#fic: loneliness into loneliness

[altschmerzes]

loneliness into loneliness

the ted lasso qpr two aces fic (finally)

Both of Richmond’s aces are injured one after the other, both out of the game for at least six weeks. Left adrift without their routine and team community around them, and struggling with daily life while each down a limb, they decide the thing that makes the most sense is for Jamie to come stay with Dani for a while. The company is just as important as the practical help, and what begins as an already close friendship grows deeper and closer over the following weeks. When they’re healed enough that it’s time for Jamie to head home, he realizes, suddenly and all at once, that he doesn’t want to leave. They have something, he and Dani, and he doesn’t want to lose it, which means that he has to do one of the most terrifying things that he’s ever done: give it a name and ask to keep it. -- A fic about Jamie and Dani in the early days of a queerplatonic relationship, navigating deep-seated fears on both sides, the uncharted shape of platonic physical intimacy, taking care of each other as they recover from their injuries, and scary levels of emotional honesty.

read chapter one on ao3

[dapper-lil-arts]

Darlings. is it gay when the phantom you created as a manifestation of your dreadfull loneliness takes the form of one of your closest friends.

Fanart of this pretty good horror rarijack fanfic, "The haunting of carroussel boutique" personaly i am surprised the writer didnt take the chance to point out how fucking funny this is. Me n kim started laughing about it during stream and i just had to draw this

[pparacxosm]

dearly beloved

(tashi duncan x fem!childhood best friend!reader x patrick zweig; artashi wedding; nonlinear narrative; tw infidelity but then wrong fandom; tw obsessive dysfunctional relationships but then wrong fandom; tw patheticism but then wrong blog; oakland!tashi truthers i’m sorry; florida!tashi truthers ((if there be any)) you’re welcome ! ; uno mentioned twice for some reason; unromantic romance; callow sapphic pining; tw nascent menstruation; y2k teenage girlhood; it’s always patrick zweig at the scene of the crime; ((the crime is unrequited devotion)); tw a little bit of body shaming kind of; but then general tw for excessively derogatory banter; sorrow shared is sorrow doubled; cake shared is just good cake; tw atlanta™)

‘Love is awful. It’s awful. It’s painful. It’s frightening. It makes you doubt yourself, judge yourself, distance yourself from the other people in your life. It makes you selfish. It makes you creepy, makes you obsessed with your hair, makes you cruel, makes you say and do things you never thought you would do. It’s all any of us want, and it’s hell when we get there.

So no wonder it’s something we don’t want to do on our own.

I was taught if we’re born with love then life is about choosing the right place to put it. People talk about that a lot, feeling right, when it feels right it’s easy. But I’m not sure that’s true. It takes strength to know what’s right. And love isn’t something that weak people do. Being a romantic takes a hell of a lot of hope. I think what they mean is, when you find somebody that you love, it feels like hope.’

The Priest, ‘Fleabag’ (2016—2019) Episode 2.6

It strikes you that Tashi Duncan has always had a strange way of talking about her own wedding, as if the whole event is a starstrewn chrysalis. Something transformative, that will make of her an airborne creature, carried off by the lightness of her being.

She looks fucking beautiful, of course.

Sleek and exacting, draped in silk crêpe de Chine, like a white bullet. Tashi Duncan, the bride. Heavenborne starshine, all wrapped in tender clouds, just as she should be.

But then you’ve always thought so.

When she rehearses her aisle walk, golden gazelle legs glissading her across the hotel room carpet, she speaks of herself as if she were a rare and fragile insect.

She says, “I feel my bones changing,” her hands on either arm of the makeup chair you’re in.

You sniff, eyes flicking over every part of her. She is so close, bent over you, but she’s blurred at her edges on account of your gushing tears. You’re weeping. “Your bones?” you all but wail, face twisting in sorrow as the tears sluice harder.

Your left eyelash dangles wetly halfway off your eyelid.

You’re melting like a fucking witch, because her dress reveal came before the setting spray, and now your palms are soused in foundation. You keep wiping your face to keep from bemiring the butteryellow satin of your bridesmaids gown.

You weep more than Pam, as Tashi floats around the room.

She is radiant as sunlight on water.

Tre and Tevin holler, spirited, scattering around the room in all directions, like a great empire has collapsed. Okay, Tashi! they whistle, We see you!

And you weep and weep.

And now, her amber knee, faint scar, peeks from the slit in her silken, sweeping skirt and knocks against yours.

Her arms are lithe and lustrous and they bracket you within the amalgamated cloud of her meticulously curated Big Day fragrance. She floods your body.

She’s nodding softly. She is haloed by bloodwarm morninglight. You feel too pathetic to even be looking at her. You feel worse, even, when her delicate fingers coast poetic down your arms, and she takes your hands into hers.

“Hey,” she says softly. Squeezes your fingers. The flesh of her soft and fragrant as rosepetals. Her smile unfurls like a star going nova. “You’re crying so much,” she laughs.

“Of course, I’m crying,” you choke out, a watery gasp wafting her gorgeous face. “Pauline hates me.”

Tashi spares a glance over your shoulder, where her makeup artist is leaning against an ornate dresser, chewing the edge of her thumb and seeming generally engrossed with her phone.

“Oh, honey,” Tashi’s manicured thumbs caress tender circles over your knuckles. Then clicking her teeth softly, “You are making her do her job twice.”

“Oh God,” you sob, your head dropping heavily onto the crushed velvet cushion of the chairback. “Don’t get married.”

Tashi's smile turns soft and commiserating.

“Babe.”

“T.”

Tashi places your hands gently in your lap. She swivels your chair so you’re facing the vanity mirror.

The sight of yourself festers your misery like rotting flesh. You look like a smeared oil painting. Your lashes clump like eldritch spiders. Your face is smeared and swollen and gleaming wet. Your lower lip trembles.

Tashi glows behind you in a tragic pastiche of a solar eclipse.

“I can’t do this,” you blather past the clot in your throat. Mucus bubbles from your nostrils and trickles to your mouth. You swipe at it. You sniff again. “I’m gonna mess up your wedding.”

Tashi’s warm, slender fingers trace your collarbones. In college, you used to give each other lymphatic drainage massages.

“You’re gonna make my wedding.”

This makes you tear up again, in earnest.

The tissue of your nose is raw and sore. You moan a broken lament. Her thumbs drift in gentle ellipses along the slope of your shoulders. Her warmth seeps into you.

“Do you remember what you said to me,” Tashi asks, “When I got engaged?”

You swallow, coughing around a flower of phlegm. She leans down, resting her cheek against the top of your head. Her hair spills over your shoulders in velvet sunbeams.

You blink at her reflection. Her eyes wash you in tender flame.

“‘Dear God, please, no’?”

It is staggering, at thirteen, to stand over a limp, bloodstrewn body.

You are traipsing through the halls, summoned by weeping, and, when you peek into the loo, the dense miasma of sweat and antiseptic is pervaded with something stannic and fetid.

Tashi Duncan, splayed across the tile of the corner stall, clutches her tummy with death’s desperation. The athletic uniform of Blue Vista High garbs these young girls in floaty skirts of daisy white, which Tashi now thinks is fascinatingly deplorable.

Unfamiliar and unprepared, her eyes gleam with tears. Her heart pummels in her chest to the same faraway thunk, thunk rhythm of the tennis balls striking the clay courts outside.

The world seems to have turned against her. Her clothes are drenched red, and her body is betraying her. Tashi, twentyone months your senior, is a late bloomer. Here is her inaugural encounter with the inevitability of womanhood.

So, you encounter this horror film tableau. Tashi Duncan, bloodstrewn and splayed. You don’t feel nausea or concern or anything. You’re thirteen. You’re mildly reproachful, if anything.

“Um,” you say, a bit too loudly, “I have a tampon. If you want?”

“I want to play tennis.” She writhes. “My match is in twenty minutes.”

You swing your backpack off your shoulder, clutching it in front of you and digging clumsily into the front pocket. “Well, you need a tampon.”

“I’ve never…” She seems halfcoherent. You don’t have great faith in her ability to sweep across a court. But she catches the tampon with an easy agility when you toss it over.

There’s an odd, blithe immediacy to girlhood. You drop to your knees and play gynae. You introduce yourselves somewhere there. Your hair’s pretty; Where did you get those pins on your bag?; Do you think Mr Cleven’s kind of cute? Yeah, no, me neither; Is it in yet?

“Aw, what?” you whine at her insistence you disrobe and give her your clothes, “For how long?”

“Like,” she gestures frenetically with her hand, “Twenty minutes.”

You hum, ambivalent, but doff your skirt. And they get anal about you guys jumbling formal uniforms with athletic uniforms, so she takes your shirt, too, and you wear hers, the navy nylon collared tee with the Blue Vista crest stitched to the breast.

You sit pantless on the toilet seat, reading her Princess Diaries paperback.

She wins her game, apparently.

Her mom drives you home. She brings a fleecy pair of Tashi’s Powerpuff Girls pyjama bottoms, which fall past your ankles. Says, call me Pam, honey, when you say, thank you, Mrs Duncan.

You keep her shirt, and her pants, and you still smell her womb.

She hits you up on AIM that night.

Mr Cleven is cute, she sends. He looks like Dawson Leery.

Then, But he’s THE WORST !!!!!!

And then, TLC or Destiny’s Child?

And things go from there.

When Christine McVie starts crooning for mercy, you think you’ve officially had your fill.

You have taken bridesmaid, like you took best friend before that, like you will one day take doting aunty to their gilded brood.

At times, it feels like there is no limit to what you can take.

But the very concept of a First Dance feels like a vaudeville satire portending a dire omen. You refuse to dance into hell—you just can’t do it. And you can’t watch them squeeze your heart to bloodpulp between their flush, swaying bodies.

Though you suppose that may be symbolic. Beginning as the end.

Hot red spilled upon her white regalia. Will she still let you splay and clothe her? Or does such proprietary now fall within the purview of his husbandly duties? All set to ‘Say You Love Me’.

You take it all. On the chin, lying down. You take it. You take four consecutive champagne flutes to the gut. You take deep breaths. You take yourself out of the girdling throng of devoted onlookers as the music starts. You take no prisoners. You take your leave.

You are weeping again.

You try to catch your tears as they fall. You think you owe Pauline that much.

The veranda is lit by scattered amber lanterns and the weeping moon. Each stone pillar stands sentinel to the maelstrom of revelry within. Things are hushed, here, but so much colder. You miss her warm fingertips against your skin. You miss everything. Shadows stretch across the tiled floor in languorous arcs.

You smell the sea.

You find a dark corner and sink into it, bracing yourself on the balustrade as you crouch to your haunches. Your body aches with the force of your suppressed sobs. Your shoulders tremble and your heart mewls with anguish.

You miss the sound of footsteps, so the voice does surprise you.

“One wedding that’s a funeral.”

You laugh, sort of. Damp and congested. You try to daub the tears away. “Ha,” you sniff, “Yeah, no, I—“

You stop.

It doesn’t seem the least bit real.

Let’s leave aside the fact that he’s The Ex Boyfriend. He shouldn’t even exist in this fucking stratosphere anymore. And that’s why he seems elusive, ghostly, even now. Emerging from the shadows like a demonic apparition.

You know Art and Tashi don’t really talk about it. They have a peace to protect. You cannot say the same of yourself.

Because in the unbroken silence of your dreams, there is a whistle. A sharp, clear necklace of sound, tightening around your throat, tugging forward. And even earlier, at the ceremony. A malevolent spirit in the room seemed to say, I won’t be ignored. And here he fucking is.

A horrid little laugh builds up in your throat, until you can’t keep it down any longer.

You laugh. It comes out like a savage chortle. Patrick stills, five feet away from you. His eyes are sad, a little surprised, and, yes, repelled.

Repelled by you and your laugh.

Suddenly, all you feel is helpless anger. You’re angrier than you’ve ever been, angrier than when they were together, angrier than when Art swooped in to take his stillwarm seat, angrier than all those times you had to be quiet and eat humble pie. You’re furious that the woman you love has jettisoned her last name, like a shorn chrysalis. And you’re livid that you have to deal with this asshole, this piece of shit pretty boy you’d thought you’d seen the last of, who is standing in front of you, on this moonlit veranda, trying to share in your mourning. He’s fucking insane.

So you say it, out loud, but not too loud, because you don’t want to make a scene. You certainly don’t want Tashi to see him.

“You’re insane,” you scoff, gaze vast and glossy with shock, “You’re fuckin’ insane, I knew it! I knew you were fuckin’ insane! I told her you were fuckin’ insane.”

You’re surprised at the viciousness in your voice. The blue in his eyes has become washedout, almost white. You can see tiny red capillaries blooming around the iris in the dark.

To his credit, Patrick has never left you hanging in your ferocity.

His brows are hoisted in defense. He gestures wildly into the reception hall, “I’m fuckin’ insane? He’s fuckin’ insane! And he’s marrying her!”

He’s all big words and movements like this is fucking Seinfeld.

You upheave yourself to a tremulous stand. “You’re both fucking insane,” you say darkly, though, at the moment, you feel a bit deranged.

Your vehemence startles him a little. Something imperceptible changes in his mien. Like he’s standing straighter. His eyes shine like glass. You’re bizarrely reminded of those National Geographic documentaries where lions size each other up before a fight.

But then his shoulders slump, and he nods, and you are almost incredulous at his patheticism. “Okay,” he breathes. He seems tiny. “You look nice.”

You blink, shifting.

You clear your throat. “Thank you. You don’t.”

And he doesn’t. He’s wearing a T-shirt and athletic shorts. And he looks vaguely showered for once, but there’s still something faintly noxious in the air he emanates.

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, “I wasn’t gonna dress up for a wedding I wasn’t invited to.” A pause. “That’d be weird.”

For a moment, you are sure you tripped on a rock out here, and cracked your skull open on a pillar, and all of this is a stage play happening in the most masochistic corner of your mind. You have never been so disbelieving of his inanity.

“Oh, yeah, that’d be weird!” you say, eyes still wide and marginally manic. “That’d be crazy, for sure. If you dressed up for the wedding you weren’t invited to.”

He fills in the blank there—always could, for his part—that he’s shown up to the wedding. He gives a feeble chuckle. He looks awkward, really, which is… fucking something.

“When are they gonna cut the cake?” His voice is small and tentative like a child’s.

“You’re not getting any, you cow.”

He looks sincerely wounded at that, his eyes casting downward, and it borders on pitiful. But the sympathy stirred feels like a small lashing, like punishment for your lack of decorum. There is something contemptuous in that pitifulness.

You know an athlete’s body is his wound.

But you can’t bring yourself to say sorry.

You just lower your hackles with a visible exhale, which he seems to recognise as safe treadspace.

“Why are you crying?” he asks.

You snort. “Why are you here?”

He connects those dots, too, the perceptive bastard.

He clears his throat, hands in his pockets, rolls back and forth on his feet.

He stares at the ground. “You gotta say a speech?”

“Yeah, but I probably won’t.”

The ocean rushes. Luther Vandross thumps faintly from beyond. First dance is over, apparently.

Patrick peers up at you, like he’s debating saying what he’ll say next.

“Wanna go get a drink?”

Tashi jumps on the balls of her feet. Her waifishness is often a screen hiding an impressive amount of energy. PE is competition in its purest form. Every time she manages to wrest the ball from the opposing team she feels invincible. She is invincible. She dribbles the ball quickly, ponytail swishing in the air as she runs towards the goalpost.

From the corner of her eye she registers movement. She’s always hyperaware of her surroundings. That’s why she notices you sitting down in the stands, two other little girls (in the way that a year—which is all the time sundering you two—can feel like a decade when you’re fourteen) on either side of you.

One of your friends doles out UNO cards, and it is clear it is the other who had suggested this place of loitering, because she has her gaze trained conspicuously on a boy in Tashi’s class.

Tashi pivots. Makes a pointed throw. The ball goes past the goalkeeper into the net. Her team cheers. She checks to see if you have borne witness, but you are too busy stewing over your dealt cards.

She runs over to you. You look up when you hear her barrelling up the steps of the bleachers with a haste that makes them shudder.

She slides in between you and Vidya, who is unperturbed on account of her intently watching Anshu Morya pretend two basketballs are his tits and siring great gales of laughter from his audience of other fourteen year old boys.

Tashi slips a lanky arm around your shoulder.

“Hey, you,” she says, “Why didn’t you come say hi?”

You feel weird and diminutive and caught in a weird way, because Essence is looking upon her from your other side as though she is a seraph who has descended and deigned to grace you with her presence.

(Essence is in under13’s tennis, where it is wildly regarded that the girls who do under14’s tennis are the coolest people ever).

“Uh,” you drawl dumbly.

“You’re my friend now,” she squeezes your arm, pulling you closer to her side, “You have to say hi.”

Tashi seems to preen beneath the attention of these little girls, with a poise remarkably incongruous for fourteen. It feels a stark juxtaposition to the girl you’d seen, wailing, wet, and splayed in her own nascent womanhood.

You’ll come to think this a lot. Tashi Duncan, the impenetrable infanta. She tries not to show any inkling of vulnerability, if she can help it.

That’s why you always remember. You’re always recalling that blood.

And so part of you that is purely little girl thinks, I saw her first.

Even though Adidas singled her out as showing great promise. Even if Patrick Zweig won her number, and Art Donaldson, in some primevally spurning way, will have her as his bride. It was you who saw her, truly saw her, for the first time. Weeping in her own carmine deluge in a girl’s bathroom stall at Blue Vista High.

And, if you saw her first, shouldn’t you get to keep her?

You cannot bear to see her be wed.

What you’d really said, when she told you she was engaged, was a frayed and hollowed: Congratulations.

Dear God, please, no came later. It came clawing rotten from your throat like the undead, while you curled in on yourself yourself like a woman wounded, in the dark, beneath your covers.

“Dear God, please, no,” you’d whispered, lachrymose.

Your first dream, as it were, takes place on the shore of Virginia Key Beach, twenty minutes south of your neighbourhood in Allapattah.

It doesn’t look real, though.

It’s more like a film set.

That could be due to the fact that you haven’t been home in a year or due to the fact that Tashi is there, and she hasn’t been home in longer.

But you know it’s Florida because the air’s so thin and friable in California. Like the sun hasn’t fully seeped through. You know it’s summer because there’s crickets chirping in the trees behind you.

It’s dark, but the moon is bright, and, without looking, you know Tashi is just behind you, sitting on a rock halfsubmerged in the water. You’re sitting in the water right by her. You can feel her presence on your arm as you lean back. You guys are stripped to your bras and panties, like you always were. Her hair is curly.

There might have been more happening; you have a vague impression that there was talking at some point in this dream, but the details fade in the minutes after waking up. What you do retain is distressing. 

