#he can also look up at the sky instead of the ceiling

[ayasenisan1713]

I hear whispers in my ears.

So I pull you above the gray fog.

Listen to you ramble about your life,

Under another identity.

And when the Blood Moon has passed,

Now that you won’t lose control,

I send you back to your room,

And you sit there with your own thoughts.

Meanwhile I’m behind the door,

I also open my eyes,

Then look up at the ceiling,

Knowing all that happened to you.

———

Fors x Gehrman.

Then you have a fanart with Fors sitting on the floor while thinking and Gehrman leaning on the door outside the room.

It would be cool, right?

[physalian]

How to Make Your Writing Less Stiff Part 3

Crazy how one impulsive post has quickly outshined every other post I have made on this blog. Anyway here’s more to consider. Once again, I am recirculating tried-and-true writing advice that shouldn’t have to compromise your author voice and isn’t always applicable when the narrative demands otherwise.

Part 1

Part 2

1. Eliminating to-be verbs (passive voice)

Am/is/are/was/were are another type of filler that doesn’t add anything to your sentences.

There were fireworks in the sky tonight. /// Fireworks glittered in the sky tonight.

My cat was chirping at the lights on the ceiling. /// My cat chirped at the lights on the ceiling.

She was standing /// She stood

He was running /// He ran

Also applicable in present tense, of which I’ve been stuck writing lately.

There are two fish-net goals on either end of the improvised field. /// Two fish-net goals mark either end of the improvised field.

For once, it’s a cloudless night. /// For once, the stars shine clear.

Sometimes the sentence needs a little finagling to remove the bad verb and sometimes you can let a couple remain if it sounds better with the cadence or syntax. Generally, they’re not necessary and you won’t realize how strange it looks until you go back and delete them (it also helps shave off your word count).

Sometimes the to-be verb is necessary. You're writing in past-tense and must convey that.

He was running out of time does not have the same meaning as He ran out of time, and are not interchangeable. You'd have to change the entire sentence to something probably a lot wordier to escape the 'was'. To-be verbs are not the end of the world.

2. Putting character descriptors in the wrong place

I made a post already about motivated exposition, specifically about character descriptions and the mirror trope, saying character details in the wrong place can look odd and screw with the flow of the paragraph, especially if you throw in too many.

She ties her long, curly, brown tresses up in a messy bun. /// She ties her curls up in a messy brown bun. (bonus alliteration too)

Generally, I see this most often with hair, a terrible rule of threes. Eyes less so, but eyes have their own issue. Eye color gets repeated at an exhausting frequency. Whatever you have in your manuscript, you could probably delete 30-40% of the reminders that the love interest has baby blues and readers would be happy, especially if you use the same metaphor over and over again, like gemstones.

He rolled his bright, emerald eyes. /// He rolled his eyes, a vibrant green in the lamplight.

To me, one reads like you want to get the character description out as fast as possible, so the hand of the author comes in to wave and stop the story to give you the details. Fixing it, my way or another way, stands out less as exposition, which is what character descriptions boil down to—something the audience needs to know to appreciate and/or understand the story.

3. Lacking flow between sentences

Much like sentences that are all about the same length with little variety in syntax, sentences that follow each other like a grocery list or instruction manual instead of a proper narrative are difficult to find gripping.

Jack gets out a stock pot from the cupboard. He fills it with the tap and sets it on the stove. Then, he grabs russet potatoes and butter from the fridge. He leaves the butter out to soften, and sets the pot to boil. He then adds salt to the water.

From the cupboard, Jack drags a hefty stockpot. He fills it with the tap, adds salt to taste, and sets it on the stove.

Russet potatoes or yukon gold? Jack drums his fingers on the fridge door in thought. Russet—that’s what the recipe calls for. He tosses the bag on the counter and the butter beside it to soften.

This is just one version of a possible edit to the first paragraph, not the end-all, be-all perfect reconstruction. It’s not just about having transitions, like ‘then’, it’s about how one sentence flows into the next, and you can accomplish better flow in many different ways.

4. Getting too specific with movement.

I don’t see this super often, but when it happens, it tends to be pretty bad. I think it happens because writers feel the need to overcompensate and over-clarify on what’s happening. Remember: The more specific you get, the more your readers are going to wonder what’s so important about these details. This is fiction, so every detail matters.

A ridiculous example:

Jack walks over to his closet. He kneels down at the shoe rack and tugs his running shoes free. He walks back to his desk chair, sits down, and ties the laces.

Unless tying his shoes is a monumental achievement for this character, all readers would need is:

Jack shoves on his running shoes.

*quick note: Do not add "down" after the following: Kneels, stoops, crouches, squats. The "down" is already implied in the verb.

This also happens with multiple movements in succession.

Beth enters the room and steps on her shoelace, nearly causing her to trip. She kneels and ties her shoes. She stands upright and keeps moving.

Or

Beth walks in and nearly trips over her shoelace. She sighs, reties it, and keeps moving.

Even then, unless Beth is a chronically clumsy character or this near-trip is a side effect of her being late or tired (i.e. meaningful), tripping over a shoelace is kind of boring if it does nothing for her character. Miles Morales’ untied shoelaces are thematically part of his story.

Sometimes, over-describing a character’s movement is meant to show how nervous they are—overthinking everything they’re doing, second-guessing themselves ad nauseam. Or they’re autistic coded and this is how this character normally thinks as deeply methodical. Or, you’re trying to emphasize some mundanity about their life and doing it on purpose.

If you’re not writing something where the extra details service the character or the story at large, consider trimming it.

—

These are *suggestions* and writing is highly subjective. Hope this helps!

[parfaitblogs]

september rain ❀ s. reid x reader

in which lightning and thunder is a little less scary with spencer reid. 

pairing: spencer reid x reader genre: fluff (comfort) tags: thunderstorm. established relationship. word count: 1k a/n: we r going into storm season in aus. obviously that means obligatory spencer reid fanfic?? sry this is me headcanoning that you have a fear of storms :/ if you don't just pretend. this is sooo simple and not revolutionary LOL hope u enjoy anyways!! as always talk to me if u did!!

You were ninety-nine percent sure the creaking your ears were picking up came from the window frames bending from the sheer force of the wind. And you were mostly certain that the prickle on your skin was from an unexpected leak in the ceiling after a tree had fallen into the building. Not your imagination. 

Neither could be true. For the windows were not bending even slightly, and there is no tree tall enough to have fallen through the apartment above you. 

That didn't really soothe your fear.

You were curled up on the couch under a blanket, a silent film playing — Nosferatu, ironically so — that you weren't really paying attention to. Your eyes were instead fixated on the only source of light the room had — a warm glowing lamp in the corner by the bookcase adorning too many books to count. 

Spencer was not home yet. 

He was on his way. You knew that much. The first crack of thunder had ripped through the sky and you were calling him almost immediately. Then... hanging up by the first ring, feeling pathetic for calling your — very busy — boyfriend, just because you were scared.

He had called you back immediately, and because he knew you so well, he was asking if you needed him home because of the storm. Your heart had swelled, and you had mumbled a thousand yes's into the phone, until he was promising he'd be on his way as soon as he finished the case report he was working on. 

Despite the slight comfort him being on his way brought you, you were still shaking, your heart was still thumping uncomfortably in your chest, and your knuckles were still white from your petulant clutching of the blanket around you. 

You could only faintly hear the click of the front door lock over the deafening rain, but you turned regardless, eyes softening at the sight of your boyfriend entering the apartment. His hair stuck to his forehead; clothes to his body. He was soaking wet, but you were standing on wobbly legs and heading towards him for solace regardless. 

He placed his messenger bag down by the door, opting to deal with the damp leather later. His eyebrows had furrowed when you had opened your arms. 

"I'm drenched," he said, side stepping away from your attempt of a hug. "You do not want to hug me right now, honey."

"I do," you protested, voice wavering from the tightness in your throat. 

"Let me go dry off, then you can hug me forever and never let me go, okay?" he offered instead, watching you come to terms with his idea, and nod your head. 

So, he did just that. Allowing you to follow him around like a lost puppy the entire time, blanket dragging along the flooring of your apartment as you kept it wrapped firmly around your shoulders.

You sat in the middle of your bed, watching him almost too carefully as he picked out his towel from your ensuite, starting with drying his hair in a way that had your face scrunching up.

When he caught the look, he asked, "What?" in a sort of amused, laughing way.

"You're ruining your curls," you said.

"The rain already ruined them," he replied. "I'll fix them when the storm passes and I can shower."

"This is why I hate storms."

"Because it ruins my hair?"

"No, but that's definitely going on the list," you huffed, folding your arms across your chest — he laughed at that. "You literally can't do anything! You can't shower, you can't cook, the power goes out, it's loud, you can't go outside because what if you get struck by lightning? And also the rain. Which is cold, by the way... where are you going?"

"To get clothes," he explained, then being completely unsurprised by the fact that you were leaving your safe haven atop the bed to trail after him. "I was coming back."

"Two seconds is all it takes for a storm to take me out," you said. "Then you'll feel really bad."

"The storm is not going to take you out," he replied within a sigh, peeling his wet button up off his body. 

"It could."

"The main cause of death during storms is drowning. The apartment is not flooded. Neither is the street," he was almost nurturing with his tone, unfazed by your locked in stare on the towel he was drying his body with — you weren't really staring at him, simply zoning out on whatever was in front of you as he spoke. "The second is debris flying from the wind, which is nowhere near harsh enough for anything to be flying around. Let alone at this height. The third is a lightning strike, which is impossible when you're indoors because this building has lightning protection."

He spent the time he took debunking all the possible death scenarios to finish drying himself off and changing, and by the time he had stopped speaking he was standing in front of you. Still seemingly unconvinced due to your inner anxieties, your face was painted with a disagreeing frown, that his shoulders slumped at the sight of. 

"They're still scary," you mumbled, and he nodded his head, arms looping around your body and pulling you into him. His skin was still cold, but it was a welcome comfort nonetheless. 

"I know they are," he decided to say, instead of attempting to deny all your worries with logic again. The two of you stood there, in your closet, for minutes. His hand found your hair, entangling within it, chin resting on your shoulder. With his face buried into the crook of your neck, he mumbled, "There's ice cream in the freezer. Movie?"

Hesitantly, you nodded your head, so he broke the hug with a step back, lips tugging into a smile at the now less worried expression on your face. 

"But we have to eat with wooden spoons," you said as he led you out, hand clasped firmly in yours for your own peace of mind. 

"Why?"

"Metal attracts lightning," you mumbled, watching his shoulders shake with more laughter. 

"No, honey, it doesn't. That's a myth," he said.

"Whatever."

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

[malleleothreesome]

Leona who is pining after you...

💛 summary: Cohesive blurbs about things Leona would do and what he would be like if he were pining after you. ༶༶༶ 💛 warnings: gender neutral reader, unedited, pretty much just a stream of my thoughts. There is cursing. Very angsty but also has romance. Mentions of depressive thoughts. A very raw look into Leona's mind. There is smut (wet dream) in the middle, marked with 🔞 if you want to skip to the next bullet. ༶༶༶ 💛 word count: 4.7k because I'm delulu

💛 Leona who is pining after you... tries to gaslight himself and cling to any sort of logical explanation he can come up with to try to convince himself that he definitely does not have feelings for you. It was probably just a one-time thing, and he just needs to find a way to get you out of his head. He's never thought about anyone this way before, so it's definitely just an error in his brain chemistry or something. It was only a coincidence that he happened to be thinking about you at that particular time, and if you had never been on his mind at all, his heart wouldn't be beating so fast every time he interacts with you. He would never allow himself to develop feelings for anyone, especially you, so he must not actually have any. It's really that simple. It couldn't possibly be that he's fallen for some weird, magicless human, right? Right?! There has to be something medically wrong with him! He must be crazy to have these kinds of thoughts about a stranger who just randomly poofed into existence at the beginning of the semester. Why did you invade his dreams? It doesn't matter! What the hell is wrong with him?!

It has to be a mistake, because there is no way he would EVER fall for someone as annoying and boring as you are, even if you do seem to have a better understanding of him than the people who have known him his whole life, and you treat him like he actually matters instead of seeing him as the scumbag you probably should have gotten to know better before giving him your time and attention. It's not like he genuinely cares what you think of him, anyway – he’s just grateful that he doesn't have to deal with another person treating him like a failure or a lazy, worthless piece of shit.

The way you look at him like he could be someone worth loving despite his constant tirade of anger is definitely not a key factor in him caring for you. Your smile and laugh makes his chest feel funny, and the fact that he is suddenly hyper-aware of his body when he's around you is probably just a symptom of mental or physical illness. Maybe he’s finally eaten too much red meat and he’s about to succumb to heart disease at the ripe age of 20. Perhaps he simply hasn't rubbed one out in a while and he’s thinking with his dick and not his head? He's definitely not attracted to you, and he's absolutely not thinking about what it would be like to kiss you right now. That would just be insane, and he can't believe he even let himself entertain the thought! He’d rather die than think about what it would be like to wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him as you sit on his lap, looking down at him with that beautiful smile and those cunning eyes of yours, gently stroking his face as you lean down to press your lips against his… oh, god dammit!

