, if Miles leaves right after of passes out, you’ll be able to call Bucky.

Maybe he’ll pick up.

Maybe if you ask him to save you, he will. Maybe if you tell him what you are, he somehow won’t hate you. Won’t finally see just how fucking evil you are. 

It doesn’t matter right now. Not much does.

You certainly don’t. 

Right now, you stay huddled on the floor of the dark room, alone and all too much, and try to pretend you’re not in pain. 

It’s getting so hard. 

But you have to. Until you tell Bucky—and only if he decides to stay—you have to. 

If you fall down alone again, you’re not sure you’re going to get back up. 

End Note: I'm soft launching her powers. Is it working. AND HI!! THANK YOU GUYS FOR WAITING! I'M BACK!

Thank you so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[hey-hey-j]

I feel like the reason Barb didn't try to tell Poppy her feelings was because of guilt.

like she still feels bad for what he put her and branch through, and she's still doubting if she should say anything because maybe she's reading the signs wrong and in reality Poppy doesn't have the same feelings, and she's also afraid of what if she doesn't really love her and that's just how it feels to have someone who really appreciates you for who you are and not because of what power you have, what if Poppy doesn't want a relationship like that, what if she does but Branch doesn't, what if because of him it ends up making the two of them break up, could she be the support that Poppy will need after that, what if it's not her feelings that are guiding her but the sense that Poppy should be hers just because she wants to

AUGH you are so right 😩😩😩 Barb literally attacked her people, destroyed her village, and then tried to destroy her music on top of that—why would Poppy want her, ya know?? Someone so sweet and kind and passionate and joyous and wonderful deserves better than Barb, right?

and like. Maybe at this point in time Poppy doesn't exactly return Barb's feelings just yet, but she's seen how hard Barb has been working to make amends and come on this is Poppy we're talking about. "Now that you're not forcing me I hope we can be friends" Poppy. Girl doesn't have a resentful bone in her body.

unfortunately they both have bigger things to worry about at the moment so the issue of what they may or may not feel for each other is just going to have to be put to the wayside for now 😔

[haveihitanerve]

Katniss and Gale Katniss and Gale Katniss and Gale where to begin...

Let me start off by saying this- I am not a Gale supporter. But! I am not a Gale hater either. He is a completely nuanced character that has so many layers and depth and complexity and I love him as a character even though I'd never want anything to do with him.

Now- that being said, let's compare him and Peeta, and why Katniss picks Peeta but why she was also so confused picking between them:

When Katniss thinks of Gale, it is from a perfectly analytical standpoint. It's how their relationship works. They are hunters and barterers. They don't deal in feelings, they deal in what the other can give them.

Now, this isn't to say that Gale did not truly and deeply love Katniss, I don't doubt that. His feelings for her are honestly the one thing I cannot argue. He does love her. Maybe it's in the twisted way that Snow loves Lucy Gray, maybe not, but he does love her.

And Katniss loves him. She does. But she sees him as an older brother, or even a replacement father, and the only reason she considers romantic feelings for him is because he's close to her age.

When Katniss considers Gale, it's purely off of what he can provide for her. "When I'm older, I'll need to marry because I need someone who can support me, and Gale has been doing that, so he's the logical option" kind of way.

She does not, in any way, consider these points in a positive light. Oh yeah, I'll marry him, we'll hunt together, we'll stay like this together, and bada boom bada bing.

When she considers children- which she remarks strongly she does not want to have in the Districts because of the Games- she notes how they'll have Gale's eyes, but nothing about it is like "oooohh I love him, I can't wait for my kids to have his eyes😍" its more of a "well, we'll be married, and maybe we'll have kids, and those kids will have his eyes. Welp."

Everything she does with Gale is based on familiarity and friendship, not some great romance. When he kisses her and tells her he loves her, she feels disgust and pulls away. When Peeta does the same, she feels uncomfortable because she doesn't know her feelings well enough yet to reciprocate the words and that makes her uncomfortable for him.