You are saying something when you are suddenly supine, and you see that Tashi is atop you, straddling you, though you cannot necessarily feel any weight of her. She doesn’t even feel warm. Her skin against you isn’t a temperature, it’s a sensation. Buzzing, like the vague shock of an electric socket.

“Hi,” she says, her voice low. 

And you’re about to say something, and then you are silenced. You wake up soon after your lips meet.

The dream haunts you for a week, until you go to a party and find a boy and kiss him instead.

The dream is not a revelation, not by a long shot, but you had thought they were a thing of girlhood. And, too, you thought Tashi was impenetrable to such things as your little desires. You’d thought, for a wretched moment, that you could be normal about a beautiful girl.

And you’re usually better at controlling yourself.

You usually can go about your day without suddenly remembering the image of Tashi leaning in.

When you do find a boy that Saturday—a short, slight, facetious glasseswearer named Noel, who prides himself on being a silent, occasionally witty observer the same way you do—you talk with him and laugh with him and kiss him and feel the world right itself. Nothing has changed, and nothing will change, if you can just get a fucking grip.

You go another few weeks without incident, until there’s another dream.

A few others.

Tashi chalks up your odd behavior to anything from exam season to homesickness. You let her.

No one knows about these dreams, with one exception.

Patrick Zweig figures you out embarrassingly quick.

All it takes is one night on the town, the three of you. A couple hours watching you replenish and rotate her moscow mules and vodka sodas and ace pineapples with a surgeon’s precision. Like forecasting weather. And he feels sure enough in his conclusions to corner you as you’re emerging from the putrid bathroom of the dive bar and say, “You got it bad for Tashi, don’t you, kid?”

You are on the drunk side of tipsy, at this point, and you blink a few times before you remember to zip your fly and respond.

All you come up with, for your part, is a weak, “Sorry?”

Patrick smiles. It doesn’t seem particularly mean, but you don’t presume to know him well enough to bet on it.

“I’m just saying,” Patrick says slowly. “Seems like you like her an awful lot. Kid.”

Your gaze goes bonehard. You don’t like him. You don’t like that you can smell his nausea-siring wintry cologne. You cannot conceptualise the scent, but it can’t be natural. He is so pretentious, he probably has it shipped from Marseille or somewhere.

He’s cracked open your ribs and plucked a raw nerve, just to watch you writhe. And there’s that obnoxious little smile, only half his mouth. Though not outright hostile, it’s not friendly.

You open your mouth. But you are so furious, you’re unable to speak. What’s more infuriating, Patrick patiently waits for you to find your words.

“Well,” you say, steadying your feet like you’re prepared to brawl this guy, “What are you gonna do about it?”

“Not a goddamn thing.”

And you must look surprised, because Patrick laughs.

“May these be the worst of our days.”

The pub is a dive, just a short stumble from the wedding venue. The air is dense with the acerbic musk of piss and spirits, danker than the worst of times. It’s a visceral contrast to the beauty of the union, and it’s one of which you both feel deserving.

You sit on a slightly cracked stool at the mucky wooden bar. You nurse a beer, and a broken heart, and Pat is on his third scotch in as many minutes. The bartender keeps giving him these nervous glances.

He gurgles out a pfft as he tips his glass to you, “Yeah, and the best of theirs.”

You regard the middle distance with a sort of weary disgust. A miserable guilt. You know what he’s portending. It’s all downhill from here. But you cannot deny that these are not unkind heights from which to fall. Garlanded by intricate golden sconces casting pristine white marble awash with warmth and love. You two cannot wish them ill in a way that even means anything.

“Fuck, they’re so happy,” you moan, “We suck.”

You feel your lungs grow achy. You are drowning in selfpity and selfpity’s lesser endearing cousin, envy. Patrick seems to bear it better. He releases a noise. A laugh maybe; a bitter, bloodaddled thing.

“Hey, I think the one of us wearing the bridesmaids dress places significantly lower on the Ultimately Fucked Over scale.”

He spins his glass around on the sticky tabletop. The scraping sound makes you envision ground bonematter.

“This colour wouldn’t suit you,” you mumble, swinging your beer idly by its neck.

Patrick’s brows seem to knit at this.

“Yes it would,” he grumbles.

“I always hated you.”

He quirks a brow, looking at you askance.

“I don’t think that’s true.”

You make a face. “It is.” Your eyes close for a moment, as though envisaging which set of words would spurn him best. “And he’s better for her than you.”

Patrick’s mouth parts into a slackened smirk. He laughs again. “And you think you’re better for her than both of us.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Always the bridesmaid…” he singsongs.

You feel your skin heat with something sore and cloying.

“Oh fuck you.” Your eyes roll as well as they are able without you getting vertigo. “I fucked her last.”

His smile grows like a burgeoning parasite. His head is still hung between his shoulders, but he peers up at you through the dark veil of his lashes.

He tongues the inside of his cheek like he’s suppressing laughter, like he now thinks it wouldn’t be kind. “No kidding.”

You frown at this, at his amusement.

“What, you don’t think I fucked her?”

Patrick shrugs. Hums vaguely.

“Wow.”

“Not in, like, a homophobic way, or—“

“Wow.”

He snorts.

“I’m sorry.”

You shake your head. “You’re not.” You swig a mouthful of beer, relishing faintly in the acrid aftertaste. “And I’m not either. Fucked her after you broke up, licked you clean out her pussy, you’re nothing.” You stand up and close the distance between you, stumbling into him, your forehead thunking against his as you draw the word out childishly. Nothingggg-uh.

He chuckles noiselessly. “Oh yeah?”

You straighten clumsily, leaning back, but you’re still stood between his open legs, and you brace your hand against his thigh. “Yeah,” you say.

Patrick narrows his eyes at you. He inhales a breath with an air of the long since victorious.

He gives it a moment before he says it. You’re lifting your bottle to the seam of your lips.

“I fucked her two months ago.”

You slam the green glass against the bartop, eyes wide as canyons as you turn to look at him, your forgone sip dribbling down your chin. “What?” you enunciate sharply.

He leans back in his chair, raising his hands as if shirking blame. But something wicked gleams in his eyes.

You scoff. “Bull. Shit.”

He tilts his head to the side, resting an elbow against the bar, his gaze flickering between your face and the beer trickling down your neck.

He shrugs. Hums.

Your eyes search his face frenetically. Your fingers claw into the flesh of his thigh. “He doesn’t know?”

Now, something like guilt manages to sniff him out. He glances off obliquely, his throat working around a swallow. His expression is hard to discern. Swimming between guilt and a strange sort of defiance.

“Wow,” you drawl protractedly. You’re almost impressed. “You’re an ass. You said that because you wanted to make me feel bad, you wanted to one up me, like you get points for fucking her—“

“A game that you started, by the way.”

“Hey.” You lean into his space again, finding his eyes with a sniper’s determination. “Hey. You’re a piece of shit.”

His jaw works against his skin.

“Uh-huh.”

“No, you are. You are, and you know it.” Your nails embed themselves in his thigh, your other hand coming to place a finger in the hollow of his chest. “Because no matter what,” your voice is low and gravelly now, “You’re done. You’re out. I’m in.”

You lean back to look him over, as though admiring your work, but he only wears a plaintive, resigned sort of smile.

“You think that’s better?”

His voice is so soft as to seep like smoke down your spine. Your nails unearth themselves from his skin. You have not drawn blood, but morning bruises would not startle him.

A long few moments pass.

“This is what you do now, you’re all profound?” you murmur.

He shrugs, a rueful simper on his mouth. “Eh,” he hums dismissively.

You sigh. Remove your hands from him and stumble back onto your stool.

“You’d look like shit in this dress,” you say, at length.

“Maybe.”

You tip your beer into your mouth, even though it has run dry.

There’s a bit of a moue on your face. You trace the sticky outlines on the tabletop, focusing intently on the grooves. “I look amazing in this dress.”

“You’d look amazing out of it.”

Your brows furrow. You look up at him. “Dude, what?”

Patrick blinks. He seems genuinely surprised.

“Aren’t we gonna…?”

“No, what? Why would you—?”

“Oh, I just—“

“What?” Your face is skewed confusedly.

“Because we—“

Your phone trembles against the bar.

“Hold on,” you say, and then, grin growing, “Darling Ms Duncan,” you croon melodically as you hoist the device to your cheek.

Her verdant meadow laughter on the other end. “Donaldson,” she chuckles. You can hear the vague commotion of the festivities ensconcing her.

You frown.

“Don’t hurt me, Starshine.”

“You missed your speech.”

You gasp, your voice going all light and airy the way it does when you’re feigning guilt. “What?” you drawl, “No…”

Tashi cottons on, and you can hear her teasing smile as she indulges you, “Oh,” she hums in fauxsympathy, “Oh, yeah, uh-huh.”

“No way,” you grouse softly, “I’m so sorry.”

“Come back before we cut the cake,” says Tashi, “Where are you, by the way?”

“Oh, I’m in a bar, you won’t believe who I ran into.”

“Who?”

Patrick steels to alertness in front of you, shaking his head in abject alarm.

You smile.

“Patrick Zweig. I think we’re gonna have sex tonight probably. Compound our sadness. It’ll be really pathetic.”

Patrick looks at you like you’ve walloped his puppy.

Tashi is silent on the other end. You know well the firm, seraphic way her face has set in anger.

“That’s not funny,” she says, and it occurs to you that, if what Patrick’s told you is true, then it really isn’t funny.

You bite your lip. “Oh.”

“That’s—“ she takes a breath; you can picture the heat wash off of her. She can be very purposeful with her emotions. “Hey, listen,” her voice has softened, “Please come back.”

“Okay, Ms Duncan.”

“Come back and eat the cake, you chose the cake.”

A simper slithers over your lips. “We chose the cake.” Your husband was somewhere sticking his prick in a green juice, you don’t add. “It’s kind of our cake, in a way.”

“Well,” Tashi hums, unconvinced, but you can hear her smile.

“Yeah, I’m coming, worry not, my dear. Save me a dance.”

You drop the phone.

Patrick is still looking at you like the apocalypse has been announced.

You roll your eyes.

“Put your dick down, she didn’t believe me,” you say. “Because you showing up to her wedding would be crazy.”

He chuckles dryly, but you do not miss the relief in his bones.

He cocks his head wryly, “Not really, considering…”

You stand up again, elbow leaning on the bar, your temple against your knuckles as you gape at him, sort of mystified. “You’re not bullshitting me,” you say, the corner of your open mouth quirking up incredulously, “Like actually.”

Patrick shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Where?”

“Atlanta.”

“Fuck!” You smack your hand down on the table, looking around as though to share in your disbelief with a makebelieve audience. “And since then, have you…? With anyone?”

“Dude, that was two months ago,” he says, like you’re a bit slow, or perhaps like he’s offended by the notion, “Yes.”

You click your tongue. “Ah, shit. You should’ve said no. Would’ve sucked you off, seen if I could taste her.”

Your hip ghosts absently against his spread open knee.

“You can still try,” he offers.

You shake your head, stifling a smile. “Nah.”

“God, we’re the worst.”

“You’re the worst.” You let your smile divulge itself.

“We should get married.”

“Fuck no.”

Patrick lets himself look putout by this, eyes going downcast. You’ve always thought his smile—really his whole face—looks vulnerable, like soft bread. He looks like the perfect sad boy, the victim rather than the perpetrator.  

“Oh,” says Patrick.

You hit him in the arm. “Don’t do that. You know it’d suck.”

“I don’t think so, actually,” he muses.

“What do we have in common? Like, sincerely. Besides her. You can’t build a marriage around a person who isn’t in the marriage.”

He makes a face as though to say this is an evidently incorrect statement. He gestures vaguely in the direction of Art and Tashi’s wedding venue.

That gets a laugh out of you.

“Oh, you pathetic asshole.” You steady yourself on his thigh again, this time with your fist. “No one has mentioned your name once today.”

You know it’s a low blow.

He returns your smile, though his is sad and weird again. They’ve all forgotten about me, it seems to say, Maybe you’ve forgotten about me, too.

Ugh, you think. Fucking Patrick who can’t stop being fucking neglected by everyone.

You clear your throat softly. “See? You don’t wanna marry me.”

Patrick lets out a depleted sigh, like he, too, is not so thrilled with the notion. And you’ve heard better proposal stories. He looks like a Labrador who’s figured out he has to go to the vet. He kicks the edge of the barstool with his sneaker.

“I do. I still do. That was fucked, but I still would.” He looks angry and lonely and resigned, and a little happy too, weirdly. “We should have one of those, ‘by the time we’re thirty—’”

“Thirty?”

“Fifty.”

You like how quickly he bends, in that moment. It has you picturing flower arrangements. But you narrow your eyes, a wry gleam to your smile.

“I think I’ll still have a shot, at fifty.”

“I won’t,” he says, with the smile of the recently condemned.

“I think you will, actually.” You regard him sort of pensively. And maybe it’s a bit clinical. “I think age is gonna humble you. And then you’ll be fifty and grey and, like, penitent. Plus fifty’s still virile, generally. And I’ve heard good things about your situation down there. Just—“

You push off the bar, your fist leaning down more heavily on his thigh as your other hand comes up to his forehead, as though checking his temperature, before sweeping upwards and pushing his hair back. You’re on your toes—further on your toes, considering the heels—assessing his hairline closely, your nose grazing his forehead and your hips certainly slotted between his.

Patrick makes an insincere attempt to push you off. “Hey, what—“

“Did your maternal grandfather have hair?”

He hesitates, “What, my mom’s dad?”

“Mhm.”

He feels that breath against his brow.

“To this day,” he shrugs, “But he’s an asshole.”

“That’s good news.” You lean back.

“That my gramps is an asshole?”

“No, the—“ You gesture to his hair again, “That’s how you know, I think. If you’ll bald. Is your maternal grandfather.”

“You think? Didn’t you do health science?”

“Didn’t you do fuck all and doesn’t everyone hate you?”

He seems unharmed, if enchanted, by this persistent claim.

He points again in the general direction of the wedding beyond the brick wall of the bar.

“They may hate me. You don’t hate me.”

You follow his finger like everything between you and that marble dance floor will collapse, and you will be given a clear view of that proprietary, knowing way Art Donaldson holds her as they dance.

You look back at him. “You really seem to believe that. It makes me concerned.”

“For me?”

“No, for myself. I don’t like that I’m putting out such false vibes.”

He is charmed by this verbiage.

He laughs, like he’s still unconvinced. “Okay.”

He holds it against you, of course.

He doesn’t do a goddamn thing, as promised, but he holds it against you.

Patrick doesn’t like the college parties, but he manages. He doesn’t like feeling like an interloper, really. Doesn’t like that Art and Tashi have this fully functional ecosphere in which he cannot take root—like he’s some sort of invasive strain of alien vegetation.

As soon as he can, Patrick excuses himself from the purgatory of social interaction with whichever set of strangers Tashi calls her friends. He extricates his arm from around her waist and catches your eye as he goes to stand, mimes taking a drink, and watches with relief as you narrow your eyes but push out of your chair and head toward the bar. You order four shots of something.

“You’re lasting longer than I thought,” he says as soon as he’s close enough to you. He takes one shot—vodka, he thinks as it slides down his throat—then another from the bar top. “You were making that face, though.”

You scowl up at him. You know exactly what he’s talking about. “I was not.”

Patrick snorts. “If that helps you sleep at night. I know I won’t be sleeping.”

He bites his lip and does a crude mimicry of delivering backshots with his pelvis, his hands holding an imaginary set of hips, and you suddenly feel beset with a strange nausea. You defeatedly slide toward him another one of those shots.

“What’s the point of her having you as a friend if you aren’t going to support us?”

“I bought you three fucking shots,” you say. You quickly throw the last one back before he can get at it, because, by now, you at least know Patrick well enough to know he’s nearly about to make a grab for it. 

He grins. “Kid, if Art had won that game, I’d make my pass at you ten times over.”

That’s enough to turn the nausea into chunder, and you quickly push past him and book it to the bathroom as it blooms up your throat.

You see your tendons as racketstrings, as you crouch over the toilet.

Taut and crossed over one another inextricably.

He’ll always have that over you, the tennis. You never had the tenacity for it. But it means he has a whole other way to upset her, too.

You take comfort in the fact that Tashi is quick to stand and take you into her arms when you reappear, halftorn, wrung out. She’s happy to take you back to your room, and nurse you for the night.

Patrick doesn’t begrudge. He’s fine to let you have your little pleasures. She’s still his, is the thing.

You’re confused about the Art Donaldson of it all.

He has a warmth in his eyes. And a mischief and a validation. He’s like Patrick, in that he watches—he watches very closely. But where Patrick has always seemed content, in this strange, visceral way, to take what he can get, Art feels like he’s waiting for… something. He’s sort of always fighting with Patrick, but they’re taking care of one another, strangely. He has this weird, symbiotic desire to know more about Tashi and Patrick’s relationship, which—well—you’d be canting to pass judgement.

Grey, grey skies out the windows of Tashi’s dorm room. It’s the most neutral space for you all. Bundled in jackets and hats on beer runs. Fingers freezing as you sit on the floor and play UNO, bumming and trading all of Patrick’s cigarettes because it’s all you can think to do. It rains all day. Patrick tucks his fingers under Tashi’s thigh, kisses the corner of her mouth.

Art has a cold, passes it on to Patrick, and now you’re all incubating it in this cloistered space that soon becomes littered with used tissues and cough drops and tornopen packets of TheraFlu.

Patrick is glad to help no one feel left out. He announces as much—I don’t want you guys to feel left out—with this quizzical simper, as Tashi places down a wild drawfour and declares blue. And maybe she’s doing something foul and saccharine like looking right into Pat’s eyes when she says that.

“I don’t think you have any blues,” says Art, sliding four cards from the deck, wearing his own quizzical simper. “I think you just want us to think you have blues, I think you’re playing smart.”

You can tell by the way Patrick grips his beer bottle that he thinks Art is flirting with her.

There seems to be an odd, prophetic thought you two share.

If the two of them—Tashi and Art—were to get married, they would have golden brown babies like Renaissance cherubs while you and he sat in the dark with the rest of the godless degenerate art.

So, in some way, perhaps, you’d seen it all coming.

When Patrick picks up the phone, shoves it between shoulder and ear, and takes the sorelyneeded, sweetyolkdripping, heavily hotsauced bagel sandwich out of his mouth so he can mumble, “Yeah?” he does not expect the first words across the receiver to be,

“Hey, you fuck. I have your shit.”

Patrick rolls his eyes and takes a large bite, craning over his open palm to keep egg and cheese off his Puma shirt. This is a time when brands like Puma still want Patrick Zweig wearing their shirts.

“Uh-huh,” he says.

“You know, this feels like Christmas. Do you know that? This feels like Christmas day for me. You think you’re this special boy who can have whatever he wants. You’re bullshit. The bell tolls for thee. Your ex, I should note, has bent over and spread her cheeks for me.”