💛 Leona who is pining after you… finally lays down in surrender to the fact that, alright, maybe he does have feelings for your dumb ass – against all odds. He convinces himself that he’s only humoring this pathetic little crush because it makes his monotonous, tiresome days a little more riveting. Lions are predators, and the thrill of the hunt is a key part of their nature, after all. Before you, all he had to look forward to was staring at the ceiling in his dark room for most of the day until the stars showed up in the sky, or until he got roped into housewarden drama and became too frustrated to do anything other than restlessly pace around Savanaclaw before eventually confining himself back to the comforting solitude of his room. He tells himself he might as well allow himself the small luxury of thinking about someone who doesn’t entirely annoy the shit out of him, because he could sure as hell use the emotional relief. At least this way, he isn’t actively thinking about how much he hates his life, and how much he hates himself for letting it become this way. Besides, what would be the harm in letting himself entertain the idea that maybe, just maybe – if he was lucky enough – you could be the first person to ever break down the walls he built to keep himself from getting hurt by other people? Plus, if nothing else, you make for such a pretty daydream.

Every moment he spends with you makes him want you to keep sticking around even after everything is said and done. You can actually keep up with his banter, which is probably why he can actually stand being around you in the first place. No one else is capable of keeping up with his quick wit, or of providing him with a good challenge. You aren't scared off by his harsh demeanor, and you're able to stand up to him when he gets a little too overbearing. You don't take his bullshit, but you still care about his well being and treat him with respect. Despite his public struggles, you don’t see him as some sort of charity case. He's never met anyone else who is able to be so firm with him, but gentle at the same time. He didn't know someone could have such a strong presence without even having magic, but you're somehow always able to pull the rug out from under him, showing him that you're much more powerful than he initially gave you credit for. You're a real pain in his ass sometimes, but you're also the only person in years who's made him feel like life might actually be worth living. Maybe these feelings aren't so bad after all…

💛 Leona who is pining after you… starts leaving his room more often and even attending classes again, hoping he'll run into you on campus. If he doesn't see you, that would suck, but he knows if he stays in his room all day, then he'd risk losing the chance to spend the day with you completely. Besides, if there's even the slightest possibility, seeing you could be the highlight of his day and make even his shittiest days seem almost bearable. When you finally show up, he throws a casual greeting and a nonchalant raise of a single brow, pretending like he coincidentally ran into you in the crowd and totally didn't memorize your class schedule. When your face lights up, telling him you were glad to run into him, his pulse races and for a split second, a goofy grin flashes on his face and he desperately starts fighting his tail from swishing eagerly behind him. All he does is mumble in agreement, then shove his hands in his pockets, rolling his eyes like this isn't what he's been waiting for since he woke up. He says he might as well join you in the cafeteria, because he's starving and it's that time anyway, so whatever.

As you enter the lunch line, your face falls in disappointment when you realize your favorite sandwich is sold out. Leona expected something like this would happen, so he asked Ruggie to grab him one of that type of sandwich along with his usual order, on the chance that he would get to spend lunch with you. He looks to his right, glancing at your slumped shoulders as your mood seems to deflate a little as a frown forms on your face. He steps forward and grumbles an off-hand comment that he snagged one earlier for himself, but since you look so pitiful, he'll let you have it, only because he doesn't want to deal with your incessant whining the whole lunch. When you gape up at him, shocked by his thoughtful gesture, his face starts burning red as he quickly turns away, aggressively stuffing a bite of food in his face to make himself look distracted. When he happens to catch your thankful eyes glistening at him, it feels like the air has been punched right out of his lungs, and the small smile and sincere gratitude tugging on the corner of your lips causes his stomach to do backflips. How annoying that his usually stoic demeanor always falls apart in front of you.

💛 Leona who is pining after you... constantly teases you and tries to embarrass you, attempting to make it sound like you're the one pining for him (even if you're not!) just to try to distract you from the truth. He teases you relentlessly, hoping it’ll make it so you won't feel confident calling him out on the little ways he treats you differently than everyone else. He loves seeing you get flustered trying to deny it, but he also uses it as an opportunity to study your reactions, trying to deduce your real feelings for him by the color in your cheeks, the wavering of your voice, how often you avert your eyes, and how quickly you fire back with an argument. The smirk that emerges on his face tells you exactly that he's not convinced, even if you deny everything. He may be subtle about it, but he uses every opportunity he can find to feel you out, to see if there's even the slightest possibility you might feel something for him. He'll never let you know how badly he wants it to be true with every fiber of his being. He’d be absolutely thrilled if you confessed to him, but he’ll never show it, because it's far more comfortable hiding behind sarcasm. His prideful, guarded heart prevents him from expressing genuine positive emotions and potentially opening himself up to any type of mockery.

💛 Leona who is pining after you... slowly becoming more attached to the idea of you falling for him. As the weeks go by and he hears you giggle as you argue with him, his thoughts linger a bit more when they try to calculate why he's not actually feeling burnt out from spending so much time with you. His patience with the rest of the world starts waning, not really bothering to deal with anyone or anything that could distract him from basking in your aura for as long as possible. He even takes a more active role in interacting with you, whether you two are chatting as he sits on a bench in the botanical gardens, or hanging out after-hours in his room, hoping that this could eventually become a common routine. He loves learning about you and the world you come from. When you open up about your background, he enjoys getting a glimpse into your mind. His brain starts rapidly filing away little details about you, creating a catalog of thoughts for each of his favorite things about you, or the little quirks you have that he secretly finds endearing. The memories of conversations where you both held each other's gaze for a fraction of a second longer than normal or the accidental touches that cause his heart to skip a beat come to life with a vibrance never seen in other parts of his memory bank. The time you grabbed his hand because the tree branches kept making “spooky” noises around you and the time you playfully messed up his hair (even daring to cop a feel of his ear in the process!), are some of his favorite memories to revisit.

As you two grow closer and more comfortable with each other, he pretends to be annoyed at you more often, only because he wants to test how well you can read him, and also how far he can push you. He revels in the way he feels a spark in his chest and a faint smile tugs at the corner of his lips whenever your eyes meet. He tries hard to remind himself that the growing heat rising to his face every time you grin at him is all because of the temperature. His playful touches start to become more sensual, his voice dips deeper and more seductive as his hands linger on your skin, his breath fanning against your face and neck with every taunting word spoken. He hates himself for loving the way you bite your lip and blush under his gaze as he continues to run his hand up your arm, causing your eyelids to flutter. He loves the feeling of power your vulnerable, affectionate expression grants him, the rush of endorphins so great he thinks his entire body might collapse. When he pulls his hand back, the stinging absence leaves him in a state of panic, terrified that this might have been the moment you'd realize how he feels about you and finally flee. In an effort to swallow his vulnerability and save face, he'll cover up his aroused desire with aggression. With a bite in his tone, he'll lash out at you, mocking the way you acted so touch-starved and desperate in the heat of the moment, even though the only one truly desperate here is him. He has to force himself to maintain eye contact and an air of dominance with you while he snaps at you, even as he feels his throat tighten, heart slamming against his ribs. He metaphorically shoves you away and leaves before he loses control, before his raw affection for you spills from his lips like a confession.

💛 🔞 Leona who is pining after you... fast asleep as he lies alone in bed, your figure haunting his dreams. Right before he fell asleep, he was having a particularly bad day and he found himself clinging to a fantasy of holding you in his arms, using you as an anchor to help him process the dread of reality. On a typical night, all he has are his regrets and unanswered questions swirling around in his subconscious, but tonight is different – he falls asleep dreaming about being curled up against your warmth, wondering what it would be like for you to stroke his hair, gently reminding him that there's at least one good thing to wake up for, no matter how empty the day may feel.

As he falls deeper into his slumber, his eyelids begin to twitch and his long eyelashes tickle his flushed cheekbones. He finds himself lost within a dreamy state that feels so very real to him as your face fades into focus. You're kneeling beside him in the bed, and his body is covered in the sheets, with your arms wrapped underneath his shoulder. He can barely tell whether or not this is really a dream at this point as you rest your head against his. He can feel his body stirring and his tail twitching, roused by the comforting and blissful affection. The way you smile at him as you run your thumb along the curvature of his sharp jawline stirs a dormant ache in his soul as you lean forward and leave featherlight kisses in the crook of his neck, causing him to whimper under his breath. He buries his nose in the locks of your hair, desperately wrapping his arms around your waist, pushing your face deeper into the space between his neck and shoulder, craving the coziness and comfort of being physically close to the source of his yearning. In his dreams, your lips are able to be as soft and gentle as they are fierce and demanding, as the grip he has on reality grows weaker the longer he lets himself be trapped under the intoxicating spell you cast upon him, rendering him at the mercy of his deepest desires.

His breath becomes more labored and hitched, his temperature rising as a flush spreads across his face. His body starts moving involuntarily and he buries his hips further into his mattress, his aching cock desperate to be touched, throbbing as his precum smears against the sheets. He begins humping the bed, whining from the friction against his bare skin as he pulls you closer in his dream, shamelessly chasing after the erotic thoughts racing through his mind, fueled by the illusion of having you in his possession – ready to be ravished and worshiped by him and him alone. His full lips part as he moans your name. He thrashes around in his bed, a tingling, aching need radiates throughout his groin as his back arches off of the sheets, grinding his cock against the fabric of his blanket. He can almost feel the warmth of your body as he bucks his hips upwards once more, desperate for your heat. His fingers twitch as they clutch tighter onto the fabric, desperately trying to grab onto the illusion of you instead, wishing he could feel the texture of your skin underneath his fingertips. In his hazy state, he bites his lips and runs his fingers down his sculpted abdomen, his hand with a mind of its own, aching to reach lower. With a sigh of pleasure, he teases the tip of his leaking, throbbing erection as the muscles in his legs quiver with anticipation. He pushes his thumb against the slit of his tip, already wet with his excitement. He slowly rubs circles around his cockhead, causing his breath to hitch and his cock jerk at the sensation. In his unconscious mind, it's not his hand gripping his shaft – it's yours.

He wraps his large hand around the length of his dick, letting out a moan of pleasure as he starts to stroke, his pace increasing steadily with each pump, imagining what it would be like to have you kneeling between his spread legs, looking up at him as you jerk him off, begging to be fucked by him. His cock twitches and aches to be inside of you, to see your lewd expression as his dick fills you, his senses overwhelmed by the sight of you under him, sprawled out, sweaty and splayed wide open for the taking, gasping for air in between broken moans. His hips buck into his hand and he lets out a low growl as he feels the pressure building within him, feeling himself getting closer to the edge. He quickens the pace as he squeezes the base of his cock, stroking faster and faster, trying to keep up with the intensity of his dream. He wants to feel your velvety walls squeezing around him, milking every drop of cum from his throbbing cock. He pants heavily as the sensation of ecstasy courses through his body, moaning your name as he orgasms, his back arching off of the bed as he cums all over his hand, shooting thick ropes of hot cum onto his abs. He slows his pace, riding out his orgasm, lazily stroking his cock as it pulsates through his veins, feeling the aftershocks of pleasure tingling down his spine. With a final moan of satisfaction, he collapses on his bed, utterly spent from his activities. The euphoria of his orgasm fades away as he comes back to reality, slowly finding himself coming into consciousness. As he opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is the mess he made. He groans as he rolls out of bed, annoyed that he has to clean up after his wet dream before he can go back to sleep.

💛 Leona who is pining after you... falls into despair when he realizes his stupid feelings for you aren't going away – they're actually getting stronger by the day. You’ve made him feel like the world's not actually so cruel anymore, but he knows that his tiny, fragile castle is sure to crumble at any moment. Nothing good ever stays his way, does it? He's been telling himself that this was all some game. It's not like he actually wanted to be in a relationship with you, right? That would be far too much work. But what if you were actually worth the time? What if he could have someone who knew every aspect of his being and still loved and accepted him? What if he could be the person who's worthy of your beautiful, unrelenting love? Even as he chastises himself for entertaining the possibility of a relationship with anyone – especially a herbivore like you – a desperate, longing ache burrows into his bones, overpowering the cold, empty hollowness within him that had haunted him his whole life. This can't be love that he's feeling, and if it is... he knows now that love is the only strategy game in existence he's terrible at playing. There's no doubt in his mind he'll make the worst decisions imaginable because his entire being is clouded with insecurity. He is painfully aware that if he were to ever open himself up to the possibility of being with you, then his first thought would be of a thousand ways you would hurt him. He tortures himself with worries and fear, letting himself be consumed by anxiety.

The thing that frightens him most is becoming reliant on someone else for his happiness. Having someone whose opinion he actually values not thinking he is good enough for them is his worst nightmare. If there's one thing life has taught him, it's better to not have anyone at all. Besides, he doesn't even deserve you. There isn't a soul in this world who deserves someone like you – someone so selfless, understanding, empathetic, and forgiving. If you were his, you'd suffer. Your light would slowly flicker out from the darkness he would drown you in, just like everything else in his life that ever mattered to him. There is so much beauty to you that would go to waste in his care – why would someone as perfect as you ever settle for someone like him, anyway? There's no way you'd ever return his feelings. And even if you did… could he even be brave enough to allow you in? Does he have the strength to accept a heart freely offered to him? Will the scars and darkness within him allow him to accept such pure and unconditional love? He can't possibly be selfish enough to ask you to take the chance on him. You deserve to be with someone who is strong and complete – someone who can give you their whole being, wholly and unreservedly – not someone who is afraid of showing weakness, for fear of you leaving him broken-hearted. Someone who would actually have the capacity to love you like you should be loved. Not a broken, shattered shell of a Prince that could only ever give you pieces of his heart that are full of cracks.