"I knew you'd kiss me. Because I'm in pain. Don't worry, it'll pass." Honestly this was Gale redemption arc for me. He knows she doesn't love him, and he knows that she doesn't know that. So, he tests his theory, and then BAM when it's proven, he tells her, because they're friends, and then basically allows her to move on. He admits that his pain will leave and then so will she. I very much enjoyed the maturity in this scene, thank you Gale.

I can't believe I'm about to bring my fricking History class into this, but oh well here we go, ahem:

After wars, what has been documented repeatedly, is that people want to revert back to status quo, to what they know, to something familiar and steadying. Wars are a time of great upheaval and unsurety and chaos, and so once they're completed, people look back to the old ways as a guide and try to burrow back into that safety.

Gale is pre-war. Peeta is War. The Games are the War.

So, when Katniss returns from her Games, she dives into Gale. Because he is pre-war, she knows him, knows their relationship, knows who he is and what he'll do- he is comfort and family and familiar.

Peeta is new, and memories of war and he is unfamiliar terrain. So she pulls away from him and pushes back closer to Gale.

But the old ways, Historically proven, do not end up to be the good or right thing to do after war, because they were before War and before everything changed because of war.

So, while Katniss seeks out the comfort and stability of Gale at first, because he's what she knew and she desperately wants to return to the person she was before, she quickly(not quickly at all she's a lil slow but give her time she's deeply traumatized shhh) moves on to Peeta.

Peeta who is the fresh start, who is the forward moving ideals and ways and who is post-war and peace.

Gale is what Katniss knew with the Games, and he was her comfort then.

Peeta is who Katniss knows during the Games, and her comfort then. So as she transitions out of them, it's no big surprise that he is the one she seeks out and he is the one she ends up with.

Anyways this was a long rant but I have feelings and um... yeah! Hope this made sense or smth...

[lobajustdoodles]

It's been plaguing my mind for a few minutes but I can confirm I do like Beast x Ancients

BUT IM VERY DECISIVE ON THEM

welcome to my TED Talk about the ships and how I see them working (UTC):

(please keep in mind I never had interest in the Beasts until Eternal Sugar came around and my social media got raided ShadowVanilla)

MysticCacao

This ship has a lot of potential of Mystic Flour being taught by Dark Cacao to regain her empathy for cookies. I see that Dark Cacao understands what happened with her (overwhelmed by the requests of her followers and saddened/disheartened by what happened in her absence as she isolated herself to calm herself) and understands she wanted to help cookies like before, but does it in the wrong way.

By this, I see interactions between these two as Dark Cacao becoming the "teacher" to Mystic Flour, showing that things in the past would not happen now in the current timeline and that her past empathy and desires to help have not disappeared, but need a direction to be moved. (also apparently Mystic Flour cannot beat the resting bitch face era if she's being caring to Cloud Haetae sooooo a start)

I mainly ship these two, they can work so well together and can learn from each other a lot❤️

EternalHolly

Being honest, this whole episode made me get back to Cookie Run for many reasons. Eternal Sugar is one interesting Beast, her motivations are like Mystic Flour in a way (wanting to do good but goes about it wrongly) but she's also very cruel about it, mostly mentioned and through context clues from other cookies. (looking at you Pavlova and Sugarfly)

And with the recent episode of Hollyberry awakening and promising to return to Eternal Sugar's paradise to teach her the lost passion Eternal Sugar had for cookies, I see it working between them. Granted, I think Eternal Sugar (once given the chance of redemption) should immensely work on rewriting her wrongs of what she did to cookies of her paradise first and foremost and lessen her immense obsession and objectivity of Hollyberry.

I do ship them, but I glide a little towards SugarCheese (Eternal Sugar x Golden Cheese) and i could make it poly👌🏾

ShadowVanilla

ShadowVanilla. The biggest Beast x Ancient that plagues all social media. Not very much of a fan of how they woobify Shadow Milk and act like he doesn't cause the problems around Beast Yeast.