And you feel a way, about the coarseness of your words, the fissures in your mouth. But this isn’t about demeaning Tashi. It’s about flaying him.

“Dude.”

“Her beautiful, soft, floralscented cheeks.”

Patrick hangs up on you, which feels like how you imagine the President feels after election day.

You wait for him to call back.

It’s less than a minute before your phone shudders. He puts you on speaker.

“Are you done?” he says.

“Dude,” you say, “Never ever. Never ever ever.”

“How much for shipping?”

“Fuck you, coward, you’re still in town.”

There’s a revolting, wet sort of noise as he chews. And it is between these chews that he says, “You want to see me, then? Make sure I’m miserable?”

“I don’t need to see you to make sure you’re miserable, your whole life is miserable,” you say.

Patrick chuckles, the sound garbled by his food. It’s not the noise that makes you recoil from the receiver. You are more disgusted at the prospect of him being fed. Okay, sure—you, in your sadism, have been picturing him gaunt and desolate on the floor. And perhaps you are unmoored by how coherent and gutful he sounds now.

It’s harder to hide sorrow in your eyes. Maybe you do just want to see his eyes, and make sure.

“You’re real classy, kid, I think I’ll miss you most of all,” he swallows. “Where d’you want to meet?”

When you return to the reception hall, the cake is still unsevered and the music has gone slow. Otis Redding, ‘These Arms of Mine’.

Tevin keeps a clammy hand on your midback, the other slackly holding your fingers up.

You’re blinking brine from your eyes and sniffing shallowly. Tev’s giving you a chary sort of look, slightly frowning. He clears his throat.

“If things don’t work out with Lainey, I could marry you.”

But he doesn’t sound too keen on the idea. Which you think is a bit comical, because you've smelled his room, and you've seen him in braces, so, ostensible case for grooming aside, even you're not so desperate.

Still, you squeeze his shoulder lightly through his blazer. You clear your throat, roll your eyes. You let this child sway you side to side, and think of yourself at seventeen, varnishing Tashi’s toenails and daubing them clean with mephitic acetone. Over and over. Trying every colour. One time, you forgot to open a window, and the fumes had you two flaked out on the carpet.

“That’s nice, Tevvy, how’s that promposal coming along?”

In the bar a dozen minutes off campus, you slide the sloppily taped Amazon box across the table.

A microcosm of his pathos condensed into 18 x 12 inches. Each item in isolation meaningless, but altogether painting an intimate lithograph of a man discarded. All tender and immiscible.

Jacket. Toothbrush. Edgefrayed leather wristband. An old iPod with cracked plastic. A pack of cigarettes, crushed and reformed. A small bottle of aftershave. A few crumpled receipts. Unbranded notebook. Expensive fountain pen he probably stole from the bank. A plastic cardholder and a wallet, both empty. A pack of gum.

It feels a bit stupid that Patrick should come all this way for a couple knickknacks. You could have just let him Venmo you for the shipping, and it may have hurt his pride all the same. But you take pleasure in knowing that he was hoping you wouldn’t be the one to meet him here.

“How’s Tashi?” he asks.

You give a small, malicious laugh.

The predictability dissolves none of the abject carnal rapture there.

Of course it’s why he came. He wants to know all about your (singular) dear Ms Duncan. He still has a glimmer of faith that she will change her mind. Even though you both know the girl well enough to know that’s not a thing she does too often.

If you hated him, you would tell him that Tashi is thriving. Healing like a child of God. She’s a new woman, never better, can’t wipe the smile off her face.

But maybe you don’t hate him that much after all.

“She’s a fucking wreck. Moping, crying in the lecture halls, shouting your name in the rain. It’s pathetic.”

A twinge of a smile crosses Patrick’s face, the petty bitch.

“You know I meant her knee,” he says, then takes a sip of his beer.

You cross your arms on the table, then retract them with a wince once you feel how sticky the wood is.

“I don’t know,” you say while rubbing some gunk off your elbow. “I don’t know that, Patrick. You know I think you’re a raging assface.”

Patrick raises his eyebrows. “Have you guys ever fucked?”

His faith, glimmer as it may, is not without its fractures. He has a needling, bonechewing suspicion that this may be the last time you two ever see one another, that you occupy the same orbit. So he thinks he’s allowed to ask.

You just glare at him in cold annoyance. Probably fantasising about smashing his beer bottle over his head. Patrick is familiar with the expression.

“Patrick, please don’t talk to me that way.” There’s violence in your voice that’s probably not just aggrieved feminism.

He knows you’re a woman mutilated about Tashi. He considers saying something even shittier, but what’s the point? You’re not a threat to him anymore. He’s out of the running.

“Fine. Have you guys ever made love?”

Before you can bite his head off, he raises his hands in defense.

“Not trying to be disrespectful, or suggest you have casual pussy and not committed long term lesbian relationship pussy. It’s just… if I figured it out.”

There’s a moment of quiet.

“And, y’know, if she’s single and clearly in a bad place, maybe it’s worth… taking advantage.”

You are at once shocked and maybe even appreciative of his forthright shittiness. It gives you slight confidence, despite yourself.

Call him oldfashioned—or, well, remarkably progressive—but he’s rooting for you kids.

You’re both the perfect combination of hot and insufferable. Stupid and insane.

He knows you weren’t lying; Tashi probably is a wreck. It sometimes makes his tongue go metallic, the thought of her rendered so still and helpless. Maybe it’s better he only got a glimpse of that anguish.

So he’s been ousted, that’s fine. That doesn’t mean you need to dump the baby out with the bathwater. He knows she needs someone.

You sigh. “I’m getting a drink.”

You stand and walk toward the bar. You return with the same beer he’s drinking. He wonders if you got it just because it’s the cheapest, or if you actually like it.

“We never did anything,” you say, picking at the moist label with your thumbnail. “Well. We did everything. But not that.”

Patrick nods. “There’s time.”

“She’s hurt.”

“She’d be lying down.”

She is lying down.

The sky goes gold in Allapattah.

You’re by her desk, looking over her colourcoded portfolios and notebooks and Stanford paraphernalia and assorted photos and inspirational posters. You smile amusedly as you trace your finger over a WINNER cheer banner and a Never Give up, Give 100% Instead! placard.

“Mom says stay over for dinner,” Tashi mumbles, rifling through a Teen People. “Should I ask for ‘Writing’s On The Wall’ or ‘Fanmail’ for my birthday?”

“Mmm...”

You pick up her Girl Scout badges, look them over.

“Put them back in the same order!” Tashi warns, unable to help herself. But she’s spent a lot of time sorting them.

You look up. You give her a blithe, nervous smile.

You shuffle to the bed and knee onto the mattress, collapsing into her. The two of you an interwreathed coalescence of tepid girlskin.

“I have ‘Fanmail’,” you mumble into the skin of her neck.

You hear Tev and Tre roughhousing like dogs in the living room.

She gets you alone in a small, ornate sidehall before the ceremony.

She slides her arms around your shoulders and hugs you tightly. Her skin is soft, balmy and fragrant as summertime honey. The flowery milk aroma of her hair imbues you.

“You remember Ozymandias?” she says, withdrawing and placing her palms upon your shoulders. There is a conspiratorial twinkle of glee in her eye.

“… The poem?” Your brows draw in with a vague scepticism.

Your throat is still fleshtender with the sobbing. Your eyes moist and caustic. But your makeup, for Pauline’s part, looks great. You’re determined to maintain your ramshackle semblance of civility for as long as possible.

Tashi kneads your skin. “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”

She clasps your shoulders and spins you around so your back is against her, and you stumble shakily to keep your strappy gold stilettos off her satiny white train. Her arms slink back around you, her thumb caressing the faint protrusion of your collarbone. You feel the sly grin on her lips as she creeps her fingers beneath your hair, sweeping it away and pressing her mouth softly against the gossamertender skin beneath your ear.

“That’s what I’m going for,” she whispers, making a flourishing sort of gesture with her hands in front of you, as if mapping the splay of a billboard. “A grand, glorious, eternal, and yet ultimately doomed endeavour. Something that stands tall and proud, resplendent and beautiful, but, in time, all turns to dust and fades into nothing but a vague memory.”

You shudder with laughter, the bare skin of her chest heated against that of your shoulderblade.

“What?” Tashi giggles softly against the shell of your ear.

“Nothing,” you grin, shaking your head.

You like, in fact, the tender morbidity of her words. That there is a melancholy in her hope. This union, like any, may well be ephemeral. Tashi Duncan, your romantic realist. You hope those are her vows. Wouldn't that throw the kid for a loop.

At the altar, you set your gaze heavenward, determined not to weep once more. This way, the sorrow has nowhere to fall but back within you. And so you do not even see her, as she flows down the aisle and embarks upon her ethereal odyssey.

You don’t think you’d have even been able to take it, anyway.

To bear witness to her metamorphosis under hallowed eaves.

But you feel it. The transience of power. Nothing beside remains.

Pam drives you two to Virginia Key Beach every Sunday after service at the COGIC. You are dithering, at first, about shucking off your clothing. The sea is such a vast, living thing. Nothing like a poky stall in the school bathroom. But, by week three, your Sunday best is sandstrewn, and you and Tashi are giggling things of cotton panties and training bras and seawater.

The waves feel giant and warm.

It fills your mouth and nostrils. The ocean envelops you. The water lifts you up. She mounts your back and drags you under. You laugh so hard you choke a bit, coughing up salt. She laughs even harder as she slaps your back unhelpfully. Her head is bent over yours, ducking to check that you’re okay, but she’s still simpering impishly. The next wave pulls you under and your lips brush against her lips, almost by accident.

You hear her small, hiccupy gasp.

You can feel the way her fingers scrabble against your shoulders. She sinks her little nails in. That Thursday, you had painted them blue.

You lie in a nest of towels afterwards, exhausted and depleted, like children after a bath.

You reach out with your hand and take a few of her wet curls between your fingers.

“When I’m tennis famous, I’m gonna marry Justin Timberlake,” she murmurs, resting her head on her arm, still panting.

“Can I be your flower girl?” you say, running your fingers through her hair.

You were a flower girl at your aunt’s wedding last Summer. You found the job so enchanting. All the doting gazes, the petals between your fingers. It doesn’t occur to you to want for more, at this time.

“You can be…” she mumbles, peeking at you over her arm. “Everything.”

It’s a strange, untenable idea, a thing not named. There are things you cannot be.

But you understand completely. “You too.”

“I wanna be a butterfly,” she hums to herself. “And fly away.”

Your lips twitch. “With Justin?”

Tashi’s face glows a little. “With you.”

Like all Floridian nights, the one of the wedding is humid. You can picture the way the feathery curls along Tashi’s hairline will start to rouse. You can picture, too, the way Art Donaldson’s stupid nose will caress that soft hair, how he will breathe her in. You don’t much want to picture anything beyond that.

There is so much moonlight to see by. It spills across Patrick’s skin in soft luminous beams.

The sand is damp between your bare toes, the satin of your dress growing wet beneath your bum. You are ensconced by a warm, saline squall.

The sea laves the shore like a hungry tongue.

The cake is a pistachio sponge, bedaubed with rosesuffused cream, the layers laden with a tart raspberry treacle, and the frangible ivory of white chocolate. You filch two slices, wrap them in monogrammed serviettes. A&T. Awful and tragic, he had joked bleakly as you clumsily took off your shoes on the foreshore. Agonising and traumatic, you’d offered. You went back and forth like this for a bit.

Patrick’s cigarette gilds his face in a copper glow. His eyes are trained pensively on swathes of sea foam.

Your phone garbles between your feet. Hums—bleary, melancholic—with Amy Winehouse.

And now, the final frame. Love is a losing game.

The cake is good. The cake is fucking amazing. You’d said that, at the tasting. Fuck, this is amazing, had been your honeyed moan. It was enough for Tashi to make the decision. You feel bad, now, lapping frosting off your fingers in her absence, your sugarcoated teeth.

Patrick blows the smoke away from you, disperses the acrid cloud with a fan of his hand. The wind will waft, though; sweep some of that fetor back to you. And all you do is breathe.

Selfprofessed, profound…

Patrick spares you a glance. Then does gawping a doubletake.

“Fuck, you’re not crying.” He sniffs deeply, his hand swiping roughly the wet skin of his cheek.

Your eyes widen.

“Oh, shit, did we start?”

He breathes a dilapidated, spitladen laugh, scrubbing harsh his cheeks with his fingers.

The heavy rivulets keep cascading. Washing his skin.

“Yeah!” he scoffs wetly, sweeping his wrist beneath his nose, sniffing again.

You stifle a rueful simper, wiping your fingers off on the napkin. “Ah, fuck, sorry.”

He gives another watery laugh.

“You’re a dick,” he grins.

And then you’re grinning too, though your brows quaver with concern, “No, oh my God, sorry! I cried a lot earlier.”

He’s shaking his head, freshets of tears still trickling down. “You’re an ass, I can’t believe—“

“I’ve never seen you cry,” you smile, something like wonder misting your eyes.

He chuckles, his cig singeing down, the smoke pirouetting upwards.

“No one has.”

You beam, but your shoulders tense with guilt. “Fuck!” you giggle, rumpling the serviette and resting it in the sand, shifting where you sit, and straightening as if centring yourself. “I’m sorry, I’ll do it now.”

“No, you won’t. You’re laughing.”

You laugh loudly, dropping your forehead to your hoisted knees.

“That’s closer than you think!” you say.

Patrick takes a deep, terminal drag of his cigarette—the ember coruscating violently—before extinguishing it in the sand beside him.

“Fuck,” he whispers, dipping his face into his shirt collar and using the fabric to swipe at his nostrils, snivelling more.

Then his shoulders fall. Elbows resting on his knees, hands falling slack between them.

The song starts up again.

For you I was aflame…

The ocean whispers soft susurrations against the beachfront.

You are struck, suddenly, by his silverveiled visage. Your gaze strokes the slope of his nose, the arch of his cheekbone. You are so enthralled by this wet gleam of his milky skin. There’s something about that; about his unencumbered tearflood and the faraway joy of the party.

Before you can stop yourself, you move in.

Your noses bump. There’s a moment where your teeth clack together and Patrick makes an annoyed noise, but it’s quickly replaced by something that sounds more like pleasure as he turns to fit his mouth against yours more easily.

You taste his tears and mouth and tongue. His hand comes to cradle the back of your neck. Your blotchy eyes flutter closed. You dig your fingers into the sand and close your fists around it. You taste the smoke and the cake and the oceanfront. It’s all a bit warm and desperate.

You think of the seaspray, the burgeoning goosebumps on your arms. You think of your mouth, mollified against his own, his hot spit on your gums, his tongue, hotter still, stroking yours. How he tips your head back so your jaw can fall further, so there is more of you available. You think of mouths. Of course, you think of Tashi’s mouth. Her smile in the mirror.

There’s a poignant tremor to Amy’s voice, as she sings,

Memories mar my mind.

And you are struck by this phrasing. And this is, perhaps, why and when the tears find you. And the sobs come soon after.

Patrick pulls away with a damp little noise.

“Oh my God.”

You’re weeping. Your shoulders start to tremble with spasmodic sobs, and you are bawling. Your face swims hot with a mire of tears and snot. He is not overtly repulsed. Well, you would not know for sure, because you cannot see him. But you feel him shift a little closer, and put a hand on your bare shoulder, his palm flushed and calloused. He gives you a few resigned pats.

“This is not what I wanted, for the record,” he says, unbothered by your head falling against his chest. “Because now I’m gonna feel like shit. Thinking, wow, was the kiss so shit that it made her cry like a baby?”

You lift your hands and cover your face, sobbing harder.

“Which,” Patrick continues, thumb caressing idly the sweat-tacky skin of your shoulder now, “I know that’s not it.”

A beat.

“Do you wanna tell me that’s not it?”

“That’s not it,” you blubber, smearing mucus off your lips.

You pull away from him dragging your hands down your face. When you look at him, you’re sure you look a sorry sight. Tender with despair, all messy, smeared, and febrile. You sniff shallowly.

“You were right,” you say weakly, “It’s not better.”

“What’s not better?” His voice, you note somewhere in the miasma of your sorrow, is uncharacteristically kind.

Your lip quivers, “I’ll have to be there when he puts a baby in her.” Your face has twisted in anguish and you are wailing once more, sobbing loud and earnest.

Patrick blinks at you, “Jesus.”

But he pulls you closer again. Turns your body, in fact, so you are leaning back into his raised lap and he is halfway cradling you like a baby. You weep into his shirt, painting it wet and viscid, and the scent of his awful cologne only makes you sadder.

“Oh my God,” Patrick says again, rubbing up and down your arm, and he sounds a bit amused, which is a little fair. “He might not,” he offers.

You snivel loudly and pull back, swallowing your sobs and casting him a disappointed glower.

“Yeah, ok. He probably will.”

You fall hard against his soaked front again, whimpering feebly. Patrick looks down at you.

“Hey, we can do that, too,” he offers now, in a pick-yourself-up sort of tone that juxtaposes so fiercely with the proposition he’s actually making, you nearly laugh. “We time it right, they can be the same age. Then we’ll put ours in the same school as theirs, and teach ours to just fuckin’ decimate the shit.”

And now you are laughing. You’re still teary and frail so it hurts all the same as a sob, but he can see you’re smiling, so he continues,

“Just everything. Fuckin’ grades, boom. Sports, boom. Instruments, boom. Our one’s gonna play two cellos, a piano, a guitar, and an oboe, all at the same time. He’ll use his fingers, toes, and dick,” says Patrick, and he sounds utterly sincere and emphatic, even as he’s sort of smirking now, because you’re laughing even harder. “And we’ll tell him to bully theirs, too. Every day just ‘oh you’re a piece of shit, you’re ugly, your parents’ marriage was doomed from the beginning’, and their fucker’ll be like ‘no I’m not’ and ‘fuck you’—”

You’re tickled, too, by the voice he puts on to imitate these fictitious children. How he talks all low and churlish like he’s instead caricaturing a worldweary pensioner.

“—and ‘I wish you weren’t so much cooler and better than me, and didn’t fuck my girlfriend, and my mom’.”

You make a face.

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Alright, fine. He won’t fuck her,” Patrick concedes, “That’d be fucking legendary if he did, though. But he won’t.”

You are, again, charmed by this, by how easily he yields. It makes you think of a nursery and fresh, boneless toes.

You rest your face on the wet of your weeping on his chest, and you feel a bit humiliated. But this isn’t so bad, as far as humiliations go.

“What if it’s a girl?” you croak, your words halfway muffled by where your cheek is squashed against him.

“Even better.”

“Where would we live? I don’t wanna go to New York, I don’t have the fortitude.”

The worst of your sobbing has waned to stillness, but he’s still rubbing your arm.