Why the fuck does his chest hurt just thinking about the fact that you would be better off without him? It feels as if someone were stabbing his heart repeatedly, and no matter what he does, the wounds refuse to close and the blood continues to ooze through the cracks. He stares up at the dark ceiling of his dorm room as a single tear rolls down his cheek for the first time in years as he tries to cope with this excruciating feeling of hopelessness, despondency, and despair. The fear that you will one day be gone from his life grips his soul, his heart pleading with him to simply confess, yet his twisted mind forces him to remind himself of his inadequacy. What a sad, pathetic sight you would see, the once fearsome lion, pitifully pawing at your ankles as his heart poured itself at your feet, praying for the warmth of your love and the validation of your approval.

💛 Leona who is pining after you… hates how obsessed he is with you and your opinion of him. Every day he finds himself trying to be better because you make him want to try harder to make the world a brighter place. Maybe you're right, maybe he doesn't need to be King in order to lead people and do great things. Because of the friendship you two have nourished, he finally feels comfortable opening up to you and talking to you about what he's going through: his past, and how much he truly cares about everyone's safety, success, and overall happiness – a sentiment that's foreign to everyone who's ever known him in the past. Although he still can't bring himself to vocalize his emotions aloud, you now truly understand the message his eyes are always trying to relay, no matter how small the glimpse: even if he was destined for a fate in the shadows, his biggest hope is to someday become the leader he was supposed to be. His newfound vulnerability allows you to slowly chip off the armor that guards his heart and bring him peace, healing his wounded spirit. Because of you, he now understands what it feels like to be valued and treasured by another, and he feels empowered enough to put the effort into doing something to change his future for the better. It scares him how badly he wants to impress you, wanting you to be proud of how he's matured.

Before taking on the daunting task of bettering his Kingdom, he starts with something small – making a positive difference in your life. You actually make him feel useful. He loves the way you look up at him with admiration. He knows now that one of the reasons he fell for you so hard is because you always ask for his advice – knowing damn well he's the smartest person in this godforsaken place – and you actually take it. You listen to him and you value his opinions. Seeing things work out for the better when you take his advice and enact his plans gives him a rush of pride and confidence. It motivates him to keep working hard to have good ideas that benefit the world. He's always enjoyed helping people even though he's bad at putting it into words, or showing his true intentions, instead preferring to keep people guessing while he hides behind his indifference and nonchalant attitude. But now, thanks to you, he finds that the more time he spends caring about helping the people around him, the more understanding and honest he is with himself, the happier he becomes. He's feeling more confident stepping up to the plate, having less fear of letting himself or the other people he cares about down.

He started feeling honored to be the housewarden for Savanaclaw again and he actually takes the responsibility seriously, tackling issues and standing his ground with the students and teachers. He wants to set an example for others, making you proud of his actions by raising his standard. When it comes to issues in the school and within his territory, he's calm and diplomatic as he addresses issues – making sure everyone is heard and everyone walks away satisfied. No longer is he plagued by a lack of enthusiasm to make real, significant changes. He now genuinely enjoys himself, striving to go beyond his expectations to overcome his shortcomings, always pushing himself to think outside of the box. It's like the Leona of his past no longer exists, and he doesn't feel any resentment or shame at the thought, simply believing it's for the better that he finally has the strength to make room for a version of himself he can enjoy instead. Because of your guidance and patience with him, he’s slowly learning to no longer fight his introspective nature, instead choosing to work hard every day to embrace all aspects of himself – whether they be negative or positive. Every day is far from perfect, but he's allowing himself the respite of leaning on your shoulder, even though for now, it’s just as a friend and trusted ally, not as a lover. For the first time, he's happy with where his life is going and the person he is becoming. Through this whole experience of falling for you, he learned that there are still things worth fighting for, regardless of if you one day soon reciprocate his feelings or not. At least, that's what he keeps telling himself.

I was nervous to write this because we all know that canon Leona leaves much to be desired when it comes to his story and the complexities of his character. I've spent over a year of loving him, meticulously crafting who I think he is and who I want him to be. Most days, I'm pretty sure Leona Kingscholar is just a character who exists solely inside of my mind, completely separate from the source material. So, if this resonates with you, I am very glad! Thank you for reading. I hope I was able to bring justice to my beloved Leona! If you would like to see this series with another character, please let me know. 💛 Erica Malleleothreesome

[cressidagrey]

Looked to the Sky - Chapter 12

Summary: 

Eira Archeron was neither a Valkyrie, nor a Seer, nor the High Lady of the Night Court. She was, however, Azriel‘s mate with her own mysterious, untrained powers.

Also known as: Azriel tries to court his mate the human way.

Warnings: 

THIS IS THE LIGHTNING IN A BOTTLE SEQUEL! SO READ THAT FIRST IF YOU WANNA READ THIS ONE OTHERWISE THIS MAKES NO SENSE!

Elain Bashing, Low Self Esteem, Burns, Discussion of suicidal thoughts (If this triggers you, PLEASE don't read it), Discussion of very "human" ideas of modesty, and without @k-godling this would have never happened.

(super pretty dividers by @tsunami-of-tears)

“I can hear your fucking thoughts, even though I am not a daemati, so talk to me, Az,” Cassian grumbled.

Azriel turned his head, ceasing to stare at the ceiling as he had been doing for hours.

He couldn't get Eira's words out of his head. He hated the images her words had conjured up in his head — his sweet mate sitting in her bathing chamber, rocking back and forth, holding herself as tight as she could, trying to block everything out.

His mate, who had wanted to die.

The very thought was enough to make him want to break something, to find something to punch and claw at until his knuckles bled and his skin lay in tattered scraps. Until his rage and agony burned the images out of his mind, until he wasn't so sick to his stomach that he was half-convinced he was going to physically get ill.

"Stop thinking," Cassian said, still watching him with a grim expression that mirrored his own thoughts.

Azriel didn't bother answering him. Right now, he didn't even want to be here in this room. He didn't want to lie on this bed, staring at the ceiling, when he could be with his Eira.

His sweet, sweet mate, who would have hurled herself off a balcony or cut off her ears because it had all just...been too much.

Even the mere thought made his stomach lurch as if he was going to be sick. Gods, she had wanted to die, and he hadn't noticed. He hadn't known.

He had walked around, blissfully oblivious, thinking that she was better, that she was settling into life here as a High Fae, when she…

She hadn't told him, she hadn't said a damn thing, and he should have known from the start, should've known that she wasn't okay.

He should have paid more attention, should've pushed harder when she seemed upset, and instead, he'd just...he had just left her to struggle on her own when he should have...he should have...

She hadn't told him, she hadn't said a damn thing, and he should have known from the start, should've known that she wasn't okay.

“Talk to me, Az. Please."

He closed his eyes, trying to stop himself from thinking, and he could still see her, sitting in her bathing chamber, rocking back and forth, humming so she wouldn't have to listen, and he didn't even know for how long she had been doing that right under his nose, how much pain she had been in and how he had just let her...

"I should have known," he said quietly, the confession almost ripped out of him.

Cassian just listened.

"She's my mate. I should have known how she was feeling."

Cassian didn't say anything this time. He just watched him silently for a moment, the concerned look on his face still there.

"And how were you supposed to know?" he said finally. "If she didn't want you to know? If she didn't want to tell you?" Cassian sighed. "I didn't know how bad Nesta was feeling either. Is this about her sparks show when Eira talked to Elain?" he asked her.

Azriel grimaced.

"No," he said firmly. "I just...I couldn't get Eira's comment about stuffing cotton wool into her ears out of my brain. So I asked her," he admitted quietly. "She was...she was doing really badly for a bit," he admitted weakly. It was an understatement.

She had almost hurt herself, had wanted to kill herself instead of dealing with all of this, and he should have known. He should have-

"How can I have been so blind and stupid?" he grumbled more quietly.

"You're not stupid," Cassian retorted instantly. "And you're certainly not blind."

Azriel let out a scoff.

"Then how did I not notice?" he demanded. "How did I not notice that my own mate was...?"

"You're not stupid," Cassian said.

"Yes I am," Azriel snapped back. "I am stupid and a bastard, for not noticing, for not seeing how she felt," he said angrily.

Cassian let out a sharp huff at his words, watching him with an almost frustrated expression.

"None of us saw," Cassian snapped.

The door opened.

"I can hear you arguing," Rhys grumbled as he made his way across the room and flopped down on the bed.

"What's with Feyre?" Cassian asked with some bemusement.

"Feyre decided she would rather have a sleepover with Nesta and Eira," Rhys said with a long-suffering sigh.

Azriel couldn't help the brief hint of a smile at Rhys's words.

"Are you upset that she deserted you?" he asked dryly.

Rhys shot him a weak glare at his words. "I would like my mate to sleep in my bed, yes," he grumbled.

"You sound like a lovesick whelp," Cassian commented, and Rhys muttered something in response, that sounded strangely like oh, like you are any better.

Azriel made a low scoffing sound, a faint, but genuine smile touching his lips.

It vanished again a moment later, as the thoughts about Eira came rushing back.

"I don't understand how I didn't see," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. "I am such an idiot."

He could feel their gazes turning towards him again, but he didn't bother looking up, still staring at the ceiling, as he clenched his fist around the now-crumpled bedsheets.

"I just...I should have known," he said again. "We are mates. How could I have been so damn blind?"

"How could I have been so blind either?" Cassian asked. "Neither of Feyre, nor Nesta, nor Eira like to burden other people with their problems. Neither of us are mind readers...well other than Rhys."

Rhys let out a low scoff but didn't disagree.

Cassian had a point, but that didn't make Azriel feel any better.

"I still feel like a bastard for not seeing," he muttered.

It was his job to observe. It was literally his entire shtick. How could he not have seen that his own mate was suffering.

"Is it about the cotton wool comment?" Rhys asked quietly.

Azriel let out another huff, this time out of annoyance.

"Yes, it's about the damn cotton wool," he said harshly. "I just can't get the image out of my head. My mate, sitting in her bathing chamber, holding herself like a damn child while she rocks back and forth, listening to herself hum and trying to block everything out."

"She was pulling on her ears at the same time," Rhys said, his voice dark. "I saw a piece of it when I...accidentally went into her mind. She pulled at her ears because they were too long and too pointy and not hers. And then she bit her mouth bloody. It was... bad."

Azriel grimaced at those words, that image conjured up again, in even more detail this time.

He still couldn't quite get a grip on what he was feeling, with each moment that passed. He felt sick to his stomach, enraged, like he wanted to find something to punch, wanted to rip apart with his bare hands. He felt helpless and useless, like he had failed his mate, failed to protect her.

"She said she wanted to throw herself off a goddamn balcony," he said quietly. 

Rhys grimaced, and even Cassian's expression darkened.

"She was that bad..." he said quietly. "...How did...how did we not notice?"

"Because she didn't want us to notice," Cassian pointed out.

"I should've still noticed," Azriel snapped back. "I could have...I should have known that she was struggling."

There was a long moment of absolute silence, all of them just staring at the ceiling, probably running through the same thoughts as he did.

Then Rhys let out a sigh, closing his eyes as he spoke.

"How are we so damn incompetent sometimes?"

"Beats the hell out of me," Cassian said. "All three of us are supposed to be at least halfway competent, and you know, not total assholes. We should have known. We should have picked up the goddamn clues."

"And we didn't," Azriel said, his words coming out as a low growl that was almost lost in his chest. "And instead of...of helping her, of being there, she...she dealt with it all on her own, and we just stood around, blundering about like idiots."

His words were met with another moment of silence before Cassian let out a long sigh. "She is alright now, though, right?" he pointed out.

"She's not having thoughts of throwing herself off a damn balcony or cutting her ears off anymore," Azriel said gruffly. "So things have improved at least somewhat. Which I am very, very thankful for."

"So we know that at least," Rhys grumbled. "She's not having those thoughts anymore, at least not right now...although I certainly don’t like that it took her wanting to cut her ears off or throw herself off a balcony to get to this point."

Azriel let out another huff of annoyance.

"I just..." he began and took a deep breath. "It shouldn't have had to get so bad to begin with. We should have seen her struggling, damn it."

"Which we didn't," Cassian said again.

Another moment of silence, where they just laid around the bed, all of them staring at the ceiling, their thoughts going in the same circles. Azriel didn't know if it was a comfort, knowing that the others were feeling almost the same thing he was feeling, or if it was just making everything even worse, the knowledge that there were three of them — three strong, powerful males — and they had still all been so damn blind.

"How's your hand?" Rhys asked him suddenly

Azriel blinked.

"My hand?" he repeated dully, "It's fine," he grumbled. "I don't even feel it. Eira feels horrible though."

"Of course she does," Rhys agreed. "First her powers manifested and burnt a couple of Darkbringers to a crisp...and now her powers hurt you. Her mate." Rhys sighed. "I wish she would see the lightning as something beautiful and not something she must be afraid of," he muttered.

"She will," Azriel said firmly. "One day. She just...she just needs time. It's all still so fresh to her."

He had the feeling it was going to be a very long time before his mate would fully accept her own powers. "She needs to get used to them," he said quietly. "She needs to get used to the fact that she has powers to begin with. Just the idea...it's a lot for her."

"Understatement," Cassian grumbled under his breath. "Especially when you spent 3 years being treated like you were utterly useless like we did."

Azriel winced internally at the words.

It was their fault. They had done that.

The silence that fell after that statement was so deafening, that Azriel swore he could hear it.

They had done that. Eira's self-worth...or lack thereof, her feelings of uselessness and weakness...it was all their fault. And knowing that...knowing how damn useless and shitty they had been, knowing everything his mate had gone through, knowing just how much Eira had struggled, all while they had just blundered about like total idiots, it was a hard pill to swallow.