The dynamic is.... something. Shadow Milk mainly projects onto Pure Vanilla to the point where he turns Pure Vanilla to a different coin like he did. He's lonely in the sense of fearing to be the only Beast as he is, willing to tear others (even the other Beasts) down for company. And Pure Vanilla, once awakened, tries to show that there's opportunity to see the in between of lies and truth, which Shadow Milk is like "no" and is in denial about everything. (I haven't gotten to this episode so if I'm wrong on this analysis, correct me)

I do not ship them, I really can't. Shadow Milk needs a lot, A LOT, of help (therapy for the blue jester twink cookie) before getting with someone. I will throw him at a OC when it happens-

BurningCheese

I will say it here: I personally cannot ship these two together.

A lot of people say it's weird to ship them because of brutality on black women and harmful stereotypes, but I don't think that is much of the case for them. For this ship, I think the main focus of why people don't like it should be more on how Burning Spice is adamant to kill Golden Cheese himself, rather than watching someone else do the job. And also how he wants her to end him to end his depression of watching civilizations rise and fall countless times without changing the flow as the being of change itself. I think sizing this ship down as "brutalization of black women and harmful stereotypes" should be the LEAST of worries, coming from a black person.

These two are more-so comrades like from Genshin Impact with the interactions between Tartaglia/Childe and Player; can become great friends and make each other better people for not only themselves but to others around them. It may help with Burning Spice's identity as the being of change.

I also cannot bring myself to ship them, sorry. Would ship Burning Spice with a OC, tho-

Also since Silent Salt and White Lily's episode isn't out yet, I have nothing to say about their ship because I want to see the episode air and play through it enough to get a understanding of them.

With this in mind, I agree with most that say the Beasts can be redeemed with their Ancient counterparts giving them a push into the direction of being good and normal people.

It's just for some cookies (staring at Shadow Milk and Burning Spice) I can't really see getting romantic with their Ancient. Any other cookie (OCs included), yeah, but with the Ancient counterpart is just a no for me.

But yeah, there's my TED Talk on the Beasts x Ancients and pretty much my stance on shipping the Beasts in general.

[applepiiex]

DANDELIONS & JULY ! ! ! 𓇢𓆸

Levi Ackerman x Male!Reader

Levi and Y/N he'd out for another mission. A dangerous one, but that isn't anything new. However, you're reckless with your life and Levi gives you an earful, accidentally revealing his plans once the Titan War is over.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

“Y/N, you take your squad and head towards the west. Distract them and buy us as much time as possible,” Levi ordered, voice firm, unreadable.

“Yes, sir!” You responded without hesitation.

“What?! With all due respect, sir—you can’t seriously send your fiancé on a suicide mission!” Connie burst out, voice sharp with disbelief.

Levi’s expression didn’t falter. His gaze snapped to Connie, cold and cutting, before flicking back to you.

“Do you have a problem with that, L/N?” Levi asked, his voice low but unwavering.

You held his gaze, spine straight. “No, sir. I’m a soldier first. Your fiancé second.”

The silence that followed was heavy—startled stares from the other Scouts, breaths held. But you didn’t flinch.

Then, after a pause, your posture relaxed. A glint of mischief returned to your eyes as you turned to Levi and walked towards his horse.

“Besides,” you added, smirking, “I’ll make it back alive. ’Cause if I don’t—who’s gonna deal with your tiny ass?”

That drew a few choked laughs from the others, tension cracking like ice under sunlight. You mounted your horse smoothly.

“West Wing, fall in! I want teams of five, one in each direction!”

“Yes, sir!” came the chorus.

The mission had gone as well as one could hope when fighting monsters the size of buildings.

Two teams gone. Yourself barely breathing, slumped in a tree with no gas left—having handed yours to a younger soldier who needed to deliver a message back to Levi. You’d fought tooth and nail, leaping from tree to tree with nothing but your blades and adrenaline. By the time Levi had reached you, your uniform was shredded, your face unrecognizable under layers of dried blood.