“We can shack up in the Midwest. Somewhere chill.” His leg starts shifting beneath you, and you think he wants another cigarette, but he doesn’t move. Instead, “Omaha?”

You shrug. You hated not being in Florida, but still. You shrug. “Sure. And what’ll you do? Coach? Or become like a blue collar fuckin’…” you trail off vaguely. “I can’t even picture it.”

“I always wanted to be a fireman.”

“That’s sexy.”

His laugh, when it sounds, echoes through his chest like there’s a cavern where his heart should be. Which you don’t think is such an unthinkable idea.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod. You clear your throat. “Especially because you could die at any moment. So if we end up hating each other, I can just wait for you to die in a fire, and, that way, I don’t have to murder you. Then our kid doesn’t lose both parents at once.”

He pauses as if considering this. His leg shifts again. “Fuck,” he murmurs after a while.

“Sorry.”

“No, don’t ruin it.”

You clear your throat again. “And a dog,” you say.

“Fuck, yeah, a dog,” he says in his most New Yorkian fashion. Like a traveling salesman who needs you to look at this vacuum and do it quickly. It’s pretty funny. “It can eat theirs.”

You make a reproachful sort of noise. “Not everything has to be—“

“Okay, fine, yeah, just a dog,” he cedes again. The nursery, in your mind, is astralthemed. “Just a dog for the two of us. And our Nobel Prize winning child. I’ve always wanted one named Bagel.”

You think he can somehow hear your mildly scathing New York musings.

“A kid or a dog?”

“A dog.”

“We can name the dog Bagel,” you shrug, as though agreeing to dinner plans, and the tender pulse of a postweep migraine begins to encroach upon you, like the waxing sea. “Can we name the kid Bagel?”

“No.”

The song is still on loop.

Five story fire as you came…

You think of Patrick in sootscuffed bunker gear and a fireman’s helmet.

“Bagel Zweig,” you mumble wryly, your skull beginning to thump with the ache of your patheticism.

Patrick laughs. Lifts you off his knees, unceremoniously but not unkindly, and begins to rifle in his pockets for his Camel pack.

A sudden bout of cheering sounds from the reception, flashing taunting beams in purple hues. You wonder what the fuck they have to be so happy about. You sigh. Perhaps, too, did people cheer, at the mortal fall of Ozymandias. You think about that. That loss of power. That loss.

[tommykinard6]

Should I be eating and resting? Yes. Am I? No, so come join me for a dissertation on Tommy Kinard being lonely.

Edit to add a note since I saw a reblog about it: Tommy has no canonical age right now and Lou is 39, 40 later this year, so that is my basis for saying he’s 39.

Now when I say lonely, I don’t mean that he has no one whatsoever. I can picture him going for drinks with his team or having some Muay Thai buddies that he could call up if he really was inclined. Maybe an old army buddy or two.

But there’s something about Tommy that’s just achingly lonely, both when he was at the 118 and now at Harbor.

Tommy had a broken home, or some other kind of unstable childhood. Maybe his parents split, maybe he was mistreated, maybe he was in the system or was passed around family members. Maybe he was isolated as a child because he was a little overweight (I think Lou said something along those lines) and was bullied. I think Tommy didn’t really have any friends until high school, when puberty hit and maybe he started working out and probably joined the football team. I don’t know if anyone remembers what teenage boys are like, but I can imagine they were the same as they are today back in the 90s/early 00’s. Because around this time, Tommy might’ve started to realize that something was very different about him.

Now this isn’t a meta about how I think Tommy dealt with his sexuality (maybe I’ll do one of those later) but I think he never would’ve risked his football friends knowing even if he himself could acknowledge it, which I doubt. So he messed around, got in trouble with these guys, hung out with the bros, and pretended to be interested in girl talk.

Of course, eventually, his buddies all got girlfriends and he was always the odd one out again.

He didn’t do college. The army was his next step. And I feel like this might have been the first time in his life he wasn’t lonely. He’d learned to blend in by this point and he worked with some great people. But as he started making real friends for the first time, he also started losing them as the war tore them away.

Tommy left the army and joined the fire department. There was an aching hole where the camaraderie of the army had filled previously and with no education beyond a high school diploma, Tommy thought the fire department would replicate that. Not the police though. He’d had enough of guns.

(And ohhhh now so many ideas on his thoughts during the sniper)

But he ended up at the 118 and quickly realized that his team had maybe more of a DADT stance than the army. He realized that he had to put on an elaborate act to fool his fellow firefighters, who had more time on their hands and more prejudice they were willing to wield to pick apart his life. Tommy, who maybe had only just started to acknowledge he felt differently about guys with less panic than before, had no choice but to backslide. He acted and acted and crafted a person he wasn’t until the day that maybe he was. Sal was his closest buddy at the 118 and Tommy had no doubt that Sal would be one of the first to make his life hell. Gerrard seemed to look at Tommy as some sort of mentee. Boxed in by two notorious bigots, Tommy had never felt more claustrophobically alone.

Chim was the first one to reach out a hand of friendship, or at least the first one that didn’t come with caution tape, but he was also an “other” and Tommy, who was confused and afraid and had just had his captain call his bluff on his fake girlfriend, lashed out. Then he allowed Chim in and Chim wasn’t interested in being besties but he was a great drinking buddy and movie buddy and Tommy felt safest around him.

Then Hen came and Tommy watched her get the same treatment he was afraid of. Not that he had to worry about the racism, and he was aware of the privilege, but Hen didn’t exactly hide herself and he watched them bully his lesbian coworker. He let himself get pulled into it all and hated himself for it, but was too cowardly to break away from it. He wasn’t sure why Hen had forgiven him, but she became the only other person on shift he felt even a little safe around other than Howie. But then Chimney and Hen became best friends and Tommy fell to the wayside. They still included him, sure, but they were always a pair and there was something there that Tommy didn’t know but longed for. A closeness he’d never felt.

A best friend. A juvenile idea to him, but one he’d never truly had.

Then Gerrard was gone and Sal got transferred and the 118 moved forward under Captain Nash, but Tommy felt left behind, even in what was the most united A shift team yet. Because he was over 30 and was starting to be unable to ignore everything that he’d had to hide under Gerrard, as he no longer had a distraction from it.

He’d been a pilot in the army, so he transferred to Harbor. And Harbor was great. He wasn’t best buds with anyone (he was starting to think that was never in the cards for him) but his team didn’t carry the same baggage that the 118 had.

So Tommy started to come to terms with himself. He started to date for the first time and came out to his team. And he had several boyfriends, but most couldn’t handle the job or his baggage or the desperate need he had to be wanted. His most long term partner cheated and the one he fell hardest for couldn’t deal when Tommy was injured on the job. Even within his own relationships, he felt like he was destined to stand alone.

Tommy was 39 years old and alone, as always, when Chimney walked back into his life, dragging an adorable and also extremely hot blonde and a stoic brunette that radiated ex military in a way only ex military could know. And then Hen was there and they were trying to rescue their captain and his wife and they clearly loved each other fiercely and like family.

And as Tommy listened, flying through the remnants of a cat 5 hurricane, he thought to himself that he should’ve never left. Simply just never found himself if only that meant being part of the family the 118 was now. However, he knew deep down that he still would’ve been alone and on the outside.

And they rescued the survivors and Tommy thought that was it but then Eddie wanted to hang out. And they liked the same things and had similar experiences and Tommy couldn’t help the hope. Because the loneliness had grown stifling and now he could breathe a little. And then Evan, the cute blonde, wanted a tour of the hanger and he thought that maybe he was being hit on.

And then at the end of it all, Tommy was left realizing that he’d wedged himself between two best friends and that was what happened when he allowed himself to hope. So he went to Evan to apologize. He would get Evan and Eddie to talk to each other and then would fade into the background.

But then Evan was sweet and apologetic and told him that he was part of the 118 family simply by helping them. Tommy couldn’t help it. Here he was, at 39, with a little boy still waiting inside of him to be soothed. And Evan was hot and sweet and Tommy couldn’t help himself.

And he really liked Evan. Evan was adorable. But their first date didn’t go as planned and Tommy knew he was already whipped. So he removed himself before someone could get hurt. Evan deserved better and so did he, even if the loneliness was stifling again.

But then Evan texted him and looked at him with sparkling blue eyes over too sweet coffee and wanted him. Him. He wanted Tommy and to have something with Tommy and he wanted him to come to his sister’s wedding with him.

And Tommy looked at him and saw someone who could finally fill the ache he’d felt his whole life. He saw a man who he knew he wanted to take a chance with. All he had to do was jump.

And he did.

And it wasn’t solved, not immediately and never fully. Too many wounds were left gaping for too long to ever heal. But for the first time in his life, at 39, with the 118 surrounding him and Buck as the sunshine at his side, Tommy finally felt at peace.

[hippopotamusdreamer]

The 8 Times Stray Kids Protected/Cared for You

genre. A (semi-heavy), F , C

warnings. death threat (?), mention of you should die, loneliness, allergic reactions, stalking, being followed, belittling, skin picking, feeling like you don't belong

additional notes. Female! Reader | You/Your pronouns, reader is aged between Hyunjin and Han, includes all members of Stray Kids, Reader is allergic, Lee Know as Minho in some parts

pairing. OT8 x 9th member

w.c. 13.4K

synopsis. A few separate instances that Y/N remembers within her time with Stray Kids

Kpop Masterlist

Fandom Masterlist

This in no way reflects the actual persons involved/based in this fic, nor their actual character. This is purely fiction.

Chan had always been very particular with how his members were treated. Whether it be by the staff or by fans. He’d always kept an eye out for them. A protector of the highest caliber. Always keeping his children in line and away from harm to the best of his abilities.

Of course, when you joined Stray Kids, at the behest of one Park Jin Young, it was a little rocky to say the least. He was kind to you, they all were, but there was that underlying unease when it came to having a new FEMALE member. Not like you faulted them for it either.

On the contrary, you understood completely why they kept their distance for a while after officially meeting you. There were still some hardcore stans out there that always had that weird stigma with their idols and how they interacted with the opposite sex.

You just hoped your group could get passed that speedbump. To some degree, anyways.

Going public with everyone was a hard thing for your group to do at the beginning of your personal debut. Especially since it came months and months after the whole group was already established.

The backlash was insane.

You knew it was going to be a bad situation regardless. You weren’t stupid enough to believe it wouldn’t be. Even KARD went through something similar and they started off as a co-ed group. Message trucks were sent to JYPE and around Seoul calling for your departure from Stray Kids. Flower arrangements were placed at the front of the building itself with hurtful messages on each one.

There were even a few comments on SNS and other media outlets that still stuck with you to this day years down the line.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

It came to a head at the first fan meet and greet after the company stated that the group was now officially OT9. This was maybe 3 months in as a whole group, so everyone was pretty cordial with you. Still keeping a distance but at least they would acknowledge you even at the extent of a superficial conversation…

Being a girl, you obviously wouldn’t be able to get dressed and ready with the guys so there now had to be a designated dressing room solely for you. Your stylist and makeup artist had already finished your touch ups and so had left you to your own devices as they went to check on the others in the room next door.

It was lonely.

From your seat, you could hear the ruckus coming from the other room where the members were. The high-pitched giggles of Changbin, the yelling voices of both I.N and Felix. You could even hear the dulcet tones of Hyunjin getting onto someone.

It just made the silence in your room more poignant.

You wanted to join them, but you were scared of overstepping their boundaries. You could just feel their disdain for you whenever you stood near them. And you couldn’t help but emphasize that you GET. IT.

You did!

You weren’t there at the beginning of it all. You didn’t share in the hardships that they went through. Of when Felix and Minho were eliminated on Stray Kids Survival only for Chan to bring them back. You weren’t handpicked by the leader of the group. You don’t have that BOND.

But God did you wish you did. Instead you were chosen by the one guy that they like least of all. You were the pimple on an otherwise blemish free face.

So you sat, picking at your nails as your phone lit up on the counter in front of you. Grabbing the phone, you read the notifications that pop up on the screen.

@/LEEbitsgranma: Y/N should jst leave the grp alrdy, they don’t need her!!

@/LvrGirlSkZie: it’s all just for clout right?? Y/N is just using the boys when will JYP take action??

@/HyunsBbygrillll: I’m not saying Y/N should just d**, but,,,¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Your phone was getting hounded with notifications like these daily since, basically, the beginning of your introduction. You never replied to anything that was said and you never mentioned anything to the boys. Of course they had to have seen the signs in front of the building, but they never said anything to you. You didn’t want to cause them additional stress with your problems so you just endured it yourself.

Looking around you, you could just get a sense of loneliness inside your dressing room. Everything was still neat and in its designated place. There was a single standing rack with not even a third used for your clothes for the day. There were no pile of jackets and shoes in a corner, no trash from empty wrappers or drinks. No commotion as you just sat there in your chair quietly. It didn’t have that feeling that someone’s been there, it all just felt cold to you.

With a sigh, you closed your eyes and you tossed your phone back on to the counter to step out of the room. As you closed the door, you turn and made eye contact with I.N as he was about to step into his own dressing room, arms loaded with snacks. You go to greet him and possibly help him out with the door when he hurriedly continued on his way inside. He cried out in pain as his shoulder checked the frame.

The heavy door closed in your face.

You’re left to stand in the empty hallway, mouth frozen with a greeting stuck in your throat.

You pick at your nails unconsciously as you stood there, not sure where to look. You could feel the inside of your chest hurting at the blatant rejection from the youngest member of the group. Your mental health had really declined since this all started. And there were times when you’d just second guess yourself and thought about if this was the right thing to be a part of or not. But the legal fees alone would be a nightmare to deal with if you so much as tried to break your contract.

An unknown amount of time had passed since you stepped out of your room. The hallway empty in all that time you were out there, one of your fingers stung from how long you picked at the skin around your nail. Your dissociative state being disrupted as the same door I.N walked in through had Chan stepping out of it instead.

“Oh, Y/N, ” he greeted. “I was just coming to get you. Are you alright?”

“Huh?”

He just points at your hand. Seemed you picked yourself enough to make the skin around your nail to bleed a bit.

“Oh! Um…,” you hid your hand behind your back. “Yeah, I just came out to find a Band-Aid.”

“The stylists usually have some in their box for emergencies. The guys are all done changing so you can come get one from them.”

He turned to have you follow him but you shout to stop him.

‘THIS IS A BOUNDARY.’

Your mind yelled at you. You could not step into their space no matter what. You will not bother them in their safe space.

“It’s fine. It- um, I don’t even need one really, see?” you made a show of wiping the few drops of blood on your dark pants, willing no more blood to appear. When none did, you wiggled your fingers at him, forced smile on your face to urge him to believe you. “Look see, all better.”

He glanced at your hand before looking up at your face. He stared few minutes longer before slowly nodding his head in acceptance.

“Ok. I came out to come get you anyways.”

“Me?” You swear if you had any type of animal ears, they would have perked up at being looked for.

“Yeah, the meet and greet is about to begin. We’re about to start heading down to the area right now.”

“…Oh, right. Ok.” If Chan saw the disappointment on your face, he didn’t say anything about it.

At that, the boys started filing out of the room from behind him.

“Let’s go best leader!” I.N said, trying his best to speak in English. The coos following from every one of the guys was immediate. You smile at how well they were with each other, the pang in your heart slight at their connection.

You go to follow when you pat down your pants looking for the missing weight of your phone. Quickly, you remembered that you had left it in your room. Spinning around, you almost collided with Chan as he was following right behind everyone.

“What’s wrong?” He asks looking over you to make sure you were ok.

“I left my phone on the counter, I was gonna go grab it.”

“I got it,” he waved you off. “Go on with the others, I’ll be right behind you.”

“…You sure?”

He just nodded and gently motioned for you to go on. After a few seconds of hesitation on your part, you thanked him and trail after the boys who were way ahead of the two of you.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

You were standing off to the side of everyone as you all waited for the go ahead from the staff members in charge. It was a small location, probably 350 people max allowed inside. They had decided to downscale this fan meeting “just in case”.

They never out right stated what the “in case” part was but everyone knew.

Chan came back not long after, face unreadable as he handed you your phone back. Thanking him again, you tucked it into your back pocket, not waiting to see what other messages you could have gotten while it was out of your sight. He goes off to talk to one of the managers and you’re left alone again, the boys interacting within themselves.

You begin to pick at your skin again.

“Y/N-ah,” Chan called out to you as he went back to your group by the door. Turning to him you give him a questioning look.

“You’re going to sit next to me today ok?”

Normally for fan meetings, idols were placed however they wanted. Since you were new, typically you had been at the end of the line as to not break apart any STAYs’ member pairings. A majority may not have liked you right now, but a few of them weren’t so bad so you hadn’t wanted to get on their bad side. You were told before that Chan was going to be at the edge this time around so it wasn’t really much of a difference to you.

Nodding, you both heard STAYS beginning to yell as someone on the microphone was heard introducing Stray Kids. The doors open and you fix a smile on your face as you all make your way out waving hello to the STAYs waiting.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

You don’t know what you had expected as you sat there staring down at the table before you. Chan had decided that the both of you were going to sit in the middle, him to your left and Minho to your right. On one hand, what surprised you was having your very own fan cam. It was kind of fun to see it following you like a little puppy. On the other hand, the amount of times, people just straight up skipped you in line was both humiliating and disheartening.

You’d tried to sit on your hands to keep from picking at them but subconsciously it just happened after the 5th time being skipped over. In your own little mental bubble, you didn’t notice the worried glances the older members shot each other when they noticed what was going on the first time.

A few STAYs did stop at you though. It wasn’t all rough. The first STAY you met that day would always be a fond memory for you.

“Hi, Y/N, nice to meet you!”

“Hi! Nice to meet you, too,” You, and everyone else around you, could feel yourself brighten up at the STAY in front of you as you gave them a tender smile.

“I’m nervous,” she goes on to say. “This is my first fan sign.”

“Can I tell you a secret?” You say as you scoot a little closer in your seat. She leans in a little closer. “It’s my first fan sign, too.”

The both of you giggle at each other’s nervousness. The ice broken now that someone was willing to actually sit with you.

“I brought you a gift, it’s not much since I couldn’t afford anything after buying the ticket to come here. I just wanted to say that you’re doing an amazing job! Don’t listen to what people are saying online. They’re not real fans, I hope everything goes well for you this comeback and the ones after ok?”

You tried not to cry at the heartfelt words of the fan in front of you as she pulled out a little teddy bear from her bag. It was decorated with a little t-shirt that said “Bear-y Cool” on it. It had you immediately on your feet and leaning over the table to give her a hug.

The bear stayed with you throughout the rest of the meet and greet. Even when the staff would occasionally come by to clear the table of gifts that other STAYs had given the members, your bear was with you the entire time.

As time flew by it was now the ending lament and Chan didn’t hesitate to take the microphone.