"How are you feeling about Elain now?" Cassian wondered.

Azriel stiffened slightly at the question.

He...he didn't really know.

Part of him wanted to strangle her, because of everything she had said, everything she had said about his mate. 

"I think the worst part...the worst part is the betrayal of it," Azriel said quietly. "She did it to get revenge. Because I turned her down."

Cassian grumbled under his breath at that, and Rhys let out a low scoff of agreement.

"She basically just hurt your mate as revenge for you turning her down," Cassian said, disgust clear in his voice.

Rhys grimaced. "I am sorry, Az," he apologised and Azriel knew why he apologised. Because without Rhys’ order, he wouldn't have stopped....he would have kept pursuing Elain.

Azriel closed his eyes for a moment, forcing a deep breath into his lungs, and trying to push down the anger that rose up at the memory.

"It's not your fault, though," he said quietly. "It's Elain's." That...that was a hard truth.

It was not Rhys's fault. He had no way of knowing this would happen.

All the blame lay with Elain.

"Elain's and her alone," Azriel said, and let out a long, slow breath.

It didn't make him hate Elain any less, though, that was for damn sure.

"I can tell how furious you are," Rhys said dryly, and Azriel let out a low snort.

"That obvious?" he grumbled.

"Oh, you're not exactly subtle," Rhys said dryly. "You're practically grinding your teeth."

"I feel like grinding Elain's face into the floor too," Azriel said lowly and very, very darkly. "And I don't even think that will make me feel any better."

"Let's talk about something nicer," Cassian said quickly. "How's that courting going?"

Azriel blinked at the change in topic, Cassian's question taking a couple of seconds to register.

"Uh...fine," he said after a moment. "Good."

He tried to think about their walks in Velaris, about picnics in the back garden…and not about the image of his mate sitting rocking back and forth in her bathing chamber, pulling at her new, pointed ears and biting her own mouth bloody.

"You sound certain," Cassian teased him and he rolled his eyes.

"I am pretty sure I keep messing it all up because if we actually were human we wouldn't even be allowed in the same room as each other without a chaperone," he said drily. Alone the thought about marrying another person, of spending the rest of his life with them, when he didn’t even have a private conversation with them once…was utterly foreign to him. 

But then, maybe it shouldn’t be. Some Illyrian customs were not any better at all. Just more violent. 

Rhys let out a low chuckle before he said amused.

“I am sure you made up for that with the sheer amount of birthday presents you gave her,” Rhys quipped with some amusement. 

"That were the shadows," he protested weakly.

She deserved them, the shadows said evenly, not bothering to defend themselves. And the next thing you need to do is find a House and a Ring, Master.

Azriel choked on his own spit.

"What was that, Shadowsinger?" Rhys asked dryly, and Azriel grimaced.

"Nothing," he said quickly and tried to keep his face a neutral as possible. "My shadows are just chatting, that's all."

Cassian and Rhys exchanged a long look before Rhys spoke again. "Your shadows are 'chatting' about what, exactly?" Rhys asked, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly now.

Azriel cursed silently under his breath.

"About nothing important," he lied and tried to sound as relaxed as possible, all the while silently praying to any God listening, that Cassian or Rhys would drop it.

They didn’t. 

They just looked expectantly at him. 

Azriel cursed silently under his breath.

"A House and a Ring," he grumbled. He could hear some of the shadows laughing.

Another long, dead silence fell, and Azriel squeezed his eyes shut again, knowing all too well that his friends were about to make fun of him ruthlessly.

"A House and a ring," Rhys repeated faintly.

Cassian let out a snort of laughter.

"Oh, shut up," Azriel grumbled, refusing to open his eyes again, knowing he would probably see Rhys and Cassian rolling around on the bed with laughter.

"Oh, no, we will absolutely not shut up," Rhys said, and Azriel could hear the smile in his voice. "Because you're thinking of marriage already, aren't you?"

"The books said that 6 months from courtship to a wedding was not unusual," Azriel defended himself.

That earned another loud burst of laughter from Cassian, and Rhys took in a deep breath before he replied, his voice still filled with stifled laughter.

"Oh, yes, six months sounds completely reasonable," Rhys promised him earnestly. 

There was another long moment of silence, where Azriel could feel the smirk on Rhys's face without even opening his eyes before Rhys spoke again. "But you are aware that you need to actually propose first, right?"

"Apparently I need the house for that," Azriel said drily. "I am supposed to show that I can provide a place where we can live after the wedding."

"Yes, of course," Rhys said, the very picture of false agreement. "How could I ever suggest otherwise?”

Despite his best efforts, Azriel couldn't hold back a low growl at the amusement in Rhys's voice. Cassian just laughed.

"I need to admit though, humans do it very...interestingly. They apparently don't even have a private conversation for 6 months before, before they ask the female to marry them and then immediately share a bed for the first time." Rhys said with a snort. "Though I guess it's not much different than what Keir wanted to do to Mor."

Another growl tore itself out of Azriel's throat at that reminder.

"Don't," he ground out, "don't even mention that old bastard's name in my presence," he warned, anger bubbling up inside him at the memory of what Keir had done. Not even to just Mor, but to Eira as well. 

"Though there is one thing you need to think about," Cassian said drily. "Everything Eira was taught about relationships and sex was the human way."

That managed to make Azriel go still all over, an uncomfortable sensation spreading through his entire chest, while a dark, cold feeling settled in his stomach.

And to make things even worse, Rhys continued with the same dry and far, far too gleeful tone, "Meaning that she willlikely expect you to wait for marriage."

He swallowed. "Then we wait," he said sharply. "I am not going to force her."

"No, of course you won't," Cassian said, suddenly a lot more serious. "We know you would never do that. But Eira probably has some...ideas of how a marriage would work. She seems to be the one of her sisters that still…clings to that the most. She was raised to be a wife, Azriel. She’ll think that your word is law.”

Despite still keeping his eyes closed, Azriel winced at those words. He had already thought about that. He had thought of that fact very heavily.

It was reminding him far too much of Illyria for his peace of mind, to be honest. The idea that he has a male was supposed to have any kind of power over his wife, that she was chattel for him to rule over…It was making him nauseous. 

He...he didn't like it at all. Eira thought that he would demand things from her...order her into things... but the idea made him want to punch something.

"Well, she won't think that," Rhys suddenly said, his voice sounding a lot more serious than before.

Azriel slowly opened his eyes at that and glanced at his friend, only to find Rhys's expression had hardened and was looking more...determined than amused.

"She will quickly learn that you will never order her to do anything," Rhys said firmly, and Cassian nodded in agreement.

Azriel just stared for a moment, his chest feeling a lot looser than before and his heart suddenly beating a lot faster.

Cassian and Rhys...they believed it wholeheartedly.

They didn't even doubt one second that he would never demand anything from his mate, from his sweet, gentle, quiet mate, who had been raised to listen and obey.

"You're our brother," Cassian said then, and Azriel's eyes suddenly shot to him. "We've known you for five centuries, and we know that you would rather cut off your own wings than demand anything of Eira."

Rhys nodded.

"We don't doubt for a second that you would never, ever, order her to do anything,"

A wave of gratefulness and grateful love for his brothers washed over Azriel all at once.

They understood.

They knew him. Knew that he would never order his mate to do a damn thing. Knew that the very idea of ordering her was more than enough to make him feel physically ill.

"So about that house..."

Azriel let out a huff at that question.

"I'm working on it," he said but was cut off by another snigger from Cassian.

***

"Scoot over," Feyre demanded in a whisper as she crawled into the bed next to her.

"I thought you would stay with Rhys?" Eira asked, but did as her youngest sister requested, careful not to bother a sleeping Nesta.

There was still light in the room, courtesy of the faelight, neither of them felt comfortable in a pitch-black room since the cauldron.

Feyre just grumbled something unintelligible under her breath at that as she settled in next to her sister, pressing up against Eira.

Eira smiled a little and shuffled on the bed, gently wrapping her arms around Feyre when the latter snuggled close, burying her face against her neck.

"Nyx seems to think that Ra Ra gives the best cuddles. I need some of those," she said, making Eira giggle. 

"Of course he does," Eira said, pulling her sister even closer. "Ra Ra is an excellent cuddler."

Feyre bit back the laughter so as not to wake Nesta and caught Eira's hand in hers. "How are you feeling?"

Eira just hummed, trying to figure out the best way to answer that question and finding it far more complicated than it should be.

"I feel...." she started, letting out a long breath as she thought about it. "I feel...I feel better. Still hurt. I don't think that will go away any time soon...but...better."

Feyre nodded slowly as if she had expected the answer.

"I can understand that," Feyre said, playing with her hand and then froze. "Eira, did you make a bargain?"

Eira blinked at the question, a pit opening in her stomach.

"A...a bargain?" she echoed numbly, and Feyre raised an eyebrow at her.

"Yes. A bargain," Feyre said, and tugged her hand up, so Eira could see Right there wrapped around the ring finger of her left hand, right where a wedding ring would sit, was a thin black band. Just that it wasn't a band. It was a bargain marking.

Eira stared at it numbly, and for a second, she just stared at it, feeling like she couldn't get any air into her lungs.

The bargain marking was wrapped around her finger, and the only person it could have come from was...

Azriel.

Her mate. That...that was her mate's bargain marking wrapped around her finger.

"Eira...?"

Some part of her was suddenly very glad that Feyre was there with her, because her sister's voice was the only thing that was keeping her at all grounded, and it took several long, shaky, breaths before she could force words out of her suddenly very tight throat.

"Y-yes, I...I made a b-bargain," Eira whispered.

"Accidentally, wasn't it?" Nesta said suddenly turning around. "You two can never manage to be quiet," she mumbled with a yawn. "What are the terms?"

"Yes, accidentally," Eira admitted, and Nesta nodded.

"Thought so," she said dryly, her voice only slightly slurred with sleep. "And the terms?"

Eira swallowed again.

"That I would come to him if I...whenever I have a bad day. The same goes for him."

That seemed to get the attention of both of her younger sisters, Feyre tensing against her and even Nesta's eyes grew a little wider.

"That's...a very loose bargain," Feyre said slowly, and Eira nodded.

"It...it was," she said, "It wasn't on purpose. It was just...just a promise."

"What exactly does it mean when you have a bad day?" Nesta asked her evenly.

Eira opened her mouth to answer but suddenly found that she really, really didn’t want to tell her sisters about the complete breakdown she had had earlier.

"Just.." she mumbled after a moment. "Bad."

Nesta's gaze sharpened.

"What does that mean, bad?" she demanded, the tone leaving no room for arguing.

Eira swallowed again, the fear of the consequences if she told her sisters suddenly growing inside of her.

"T-tired. Like everything is too much." she said, her voice breaking just a little bit as the memory of how much she had cried suddenly crashed down on her, "Or-or I...remember things. Like...like the war," she managed. "And I...I don't feel good. I feel...I feel like I did...after the cauldron. Everything is overwhelming. Everything hurts. I just want it all to stop."

Feyre's arms tightened around her, and Nesta's eyes grew very, very sharp.

"Do you...do you ever...try to hurt yourself?" Nesta asked softly, not quite managing to keep the concern out of her voice.

Eira's eyes widened at that, and she swallowed, shaking her head violently.

"Not...Not anymore," she whispered.

The concern in Nesta's eyes only grew, and she let out a small, shaky breath. "But you...you did?" she asked softly.

Eira just nodded silently, her voice having gone too weak to even speak.  "Afte the cauldron...I...used to...sometimes I bit my mouth bloody. Not on purpose!" she assured her sisters. "I just...If I didn't, I was going to be too loud. And I pulled on my hair and my ears but it wasn't..."

A long, long moment of heavy, tension-filled silence fell as Eira spoke, and she bit her lip to keep herself from crying again.

Until Feyre suddenly spoke again, her voice very, very low and very angry.

"How often? How often are your bad days?"

"Not...not often," Eira mumbled, closing her eyes again, because she could literally feel the anger emanating off of Feyre, her normally gentle sister holding onto her tight with a grip that bordered on pain. "And it's really not that bad," she tried to assure them both. "Really. I...I..It's gotten better. The shadows keep me company now when I have nightmares and then it's not..."

"How. Often?" Feyre demanded, her tone leaving no room for arguing. Eira had never, ever, heard her sister use that tone of voice.

"I don't know," she whispered, the words falling out of her mouth seemingly on their own. "A couple of times a month? It used to be more. After the war, it was nearly every day."

A sharp, sharp intake of breath came from Feyre, who pressed closer to her as if trying to keep her from disappearing.

"You...You never told us," Feyre breathed out, and it was clear how hard it was for her not to just...break down and cry.  "Why...why didn't you come to us?" Feyre questioned gently, and Eira closed her eyes, feeling herself tearing up at the broken tone in Feyre's voice.

And that...that just made it worse. Her sisters...they were her sisters. She was supposed to tell them when things were bad when she had a bad day. She was supposed to tell them.

"I...I didn't want to worry you," she whispered, and Feyre let out a shaky breath.

"It's our job to worry about you, you idiot," Feyre whispered, pulling her closer and wrapping her arms around her tightly. "You're supposed to tell us," Feyre muttered against her shoulder. "You're supposed to come and find us and we're supposed to hug you and comfort you."

A soft huff came from Nesta, and suddenly one of her hands gently stroked over her hair.

"Next time you have a bad day," Nesta said, tone leaving no room for arguing, "You tell us. Do you understand?"

"I am pretty sure I am supposed to tell Azriel," she protested weakly.