You still stood tall.

The Scouts returned in silence, a routine carved from grief. But the silence shattered the moment Levi spoke.

“What the hell were you thinking?!” His voice cracked like thunder across the courtyard. Everyone froze.

No one had ever heard Levi yell like that.

You turned slowly, eyes locking with his. “I told you—I had it!”

“You obviously didn’t! You could’ve died!” His voice rose again, panic fighting to claw its way out from beneath his fury.

Your voice, when it came, trembled—not with fear, but with restrained emotion. “So what? Don’t pull that fiancé crap on me! I’m a soldier first! I’m your second-in-command. These Scouts—our Scouts—they rely on me. If laying down my life means buying them a few more minutes to live, then I’ll do it again, and again. I’m your fiancé second.”

Levi’s fists trembled at his sides. He was red-faced now, with anger or fear, you didn’t know.

“I need you alive! I don’t plan to marry a corpse who thinks they’re invincible!”

That silenced the world.

You blinked, stunned by the crack in his voice, by the confession bleeding through his usual steel.

“You still plan to marry me?” you asked, your voice almost too soft to hear.

Levi looked away, jaw clenched—then back to you, holding your gaze like a lifeline.

“Of course I do. The moment these bastards are wiped off the face of the earth, I’m taking you to the ocean. And we’re getting married. That’s the first goddamn thing I plan to do.” His voice was calm now, but shaking under the weight of promise.

“We’re not engaged for show, Y/N. This isn’t something I put on to keep you safe—it’s something I put on because it’s real. So yeah. I need you alive. Can you promise me that?”

The Scouts watched silently—stone-still, hearts thudding with something they couldn’t name.

You smiled through the blood and the pain. “Okay. But for the record…” you turned to the others.

“There’s a reason I’m his co-captain. I didn’t get this rank because of this ring. Don’t worry about me on the field—mission or suicide, I’m still the guy who’s pulled Levi Ackerman’s ass out of fire more than once.”

You threw him a cocky smirk, despite your swaying stance. Levi, for all his stoicism, stepped closer.

“Alright. Enough out of you.” He turned to the others. “Armin—medic. Kirstein, Ackerman, report to my office. Now.”

Hours later, Levi sat at his desk, the quiet of the room heavy with names he’d just finished writing into the report for the dead.

There was a knock.

“Come in.”

You walked in, boots still caked in dirt, a fresh shirt over bruised ribs. You looked better. Not good. Just… better.

“Hey, you,” you said softly, easing your way to his desk and perching on it, careful to avoid the papers.

Levi stared at you for a long moment. Then he lowered his pen.

“Look…” you began, voice faltering, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so reckless. I was scared.”

That broke something in him.

He opened his arms wordlessly, and you slid into his lap, letting your head rest against his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around you.

For the first time in weeks, he breathed.

“Don’t do that again,” he murmured into your chest. “I meant what I said.”

He reached for your hand, lifting your left and kissing the ring like it was sacred.

“Summer. A summer wedding. Near the ocean. Flower fields nearby. And dandelions. Lots of them.” You smiled at the picture you were painting—fragile, but glowing.

Levi nodded slowly. “I swear to you, I’ll slaughter every Titan in my path just to see you smile like that.”

You giggled, warm and tired, tucking your face into the crook of his neck.

“I feel bad for those Titans.”

You stayed like that for a while—held, healing. Then you pulled back and gently slapped his chest.

“But Connie was right! How dare you send me on a suicide mission?” you huffed, mock outrage on your face.

“It’s not like I graduated top ten in my class, have a 56-Titan kill count, and oh—I dunno—saved your life more times than I can count!”

Levi smirked faintly. “You’re right. Next time, I’ll send you alone.”

“And I’d still win!”

“And you’d still win.”

You tilted your head. “Are you going to kiss me, or just admire the damage?”

“Either works.”

You were just about to lean in when—

“Captain Levi, sir. Sorry to interrupt—” Jean burst in, face already flushed.