“Hey guys,” his happy leader mode present as usual when sending STAY off.

“First of I just wanted to say that I’m so happy to have been able to meet and talk to so many of our fans today.” Everyone cheered and clapped, the flashing of cameras going off every now and then. “We had a great time with you all. This is the first time that we’re out meeting fans together as nine members. I do have to say though,”

The tension in the room shifted as Chan stared out into the audience. Him turning serious, watching the switch up was crazy from how happy-go-lucky he was a few seconds ago.

“I’m disappointed at how some STAYs having been acting online. What I saw today too, it really hurts my heart,” he said while grabbing at his chest. “Do you know what I hate the most? When people think that they’re trying to help but they’re actually not.

I know there are diehard fans out there that will say Stray Kids is eight members, but we’re nine now. And as long as Y/N-ah is here, we will always be nine. I know you guys are concerned about us, I understand that and we’re so grateful to you all, but you have to believe in us and what we’re doing. There’s no need to complain to the company or online, there’s no need to hate anyone for that matter. Stray Kids is nine members.”

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

News of Chan defending you spread quickly the days following the meet and greet. The online bullying dropped significantly as a result. Trucks and flowers trickled until eventually they stopped showing up altogether. A few online messages still made it through but other fans quickly put a stop to it. And an official company statement was made addressing all the atrocious behaviors done to your person and the legal actions that would proceed going forward should more were happen.

Your nailbeds were looking a lot healthier nowadays, too.

Yes, Chan was definitely protective of his members. No matter who it was that was targeting them, he would stick up for them in a heartbeat. And if you or anyone else ever noticed that he usually called you Y/N-ah now, well no one’s going to bat an eye about it.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

I.N was a verbal protector. Fierce in his own right, especially for being the youngest of the group.

Months following The Fan Meeting™, as everyone now called it, the boys really tried to open up to you more and vice versa. You’d learned that I.N wasn’t disregarding you on purpose that day, he was just nervous to have a one-on-one conversation with you. With you being half foreigner, he wasn’t all that confident in speaking with you yet even though you told him you could understand Korean. Not well but certainly enough to get by. Then you had brought up the fact that both Chan and Felix were also foreigners.

He apologized promptly afterwards.

After that conversation, the maknae decided to have mini studying sessions when the both of you weren’t busy with practice or recording vocals. To help you understand the language better and for him to get better at speaking English in general. The two of you would sit near the corner of the practice room and just have a notebooks and flashcards spread out all on the floor. A few of the members would also stop by to check on you two as well.

“아침은 뭐 먹었어요?” you said as you practice your pronunciation. I.N would then correct your infliction at the end. You would repeat it three times to get it down before redoing your sentence. Him nodding as you did it right.

“Morning what I eat?” I.N in turn, to practice, his English.

Smiling slightly, you lightly shook your head no. “Very close, English and Korean switch subject, verbs, and objects around. Try it again.”

He paused to let the information sink into his brain. He concentrated for a few seconds before saying, “What did I eat for breakfast?”

You clap and grin brightly at him and as he got it down quickly. He reflected your smile as you praise him. “Yes! That was perfect!”

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

It would continue like that until everyone was called back to continue practicing or it was time to leave. For weeks this went on, and the both of you got better with speaking and with each other. You still weren’t comfortable with interviews and usually you could get by without speaking too much.

It was about a month after the fan meet event when it all happened. There was this one interviewer who was just so invasive with his questions that he had directed towards you.

“Y/N-ssi,” you did not like the gleam in his eyes the entire time you all were there. Since the beginning of the interview, he just gave you a bad feeling. You were grateful you were sat in the second row behind I.N and Channie.

“Yes?”

“You’re from America, yes?” The interviewer started.

“That’s correct.”

“Are both your parents Korean?”

“…No, they’re not. My dad is though.” You were unsure where he was going with this. It wasn’t part of the usual line of questions interviewers would ask and guessing by the slightly confused faces of everyone in the room, they most likely weren’t vetted to be asked that day either.

“Ah, what a shame. Maybe that’s why you’re not as popular as your other members.”

That one took you aback. Processing was a hassle since he started to talk faster. As if making sure to trip you up.

“Uh—.”

He cuts you off.

“Does it make you angry? 당신은 STAYs에게 더 많은 attention 원합니까? Do you 그들을 원망합니까?”

He was speaking too fast for you to process his sentences at once. Though you knew enough to know he was basically talking down to you. All you could do was flounder in your seat as you had trouble mentally translating everything this man was saying to you. Basically spit firing everything so you couldn’t even get a word in even if you wanted to.

It was I.N who grabbed the microphone from Chan before the leader could step in on your behalf.

“Interviewer-nim, those are questions that are neither appreciated nor appropriate at any time. Your actions regarding one of my members is really disgraceful and rude. This is something that our managers will talk to your higher ups about. ”

“That’s—” Just as he did to you, I.N cuts him off mid-sentence.

“We expect an apology from you and your company for my noona within the next few days. This interview is now over.”

And with that he dropped the microphone onto the floor before grabbing your hand and walking out. Chan nodded his head in agreement, angry tick in his jaw, as the others follow behind the two of you, also voicing their grievances with the interviewer.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Back in your designated dressing room, I.N was pacing back and forth fuming. You sat there, waiting for him to calm down on his own.

“He had no right to talk to you that way noona! He was being rude and hurtful and for what!?”

You couldn’t help but give a small smile at his little tirade. This was now the second time he’s called you noona and you won’t lie, it kind of makes you giddy for being honored in such a way by the maknae.

“He was,” you agreed from your seat on the couch. “And he most likely won’t be the last one to be rude to me or any of the others.”

He pulled a disgruntled face because he knew you were right.

“But,” you continued, I.N finally plopping down on the seat next to you. “I’m glad we’ll always have you there to have our backs like that. I deeply appreciate you standing up for me.”

You hesitated for a split second before you brought your hand up to pat his head softly. Delighted when he didn’t push you off.

There was a knock on your door before Chan popped his head in. Seeing both you and I.N inside, he fully stepped in.

“Hey, just wanted to check on the two of you.”

Looking at Chan then back to I.N you respond, “We’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, after he apologizes,” I.N grumbled as he crossed his arms across his chest, managing to make both you and Chan chuckle at him.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Suffice it to say, that interview never saw the light of day. You and your team also never worked with that interviewer afterwards either. And just as I.N wanted; an official letter of apology was sent to the company addressed to “Y/L/N Y/N of Stray Kids”. It sat framed in the dorm room to this day.

I.N being the one that had picked out the frame. It was there as a constant reminder of not letting anyone try to belittle you and continued to be with you for every moving day you’d had to make since then.

Yeah, you felt it in your entire being that I.N was fiercely protective of his members. And as his noona, you were just as fiercely protective of him too.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

If I.N was fierce, Changbin was silently reliable as a protector. For how loud he could be, he also knew when to just be there for you.

Though it was becoming less and less rocky with the group as time went on, you still felt like you could be in the way at times. Nothing crazy, but you did decide that to give them some space away from you at the dorm, you would either stay late in the practice room or go to the gym at night. It wasn’t for a long time, just an hour or two of extra time for yourself and that way the guys could have space to be “men” without the fear of you walking around.

It was going fine for the most part. You could arrange a Kakao taxi to drop you off at the apartment from the JYPE building if you stayed later than everyone. Or, if you happened to be at the gym you frequented, it was essentially located about 20 minutes from the shared dorm by walking.

You just had to count it as an extra form of cardio for your workout.

Chan and I.N would do a check-in if they felt you were out later than usual and you would respond back quickly as to not let them worry. Then you’d pack it up and head home.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

“Y/N-ah, are you gonna be in the practice room tonight?” Chan asked, everyone else wrapping things up for the night. He was sat in his studio chair, mixer spread behind him, lights flashing every now and then. You had no idea what any of them did.

“Not tonight Channie, it’s leg day. Gonna head for the gym.”

He nodded and told you to be careful before turning back to his abundance of buttons and dials. He was also staying late tonight.

You managed to make it outside when you got a text form I.N.

Little Maknae <3: u sure u don’t want to join gamerz night with me n Felix?

Smiling down at the screen you respond with an emoji declining his offer and told him good luck on their games.

Little Maknae <3: Noona, I’m playing w/Felix, I  need all the help I can get ㅋㅋㅋ

You rolled your eyes with a fond smile before sticking your phone away in your pocket. A sense of unease happened to wash over you though and you couldn’t help but look around to see if you spotted anything out of the ordinary. The sun was already starting to set on the day and the area looked clear for the most part.

Looking around one more time you brushed it off as your taxi arrived in front of you. Hopping inside you greeted the driver before confirming your location drop off. You hoped the feeling disappeared as he took off from the building.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

You were an hour and half into your set and that weird feeling just would not go away. The feeling in your gut caused you to bite at your lip in worry as you decided that you were done for the day. Calling it a night, you were mid-packing of your stuff when a guy you’ve never met before came up to you from seemingly out of nowhere.

Startled, you almost dropped your water bottle. An alarm bell began ringing in your head as you blinked at him. Something was not right and your instincts were screaming at you to get out of there.

“Hi,” he started, giving you a onceover. You were thankful that the leg press was between the both of you. “I’m not sure if you noticed but I’ve been working out next to you a couple of times now and I just wanna say you have such a good form.”

Sirens? Blaring. Heart? Pumping. And it wasn’t not due to the endorphins of a good workout.

“You’re so flexible when you stretch, too. I always tried to go as low as you do but I just can’t seem to manage. You make it look so easy.”

“Thank…you?” You’re not sure what to do. You know you should tell the staff about this dude’s creepy behavior but as of right now they were on the first floor and you were currently on the second. There was no one else around so you had to be even more careful because who knew just what he was capable of. You were both the same height but that could only take you so far.

“Um…well I have to go now,” reaching down to grab your bag, he put his hand over yours to stop you. Boy do you stop, practically frozen in your spot.

“Wait, you’re going now? Your sets usually last for a little bit longer don’t they?”

“Yeah but uh, I…have an early day tomorrow so I have to leave,” managing to pry yourself away from him, you took a step back.

He stared at you without blinking before he broke out into a smile. “Right, you’re probably busy tomorrow. It was so great to finally talk to you. I remember when you first started to come here, you had no idea what you were doing.” He laughed as if you two were just the best of friends sharing an inside joke. “Alright well I’ll let you head out, I’ll catch you in two days for your next session, ok?”

Before you can respond, he left with a wave and you’re finally alone. Hastily, you head downstairs to talk to one of the staff members in charge. The guy was already gone by the time you had made it to the front desk. They couldn’t do much since the guy didn’t actually assault you but they took down your statement and his description to warn the other team members to keep an eye out for him.

You didn’t feel comfortable leaving the gym immediately only because you weren’t sure if he was waiting outside for you or not. Instead, you stayed in the locker room for an extra 35 minutes, procrastinating with the sauna and a shower. Anything to keep you inside for a bit longer.

You’d tried calling Chan and I.N yet neither picked up. You knew it was a long shot with both of them being busy tonight, but you had to try either way.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

By the time you felt okay enough to leave the safety of the building, it was nearing 11 pm and you were hungry. There was a CU that you would pass by somewhere along the halfway point when you walked home, you would probably stop there for a snack to go. Surely, the guy wouldn’t still be hanging around right?

You didn’t feel anything out of the ordinary like earlier so you went on with your routinely walk home. The familiar purple and green lights of the convenience store came into your view and you released a breath you weren’t aware of holding. Heading inside, the bell alerted anyone inside that someone came into the store. Greeting the tired looking university girl behind the counter, you head to the back towards the refrigerator section that had all the kimbap varieties.

You were stuck choosing between a tuna bacon mayo and a spicy pork one when the overhead bell dinged again and that uneasy feeling came back to you with a vengeance. Slowly, you glanced to the corner security mirror and in the reflection you could make out the same guy from the gym was now there. Your hands shook as you placed both snacks back down.

The guy headed down into the next aisle over from you and you swiftly walked to the clerk up at the front. You could only hope that what you were about to do worked because your options were already slim. Taking out your phone, you typed a message and presented it to the girl while asking her a question.

“Excuse me, is there a restroom that I can use here?”

There is a man following me, could you hide me somewhere?

She looked as if to deny you before looking confused after reading the message on your phone. The desperation in your face probably helped convince her that you needed help because she started nodding and motioning for you to come behind the counter. All the while keeping an eye out for the man in case he turned the corner.

“Yes, you can come this way.”

You sent her a thankful look as you followed her. She told you to remain in there and she’d let you know if he left or not.

You took out your phone again and clicked on a random name in your contact list. Hoping beyond hope that someone would pick up this late. It rang three times before someone answers.

“Hello?”

Seo Changbin.

Finally allowing yourself to be scared, your voice was quiet and shaky as you addressed him, “C-Changbin?”

“Y/N? What’s wrong?” His concern is palpable even through the receiver.

“There’s a creepy guy that followed me from the gym. I tried calling Chan and Innie but they weren’t answering their phones. A-and I didn’t know what to do or who else to call…”

He cursed quietly and then you heard the rustling of keys on his end. “Where are you? Are you safe? Share your location with me and I’ll be there soon alright.”

“I’m safe for now, I’m in the employee office of the CU that’s 13 minutes from the dorm,” you do as he says and shared your location with him.

“Good, don’t move from there until I get you ok? I’m on my way.”

“Binnie…I’m scared…”

He was silent for a moment before his serious and reassuring tone could be heard over the line, “I know you are, but I promise he’s not going to do a thing to you you hear me?”

You nodded into your phone and waited for him to come to you. He didn’t allow you to hang up, wanting to be in constant contact with you while he shortened the distance between you two.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Just as he promised, Changbin made it to your location in record time. By the time he arrived the guy had already left when he realized you weren’t in the store anymore. From what the worker explained to the both of you, the guy had come up to her asking if she had seen his girlfriend, aka you.

That made you visibly uncomfortable and Changbin put his arm around you in comfort. Changbin made sure to get the worker’s information and a recording from the store’s CCTV of when you entered the CU to when the guy left sent to his manager’s email. Then he reached out to your gym to get their CCTV recording, as well as a copy of your written statement against the man. He was going to make sure that this guy would not be allowed anywhere near you.

On the short drive home, he kept looking over at you to make sure you were ok.

“Why do you go to the gym so far from the dorm? The one I go to is a lot closer.”

“…I didn’t want to invade into your space.”

“My…? Huh!? Y/N-ah, from now on just come to the gym with me ok. It’s better than going at night by yourself. Safer too.”

“But—”

“Y/N-ah, you don’t know how worried I was when you called me. I don’t ever want to feel like that if I can help it. I never liked the fact that you went out at night but I wanted you to have time for yourself too. So, if that means I can now take you with me in the mornings, I’m all for it, this way I know for sure that you’re safe.”

All you can do is give a watery smile, his words making you feel warm inside after the mess of the night had been. You agreed, not because he didn’t give you much of a choice, but because the sincerity of his words really hit home.

“Also, I want to enroll you in some self-defense classes. As long as I’m around, I’ll have your back but this is for just in case purposes ok?”

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Chan and I.N managed to call you back soon after arriving back at the dorm with Changbin. Both nearly had a heart attack when he explained what had happened to you. They both calmed down slightly when Changbin explained all that he was planning to do with the information he received.

He immediately made a note to cancel your gym membership and put you on his gym family plan in the morning. He doesn’t force you to go with him but you can tell he would get excited when you do decide to join him. He always asked how your class were as he would usually be waiting outside the door for you when you get done, not wanting to interrupt your session. You never did see that guy again after that, you just hoped he wasn’t doing the same thing to some other poor girl.

Changbin also started taking up the habit of walking with you after that incident, that way you never had to do it alone. Even if it was just a quick trip to the convenience store, he would be the first to get up to go with you. And you never once stopped sharing your locations with each other after that night.

Of course, that’s just how reliably protective your Changbinnie was.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Seungmin was one of the more quieter members of the group. Not in the bad why mind you, he just brought a sort of calm to the family function that you really enjoyed. He was also the more silent of the group when it came to protecting the others. Caring in the way that he observed rather than spoke. He was subtle in his actions. Didn’t outright say anything.

Just like everyone else, you came to learn that acts of service was definitely one of his love languages. The amount of times you’d caught him being kind to the members really made your heart melt. For all that he portrayed that he didn’t get along with the members of Stray Kids, you knew it was the complete opposite.

⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

It was awkward at first, as you sat across from Seungmin on the little couch that the staff provided. Both of you were shooting ‘Two Kids Room’. Neither of you were used to being the only two filmed together and not with the whole group. Yet, always the gentleman, as soon as you had sat down, Seungmin handed you a pillow for your lap and a blanket for your legs since you had been wearing shorts.

The staff had provided a few tubes of pringles to snack on and he read the tube and then immediately offered you the first chip of his newly opened can. Most likely checking if your allergen was present in the food.

As you kindly accepted his offer, it caused you to smile.

“Did you know I was scared of you all when I first joined,” you started out, popping the whole chip into your mouth.

“Oh, yeah?” he smiled as he ate one and then gave you another, probably thinking you were joking. Taking the snack, you nodded your head yes.

“Yeah, I felt like I was overstepping a lot by coming into the group so late.”

“Do you still feel like that?” A cute look of concern passed over his face, realizing this was something you were serious about. Subconsciously though, he continued to give you chips alternating with himself as he took one after you.

“Mmm, not as much as I used to,” you relay, nodding to yourself as you tried to get your thoughts in order. He waited patiently for you to continue speaking, not wanting to interrupt you.

“You actually helped me feel better about being here.”

“Huh, me?” He questioned surprisingly. You couldn’t help but giggle at his stunned face. The cuteness aggression he brought out of you was so real.

“How do I put this?” you pursed your lips in thought. “Your actions speak louder than words Seungminnie. Though you may not have realized it, they really do matter to us.”

His face flushed slightly at being addressed endearingly as such.

“Do you remember mmm,” you continued on, not acknowledging his reddened face lest he get more embarrassed. “I forgot what it was for, but we had to film all day while walking around Seoul. So we were constantly on the sidewalks when they weren’t driving us to the different locations.”

He made a noise of affirmation, still handing you food.

“Of course, you know there were times when I would be walking with someone else that day, but there were also a lot of times when I would be walking next to you. You always made sure that I was walking on the opposite side of where the road was. No matter what, it was like clockwork, if I had somehow found my way next to the busy road and you were nearby; you made sure to move me to the other side of you and away from traffic.”

“Really?” He said, surprised to hear what he did.

“Yeah, and you still do it to this day,” this particular chip being extra crunchy made the end of your sentence more prominent. You couldn’t help but giggle out the next sentence to see the reaction of your second youngest member. “I always thought that that was very manly of you.”

“Noona!”

That got a laugh out of you as he scoffed in embarrassment, pouting.