"You can tell him along with us," Feyre said firmly, gently tugging on her hair. "No keeping secrets from your family."

"Absolutely no keeping secrets from us," Nesta agreed. "If we find out you've had a bad day and haven't told us, I'll drag you to training with me."

Eira huffed out a weak chuckle at that because that was a very real threat if Nesta said it. There was no doubt in her mind that her sister would actually make her train with her until she dropped.

"You didn't come to us either," she told Nesta weakly.

"It doesn't matter," Nesta simply said, and her lips tugged into a small smile. "We're changing that now."

"We are," Feyre agreed, and her arms tightened around Eira again. "No more shutting us out. We're sisters. We deal with things together."

Eira let out a shaky breath, and a couple of tears fell down her cheeks as both Feyre and Nesta drew their bodies closer, enveloping her in their arms.

For a long, long moment, the three of them just lay there, soaking in each other's presence and Eira felt herself feeling...safe. Safe and loved.

"There better not be any more secrets," Feyre whispered after they had just laid there for a while, and Eira huffed out a small, dry chuckle.

"I don't have any more secrets," she mumbled, and Nesta let out a low scoff.

"Liar," Nesta told her, but there was no heat behind her words.

"I don't," Eira protested and felt Feyre's hands tighten around her.

"Don't worry," Feyre whispered soothingly, "if you don't have any now, you'll probably have more later," she said with a small smirk, and Eira groaned.

"That's not reassuring," she muttered, making Feyre laugh.

"Ah, but I imagine you'll have some secrets with Azriel eventually," Nesta teased her.

Eira's mouth dropped open at that, and her eyes went wide as a blush started up her cheeks. "I-I- you-"

Feyre snickered but was immediately interrupted by Nesta, who continued to speak, her tone as dry as a desert.

"Please, I don't need to a Seer to know that you two will be hiding quite a few things from us eventually," she said, and Eira suddenly wanted to bury her face against a pillow and die.

"Nesta," Eira protested weakly, but her sister just continued, and this time Feyre had clearly lost the fight against not laughing at her.

"Probably quite a few things at night," Nesta mused, and a strangled squeak came from Eira's mouth as Feyre cackled and her blush turned hotter.

"Can we...can we not...talk about this?" Eira protested, shoving her flushed face into a pillow. "Please?" she mumbled against it.

"Oh, come on," Feyre protested, "Don’t be such a prude about it! It's completely normal!"

Between a married couple! Not between…Not in a courtship!

Not…

"And I won't have my sister have anything but exceptional treatment from a male," Feyre said with a twinkling in her eyes.

“I-I-" Eiran tried to say something at that but found that her tongue had completely failed her. Exceptional treatment from a male...that was...what even meant that?

She hid her flaming face into the pillow again.

"Is he a good kisser?" Nesta asked, sounding curious. "Have you kissed?"

"I'm not answering that," Eira said firmly, her voice sounding very muffled as she kept her face pressed against the pillow. Feyre let out a soft snort.

"Oh, she's definitely kissed him," she said with a snicker as Eira made another protesting sound against the pillow.

"Has it been multiple times?" Nesta inquired, the words sending a jolt of something down Eira's spine, and Feyre let out another snicker.

"At least two," Feyre told her.

Eira made another strangled sound into the pillow because her sisters were not having this conversation. She was not having this conversation. This couldn't be happening.

“And have you done anything else?” Feyre asked her, her voice sounding amused, and Eira's head jerked up from the pillow almost comically fast.

"W-what?! N-no, of course not," she sputtered, her eyes wide and the blush on her cheeks very, very red.

"We aren't in the human lands," Feyre said with a shrug. "If two want more...well, then that's something that's between the two of you."

Maybe that was like it was in Prythian...but it wasn't ...it wasn't what Eira had...what Eira had...She had always been....she had always...Some things belonged in the marriage bed.

Some things were supposed to be between a wife and her husband. 

"We-" Eira protested, sputtering for words again and trying to say something, anything, to distract them from the path this conversation was going, but found her brain entirely empty.

She had been taught...

"I...I-" she tried again, but her tongue would not make it past the lump forming in her throat. There were rules. There were rules for this.

"We aren't married," she whispered. They weren't married.

Those words went through her like thunder, making her swallow heavily. If they hadn't been married...well it meant that...it meant that everything that she had been taught growing up was...

That they were...they were allowed to...to do more than...

A shudder went through her at the implications of that realization, and Feyre's eyes were on her carefully, quietly studying her expression.

She had always been taught...she had been taught that everything that could be done with a man belonged in the marriage bed. That it was...impure to...to want to do such things.

"You don't have to do anything," Feyre told her quickly. "Azriel would never force you, you know that, right?"

"Yeah," Eira mumbled, and it came out more weakly than she would have liked. Because she did know that. She knew that, logically.

But a small part of her...a small part of her that had grown up being taught these things was...was terrified.

"What are you worried about?" Nesta asked her suddenly, and Eira's head jerked to her.

"W-what?" she stuttered again, and Nesta raised an eyebrow at her. "You clearly have something on your mind," she said evenly. "Something that has you terrified. What are you worried about?"

"I...I..." Eira mumbled, and her face burned red again. There was no way in hell she was telling them that. "It's nothing," she mumbled, but neither of her sisters looked convinced.

"Liar," Nesta said bluntly, and Eira flinched.

"That's not true, I'm-" she protested weakly, but her voice cut out when Nesta frowned at her. Oh, Gods "I'm...I'm just...worried that....I want...I don't-...What if he doesn't want me like that?" she suddenly stuttered and pressed her face again into the pillow.

There was a beat of stunned silence after she spoke, and suddenly Feyre snorted.

"Oh, you have no idea how much that male wants you," she said, a wicked grin on her lips.

"He would kill to have you," Nesta agreed, and Eira could practically hear the smirk in her voice "But only when you're ready, of course"

[russellbee]

SIGNALS with LN4

lando norris x teammate!fwb!reader; nav+masterlist

(andi’s note!! a treat for you all while i work on my longer wips…)

The chandelier hanging from the sky high ceiling casts a warm glow around the event hall, and the classical music mixes in with the occasional clink of glasses. A waiter approaches you with a tray of champagne, which you gladly take. The older man in front of you — some CEO of an important company — has been going on and on about his car collection, and how maybe you should join him some time in his passenger seat. It’s hard not to gag or look visibly disgusted as he speaks. You drink — chug — your champagne as you look anywhere else.

Lando is standing with Zak, talking to some other CEO, who somehow looks creepier than the one you’re talking to. You catch his eye, and he smirks before tapping his finger against his glass; a signal you made when you first started doing…whatever you’re doing. It’s not dating, that you made clear in the beginning, but it feels more domestic than friends with benefits. You’ve spent too much time in his hotel rooms, just in his arms or passing time for it be “friends with benefits”. Somewhere in between the two, then.

“Sorry, I’ll be right back.” You smile at him sweetly, lacing your voice with excessive kindness so he doesn’t complain. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, like he knows he’s wasted his time. As you walk to the bathrooms, you place your empty glass on a random table. The hallway to the bathrooms is empty, and you slip into one of them quietly; leaving the door unlocked. A minute or two later, the door swings open and Lando walks in.

He locks the door behind him, grinning wide when he sees you. “I think I deserve a reward for saving you from that grandpa.” He rolls his eyes before continuing quietly, “Fuckin’ creep should be spending time with his grandkids instead of hitting on you.” You snort, walking over to where he still stands by the door.

“Don’t talk about him like that, he was sweet. We were planning on me going to his country estate for a drive in his Ferrari,” You tease, backing him against the door. “Ferrari? He’s a Mclaren sponsor and he can’t even have the decency to drive you around in a Mclaren. Idiot, honestly.” He sounds a little too serious for you to not laugh. You lean your head against his shoulder, laughing into the silky soft fabric of his suit jacket.

“You cannot be jealous of him, Lando. He is senile and married, dumbass. I prefer guys who can actually drive fast without worrying about their age affecting their reflexes.” When you look up, Lando’s face is screwed up in pout, slightly playful but also a little offended. “Which is you. You know that.”

“I’m your number one chauffeur, then?” He retorts, his pout replaced with a small smile. “Mmhm. And teammate, as the articles like to say, you love to tow me through quali.” Pure disgust takes over Lando’s (just slightly) love-sick look in a second.

“Nope, we’re not talking about those idiots right now. Or the old man, please.” He grabs you by the hips, spinning you so now you’re the one with your back against the door. After you catch your breath, you laugh, “What? You don’t want him to be our third?”

Lando stares at you for a second before leaning down, his lips hovering above yours as he whispers seriously, “Shut up.” Then, he kisses you, the taste of champagne still on his lips and his lavish cologne overflooding your senses. You groan against him as one of your hands slide up the back of his neck into his curls. The mullet has been a wonderful addition to his look, it’s hard not to love when it’s always there asking for you to pull it.

You push him away as you hear footsteps come down the hallway, and you quickly look at the lock on the door. It’s done, thank god. The door handle rattles, someone grumbles before they head back to the event hall, their footsteps trailing off. “Later,” You smile before kissing Lando gently on the cheek. “You did drive me here. So, you can drive me home, too.” The way Lando’s eyes light up is the last thing you see before you leave the bathroom.

Zak finds you quickly once you’re back in the main room. “Have you seen Lando? He’s supposed to be giving a speech with you soon.” You smile awkwardly and shake your head. “No, sorry. But he’s gotta be around somewhere, right?” Zak murmurs a quick agreement before moving through the crowd, looking around each group for him. A little lie that’ll save your reputation. You don’t need to be blasting your ‘relationship�� with your teammate.

[soobmint]

moon song | choi yeonjun [a] ; [s] (14.8k words)

“so i will wait for the next time you want me, like a dog with a bird at your door.” moon song, phoebe bridgers

first installment in the “punisher” collection. masterlist can be found here.

pairing; choi yeonjun x fem!reader

blurb; for better or worse, you have placed your heart in the hands of choi yeonjun, a struggling musician trying his best to be all you expect of him. but when you realize you’ve been losing more and more of yourself just to keep him near, you fear you may be too far gone to keep yourself from falling down with him.

genres; angst, established relationship

warnings; alcoholism, profanity, suggestive content, themes of mental illness & destructive thought spirals

playlist; find it here!! shoutout to @heetendo for helping me make this, she found half the songs for it <3

author’s note; hi all, welcome to the first piece in my punisher series! this is my first time putting out both a suggestive fic and a fic that’s 99% angst haha. it was really exciting to try out some new things, and it helped me get out of my writing slump for sure! do be sure to check out the warnings before reading, and i hope you enjoy moon song <3 (also, highly suggest giving the song a listen!! you can find it here.)

taglist; @hoonbear @hyuckworld @heetendo @yeonjuniper @soobin-chois @magicalstellar @maplecornia @baekberrie @boba-beom

[back to my masterlist]

WHEN THE MOON RISES, YOU FEEL AT PEACE.

The muted blue reflects off the ocean, illuminating the stones beneath your bare feet with a soft glow. In the distance, the bright beam of a lighthouse streaks its way through the dark blue sky. Waves gently caress your toes, but you can hardly feel the chill of the evening sea. Instead, you feel the warm hands covering your own, tucked away in the front pockets of your coat. 

As you sink back against a firm chest, you can hear a far off sea barge blare its horn. You taste salt on your lips, smell the smoke from a campfire a little ways down the beach. If it weren’t so cold out, you would suggest taking a walk down the pier to your favorite ice cream stand, but the biting air keeps you in place. You close your eyes, snuggling back against the figure standing behind you. He chuckles, pressing a soft kiss against your cheek.

“Happy birthday, Y/N,” He says quietly, lips brushing against your skin. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything special for you today.”

You shake your head. “Don’t be. This is perfect.”

“Perfect? Really?” The doubt lacing his voice makes you smile. He has always been so unsure of himself.

“Yes, perfect.” You tighten your grip on his hands. “Just being here with you is enough for me.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Then he asks, “Do you remember this place?”

Of course you do. It’s the place where you had first met him. It seems like so many years ago now, you have begun to lose track of how much time has passed since then, all the days blurring together in one whimsical haze. 

“How could I forget it?”

He rests his chin on your shoulder. “Look up,” he whispers.

You cast your eyes upwards, and what seems to be hundreds of thousands of stars speckle the sky, surrounding the blue moon. When you see the stars, you can’t help but think of his eyes. They would sparkle just like this from time to time, entrancing you with their wonder, as if endless possibilities lied just beyond them. God, you would do anything if it meant seeing that starstruck gaze for even one extra moment.

“They’re beautiful,” you say.

“Wanna know something?” He asks.

“What?”

“For you, I’d capture every single one of those stars. I’d bring them right down to earth, tie them up with strings, and hang them from your ceiling so you could see them every night before you go to sleep.”

You laugh a bit, heat rushing to your cheeks. “You’d do that? With your bare hands?”

“Of course.” You can hear the smile in his voice. It’s velvet, warm and soft.

“And what about the moon?” You tease.

“The moon? No problem – I can give you that too.”

“And how would you go about doing that?”

“Easy – a lasso. Throw it around the whole thing and pull it down to you. I’ve been working out a lot more recently, you know.”

Your laughter is vibrant this time; contagious as it falls from his lips as well.

“I love you,” you say.

His lips are on your neck now. “I know.”

There’s a burning in your throat. Your chest is tight, mind racing. There’s so much you want to say – so much you need to say – but the words are stuck on the tip of your tongue. It’s as if your head has been overcome by a fog. You feel everything all at once; desperation, panic, desire, hope, anything and everything in between.