You groaned. “Well, there goes the mood.” You slid off Levi’s lap, kissing his cheek on your way out.

“Bye, love. See you around, Kirstein.”

The door clicked shut behind you.

Jean stood there awkwardly. “Sir—I’m so sorry, I should’ve knocked—”

Levi waved him off. “It’s fine. What is it?”

Jean held out the report. “Just… the documents you asked for.”

Levi took them. Jean lingered.

“…Is there anything else?” Levi asked, raising an eyebrow.

Jean flushed deeper. “No, sir. Just… Armin said July’s a really pretty time for the beach.” He said it quickly, then turned on his heel and left before he could be questioned.

Levi stilled.

Later, when he returned to his quarters, you were already asleep. Moonlight streamed in, catching on your skin like it was spun from silver. Your chest rose and fell steadily, peacefully.

He turned to the window. Outside, a small patch of dandelions swayed in the night breeze.

July. Yeah… July sounds perfect.

[harmonyrae]

Supernatural drabble:

"Driver picks the music; shotgun shuts his cakehole."

Zayne chuckles as Sylus restarts the tape. The tape. Ancient, yet still operable. Sylus had gotten his Sylverno modified to ensure any music device could be used - tape, CD, AUX, he likes options.

The car roars as Sylus shifts gears, stepping on the gas to speed out of the gas station and onto the highway.

"You said this would be a quick trip. It's been nearly 6 hours, just tell me where we are going."

Zayne was damn near kidnapped from Akso, but when Sylus said those magic words...

"I think I found him. Keyword, think." Sylus repeats as he lowers the window to let in the cool October breeze.

"Yes, but where? Come on, Sy."

Sylus chuckles, Zayne hasn't called him that in years. It's like the good ole days...

"We crossed the border into Pennsylvania an hour ago." Zayne continues.

"We're almost there then." Sylus smirks.

He doesn't have to look over at Zayne to know he's getting glared at. Instead, he decides to sing along to the music pouring from the speakers.

"Lay your weary head to rest, don't you cry no more, NO!"

Zayne definitely did not miss Sylus's off-key interpretations. He leans his head back and closes his eyes.

"You still remember how to speak Latin, right?"

Zayne keeps his eyes closed.

"I'm out of practice, but I still..." Zayne pauses, and Sylus clears his throat. "Sylus?"

"Yea?"

"Why are you asking?"

Sylus shrugs, but his eye twitches ever so slightly. Of course, Zayne catches it.

"Sylus! We've been hunting a shape-shifter, not a demon. Why would I need to--"

"Because a demon may have given me the information, and we may have to exorcize him before he finalizes my contract." Sylus interrupts.

"WHAT THE FUCK SYLUS?!" Zayne screeches.

"The intel is solid. I found articles to back it up. A shape-shifter is targeting young women in a small town just outside of Philly. Same M.O. as the fucker who--"

"Don't! Don't..." Zayne cuts him off. "Sylus, please tell me you didn't offer your soul."

Sylus smiles, that all-too-familiar shit-eating grin that can only mean one thing.

"You'd think demons would have put up a memo about you by now. 'Don't trust the asshole with white hair offering his soul! He doesn't have one to begin with!' I swear..." Zayne pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Hey! I have a soul, I just know how to get out of a contract. With my bestie at my side, quoting an exorcism like he wrote it himself, I'm never worried."

"You should be. How have you survived these past few years without me?"

"I made do. You just had to go and play doctor instead of sticking with me. Be honest, what's more fun? Surgery or hunting?"

"I'm not playing. I earned my degree. And I love being a doctor, I'm good at it."

"You're also good at killing what goes bump in the night." Sylus counters.

Sylus slows down and signals to pull into the parking lot of an old motel. The sign flickers occasionally, but the vacancy sign is bright. Zayne crosses his arms and watches Sylus run inside to get a room. When he returns, he tosses a keycard to Zayne and finds a parking spot closer to the door.