“I’m serious though,” you said, once again turning thoughtful. “You take care of us in quiet ways, Seungminnie.

It’s like when we get together to eat and somehow Channie always ends up cooking at some point or another? You always make sure him and I eat a few pieces first before eating yourself because you know that we would let the others eat before we do. Which, again, stemmed from me not feeling like I fit in with the group and is just so leader of one certain Bang Chan but ugghh,” you couldn’t help as your eyes got glossy at the memories that came to mind of how Kim Seungmin took care of you all silently. “It can be so frustrating because we want Chan to take care of himself, but he’s so steadfast in putting others before himself. Which isn’t a bad thing at all!

But you make sure to look out for Channie and every one of us all the time. Just like today, you made sure that I was comfortable before we even started filming this. You even gave me the first bite of your snacks. The amount of times you’ve made sure I wouldn’t fall when I had to wear new heels for a stage, I have no words to describe how that makes me feel. All I can say is thank you Seungmin, from the bottom of my heart, for taking care of us in the way you do. I see you; we see you. And we treasure you for everything you’ve done, what you haven’t done and for what you continue to do.”

By this point he was avoiding eye contact with you and staring up at the ceiling. He was quiet for a moment before he blew air out of his mouth, taking the occasional deep breath to calm himself.

Clearing his throat twice before starting his sentence, “I think about that kind of thought always, am I doing enough for my members? Am I helpful enough. All my members are precious to me, so I want to do well for you all. I’m always…,”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence as he began to cry. You brought him in for a hug and pat his head lovingly as you rocked the both of you from side to side.

“You will always be enough for Stray Kids, Seungminnie. And for Stays, too, understand?”

“You too, noona. You’re enough for Stray Kids and Stays too,” he got out around a sniffle.

You hugged him tighter after that.

⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

When your episode of ‘Two Kids Room’ dropped, it had become one of the most watched episodes of the entire season. The other members immediately ganging up on the two of you with hugs that you each tried to run from. There was definitely a shift for the better in the group after that.

Since then, Seungmin had made an effort to seek you out when in a group setting. Making sure you were comfortable, safe, and not alone (unless you wanted to be). His subtle ways of protecting you and the others not changing but you wouldn’t want him to be any other way but himself.

It was like that one saying went.

If Kim Seungmin had a million fans, then you were one of them. If Kim Seungmin had ten fans, then you were one of them. If Kim Seungmin had only one fan then that was you. If Kim Seungmin had no fans, then that meant you were no longer on earth. If the world was against Kim Seungmin, then you were against the world.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Just like Seungmin, Minho was an observer. He paid attention to everyone in his little makeshift family. What they liked and what they didn’t. He was member who you would categorize as a combination of subtle and dramatic when taking care of others.

He was the type to pick something up and lock it away mentally until it was time to use that information again. You weren’t sure if that was just the dance leader in him or if he was just Like That™. Most likely both if you were being honest.

It was surprisingly, or rather unsurprisingly, him who looked out for you first when you joined. It wasn’t how most would think either. It honestly took you off guard when it happened.

⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

All throughout your life you had been allergic to peanuts and walnuts. It wasn’t that much of a problem since you would simply avoid them whenever possible. Like those with a severe allergy, your skin would break out into hives and your throat would tighten up. If left untreated you could go into anaphylaxis shock and die.

Thankfully, after you first encounter as a child, you and your family were pretty vigilant about what contained the little devil nuts and what didn’t.

It was pretty traumatic for your parents when it had first happened. Imagine, little Y/N bumbling into the kitchen for a snack of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. A brand new treat for you to try, except the peanut butter tried to exact some kind of unknown revenge and kill you right after the first couple of bites?? Rude.

Suffice it to say, that new jar of peanut butter was thrown out as soon as you all made it home from the hospital.

It wasn’t something you advertised, just made sure restaurants understood whenever you went to eat somewhere new. You had your main spots you frequented so much, so they were already aware of your allergies. Those were your safe restaurants to eat back home in America.

But when you had left your home country to live with your grandparents and then moved to Seoul to pursue your dream career, it was a little touch and go in the new cities. Korea didn’t take nut allergies as seriously as they should since it wasn’t as common as it was in the west.

⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

The first thing JYPE did when you joined was take you to meet your new group who were all out for a meal that the company had set up. You had thought that when you accepted a position as a new vocal, you’d be put into an up-and-coming girl group. When you arrived at the restaurant though, only to see an established boy group, you hadn’t known what to think. The silence in the air was deafening in the loud restaurant.

“Introduce yourself,” your personal manager, Heejin, prompted.

“Yes, hello, I’m Y/L/N Y/N, 00’ line. I’m a vocal singer, nice to meet you,” you started partly in English with a bow. The managers had wanted you to sit in the middle of the table to break the ice, but you insisted that you were fine sitting at the end. When none of the guys had made a move to introduce themselves back, the managers did it for them. As one could imagine, it was awkward at best and unbearable at worst. The food hadn’t even arrived yet as you sat and fiddled with the chopsticks for your designated seat.

You were sat next to Minho and across from Seungmin, the quieter end of the table. Not that the rest was any better with no one knowing what to say. Most avoided looking at you, more than likely pissed at your presence altogether.

‘And with good reason,’ you thought to yourself.

While staring down at your hands to avoid their possible angry gazes, you noticed a hangnail on your index finger and you begin to pick at it. You jumped as a waitress began to place the side dishes on the table. The table thanked her and this caused everyone to finally stir slightly, now having small conversations with each other.

“We don’t mean to be rude Y/N-ssi. We just didn’t expect the company to pull this kind of thing on us,” Bang Chan said from his position at the other end of the table. The first to actually talk to you.

“Oh no, it’s ok. I understand, I didn’t know it was going to be like this either...”

Kimchi and myeolchi bokkeum were placed in front of you and you had to do a double take at the stir-fried anchovy and peanut dish. You could just feel your throat wanting to close by just looking at it. Subtly, you tried to push the dish away from you as far as possible without alerting anyone.

Minho must have noticed at one point because he moved the little side dish to his right and replaced it with the gaji-namul. Egg plant was a far better dish than peanuts. The meat finally came and everyone became livelier. Once ready, you waited for the others to get their pieces of meat first, not wanting to fight them for a portion immediately after being introduced. If you were back home, nothing would have stopped you from being one of the first to reach in that grill.

You sat picking at your rice bowl and sides as you watch Seungmin take a piece from your side of the grill to Bang Chan to try. Smiling at the sweet gesture, you couldn’t help but feel guilty by watching the tender moment between members. As if it was something you weren’t supposed to see. When Seungmin returned, most of the meat on your grill was gone and you decided to wait for the next round instead. You were picking up a piece of eggplant when a piece of meat was placed on your plate, looking up at Seungmin, he didn’t make eye contact as he continued to make a ssam for himself.

⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

That same night, after dinner, the group decided they wanted dessert and that a food truck was the best place to get it since it was already mid-November. You kept to yourself as you followed behind them. Upon arriving at the desired destination, you noticed that there were two vendors side by side. One was selling a few items such as eomuk tang, the delicious little fish cake soup, and hotteok. The other was just selling bungeo-ppang, your favorite little fish bread with no fish inside.

The smell alone at the first stall was enough to cause an irritant in your throat, one you tried to clear quietly. Moving upwind from the smoke, you waited patently as the others began to tell Changbin what they wanted. Him yelling back how they only liked him for his money.

You smiled at the scene once more from your little corner, happy that they could still goof around with each other with you around. Jeongin came up to you then and placed a cup containing a hotteok in your hands.

“You, eat,” he said in broken English, gesturing you to eat up before turning around to the others again. The warmth is great for your fingers but the walnut powder they used for this dessert would surely kill you. You had your epi-pen with you always but you didn’t want to use it if you could help it. You were unsure of what to do as you bit your lip in contemplation. There was a trash can next to the stall but everyone was around it and you didn’t want to be outright rude.

You were brought out of your thoughts when Minho cleared his throat next to you. “You want switchie? This choux cream.”

He held out the fresh fish bread to you. Smiling brightly, you thanked him as you nod vigorously and switch your cup with his wrapper. You munched happily on the little fish-pastry as he looked at you for a second longer than normal, just observing, though you put it out of your mind rather quickly.

⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

There were more instances like that as time went on yet somehow Minho was always there to help you out. No one else being none the wiser. Until he eventually came to talk to you about it and made it 100% clear how bad it could be if you were to consume peanut/walnut based dishes. You also explained how you didn’t mind not telling anyone about it, Lee Know just nodded, patted you on the head and walked away.

But maybe you should have.

A week later, at the dorm was when everything snowballed. It was slightly awkward, just like everything else at first, when you all had found out that you were moving in. Someone even had to switch rooms so that you could have a room to yourself.

Of course, you felt bad for that happening.

So there you were, in the kitchen with Lee Know and Felix, sitting at the table as they were preparing lunch. Lee Know was stirring something on the stove when Felix stopped chopping vegetables to open a small yellow sleeve of an unknown treat.

“Y/N-ssi, do you want to try a kook hee biscuit?”

“Cookie biscuit?”

“Yeah a kook hee buscuit,” he pulled out a little a little sandwich cookie for you try. As you reached for it, Lee Know appeared from where he once was and snatched it from Felix’s open palm only to then shove it into his mouth. The two of you looking at him perplexed at his actions.

“Hyung…?”

He didn’t say anything as he stared the both of you down. Stared you down. But you didn’t understand. Felix went to give you another one when Lee Know smacked that one on to the floor instead.

“What are you doing?” Felix says, getting a little fed up. He tossed another one to you only for Lee Know to miss catching it in air. You cheered as you grabbed it midair and shoved it into your mouth. You chewed the cookie in your mouth as Lee Know began to panic, he gestured for you to spit it out but you and Felix looked at him in confusion.

And then you realized your mistake as your mouth started to tingle. Lee Know grabbed the yellow wrapper from Felix and thrusted it in your face. It was enough for you to read that it was a peanut cookie. You sat shell shocked; your breathing coming out faster until Lee Know took your face in his hand and squeezed your cheeks for you to spit it out into his other hand. You do as he instructed but you could already feel your skin becoming itchy and your throat constricting.

“119,” you manage out.

“Huh?” Felix said now starting to worry at the scene before him.

“Call 119!” Lee Know yelled, following behind you as you ran to your room. You slip and stumbled into the living room catching the attention of Han and Jeongin, as they were the only two inside the apartment besides the three of you. Both of them looked confused as they saw you and Lee Know running, shortly followed by Felix who was on the phone. It took them a split second to decide to go after you all.

You were wheezing and coughing as time went on. You had kept your epi-pen safely secured in your bag in case of emergencies. Shaky were your hands as you took out the familiar yellow tube. Lee Know saw and took it from you as you laid against the bed, you could just vaguely hear Felix and Han on the phone with the paramedics as Lee Know and Jeongin struggled to read the pen.

You grabbed Lee Know’s hand and mimed a stabbing motion into your leg, he noticed how weak your grasp was. Understanding, yet horrified, he took the cap off and immediately stabbed the orange side down into your thigh through the pajama pants you had on. The click and instant relief in your throat letting you know it worked.

⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Lee Know stayed with you in the hospital after the paramedics arrived to take you there. The other members found out from a freaked out Felix, Han and Innie and immediately tried to visit you. Lee Know stopped them from coming, wanting you to rest and not be bombarded with everyone at once. He knew it wasn’t possible but he always double checked that the food the hospital nurses brought in for you contained no traces of peanuts or walnuts.

It would be years later during a random SKZ CODE involving food that Lee Know would go ballistic because a staff member would fill the snack table with Gilim brand honey butter peanut snacks. You hadn’t even checked yet what was available to eat when he stormed onto the set and took all the snacks out of the room and into the men’s restroom to throw away just to make sure you wouldn’t go anywhere near them.

Yes, Lee Know was quiet when he wanted to be, but when he was making sure you were safe and alive, he could get fiercely protective.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

One would think Han would be loud with his actions when it came to caring for others. Probably yelling or laughing in some shape or form. But that’s not usually the case, he was more quiet in a sense.

Jisung was not one to draw attention to himself, his anxiety didn’t allow him to do that. Not one to take credit where credit was due for those instances. Slyly as he did it, like it was just second nature for him to do.

Knowing him, it probably was, too.

⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

You first found out about one of the little habits the young rapper had when at a different fan sign than your first. This time you were seated at the front of the line, the first to greet STAYs and Han happily sat between you and Chan.

You’d been fiddling with a sharpie in your hand from the nerves, since they never really went away no matter how many times you’d done this, so much that it had ended up slipping from your grasp and dropping onto the floor. When you had bent down to get it and back up, the crowd of fans were awing loudly. Turning to Han to figure out what had happened, you found he was in a deep conversation with Channie.

The fan meet started soon after that so you never had the opportunity to ask what happened.

When the fan cams got uploaded later on that night, it was then when you remembered what you had wanted to ask. Pulling up the feed, you quickly found the reason why STAYs were going crazy. You couldn’t help but smile at the scene on the screen.

While mid conversation with Channie, Jisung had reached over to your corner of the table and blocked the edge for you to not hit yourself. Only to then remove it as soon as the top of your head cleared the table.

Never once did he look in your direction. Just naturally moved his hand in place and back out again. It made you giddy enough to rewatch it three times afterwards.

⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

The next time his protective/gentlemanly nature popped out was after a MAMA performance. The stylists had decided to put you in a skirt with new heels to dance in which made you uncomfortable to do the choreography in. Somehow though, you’d managed to give a decent performance and as you were coming down from the stage, flashes from a variety of media outlets were going off everywhere.

Hyunjin had made sure to hold your hand and arm for stability when coming down the glossy steps. Jisung was very cool as he took off his coat and stepped down in front of the two of you. In one smooth motion, he turned around and opened the cloth to block the view of your legs from the cameras gazes. It was only a few steps downward but it meant a lot. Even when on floor level, he made sure to wrap his jack around you, not that it would fit completely, Mr. 70 cm waist and all, but it was the thought that counted.

“Thank you Ji,” you chuckle out.

But as always, he didn’t say anything about his actions, just smiled brightly, eyes disappearing behind his cheeks, and continued on to your table where Seungmin stood waiting for you to give you a blanket he acquired from somewhere.

Jisung insisted you keep his coat for the remainder of the night if you happened to feel cold at some point. You never did with the blanket on your lap, but you still kept it close by.

⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

It was on a trip to an early morning location shoot that something happened again. Instead of separate vehicles, everyone had been piled into a big van together. You had the fortune to sit by the window with Jisung to your left by the aisle.

As you were dozing in and out of consciousness, a few of the others were talking quietly amongst themselves. You had tried to join them at one point mid-conversation but your words were slurred and they giggled at your groggy state, urging you to go back to sleep.

You were the process of shifting in your seat to lay your head on Jisung’s shoulder when the driver called back to the group. Your auditory processors were not working well to understand what was being said since you were so out of it, but in the next moment Jisung had thrown his arm over your chest to prevent you from going forward as the van came to quick halt.

You jolted awake as you all pitched forward in your seats. Stopping only because of the seatbelts.

“Ji?” you cried out, scared at the sudden disruption to your less than perfect slumber. Grabbing ahold of his arm in a panic, he quickly turned to calm you down.

“No, it’s ok, you’re ok.”

“Is everyone else ok?”

“Yeah, everyone’s fine, you’re fine.”

Obviously, you couldn’t go back to sleep after that, no matter how much Jisung tried to reassure you. Stopping like that would happen one more time on that trip, something to do with bad breaks, you weren’t too sure. It may not have been as rough as the first time, but Jisung made sure to hold you back with his arm once again.

⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Han Jisung was the type of man to block the sharp corner of the cabinet so you wouldn’t bump your head and act like he didn’t do it. The type of man to use his jacket to block your lower body when in a dress at an award show. And the type of man that, if you were sitting next to him in a car, he’d stick his arm out in front of you to protect you.

Jisung was the type of protector that would want no praise nor commotion for anything he’d done. Because it was just natural for him.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Hyunjin was funny in a way. For all the times he’s claimed he didn’t like skinship, mans was sure clingy. The amount of times he would pull a disgusted face whenever anyone was near him only to be all over them not even ten minutes later was hilarious to you.

Yet there were times, though, when he needed to grab on to you, not for skinship, but to make sure you were in his line of sight at all times. Even surrounded by bodyguards it wasn’t as safe as you thought it could be.

An incident in the past had led Hyunjin to be more aware of where you were in an airport, wanting to be on the more cautious side than anything. Hyunjin became your official unofficial airport buddy after that.

And he took his new role in your life very seriously.

⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

When you and the boys arrived back in Korea from visiting Chan and Felix’s families in Australia, the crowd that awaited you was not something the group was prepared for.

Later on you would all learn that someone had leaked your flight information online. Which in itself was already a scary thing to think about, but the amount of people that had been waiting for you all had just been overwhelming.

By this point in time, you had grown closer to them all, a far cry from how it was when you had first joined that was for sure. Enough to be able to fight them for a piece of meat on the first round.

Typically, when arriving at Incheon airport, you’d end up walking in the back with Chan and Hyunjin. That was just how it naturally occurred. Yet with the amount of people surrounding you, you had lost sight of them easily. You could vaguely spot the blond hair that belonged to Felix but he was too far away to reach, and no amount of yelling would do you any good since the crowd had that covered.

Looking back and forth, you were on the verge of panicking since you didn’t even see your own guard near you, another casualty to the swarm of people. When a sudden tug on your hoodie pulled at you to the right. Scared, you were about to fight for your life. Your arm was already pulled back, ready to swing at whoever tried to grab at you. Those self-defense classes Binnie had you in was about to come out. Cause baby, you were not the one.

Only, you noticed Hyunjin’s shaggy hair just in time.

He stared at you for a second, eyes going wide above the face mask that he wore, at what you were about to do.

“…Come on, let’s go,” he said eventually, incredulously shaking his head at you. You tried not to giggle at his reaction but it was just so hard not to. “Everyone’s already ahead of us.”

“Really?” you asked, now worried about what could have happened as you lagged behind. Agreeing quickly, you took a step forward until he tugged you back again. With a questioning look, you turned back to him.

“It’s this way pabo,” the amusement in his voice was clear throughout all the yelling in the area. He threw his arm over your head in a headlock and dragged you toward the direction you needed to go.

“Hyunjinnie~,” you groaned out, your head tilted at an awkward angle.

“This is for your own protection. We don’t need you getting lost right now.”

“I get lost at an airport one (1) time and everyone holds it over my head for the rest of my life.”

All he could do is cackle.

Eventually he did let go of your head once the both of you made it back with the group. The guards finally doing their job in securing a circle around you all.

“Did she go and get lost again?” Seungmin joked while trying to hide a smile.

“She was about to,” Hyun replied, making sure he still held onto a part of your hoodie.