You turn around. “Yeonjun.”

The space behind you is empty.

----------

When you wake up, you remember nothing of your dream other than the faint taste of salt.

Your phone is ringing beside you on the couch. You rub the sleep from your eyes, glancing at the time before answering the call. It’s 11:42 PM, and you can hardly see anything in the pitch black room.

“Hello?”

“Y/N, thank God! This is my fourth time calling you.” It’s Yeonjun’s friend, Wooyoung, on the other line. You’ve gotten quite used to his late night calls.

“I’m sorry, I fell asleep.” You stand up and flick the lights on, forcing your mess of unfolded laundry and empty coffee mugs out of hiding. You wince at the disarray; you’ll be sure to clean up later. “Where are you guys?”

“We’re at Mr. Kim’s, it’s on the –”

“The corner of First and Main. I know.” You grab your keys – heavy with an assortment of keychains, most of them gifted to you by your boyfriend – from amid a pile of notebooks and loose pieces of paper on the coffee table. In your hurry, you don’t even take the time to change out of your house slippers. “I’ll be there in five.”

The drive feels long, though it only lasts a few minutes. You crank up the volume on the radio, the generic pop song nothing but white noise to your buzzing mind as the lights of your small town turn to one big blur out the window. When you park beneath the street lamp outside Mr. Kim’s pub, you close your eyes and take a deep breath before you step out of the car.

The bell above the door jingles as you enter the pub, the smell of grilled pork and fried rice filling your nose. The place is nearly empty, a few drunken laughs and dated music from the crackling speakers filling the otherwise quiet atmosphere. The fluorescent lights flicker. You squint, scrunching your nose. You’ll have to take a couple painkillers when you get home – you always get a headache from the blaring artificial light.

Hands in the pocket of your sweatshirt, you glance around. It doesn’t take long for you to spot your boyfriend, face down on his usual table in the back corner of the restaurant. Wooyoung is seated across from him, head in his hands, several other empty plates abandoned on the table. The rest of the group must have left already, you suspect.

Wooyoung catches your eye and waves you down. You nod, making your way towards the table. “Sorry for waking you up,” he says when you arrive. He gestures to Yeonjun, who hasn’t made a single movement since your arrival. “I just figured he shouldn’t stay out like this for much longer.”

You wave off the apology. “No, it’s okay. Thank you.” Gently, you brush a hand through Yeonjun’s bleached hair. His skin is warm when your fingertips grace his forehead, glistening with sweat. He groans, and you’re glad – a tiny part of you always wonders if he’s even alive when he gets like this. “Rough day, I’m guessing?”

Wooyoung shrugs, stacking the scattered shot glasses together. “I thought it was okay. We played a gig down the street. Got a couple hundred bucks out of it. He looked so happy for a while but then he just . . . I dunno. Started drinking.”

You nod, easing your arm around Yeonjun’s waist. “Hey, time to get up. Let’s go home.”

It takes both you and Wooyoung to lift the barely conscious Yeonjun from his seat. He’s leaning against you as you pull him along, feet dragging along the laminate. The scent of cherry soju is strong, bitter as it overcomes your senses. You’ve always hated the smell; it reminds you of the cough syrup your mother would have to force down your throat when you were a child. Yeonjun never seemed to mind it.

You stop by the front counter. The pub’s owner has just come out from the kitchen, and you pull your wallet from your back pocket. “How much, Mr. Kim?”

He shakes his head, eyes crossing from the money in your hand to Yeonjun’s head on your shoulder. “He can pay me for it himself next time he comes in here – next time he’s sober, that is.”

You sigh, pushing your card closer to him. “We talked about this. No more handouts.”

“It’s not a handout. I’m just waiting for the customer himself to pay me. Consider it me putting it on his tab or something.”

“No use arguing with him, Y/N,” Wooyoung says. He spots Yeonjun’s guitar case by the door before you do, picking it up as he throws a wink at Mr. Kim. “We’ll see you soon then, sir!”

“Sooner than I’d like, I’m sure.” Mr. Kim’s gruff voice is difficult to hear when he mumbles. “Why don’t you ever offer to pay, eh? You’re just as bad as he is!”

“See you!”

Wooyoung practically pushes you and Yeonjun out of the pub, bell ringing once more to announce your exit. He hurries to open the passenger door of your car, and you all but drop Yeonjun into the seat. He moans, squinting at the brightness that falls from the streetlight. You buckle him in and close the door, sighing as you brush the hair from your face that had begun to stick from sweat.

“You know, these days you have to act more like a mom to him than a girlfriend.” Wooyoung’s voice breaks your moment of solitude. He closes the trunk – you assume he’s put Yeonjun’s guitar in there. “And by these days I guess I mean the past like, eight months or something.”

“Funny. I’m barely containing my laughter.” Your voice is monotonous, not a trace of humor to be found.

“Sorry. Too far?”

“Always.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t last long. “I’m wondering though, Y/N. How long are you gonna keep doing this?”

You lean back against the car, raising a brow. You don’t smoke, but if you did, you figure you’d be craving a cigarette right about now. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you think Yeonjun’s been treating you like shit lately?” 

The question is a knife to the heart. It’s instinctual, the way you shake your head in an instant, standing up straight and squaring your shoulders as though you’re preparing to defend your very life. “Of course not. He’s just going through a lot right now. You know that.” Your words are sharp, retaliation for the stab of Wooyoung’s.

He raises his hands in defense. “Hey, I never said he wasn’t. He’s my friend, so of course I’m sympathetic to what he’s going through. What we’re both going through. He’s not the only one in a failing band.”

“If you understand, why would you accuse him of treating me like shit?”

“Because he is!” The force of his voice takes you by surprise, and you’re stunned into silence. He sighs, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just – you’re my friend too, y’know? So I see what you’re going through because of him, and I can’t help but get pissed off.”

“I appreciate it, Wooyoung. Really, I do.” You pause, reading the doubt in his eyes before glancing over your shoulder. Yeonjun’s leaning his head against the window, lips pursed. You swallow. “I swear, it’s fine. We’re fine.”

It’s Wooyoung’s turn to lift a brow, leaning forward onto the balls of his feet. “Really? Tell me then, did he get you anything for your birthday today? Or at least acknowledge that it’s your birthday?”

“That’s not fair. You know he’s had so much going on today and –”

“Y/N, would you listen to yourself? He could’ve sent a text, left a note, or God forbid, given you a phone call at the very least.” He’s not yelling anymore, but his words still strike like blades across your skin, and you flinch. 

Wooyoung closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. When he opens them again, the frustration is gone. Now, he’s looking at you like you’re a wounded dog, desperate and dependent, waiting for something that’s never going to come.

“When’s the last time he asked you about your passions? Your dreams, your goals? Have you even had time to sit down and write lately?”

Your silence is the only response he gets. The muggy air is suffocating you.

“You deserve more than this, Y/N. You deserve so much more.”

Your eyes are burning, and you feel the lump in your throat that’s been there for what seems like days get bigger.

“I love him.” It’s all you can say, because in your world of drunken calls at midnight and the bitter scent of cherry soju, it’s all you know to be true.

He sighs in defeat. “I know you do. I just wish you would give a damn about yourself sometimes too.”

You go your separate ways after that, him giving you a halfhearted wave as a farewell. His words are still lingering as you put the car into drive and begin your route home. When you hit a red light, you glance over at Yeonjun, his sharp features glowing crimson in the hue. His brows are knit together, sweat beading above them. You notice his dark roots growing in; it’s been months since he last got his hair bleached. His cheeks are flushed, lips parted. He used to look so peaceful when he slept, you recall. You wonder how long it’s been since you’ve last seen him without that crease between his brows.

Carefully, you wipe your hand across his forehead to rid him of some of the sweat. He sighs, leaning into your touch before taking hold of your wrist. “Y/N?”

“I’m here, Jun,” you say, ignoring the tears that bead in the corners of your eyes. “I’m right here.”

He presses his lips into your palm, kissing you once, twice, three times. Your heart dances at the touch, aching for more. Yet the desire is diluted by the smell of alcohol and the absent look in his eyes. The light turns green, and you can’t bring yourself to pull away from him. You make the rest of the drive with one hand.

When you get home, it takes all of your strength to get him out of the car and into the apartment. His feet are dragging, and he’s clinging onto you as though you’re his lifeline as you stumble through the living room, nothing to light your way but a single lamp in the corner of the room that you had left on just for this reason. He accidentally knocks one of the empty coffee mugs to the ground, mumbling an apology that you immediately dismiss.

“It’s fine, baby,” You say without a second thought. “Just focus on getting to the bed, yeah?”

Somehow, you make it to your room, moonlight spilling in through the crack in the gray curtains as you drop Yeonjun onto the unmade bed. You push your hair back from your face, sinking into the mattress. His eyes are tethered to you, glazed and heavy, watching you pull his feet into your lap as though he’s in a trance. You’re trying, desperately, to push your conversation with his bandmate out of your mind, even as the words swarm you like moths to a flame. With an absent mind, you untie his shoelaces, slipping the sneakers off his feet and setting them down on the carpet.

I love him. I love him. I love him. 

It’s a mantra in your buzzing mind, the only loose thread you have left to cling to as everything else unravels. Your days may be hell, your nights may be lonely, moments may go by like whispers in the wind. But you love him. You love him, and this should be enough. It is enough.

You’re grabbing the cuffs of his socks now, rolling them together before placing them inside one of the sneakers. Taking hold of his wrists, you gently pull him towards you so that he’s sitting up. For some reason, you’re unable to meet his eyes as you begin to unbutton his shirt; perhaps you’re afraid he’ll be looking at you with the same pity that Wooyoung had shown earlier, or even worse, with some amount of contempt or disdain for you.

The first button is undone, then the second. When your fingers hover over the third, you pause. Yeonjun’s fingers gently encircle your wrist, his thumb tracing its way along your veins. Heart in your throat, you meet his gaze. He’s looking at you with heavy lidded eyes, pink lips barely parted.

“Yeonjun?” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “What’s wrong?”

He moves your hand, slowly, til your palm is pressing into his exposed chest, fingertips brushing against his collarbone.

“Touch me,” he rasps. “I want you to touch me.”

You’ve gone still at his words. You know he needs rest – that you need rest. But his eyes are begging you, his hands luring you, as he moves your own further up so that it’s on his neck, your fingers touching his hair. He leans forward, his forehead on yours, nose just barely meeting the skin of your burning cheek.

“Please,” he whispers, and you feel his breath against your lips. “I need you.”

Those three words; simple in theory, but dangerous in practice. They’re your Achilles’ heel, your fatal flaw. You’d do anything, anything, if it meant that he needed you. You’d lose yourself in him completely if that’s what it took to see the stars dance in his eyes once more, to see his shoulders lift as though the weight of a thousand worlds no longer rested upon him, to see his brow unfurrow from the release of his countless burdens.

You’d do it all a thousand times over. Why, for him, you’d even offer the moon.

And so, you oblige to his request, unable to ignore the fire in your own chest as you push your fingers into his hair, raking your hand through the knots and tangles. He sighs in what must be relief, grabbing your thighs and pulling you onto his lap. You make quick work of the remaining buttons on his shirt, pushing it off of his shoulders and tossing it to the ground. He buries his face in your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses against your collarbone. You bite your lip, feeling the trail of sparks he leaves against you as he works his mouth along your skin. Your hands are moving up and down his bare chest, feeling every bump, every line, every perfect imperfection. The feeling of his skin on your own is addictive; you cannot satisfy your senses, the urge to feel all of him, everywhere, all at once fogging your already clouded mind. You can feel him beneath you now, as his hands travel higher up your thighs, fingers playing with the hem of your shorts. Breath hitching, you press against him, feeling warmth between your legs. 

“God, yeah, just – just like that.” He groans, hips raising up to meet yours as he catches the skin of your neck between his teeth. A whimper slips through your lips as you keep your hips moving against his, your lips following your hands as they explore his jaw.

“Don’t stop,” he mumbles against you, fingers pressing into your thighs so hard, you’re sure they’ll leave marks; but you don’t mind. In fact, you only wish he’d press harder, your body aching for him more and more, even as you’re practically melded together. You want to feel him on every cell of your skin. You want to taste him, to cover him, to breathe him in and never exhale.

It’s sudden when he pushes on your shoulders, causing you to fall back against the mattress. He’s over you now, taking both your hands in one of his and holding them above your head, his other hand sliding beneath the hem of your shirt, traveling up your ribs. Your back arches at the touch; you’re desperate to push ever closer to him, even if it’s impossible. He pulls the neckline of your shirt down, exposing your shoulder and the top of your bra. His lips are on your chest now, sucking and biting at the skin there. You suck in a sharp breath at the feeling, your eyes rolling shut as he slides his knee between your trembling legs, his tongue tracing its way along your collarbone.

You’re panting, chest heaving as his lips travel back up your neck, your jaw, your cheek; every inch of your skin is burning in his wake. You’ve been aching to feel his lips on yours, craving the sweet taste of him in your mouth.

But when his lips finally cover your own, the taste isn’t sweet like the vanilla ice creams you used to share on the pier, or the peaches you had sunk your teeth into backstage before one of his first gigs all those years ago. Instead he tastes bitter, the traces of cherry soju still burning on his tongue.

It’s the taste that brings reality crashing down around you. Suddenly, the burning between your legs isn’t pleasant – it’s too hot, too dangerous. His hands are singeing your skin now, your name falling from his lips a curse rather than a blessing. It’s a brutal reminder: he’s not sober. That’s why he’s doing this. It’s a stab straight to the gut.