Once settled into their rather dingy room, Sylus finally shows Zayne the articles he found. He leans back in his chair as he polishes his pistol, letting Zayne read over the material.

"You're right. This could be him." Zayne says quietly, closing the laptop.

Sylus flicks the gun to close the chamber. The clicks as it spins send tingles down Zayne's spine. Sylus looks up at him with a grim smile.

"Time to find the fucker who killed your wife."

(The dynamic is too good. I'm drooling...)

I'm still struggling to write more than a few sentences, but I'm coming up with so many ideas for fics... It's ridiculous...

Still working on Vow, part 2 of the Regency series & I need to write Caleb period smut to complete the collection. But, there are 2 edits I made that are living RENT free in my head atm and I need to write an outline for at least one of them.

Which one would you want to see me write first?

Last of Us AU - zombies, heavy evol usage, possibly romance (harem style tehe), Zayne is searching for a cure (of course), Sylus is thriving in chaos (of course x2)

Supernatural AU - myths & legends, Dean Winchester coded Sylus, Sam Winchester coded Zayne, not snowcrow romance wise but they besties (not brothers), no evol usage, lots of humor, maybe random romances with people they're helping, lots of humor and then a sprinkle of angst

I will probably end up writing both, but need to know where to start. Vote pls? You dah bestest. Tanks.

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 gets to vote first, smile.

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[pergaminaa]

ANOTHER DREAM LMAO WHAT IS EVEN GOING ON IN MY BRAIN?????

okay this one is WEIRD because Dorian works this kinda dangerous thing so he’s not really around when there is something going on. So like there is this safe house he has that’s really hidden and even the entrance is near impossible to find because it looks like just dirt on the land so all is good.

Nearby in the small town something was happening. I think a ‘hunter’ was coming to town but he’s actually a murderer or something so there is A LOT GOING ON. and Manon was there still keeping pretense that she doesn’t know who Dorian is because he needs her to stay safe and not have others go near her just to get to him.

Anyway that hunter guy shows up in town and i don’t remember much i know one night there was a tiger (???) prowling around (no idea why but the guy is involved kinda) and i also don’t remember but Manon spoke to him and they kinda sorta reached an alliance.

One time there was heavy police patrol and Manon was outside but she spotted the tiger so she slowly made her way indoors. The man followed suit and kinda threatened her because police were in front and the tiger was at the back so he followed Manon and she being the smart woman that she is played along and didn’t provoke him because of she makes him feel safe enough around her she can easily lure him to where Dorian is and that’s one thing out of the way.

I don’t remember what happened but there was trouble in town and she HAD to leave so she discreetly made her way to the safe house where Dorian is returning every night. And because it’s that hunter so Dorian is busy because he finally got the guy he’s been looking for and he isn’t going to let this chance pass.

And since Dorian has been investigating this guy he wanted to know WHY was he in town for so long he’s been very elusive and never stayed in any place for too long so he DID look into that and while he was investigating it. He did learn of a certain someone whom he’s told numerous times to be careful just casually befriend a high profile criminal and actually keep him in town long enough to be captured.

But again, he isn’t going to confront Manon while he’s that angry so he kept his distance. Now in the safe house there this other girl who works in town but moved to the safe house after that disaster. SHE noticed how angry Dorian looked and figured it out so she spent evenings telling Dorian that Manon while yes she did speak to the man many times it was always in broad daylight and where there are many people around so she wasn’t in any danger. And besides, it’s because of her that the guy was caught . So while this girl was speaking to him Manon arrived and the girl left so that he can speak to Manon (finally!!) and they did talk and that ended up with him sitting her on the table and leaning down to kiss her because he still needs to feel that she’s safe and unharmed and he appreciates what she did but ‘witchling don’t scare me like that ever again’.

[revserrayyu]

One HSR Character a Day Day 38: Ruan Mei

[gingerbreadmonsters]

its so important to me that you know how much ive already cried over this wip and its literally only been two days