“I was not,” you said while giving Hyunjin his own signature look of disgust.

“Aigoo, if you keep making that face, it’s gonna get stuck like that,” he teased while pinching your cheek. You swatted his hand away from your face, soothing over where he pinched, him and Seungmin laughed in response.

Following along with everyone, you could still feel his light grip on your clothing. As if he was afraid that you’d somehow disappear if he were to let go. In all honesty, his actions did bring you some form of comfort while in the throng of people. Like your own personal grounding anchor.

He continued to hold onto you until you made it out of the airport. With all the media around, you all were forced to do an impromptu press conference welcoming you back in the parking lot. Hyunjin made sure that you were next to him and that your clothes weren’t a total mess after the long ten hour flight.

“STEP OUT! ANNYEONGHASEYO STRAY KIDS-IMNIDA!,” you all shouted out and bowed to the crowd before you. The fans behind the paparazzies went wild. You all did the appropriate amount of waving and smiling but you just wanted to go home and collapse into bed already.

When a tug on your sleeve caught your attention, Hyunjin gestured that it was time to go once again. He’d pulled his face mask down to take pictures so you could tell he was really smiling this time. Pulling you along, he was sure to put you in the middle of the group so that there was no possible way of you getting lost.

And if he still felt he needed to be connected to you in some way, well who were you to deny the ferret? He was just looking out for his member, that was all. They were prone to getting lost, it had happened before, he just didn’t want to deal with the aftermath like that again.

It wasn’t good for his heart. Don’t do it again, please.

⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Yeah, you just didn’t understand how people could say that Hyun liked skinship and physical touch. He’s just not that type of person and there have surely been no instances whatsoever in your life as an idol where he had proved you wrong about it.

Absolutely none, and whoever said so was indeed a liar.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Being around Felix was very easy. When it was just the two of you it was a nice and cozy feeling. Nothing ever felt rushed or like you had to try too hard to be near each other, maybe it was because you were both foreigners experiencing the idol life together.

Who knows.

But when you threw in your other members, all the cozy feelings went out of the window and it was like a chaotic mess was left in its place.

And when he had to essentially play a modified version of keep away with you as the main item, well then of course all hell would break loose.

⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

“Noona, we have to run!” Felix yelled as he ran back towards you, giant grin on his face. You could just make out his cameraman behind him trying to catch up with the energetic sunshine boy and behind him your other members chased Felix down.

⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Just like BTS did, Lotte Duty Free allowed Stray Kids to use a floor for the location of the next SKZ CODE. The premise was that while all nine of you were there, only the boys were supposed to find various items that were hidden around the entire floor to recreate the names of their songs.

Once it got presented to the manager-nim in charge of the game or specific staff members, the others could no longer use that same item. You, on the other hand, were supposed to be Ghost, a wild card that made up one song entirely. Technically you could be whatever song you wanted but the points were just doubled if they had you on their roster at the end of the 3 hour mark. Just like the staff members playing, you also were to run around except your goal was to not get caught. Because of that, you had to be turned in last.

Each guy had been given specific color cloths to tie around your wrist to “claim” you as their point. Only one person could claim you at a time and stealing items from each other had been allowed. So, say you got caught by someone with a black cloth, if you had a green one on when they did, they could remove it and put their color on instead. The only rule to claim you as a point was that you had to be brought to the main manager at the end when time was called to count.

Each of your cameramen had been given a walkie-talkie so that everyone could know if and when their cloths were removed or the time remaining. You had been given a 15 minute head start to run around and hide, your own cameraman following behind you.

⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Time had been close to being called, about ten minutes left you had heard on the radio. You’d been caught a few times only to be able to escape not long afterwards. Changbin had found you first, securing a cute pink cloth around your wrist. Lee Know found you afterwards, purple cloth replacing the pink. It would be a long time until Innie’s white cloth replaced Lee Know’s.

Hyunjin and Chan had found you together but you managed to escape both of them before either could swap your color out. While running from them, you had made eye contact with Seungmin but were able to evade him when you ran into a darkened area. That was where you subsequently ran into Felix and scared the absolute shit out of each other.

Now the two of you listened on as your cameraman, Seoyul, announced that you now adorned the yellow team cloth. All four of you walked calmly to where the manager-nim was.

“I’m getting nervous Lix,” you said, trying to contain your energy, adrenaline kicked in your system as the game was coming to an end.

“Why?” the same giddy energy flowed out of him since he was close to winning.

“It’s quiet, too quiet. You don’t think something could go wrong?”

“Why would you jinx it!?” he shouted in exasperation, not realizing how loud he actually was. All of you paused in motion, listening to figure out if any of the others heard you. Your eyes the only thing rapidly moving to scan your surroundings as the both of you stood frozen. When nothing happened, you two continued on until you reached where the manager was supposed to be waiting.

But if video games had taught either of you a thing or two, it was what a trap would feel like.

“Ok, you wait here, and I’m gonna go check if the coast is clear. I promise, I won’t let them come near you got it?,” he whispered as you nod along to what he said.

He snuck on ahead, his cameraman trailing behind him as you stood there, waiting for his return. Not even five seconds later he came bounding round the corner at full speed, laughing maniacally.

“Noona, we have to run!” Felix yelled as he ran back towards you, giant grin on his face. You could just make out his cameraman behind him trying to catch up with the energetic boy and behind him your other members chased Felix down.

He didn’t stop as he grabbed your hand in his and took off in the opposite direction. You could just make out the others yelling for the both of you over yours and Felix’s laughter.

⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Felix had made sure that he kept a steady grip on your hand while running away. Never once pulling you too hard or running too fast for you to keep up. If both of you were hiding, he’d urge you forward first gently and then covered you so you couldn’t be seen.

“Noona, get down here,” he said as he made his way to hide in a department store behind a rack of clothing near the entrance. Huddling close, he gestured with his finger to keep quiet. You do as he said, grin still in place as you looked at each other, the pounding footsteps of the others not that far behind.

“They turned in here,” I.N could be heard saying close to where you were hidden.

“No, they went this way,” Changbin argued a distance away.

“I think Innie is right,” Seungmin put his two cents in.

“Let’s just split up,” Chan butted in democratically. “Half go in here with I.N and the others can follow Binnie. We don’t have a lot of time left.”

Miraculously, they all agreed and you could hear them split off.

“You sure they went this way?” you heard Chan ask.

“Like 75%...?” I.N responded.

“75%??” Seungmin shouted in response.

Felix grabbed your attention by taking a hold of your hand and gestured with his head to follow him. Quietly, the two of you scooted around the rack just as the group of boys walked by. When it seemed like the right time, you and Felix took off, his foot kicking something and alerted the others of your fleeing forms.

“Let’s go, Noona!”

“There they go!”

“After them!”

“See, I told you they came in here!”

The excitement and elation was clear in their tone of voice. You and Felix ran and screamed hand in hand to the safe zone. At one point, he had to let go to let you run by yourself so he could distract the others. Just as you made it, out of breath, Felix toppled in and crashed into you. Stummbling forward into the room, Felix could be heard yelling loudly, “I did it! I brought her in! I win!”

Groans from behind you was the response. You couldn’t help the cheesy grin on your face or the boisterous laugh that escaped you.

⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

It’s true being with Felix was easy.

But when he’s trying to protect you from the others he’s lively and was contagious for everyone involved. That’s just how your little jellybean was.

a/n. © hippopotamusdreamer, est 2024. all rights reserved.

Tag list:

@elizalabs3

[urfavcrime]

dsmp is still SO insane to me. still not completely convinced it wasn't a social experiment. it is something that can never be replicated again due to the really specific circumstances that attributed to it's creation and popularity

[haerieee]

{ ᵏᵃʳᵐᵃ ʰᵃᵗᵉˢ ʸᵒᵘ ᵃⁿᵈ ʸᵒᵘ ᵈᵒⁿ'ᵗ ᵏⁿᵒʷ ʷʰʸ, ᵗᵘʳⁿˢ ᵒᵘᵗ ʰᵉ ʰᵃˢ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ᶠᵃˡˡᵉⁿ ⁱⁿ ˡᵒᵛᵉ ʷⁱᵗʰ ˢᵒᵐᵉᵒⁿᵉ ˢᵒ ʰᵃʳᵈ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ }

y/n stared confused and a little annoyed at her seatmate who refused to take part in their paired project.

"nah, im tired"

"but we have to finish this"

"yea yea just do your part then send it to me, i'll do it at home"

karma rested his head in his arms on the table, facing away from her. seriously what did y/n even do? all she did was become his seatmate by luck and occasionally ask him math questions because he's smart. so why did he have to be so hostile?

"okay.."

he made y/n so uncomfortable. She admits she did have a crush on the redhead but has said nothing and done nothing to him about it, making his coldness much harsher on her.

-

during their pe lessons, karasuma made seatmates partner up to spar with each other.

y/n glanced at karma, and he glanced back before looking away and walking out of the field to skip the class.

"did both of you get into an argument?"

nagisa asked, knowing his friend was not the type to be so cold to someone without a reason. sure karma can be unfriendly and aggressive to people, but it was to those who did or said something bad.

"no he just hates me for breathing"

y/n sighs and rolls her eyes before asking if she could spar with another person.

-

"why would you pull that off?!"

karma is angry, but y/n was confused, was he angry at her for trying to defend their group when they got attacked by students who are much bigger and older than them? or did he have some grand plan and she fucked it up?

"akabane i-"

"what if you got seriously hurt? you wouldn't even stand a chance against those guys!"

he gripped your shoulders tightly.

"then what should i have done? you were getting kicked!"

you smacked his hands away and got up, brushing the dirt off your skirt. you looked over to your elbow which got scrapped when the students shoved you and winced a little at the pain.

"you're really a fucking idiot you know that."

karma held your arm to look at your wound, then poured water to disinfect it. y/n took the bottle out of his hand and stepped back.

"i can do it by myself, after all, you don't want to waste your time with a fucking idiot you hate."

karma was stunned, he knew he was an ass to her these past few weeks but she thought he hated her?

"what are you even saying y/n, since when have i hated you?"

y/n looked at karma incredulously

"don't give me that bullshit, you were so cold to me when i did nothing to you."

he was cold to her he knows, he was trying to avoid her. why? because he felt something with her, something foreign, fuzzy and warm. whenever he was with her his heart would like someone squeezed the life out of it. it was so annoying but he was always addicted, so he avoided her to stop what he was feeling.

karma sighed, "i don't hate you. really. its just,,"

he looks away ashamed of how vulnerable he is now in front of her. he combs his hair back with his hands in frustration and also to hide his red face.

"just?"

y/n hoped for a suitable answer as to why he had shunned her this whole time because it really did hurt her quite a lot.

"i feel something with you, its so weird, i don't like it."

karma says, eyes never looking at the girl in front of him. he couldn't bear to see what expression he had on her face, it would truly kill his heart.

"it's...ah you know what never mind."

he tries to control the damage that's done, he thinks that anymore he says, y/n would never want to see him again. y/n grabs the hem of his black jacket to stop him from avoiding her, something she should have done all along.

"no, karma, what feelings do you have with me. don't try to run away again"

y/n gripped tightly, feeling like if she let go he would be gone for real this time. she calls out his first name for the first time showing how desperate she was.

"i really really like you. alot."

ah. he did it, he admitted his feelings. it's done, whatever relationship they had is gone now.

"what? is that why you acted like that?"

oh my, karma is so fucking cute, y/n thought seeing his face flush even redder

"so annoying, i can't believe i feel so weak when i'm with you. i can't even fight properly. i can't even focus on anything in class."

karma kept trying to hate how he feels, perhaps its because he never knew what it was like to give love since his parents were always either overseas or at work.

"annoying? you are so stupid. you liked me for a month and you found it annoying, i liked you for 6 months you ass!"

y/n smacked his shoulder, then winced at the pain from her wound, making karma grasp her arm to check it. he looks up to her as he processes her words.

"6 months? u like me?"

"yeah 6 months of always looking at you and noticing what you do, i was so happy talking to you and then suddenly you went cold-"

before y/n could finish her rambling, she felt a pair of arms wrap around her, engulfing her in an embrace. karma held y/n tight and buried his face into her neck, his heartbeat beating too quickly he felt faint.

"i like you, ahh i like you so much, fuck"

y/n laughs and hugs him as tight, caressing his hair.

"you finally admitted your feelings, idiot."

y/n pulls away and cups his warm cheeks, smushing his face a little which made his lips form a pout. he furrowed his eyebrows at her action. karma leans in and pecks y/n on the lips, and she gasps.

"how dare you be so bold now when you were avoiding me the whole month, tsk"

y/n playfully chided him and he laughed before apologizing and then kissing her again.

-

"oh? i guess both of you are on good terms now?"

kayano nudged your shoulder and you smiled and nodded.

"now you have a chance to get him to like you, y/n!"

y/n looked at karma, who was with nagisa and sugino. and then her phone chimed.

//

karma <3: should we skip class and go on a date? >:)

//

y/n laughed, "i don't think i need to anymore, kayano"

after that, karma and y/n disappeared for the rest of the school day to hang out with each other. ♡

ᵒᵐᵍ 2 ᶠⁱᶜ ⁱⁿ 2 ᵈᵃʸˢ? ᵃᶠᵗᵉʳ ᵇᵉⁱⁿᵍ ᵈᵉᵃᵈ ᶠᵒʳ ˡⁱᵏᵉ ᵃ ʸᵉᵃʳ ᴴᴬᴴᴬ ⁱ ʰᵒᵖᵉ ᵏᵃʳᵐᵃ ⁱˢ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵒᵒᶜ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰⁱˢ, ⁱ ᵗʰᵒᵘᵍʰᵗ ᵏᵃʳᵐᵃ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ᵇᵉ ˢᵒᵐᵉᵒⁿᵉ ʷʰᵒ ʳᵉᵃˡˡʸ ᵈᵉⁿⁱᵉˢ ʰⁱˢ ᶠᵉᵉˡⁱⁿᵍˢ ᵇᵉᶜᵃᵘˢᵉ ʰᵉ ᵗʰⁱⁿᵏˢ ⁱᵗ ᵐᵃᵏᵉˢ ʰⁱᵐ ʷᵉᵃᵏ ᴴᴼᴴᴼ

ˢᵒ ᶜᵘᵗᵉ ᵒᵐᵍ

ᵃⁿʸʷᵃʸˢ ⁱ ʰᵒᵖᵉ ʸᵃˡˡ ˡⁱᵏᵉ ᵗʰⁱˢ !

[miraclecherryblossomsblog]

Imagen, reader whose from our world but gets transported to the marvel comic world and involuntary becomes a spider dude even tho they don't have spider abilities. Only depending in their own physical strenght and web shooters....

(gwenpool in other words cuz i really love the concetp)

Tw: loneliness, implied depression, grief and isolation (probsbly grammar mistakes too..)

-Spider Reader being able to break through comic panels a travel to whatever world they want, and because they don't exist into any universe they don't glitch like others spider dudes

-Spider Reader just being able to watch the action and stuff from their white void that just like a white room that doesn't seem to have an ending

-Spider Reader trying to help people as many as they csn but still manage to fail because they're just so much someone can do before all their strenght in cut short, specialy when one isn't physicaly or mentaly trained for it.

- Spider Reader intervening with a lot of canon events and becoming a fugitive of the HQ after they met Miguel (note: reader was already aware what canon events where, no they didn't care in those moments, all they thought was to save, save as many as they can)

-Spider Reader just coming back to their blank space so broken and hurt in both ways but still decided to try and do what they can, even if that means breaking some bones or losing some blood

-Spider Reader just going through so much on their own, not having anyone to aid for or to talk to which causes their mental state to detoriate but yet....they still go out and try to do their thing

-Spider Reader who doesn't allow to make friends or get close to anyone after seeing people they cared about dying in their arms too many times, entering and leaving the world just as fast before anyone csn get a word out to them

- Spider Reader that meets miles gang in one of their many travels throught worlds and after reader saved Miles from alnost getting body slamed, the group imediately noticing the bad shape they are in and decide to help them out

-Spider Reader who gets along with miles after he finds out that they are too an anomaly and both of them know what it is like to be excluded just because of something that was out of your control

-Spider Reader that slowly starts getting more and more comftable with the gang and realise its been A WHILE since they were able to laugh with someone or getting physical affection from friends

-Spider Reader who starts to smile again after finally habing people that supports and loves them how they are

[friendlylocalwhumper]

“Yes.” | “Kneel.” | Best of Three | Correspondence | Appraisal | Collapse | Cupcake | Foggy | Cracking | Just Breathe | Urge | Trim | Stupid | Upkeep | Old Defeat | Watching | Simple Loyalty | Overreaction | Set Up for Failure | Burning | Healed Wrong | Haunted | Boxes Buried | Heavy Blow | Loneliness

He’s never been very sorry before. It’s not in his nature. Major hurts people, he kills them whenever he wants to. Bullies the shit out of his friends, likes when they cry. Life sucks ass and he likes to make sure no one around him has too good of a fucking day.

…Life sucks, mostly. It sucked less, kind of, for a while there. With Simon. The stupid sessions sucked, and not being able to be free and do whatever he wanted, but… the house was warm. He had a bed, blankets. Clothes without holes in them. Food whenever he wanted, hot or cold. Shower - and he didn’t give a fuck about that at first, but Simon kept telling him he stank and there were nice soaps in there, so. Yeah, the shower turned out to be nice. There were always beers in the fridge for him, and a beanbag chair to chill in… no friends around, but in a weird way, Simon was… cool. Cool enough to chat with, sometimes.

Now it’s all gone to shit, and Major knows exactly why. His fault. He lost so much, so much he didn’t even know he liked until it was gone.

The cage presses lines of bruising into his sides, when he leans too hard into it, but it feels good. Feels right, to hurt. How did Major manage to screw this up? A decent place, a decent creep keeping him here? It was fine, it was fine how it was. He didn’t sleep great but he was eating, he was clean. Was being called Cupcake so unbearable that he had to throw away the rest of it?

Every time he gets too upset about it all, his chest starts hitching with emotion. Tears clog his throat, his chest burns with the panic of making noise, and as the sobs get worse, the cage starts rattling. Major buries his head down against his forearms and sucks down harsh breaths, trying to get himself back under control. It’s too loud, the rattling. It’ll wake him up, it’ll get Major hurt - the pain is fine, he can handle beatings, it’s the fact that it’s Simon that scares him. Standing over him, looking pissed and disappointed, sounding full of fire. Being rough, punishing with his grip, where he used to be chill and mostly hands-off. Major’s got to shut the fuck up, got to stop shaking, because if Simon comes out… they weren’t even dating or friends or anything, it was fucked up prisoner shit even when it was better. But Major feels an ache in his chest at the thought of Simon coming out here and fucking him up. Hurts, feels sad. Major can’t stand it.

taglist: @morning-star-whump , @lthrboy, @apokolyps, @paperprinxe , @vampiresprite,

@wollemi-whump, @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees , @whumps-and-bumps , @defire, @notactuallyluska

[altschmerzes]

"wave" for the word ask game!

yesss thank you!!

from loneliness into loneliness, my 'queerplatonic two aces' ted lasso fic

Jamie helps with meal prep, sitting at the table and doing what he’s told to do — mostly the parts of chopping and stirring that are difficult with only one hand. He films a few short videos along the way, sending them to Roy and getting Dani to wave and say hello to the camera. Roy responds with Bitmojis, mostly, which Jamie shows to Dani, and together they conclude that Phoebe had to have shown him how to use those, because there is no way he would have either thought of it or figured it out on his own.