“Yeonjun,” you whisper, breathless, when he comes up for air. “You’re drunk.”

His breathing is shallow, his hand still gripping both of yours. “What?”

“You’re drunk,” you repeat, freeing your hands from his grasp. You place your palms on his shoulders, easing him back as you sit up. “We have to stop.”

He’s breathless still, lips red and raw and hanging open, hair tousled. His eyes are searching yours, pupils big as saucers, his ever-knit brows showing his confusion – or maybe even concern. “Y/N, I –”

“It’s okay, Jun. Really.” You push a halfhearted smile, brushing a strand of bleached hair behind his ear. “You should rest.”

There’s so much he wants to say. You can see it in his eyes. But you also see the exhaustion, the confusion, the dismay. You’re terrified of what may come next.

Pity.

Regret.

You need to leave before he even has the chance to show a hint of either.

You lay him down, pulling the covers up over him. When you lean down to press a kiss to his forehead, his heavy eyes are already falling shut.

With a sigh, you walk to the window and cast a quick glance at the sky before pulling the curtains all the way shut. You leave the bedroom, pulling the door shut behind you as quietly as you can. You hate the silence that has settled over the apartment, the only sound being your bare feet against the cold floor. There’s a sudden sharp pain in your heel and you wince, looking down to see a single shard of glass that had chipped off the mug Yeonjun knocked over in his drunken haze.

You pull the shard out of your skin, hobbling one-footed to the bathroom to grab a bandaid. When you open the cabinet above the toilet, all that’s left in terms of bandages are the cheap Iron Man ones Yeonjun had bought nearly a year ago. As you peel it open, wiping the blood from your skin before pressing the bandage on, you almost smile.

After taking care of the cut, you head towards the kitchen. You light the candle on the counter, slowly filling the room with the faint scent of vanilla and amber, the wooden wick crackling as the flame begins to flicker. After setting the lighter down, you pull open the fridge and grab a paper plate covered in plastic wrap. It holds a single slice of semi-stale chocolate cake, leftover from the last-minute birthday treat your coworkers had purchased during your lunch break. You grab a fork from a drawer and glance at the clock. It’s 12:59 AM; too late to even wish yourself a happy birthday.

When you sink down on the couch and take your first bite, you can’t help but think that the cake tastes quite bitter as well.

----------

Yeonjun is cold when he wakes up the next morning.

The sun beats in through the tiny slit in the curtains and he groans, pulling his pillow down over his face. He tucks his blanket around his body, desperate to kill the chills that shake his nearly naked self, but it’s no use. With an exasperated sigh, he turns onto his side, stretching his arm out.

“Y/N,” he mumbles, fingers searching for your body in the bed beside him. He pries his eyes open when he doesn’t feel you. Your side of the bed is bare.

He sighs, tossing his pillow off and running a hand over his face. When he sits up, he sees his discarded clothes on the floor and the memories of the night come rushing back to him. He remembers the heat of your body, the desperation in his voice as he practically chanted your name like a prayer. Most of all, he remembers the ache in the pit of his stomach as he watched your eyes go dim beneath him, and the defeat on your face as you laid him down to sleep.

Choi Yeonjun, you fucking idiot.

He’s no stranger to calling himself names. His mind is no friend of his.

He stumbles out of bed and towards the pile of unfolded laundry in the desk chair, pulling on a pair of joggers and one of your old tee shirts. It’s not his size, but he doesn’t mind; he likes how it smells just like you. Your favorite lavender perfume must be embedded within the threading, filling him with both comfort and guilt as the scent overtakes him.

In the living room, he finds you curled up on the sofa. No blanket, no pajamas – just a half-eaten slice of cake on the coffee table, the T.V. remote loosely gripped in your hand, reruns of an old sitcom buzzing on the screen before you. Slowly, he takes the remote from your hand and switches off the T.V., brushing his fingers over your cheek before he kisses it lightly, careful not to wake you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. Of course, you don’t hear him. Deep down, in some twisted way and for reasons he cannot attempt to explain, Yeonjun is glad that you don’t.

He walks to the kitchen, seeing your favorite candle still burning in a pool of melted wax. He blows it out, watching the tendrils of smoke rise and dissolve in the air. He walks to the cabinet, pulling out garlic, bean paste, and some red pepper. He puts some water on the stove to boil, grabbing the tray of diced vegetables you keep in the fridge for him. Though he doesn’t mind the taste of his own haejangguk, he much prefers it when you make it; but he knows it would be cruel of him to wake you up.

The water has come to a boil, so he throws in the rest of the ingredients for his hangover soup. His head’s pounding, and he wishes he could shut off the sun as its streams in through the skylight above him. He sets the burner to low heat and puts a lid on the pot, leaving it to simmer for a bit.

He leans back against the counter, his hand brushing over a small stack of photos behind him that you had recently gotten developed, knocking some to the floor. With a sigh, he crouches down to gather them back up, his hand pausing as he grabs the first one. It’s a picture of him with his arm around your waist, both of your hands cupping his cheeks as he holds a vanilla ice cream cone. In the background, the sun is setting over the ocean, the sky painted in strokes of pinks and purples and reds and golds. You have a dot of the ice cream on your nose – he remembers that he had smeared it there himself after you tried to take a bite of his dessert. Both of you are laughing, mouths wide, your eyes scrunched up into crescent moons while his bright gaze is fixed on you. He remembers Wooyoung taking the picture during one of your walks to the pier near your home. It’s dated back two summers ago.

A smile is tugging the corners of his lips. He can’t remember the last time the two of you had taken a photo together. For the briefest of moments, he can feel a ghost of the joy that had once filled him. It’s spilling out of the picture in his hands, seeping through to his chest.

The feeling doesn’t last long. It never does. 

The smell of his soup boiling on the stove draws him back to the present. He quickly scoops the rest of the scattered pictures together, setting them back on the countertop as he rushes to the stove. He takes the pot off the heat and switches the stove off, taking the lid off to let the steam free. The spices fill his nose, causing him to cough as they overpower his senses. You have always told him he’s a bit heavy-handed when it comes to adding the red pepper, but he only seems to remember your advice when it’s too late. Every time.

“Jun?” He turns at the sound of your voice, seeing you sleepily rise from the couch. You rub your eyes, covering your mouth as you yawn and make your way towards him.

“Morning,” he says, trying his best to smile, though he can’t be sure what the correct way to speak to you is right now. He knows he acted selfishly last night, but he also knows that you’ll refuse to bring it up. At times, he wishes you would unleash all hell on him; he wishes you would scream, dig your nails into his skin, bite into his flesh with the words of resentment and anger he only imagines you have buried deep within your heart of hearts.

But you never do. And he’s far too much of a coward to ask you to. The tension of last night will linger, you’ll both carry on until the next thing happens and it snowballs, getting bigger and bigger but never crashing down around you. You wrap your arms around his waist, looking down at his breakfast. “You should’ve woken me up, Jun. I know you like my haejangguk more, I would’ve made it for you.”

“I know you would’ve,” he says. “That’s exactly why I didn’t wake you up. You need to rest.”

“I’m fine though,” you mumble, leaving his side to pull a couple of bowls down from one of the cabinets. He notices the dark circles beneath your eyes and wonders how fine you truly could be. You take a ladle from a drawer and scoop two servings of the soup into the bowls, fishing out some spoons to eat with. 

“You don’t have to eat this babe. You’re not hungover.” He watches as you set the dishes down at two of the bar stools, climbing up to sit atop one of them. “I’ll make something else for you.”

“I don’t mind,” you say, smiling sweetly at him. “It tastes pretty good regardless. Can you bring me the black pepper?”

He nods, turning around to find it. When he turns towards the cabinet, his eyes fall on the calendar that’s hanging on the side of the refrigerator. Yesterday’s date is circled in red, with poorly done doodles of a cake and confetti surrounding two words written in bright pastels: Y/N’s Birthday.

His stomach drops. There’s a big black line crossing out the date.

“Do you have any gigs today?” Your voice is distant to him, his gaze still stuck on the calendar as his head swarms with thoughts, his hand shaking around the can of pepper in his grasp. How could he forget your birthday? How had he reached such a devastating low that he couldn’t even properly celebrate with you, the one person who had stuck with him through every high and low? And how could you not even think of mentioning it to him?

“Jun? You okay?” He slowly turns back to face you at the sound of your voice, seeing the worry lines creasing your forehead. One day, those wrinkles would be permanent, and he can’t help but feel like the full responsibility of it will fall upon his shoulders.

He walks towards you, passing you the pepper you had asked for as he sits down beside you at the counter. Hesitantly, you take it from him, but your eyes are still fixed upon him as he stares down into his bowl, his appetite seeming to be completely erased from him.

“What’s wrong?” Your hand is on his shoulder now. His skin nearly burns at the touch.

“I missed your birthday.” His voice is quiet, heavy. Silence settles in the room afterwards, and he can’t bring himself to look at you. Your hand drops from his shoulder.

“Oh. That. Seriously, don’t worry about it. I know you’ve had a lot going on lately with the band and all, so it makes sense that –” 

“Y/N.” He cuts you off, his eyes meeting yours. You stop mid-sentence, mouth ajar. “Stop it. Stop making excuses for me.”

“They’re not excuses, it’s just the truth. What kind of partner would I be if I got mad at you for being overworked all the time?”

“And what kind of partner would I be for letting myself get away with forgetting your birthday?” His words are piercing, but he can’t help it. He already feels terrible, and for some reason, the lack of anger or spite on your part is making him feel even worse. You shrink down into your stool, gazing absently at your soup.

He closes his eyes, sighing as he runs his hand down his face. “Y/N, I’m not – I’m not angry. Not at you anyways; just at myself. I’m sorry for getting frustrated, it’s just . . . God, I wish you would care more about yourself.”

“I care about myself enough, Jun.” You’re almost whispering now, moving your spoon around in your bowl but not taking a single sip of the broth. “But I care about you too. Of course, I was a little disappointed but – I don’t know. I just want to be here to support you, I can’t justify getting angry at you when I know you’re having a hard time.”

The words are not new to him. He’s heard them from you countless times before. At first, he found them comforting; knowing you would always be there for him, supporting him through the dark times and not just the good. But as time went on, the words had begun to weigh him down. How often was he there to offer you the same support you gave to him constantly? How often did you even ask for it?

He sets his spoon down, taking both your hands in his. Your eyes go wide when they meet his, your shoulders tense.

“I’m going to make it up to you, Y/N. I swear.” His words are firm, and he means them, truly, with every bone in his body. He’s tired of being a burden to you, so tired that he makes these promises to you almost every day. But this time, he’s going to keep it; this time, for sure.

Your eyes look dim when you smile. “Alright.”

“Where do you want to go? We’ll do something tonight, right after my show at the Alley.”

You purse your lips, mulling over a thousand different possibilities in your mind. “Can we go down to the ice cream stand at the pier? The one we used to go to all the time.”

He nods, squeezing your hands tightly. “Of course. It’s a date.”

Your smile grows wide, and you lean forward, pressing a kiss against the tip of his nose. He lets his eyes fall shut, savoring the way the kiss warms his heart that had felt like ice for so long, even if the relief only lasted a moment. 

He is going to do everything he can to keep you smiling this time. He is done making you wait for him – he has to be. This is the promise he makes to himself.

And so, the cycle begins.

----------

The air is muggy inside the venue that night. The red lights are dim, the aroma of spilt beer and fried chicken taking over Yeonjun’s senses as he steps inside the small building known as the Alley, home to many aspiring bands booking their first venues or failed musical acts who never made it past this point. The line between the two categories is quite thin.

The crowd is gathered round the stage, a few stragglers left behind at the bar near the back of the open space. The venue capacity sits around two-hundred, and it looks to be about halfway full. He has to push along the edge of the crowd to make it to the waiting rooms.

Yeonjun is pulling you along behind him, his painted fingers interlocked with your own as the hum of the crowd buzzes over the grunge rock spilling from the loudspeakers. He’s got his guitar slung over his shoulder, tightly clutching the strap in his free hand. When he glances down at you, he can tell that you’re a bit nervous – this crowd was a bit larger than most of the open mic nights that Yeonjun and his band frequent.

“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay, Jun?” You ask, straining to be heard over all the noise as you make your way to one of the back rooms near the stage. “I know you get nervous with larger crowds.”

You’re not wrong, of course. One of the more popular up and coming bands in the area had asked Yeonjun’s to open for their set. Most of the people in the crowd tonight – if not all of them – have no idea who they are. Not to mention the fact that the venue hadn’t even offered them a soundcheck – they were coming in cold, with little to no preparation.

“A little bit,” he answers honestly. He smiles, bumping his shoulder against yours. “But the show must go on, right?”

You smile back at him, giving his hand a squeeze. “You’ve got this.”

“And what about the rest of us?” A high-pitched voice pierces Yeonjun’s ears as Wooyoung joins the both of you, throwing his arm around your shoulders. “Are we gonna do well too, or is it just him?”

You laugh, the three of you entering the assigned waiting room with floors made of checkered tile and a cheap popcorn ceiling overhead. Nobody else is there yet – the room is empty aside from a cheap wine-stained couch and a couple of folding chairs.

“Of course you’re gonna do well too, Wooyoung,” you assure him, leaving Yeonjun’s side to sit down on one of the folding chairs. “I just figured that went without saying.”