[everythingseasoning]

Nobody talks about that forlorn feeling when you’re in the kitchen and Suguru Geto isn’t next to you heating up the pan as you cut the bell peppers 😔

[quietlyimplode]

ignite your bones

After the fall of General Dreykov, and the remnants of the Red Room still at large, Natasha first year at SHIELD is anything but healing. Labeled a traitor and a turncoat, Natasha tries to find her footing in a strange new world.

Whumptober 2024: Day 11 - loneliness

Warnings: red room nightmares, light stabbing, taunting

Word Count: 2k (gif not mine)

Summary: Clint and Natasha get sent on their first mission together. As usual, nothing goes right.

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

.

Natasha lays with her wrist cuffed to the bed.

As far as things had gone, the day was a good one.

If approved, she could be going to Romania to see an old friend. It had been years.

The promise of leaving the compound gave her something to look forward to. Amongst the stagnant landscape and muted feelings, she recognised a good thing when she saw it.

Eyes closed, Natasha breathes deeply, focusing on sucking in, then expelling breaths.

Lately, she has felt so heavy, every action costing immeasurable effort. Even climbing into bed felt like a chore.

So much has happened this week.

Olivia.

Debrief.

And now a potential mission.

Three months at Shield, and she was only now seeing it for what it was.

Even then, it was just the tip of the iceberg, of that she was sure.

Breathing evenly, she recounts the day. She hopes it won't give rise to new nightmates and for once she’ll get a good night sleep.

Eyes closed, she gives thought to the upcoming mission and all the week had held, drifting into an uneasy sleep.

.

Gagged in a chair, she feels hot breath on her ear.

She suppresses a shudder, but barely.

Her face impassive, the rope that loops around her neck tightens as she moves her arms.

“Fun, isn’t it?”

The man smiles, coming round to face her.

“Get out of that.”

Natasha can’t move her arms without choking herself.

Her whole body hurts.

Fingers wiggle, but that’s about all the movement she has.

It feels hopeless.

She feels so sore, so sorry for herself. All she wants to do it give up.

.

Natasha wakes with a gasp.

First touching her throat, then her lips, she takes a breath.

Another night.

Another nightmare.

So many old memories and old wounds brought to the surface.

At least she didn’t throw up.

Closing her eyes, she knows only an hour has passed.

She unlocks the handcuff and pulls it off her wrist.

She has so many hours to go.

She knows she needs sleep.

It just feels so unappealing.

She tries to erase the bomb maker and all his tests from her mind, and counts her breaths in hopes it works.

.

Clint yawns.

His computer on, he glances quickly at Natasha’s cameras and watches her sit in the middle of the room in a yoga pose, soles of her feet together.

His coffee isn’t strong enough.

Her despondency is taxing.

He takes a sip.

He didn’t sleep.

Not after the imagery of yesterday's debrief; Natasha being choked, spat on and forced to break her own hand to accomplish a mission for the KGB.

“It’s fine,” she had said, “I was used to it, and I was the best.”

The hint of pride at accomplishing her mission had made him feel like hitting something.

She’d asked why they were questioning her about Oleg, the arms dealer. Clint had considered how to respond. They always seemed to walk a fine line between telling her things and putting truths in omissions.

Sitting across from each other, he'd handed her a file.

The man had been in prison and now he was not; and whilst times had changed, he continued to make and sell bombs without impunity.

Olivia had presented the mission.

With Natasha, they could approach him under the ruse of the Red Room. Have her talk to him, about his current projects.

Olivia has argued that it would put Natasha in a situation where she would need to play both sides and prove loyalty.

Natasha rebutted this, arguing that she had already done that by killing Dreykov.

She'd conceded though, after reading through the mission debrief, especially when it dawned on her that a mission would mean she'd be allowed to leave.

Clint swallows, remembering how their last mission together went, as they took the life of Dreykov’s daughter.

He needs a break.

Constant worry of her survival was wearing on him.

He promised safety and a new life and all he’d given her was this.

Cages and reliving trauma.

He thinks of it often.

The shooting range could only do so much, and his energy was limited these days.

He sips his coffee.

Opening his emails, both Fury and Olivia have emailed and he sighs heavily.

Mission approved, it reads.

He stands to tell Natasha the news.

He wonders when his life will go back to normal.

.

Clint runs his hands through his hair as he passes Sharon on his way to Natasha.

He inquires about how things are going.

There are still murmurs of derision when it comes to Natasha. But, she states, it seems to have calmed for now.

Gossip had decreased and there were other things for SHIELD to talk on.

Clint is glad. He doesn’t think he could cope with yet another thing.

The starkness of the cell always saddens Clint.

Not that she would be allowed much, and not that they had given her much, but it was so spartan and cold.

She’s been here for just over 3 months and the lack of personal effects in a space, that is supposed to be her own, makes him sad.

She still has his watch.

He’d let it go, made it a point that he had another one.

He likes to think it helps her.

The handcuffs too, he’d let her keep.

Natasha stands looking at him.

He thinks she’s lost weight.

She has his watch on her wrist and the cuffs in her hand, and Clint looks around to find no other traces of her within the room. It’s stark and minimalist and agrees with Olivia that something needs to change.

“It’s been approved,” he tells her.

Natasha’s face is grim.

“When do we leave?”

.

Oleg looks old, Natasha thinks, watching him eat.

His face aged and scarred, the hair loss marked since she saw him last.

There’s a hatred that’s in her body, long dormant and curled for revenge.

She’s going to kill him, even if that’s not in the mission parameters.

If they’re going to test her, she’s going to test them too. Let them see what the real black widow is; not this traumatised quim, of what she’s become.

If there’s any time for it, this is it.

Killing Dreykov allowed her entry.

Maybe killing Oleg will support her in moving forward.

She wants to be alone. It’s been so long since she was truly alone without someone watching, and the loneliness it invokes is starting to get to her.

The boat just off the coast of Sulina was more like a passenger ferry. It was big enough that he could be thrown easily from the stern and just maybe have the rotary blades dispose of him further.

Get out of that, she thinks.

She’d left a message with the wait staff to give him a note, signed by her, and she watches as it gets delivered.

He puts on glasses and his face morphs to a smile.

Maybe she had laid it on too thick.

Natasha adjusts her dress, knives in her hair ready, as the dress really left nothing to the imagination.

“He’ll be here in five minutes or less,” she tells the ear piece.

Clint’s voice returns.

“We have you. We want to know about Ukraine and Paris. And see if you can ask about—"

“I know,” she growls. “I know.”

Clint is quiet.

The comms switch and Oleg approaches, holding up his hand for her to take.

“Natalia!” he croons, using Dreykov’s pet name for her.

“What a wonderful surprise!”

He pauses as she smiles, the evening air filtering his aftershave that evokes memories of the rope around her throat.

“Under new management? First the FSB, then the Red Room, what do the KGB have to say for themselves? Have they been good masters?”

Natasha kisses his ring, the customary greeting and continues to regard him with a smile.

She’s glad she has knives.

“Not as good as the old days, Oleg.”

The answer seems to please him, and she motions for them to sit on the bench to her right.

“You’re right Natalia, those were the days, when you were younger and I was at my prime.”

She thinks she hears Clint growl.

Ignoring the words, she hands him a diamond.

“They need some help,” she starts, wondering how to compose her words.

He nods and takes it.

“But first they need some information.”

She hands over another diamond, and he takes that enthusiastically as well.

Natasha holds up a third, but waits.

He eyes it, looking down at his other two.

“Of course,” he starts, “what do they want to know?”

He puts a hand on her leg, and Natasha turns her body into him.

Her skin feels hot under his hand and she hates her body for reacting to it; that in her loneliness unwanted touch is touch all the same.

She asks first about Ukraine, and he confirms information that Shield seems to already know, Clint only prompting to clarifying a few details.

She hands him another diamond.

“Tell me, Natalia, how has the transition to another master been?”

Natasha’s face flushes, she hopes he’s alluding to the KGB, but she fears he’s not.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a little voice tells her to run.

“Not as easy as I’d hoped,” she manages, “tell me about Paris?”

He smiles in a somewhat kind way, moving his hand away.

“Ah Paris. Do you know the outskirts of Goussainville? The cemetery?”

She laughs.

“You didn’t?”

He smiles.

“I did.”

A small joke that she knows will be lost on Clint.

“They can find it there, but if they take it, the cost will be more than this.”

He holds up the diamonds and offers his pudgy hand for more.

They’re cut off by his phone ringing, and she allows him to move away. His new position close to the edge of the boat is more tenuous and she likes the angle.

Edging to the side of the seat, Oleg frowns and gives her a quick glance.

It could mean nothing.

She decides against it.

It never means nothing.

Natasha stands as Oleg finishes his phone call.

“Did you also want to know about Budapest? What else have you told the Americans Natalia? Did you know in the organisation, they’re all working for us? You have the same masters, just under a new name.”

Natasha’s stomach drops.

There’s a mole in SHIELD.

It’s all Natasha needs to know she’s been compromised. A knife comes out of her hair as quick as the gun he pulls from his jacket.

She’s just faster.

The knife slices into his side, and then in quick succession, her hand becomes bloody, a look of shock and anger crosses his face, and he spits blood onto her.

She takes a certain amount of pleasure pushing him overboard.

In his last breaths, he grabs at the knife, forcing it back against her, slicing the top of her hand.

Pushing him back, he makes a loud splash, and the cacophony in her ears becomes startling.

.

<3

[dharmasharks]

Heyyy hope you are good? Have an ask! ❤️❤️❤️ Ignore if interested but saying hi and that you are great!

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love! <3

Hello wonderful and great Zenaida! Thank you for asking. I can't seem to talk about my own fics without also talking about myself, which is horrifying! And why I took forever! Anyway!

Here are my personal favorites with just so, so much commentary (all stevebucky because that's what I do here!):

Keep a candle burning

A sweet and silly exes-to-lovers Hanukkah fic that was also a bright spot for me during an otherwise bummer of a time in my life. Basically, for the two straight weeks while I was posting, I pretty much stopped doing my actual job and wrote fic all day, because said job had just majorly screwed me over and I knew I was going to quit after the holidays. I had so much fun writing this to distract myself from dwelling too hard on the existential crisis of careers, what are they, why do I need one, what do I really want to do with my life, oh god, etc. No one was more surprised than me to learn what the fucking ~themes~ of this fic ended up being! Existential crisis avoidance aside, the holiday season can also be a pretty weird and lonely media consumption experience, because "holiday" almost always = Christmas. So sometimes you have to make the cute holiday = Hanukkah romcoms you wish to see in the world.

Always you

Part 3 of my canon-divergent shrinkyclinks series in which Steve and Bucky reunite in the mid-50s. I gave myself all my favorite SteveBucky flavors, ie the things that make me the most unwell about them: Steve n Bucky’s unshakable faith in one another, love as a choice you keep making, and the agony-hope of another chance to get it right. I also decided the best way to achieve all of that was via a nonlinear narrative and an amnesiac narrator, which was…really hard to do! I did not have fun writing this! I did, eventually, have a lot of fun trying to get it just right. It’s my favorite part of the series, so far.

Wanna do right, but not right now

A mid 50s (yes, again) no powers AU about peacetime Steve and purpose and restlessness. And also cheating on your wives at a cookout. I have written a fic for Steve's birthday every year since I started writing for this fandom but hooboyy was I scared to post this one. I'm glad I got over it, because the whole mood just really works for me. The problem though, is that I did all this world building for less than 4,000 words of story, so now I've got the rest of this whole ass world that I obviously find interesting rattling around in my brain forever, I guess! (What did I mean that Bucky was a POW in the Pacific Theater?? Why did I have to bring up the possibilities of stevebucky visiting mid-50s Miami?? Who the fuck is Dot?? Sigh. Ignore me. Ignore me!)

Till there were no more wolves in the West

It's a Civil War Western that I feel like I've talked about way too much already! But I was chatting in the comments of another fic about dealing with the loneliness that comes with toiling away on a historical fic and it made me think of this one. Look, eventually, some people found it and connected to this niche thing I was compelled to write. But in the beginning, I toiled so much, and it was really isolating. Where am I going with this? I have no idea. Writing is very lonely sometimes! But I guess I'm glad I didn't talk myself out of loving this, which is easy to do when you're alone in your google doc wilderness with all your ridiculous research notes.

The art of shadowboxing

Okay, I need more distance from this one to say anything coherent about it. So I'll just mention that the unifying thread of this whole bonkers list is "ambitions that exceeded my skillset, but I did it anyway, even if it took me way too long to figure out." Probably because there's nothing I wouldn't do for boxer violinist Bucky and union leader Steve!! I'm biased, but I think they just turned out so cute and sweet and brave.

[sam-loves-seb]

soon you'll get better -- ch 2 [ 18k | 2/3 | rated: e ]

Mickey's stomach drops. "What's up?" he asks, and he means what's wrong? "Uh," Ian stammers, scratching the back of his neck. "Can we sit?" Mickey looks at Ian, looks at his hands. "Where's your shit?" "Mick—" "You had clothes and stuff when you came in," Mickey says. "Where is it?" Ian sighs. "Mickey, please. Can we sit?"

whumptober 2024 -- day 11 24? idk

(we're not gonna talk about how late this is)

[polterrrgeist]

A thing for an old friend's fic where Danny is meeting his future self who is freaking out over seeing his past self :0

[feroluce]

Thinking tonight about Caelus, and the nature of his loss and his grief after the Everything that went down in Penacony during 2.0.

Because Acheron, Black Swan, and Misha kind of knew of Firefly, they at least met her, but they didn't like really know her, and Caelus never even got the chance to introduce her to the rest of the Astral Express Crew. The only person who would have talked to her much was Sparkle, who is. Probably not really someone Caelus is interested in grieving with skznmsks

Anyway, all this to say, I like thinking about how alone poor Caelus is in his grief, because he was the only one who knew Firefly. He's the only one really mourning her. There's no one to talk about her with. There's no stories to trade or memories to reminisce with anyone over. It's not as though he knew her for long, but still. No one else knew her at all.

And I love the thought of all of this coming bubbling up, hot and acidic and bitter, during a conversation with Sampo, who Caelus just so happens to run into in the Golden Hour. Poor Sampo is kinda blindsided, he knew shit was going down in Penacony, but yeesh. And he just. Isn't quite sure what to say about it all, because he's never really encountered this before. His feelings about the Masked Fools are...a mixed bag, but he's been a part of them for a very long time, and when you're with a close organization like that, it's hard to feel alone, in grief or otherwise.

So Sampo sits there on their little bench that the two of them have occupied, and he thinks of his old friend April, how she'd died in his arms cackling and spitting her own blood after a heist gone wrong, and how after he'd dragged himself back to the World's End Tavern they'd all held a Fool's Funeral- which is basically just a big party where everyone gets really really drunk and reminisces and toasts the dead and celebrates their life.

He still thinks about her a lot, and he remembers how the time he'd most keenly felt her absence was on Jarilo-VI, the one place where he couldn't talk about her because he couldn't say anything to give himself away as an alien. The Fools still tell stories about her every time he goes back to the Tavern. His first toast of the night is always in her name. Even now, all these years after she'd died, Sampo is still learning new things about her. He's never had to grieve her alone.

Caelus doesn't have any of that.

He might never have that. As they speak, Caelus has no proof that Firefly was even her real name, or if she dreamt with her true appearance. He might not ever find out who she even was.

And just imagining that kind of loneliness hollows out a strange little pit, right behind his sternum, deep between his ribs.

So Sampo claps Caelus' shoulder and offers him a deal. Come find him outside of the dream. He knows a guy who can get them a lot of beer for really cheap-

("Is that guy you and your five finger discounts?" "Whatever do you mean, dear friend, I don't even know the meaning of the phrase, hehee.")

-and they can hole up in a bar or a hotel room or something, and get completely shitcanned. Tell him all about Firefly, tell him everything, and he'll tell Caelus about April and everyone else he's ever lost. Sampo will carry Caelus' memories of Firefly with him, and at least this way, Caelus will be a little less alone in remembering her. And the next time they cross paths, Sampo will be the one to bring her up, and to tell her stories, and Caelus can get to be the one listening. He won't have to be the only person to talk about her anymore.

Caelus rolls his eyes when Sampo avoids another remark about sticky fingers, but...ok, yeah. That sounds good. Nice, even. Thank you. Caelus bumps his shoulder against Sampo's. Sampo bumps back.

(They find each other again the next day, and true to their word, get themselves completely and utterly shitcanned. Caelus talks more than Sampo has ever heard him; every minute detail, every word choice, Firefly's every odd little mannerism and habit. Because Caelus wants to make sure this will outlive him, that even if the Stellaron dwelling within him finally burns him to a crisp and he really does up and kick the bucket, or even, godforbid, if he forgets, he wants to make sure someone remembers her. She deserved that.)

((And it takes quite a while, after that. Caelus doesn't see Sampo again until after everything has settled down. On his last day in Penacony, he finds the guy slinking out of a seedy back alley and all but runs right into him. Sampo happily leads him to some dive bar in an even seedier back alley that Caelus has never even heard of, and Sampo raises his glass. "To Firefly! Who sounds like she probably would have hated me at first, but I would have liked to have met her anyway."

And Caelus stares at him, almost looking startled, long enough that Sampo worries that he's read him wrong and brought this up too soon. He's halfway into planning how to talk himself out of this situation when Caelus finally throws back his head back and laughs, tells him that yeah, Firefly would have politely called him out on every lie he told, and all their conversations would take twice as long with the way Sampo is so full of shit.

And he can see it, the same way he watches and sees through everyone, that Caelus' eyes have a tightness to them, his knuckles are nearly white around the handle of his mug. But he smiles. He hits his glass against Sampo's far too hard and throws it back and gets foam everywhere like he does every time they drink because the guy's about as elegant as a raging bull, but those things don't lessen the genuineness of his smile.

The grief is there, but so is the elation, and those emotions aren't a sliding scale between one or the other. It is all of both and both at once, and that's what contents Sampo enough to throw his own mug back when Caelus makes a toast of his own, "to April!!".))