“Where are the others?” Yeonjun asks as he sits on the other folding chair and begins tuning his guitar, Wooyoung stretching out on the couch and taking up all the space for himself. “They usually come with you.”

“Not sure; they haven’t been answering my calls at all today.” Wooyoung sighs, pulling out his phone. “It might just be you and me tonight.”

Though Yeonjun is disappointed by the statement, he can’t say that he’s surprised. The days where he and Wooyoung end up taking the stage alone have become more and more frequent. He twists the final peg on his guitar, plucking the strings one by one to check that they’re in tune. 

“We’ll make it work,” he says.

Wooyoung nods. “We always do.”

Yeonjun can feel your eyes on him, but he doesn’t look your way. He knows you’re worried about him. He knows you want to offer him support and encouragement, but he can’t take it right now. He’s terrified of letting you down – again.

A woman with bright blue hair dressed in all black pops her head into the room. “You guys are on in five. Get ready.”

Yeonjun nods as she disappears, standing up from the chair with his guitar in hand. He glances in the full-length mirror hanging before him on the wall, wondering if he’s underdressed in his ripped black jeans and Pink Floyd tee that’s so old, he would label it as ancient – but you always correct him, preferring the term vintage. He doesn’t have time to contemplate his choice of dress any further though, as you and Wooyoung both stand up with him, following him out the door and up the stairs that lead to the side wings of the stage. 

Wooyoung pulls his drumsticks from his back pocket, making a quick glance at the rusty old drumset sitting towards the back of the stage. You grab hold of Yeonjun’s sleeve, smiling up at him as you squint against the colorful lighting. Yeonjun notices the way your nose crinkles along with your eyes – something he’s always loved about you.

“Knock ‘em dead, yeah?” Your voice is as soft as it can be while still being heard above the murmuring crowd. You run your fingers through his hair, a last-ditch effort to fix up a few of the pieces that frame his face.

He gently takes your wrist in his hand, lowering it from his face as he leans down to kiss you swiftly. “I’ll do my best.”

The stage is set with a single microphone in the center, the drumset a bit behind it. There’s a single spotlight hanging low over the mic, the same burnt red as the rest of the lighting in the venue. He glances at Wooyoung, who gives him a reassuring nod. He clutches the strap of his guitar. 

He takes his first step out onto the stage, Wooyoung following close behind. A few people in the crowd notice, turning towards them. Most give the two of them a passing glance, checking to be sure that they’re not the main act of the night, before they resume their buzzing conversations or boisterous laughter.

He stops in front of the microphone, tilting it upwards so that it matches his height. He spots the aux on the ground and leans down to plug it into his guitar, a high-pitched screech humming over the room for a brief moment before it fades away. He looks over his shoulder to see Wooyoung take his seat behind the drums, giving him a thumbs up, mouthing the familiar words, You ready?

With a sigh, Yeonjun gives the only honest answer he can think of by shrugging his shoulders. This was their routine as of late.

He taps a finger against the mic, the familiar thumping coming out muffled through the loudspeakers. He clears his throat, taking another look out at the crowd.

“Hey everyone, how are we feeling tonight?” His voice is clear, gaining the attention of a few more people in the crowd. A couple of half-hearted cheers resound, and he’s thankful for that at least. “My name’s Yeonjun, and this is my buddy Wooyoung on the drums. We’re happy to be here tonight to open up the show for you.”

He looks over to the wing, seeing you standing there, hands clasped together over your chest. You’re glowing red from the overhead lights, eyes sparkling. You perk up when you catch his gaze, throwing him your ever-warm smile. He can only lift the corner of his mouth, his nerves already beginning to wear him down. 

He glances back at Wooyoung again, giving him a nod as he adjusts his grip on the neck of his guitar, fingers clasped tightly around the pick. The drummer smiles, clicking his drumsticks together, counting off the beat.

One, two, three, four.

He strikes the first chord, letting his eyes fall shut as the sounds of his strings fill him, drowning out the buzz of the crowd. When the first lyrics leave his lips, he’s already felt himself drift away. Eyes closed, he can imagine himself being somewhere else, anywhere but here. He’s not standing on the stage burning beneath the lights, overwhelmed by the flood of voices kept in time by the steady beat of the drums and the thrumming of his heart, sending hot blood coursing through his veins. 

Instead, he’s sat upon a blanket in the sand, the plucking of his guitar harmonizing with the waves melting against the shoreline, a crackling fire burning before him beneath the starlight, slightly blocked out by the wisps of a few gray and blue clouds. The salt air is muddled by the smell of smoke, the gentle breeze tickling the tip of his nose. Wooyoung’s fast asleep on the other side of the fire, arm covering his eyes as his mouth hangs open, a trickle of drool slipping down his chin.

And you. You’re there by Yeonjun’s side, head resting upon his shoulder as he picks out the melody, singing softly, the words falling upon your ears alone. 

This, he thinks, is what music is meant to be. A connection from himself to you, the lines of a song reaching your heart much deeper than any words he could speak. Words failed him so often when he tried to talk. If he could sing forever, serenading you with all the right words set to a lulling melody that rang sweet in your ears, he would sign himself away to it in a heartbeat.

The first song has ended, and he opens his eyes to find himself back in reality, square center on the stage. It’s not you he’s looking at – it’s a crowd of uninterested strangers, eyes seeming to fall anywhere but himself. It’s like whiplash, the serenity he felt moments ago rapidly being replaced by the anxiety and displacement he’s become all too familiar with. The lights are too bright, the voices are too loud, the air is too warm. He feels so small. He shouldn’t be here – he should be anywhere else.

He turns to look at you again. Even across the distance that separates you, he can see the worry swimming in your eyes as you give him a thumbs up. He’s certain that the words of his song had fallen short even upon your ears. You had probably heard nothing but your own racing thoughts, screaming with worry and tension as you watched him intently, wishing for him to not fail.

He knows you – perhaps a little too well. His throat is tight, his chest screaming for air. He’s never felt as far away from you as he does in this moment.

The rest of the set flies by in a haze of tension and suffocating disinterest from the crowd. He expected this, prepared for it even. But for some reason, he can never seem to get past the disappointment that comes from it.

He manages to push out a quick “thank you” to the mic when they’re finished, but he can hardly see the point in it as it falls upon deaf ears. A few people clap, but Yeonjun doesn’t stay on stage long enough to hear. He unplugs his guitar, all but running towards where you wait for him in the wing.

“You did great, Jun,” you say. “I mean it.”

He can’t even force himself to smile now. He needs to get out of here.

“Good job, sweetheart!” Wooyoung throws his arm around Yeonjun’s shoulders, drumsticks clanking together as he clutches them in one hand. “How we feeling?”

“Can we get out of here?” Yeonjun feels as though there’s a fist around his throat, choking all the air out of him at an alarming pace. He rubs a hand along the base of his neck, skin burning. “I can’t – I’m not thinking clearly.”

“Yeah, yeah of course.” You waste no time in linking arms with him, pulling him alongside you down the steps with Wooyoung following close behind. “Woo, can you grab his guitar case from the waiting room and meet us outside? I think he needs some air.”

“Sure thing. See you out there.”

Yeonjun is in a trance, not feeling his feet touch the ground as you guide him along the edge of the crowd once more towards the exit. When he takes his first step out into the cool night air, he feels like he’s finally come up from underwater, taking a cleansing breath in, exhaling moments later. He sits down on the cement steps, ignoring the thud of his guitar hitting the concrete behind him. You waste no time in sinking down by his side, rubbing his arm in an effort to provide even the smallest bit of comfort.

“You okay?” You ask. He can feel the pity in your eyes without even looking at them. He keeps staring down at his scuffed sneakers.

“I’m alright.”

He hears the door open behind them and looks up to see Wooyoung hovering above him, his black guitar case littered with stickers in hand.

“You good?” His friend asks, motioning for Yeonjun to hand his guitar over. 

He lifts the strap over his head, grabbing the guitar by the neck and handing it to Wooyoung. “I just needed some air. I’m okay.”

“I think we did a pretty good job,” Wooyoung says, kneeling on the ground to set the guitar in its case. “We got a decent response from the crowd.”

Yeonjun watches you nod in agreement, but he himself remains quiet, fiddling with his shoelaces. He can hardly remember any of their set to begin with, and what little he does recall feels like it’s the opposite of “decent”.

“So, what’s the move for tonight?” Wooyoung asks. “Celebrating a late birthday for Y/N? Oh wait – did you ever end up remembering it in the – ow!”

You’ve leaned down to smack Wooyoung’s cheek, ending his trail of harsh – but well deserved – words that were no doubt pointed towards Yeonjun. He doesn’t miss the venom in his friend’s voice, and he feels the sharp pang of guilt dig deeper into his chest than it already was before. 

“We’re gonna go down to the pier,” he says in response, forcing a smile. “See if the ice cream shop is open.”

He feels your eyes on him again, but can’t bear to look. He knows that concern he doesn’t deserve will be waiting for him in your gaze. It’s nothing but salt to his open wound. 

“You know Jun, maybe we should just go to Mr. Kim’s tonight instead.” He looks at you then, eyes widening at your suggestion. “You’re not feeling the best, and it’s super cold out – I bet the shop isn’t even open during this time of year anyways.”

“No, Y/N.” He grabs both your hands, shaking his head. “It’s your day, we’re going to the pier. That’s what you wanted.”

You smile, running your thumb along his knuckles. His skin tingles at the touch. “Seriously Jun, it’s okay. We can just wait til it gets warmer out. It’ll be more fun at that time anyways.”

Yeonjun glances at Wooyoung, surprised to see his friend minding his own business for once – or at least pretending to mind his own. He’s whistling the tune of one of their songs, securing the latches on the guitar case as he clearly does everything in his power to avoid eye contact.

The one time I need his loud ass to chime in and back me up, Yeonjun thinks. He’s really useless, huh?

He looks back at you. “Y/N –”

Your lips cover his, cutting his words off. He hesitates before his eyes flutter shut, taking in the warmth that comes from the feeling of you against him as his body shakes from the chilling air.

When you pull away, you’re still smiling. “It’s okay, Jun,” you whisper. “Let’s go get something to eat.”

He remains quiet for a moment. He can’t quite tell if your smile reaches your eyes.

“Okay.” His voice is barely audible, his nose brushing against yours. “Let’s go.”

You nod with contentment, standing up and pulling him to his feet along with you. “What about you, Woo? Wanna come with?”

“Sure, why not.” The drummer smirks as he walks closer to Yeonjun, bumping their shoulders together while wiggling his eyebrows. “As long as this guy’s paying. You’re good with that, right sweetheart?”

“Stop calling me that,” Yeonjun mutters, sinking his elbow into Wooyoung’s side with enough force to send the latter stumbling back a few steps. “And I’m paying for my girlfriend, of course. But you’re on your own.”

Wooyoung flashes a middle finger, tongue stuck out in mockery, and Yeonjun returns both gestures as he wraps his arm around your shoulders, noticing the hand you’ve placed over your lips in an attempt to hide your laughter. “Lead the way, sweetheart. Y/N and I will be close behind.”

“Screw you,” Wooyoung says, unable to mask the smile blossoming on his lips. “And take your stupid guitar too. It’s heavy.”

Yeonjun grabs the case with his free hand, the two of you falling into pace behind Wooyoung as you make the short walk to Mr. Kim’s pub. The lights outside are flickering; Yeonjun makes a mental note to remind Mr. Kim to check the batteries later. That is, if he remains sober long enough to remember to do so.

But tonight is about you. He will stay sober if that’s what it takes to make things up to you. He has to.

The bell above the door jingles in its familiar tune, the scent of soju and samgyeopsal wafting towards you as soon as the three of you cross the threshold. The pub is fairly quiet, only a few of the tables occupied by guests. 

Mr. Kim is waiting behind the counter, barely containing his eye roll when he spots Yeonjun and Wooyoung. “You two again? Was last night not enough for you?”

“Relax, Mr. Kim.” Wooyoung’s voice is smooth and assuring – he’s very used to charming his way into various kinds of situations. “We’re not here to drink our sorrows away tonight. It’s our lovely Y/N’s post-birthday celebration! You wouldn’t want to turn away your most loyal and dearest customers on such a special occasion, would you?”

Mr. Kim’s eyes narrow when they land on you, peeking around Yeonjun’s shoulder, offering a meek wave in greeting. He sighs, gesturing towards the table in the back corner of the room. “Just go sit down.”

“Ah, see! I knew you had a big heart.” Wooyoung reaches towards the older man with two arms, almost as if he were going in for a hug.

Mr. Kim flicks him square in the middle of his forehead. “Get away from me.”

“Love you too, Mr. Kim!” Yeonjun notices the redness that the elder’s contact had left behind in the center of Wooyoung’s forehead – there would definitely be a welt there tomorrow.

Yeonjun leaves his guitar propped up in the corner behind the counter like always before he leads you back to your usual table, pulling out your chair before he takes his place beside you. 

“Three servings of rice and samgyeopsal, please!” Wooyoung yells, earning a shout of confirmation from the staff as she heads back towards the kitchen. “And a few bottles of cherry soju!”

“Wooyoung.” Yeonjun makes a cutting motion across his neck with his hand, head shaking with intent. “No soju.”

“It’s okay, Jun,” you say, pushing his hand down. “I wanted a drink anyways.”

His brows crease, lips pursed. “But you hate the cherry flavor.”

You shrug, pouring a cup of water from the jug on the table. “It’s growing on me.”

Your words linger with him as the waitress sets a few glasses and two bottles of cherry soju on the table. 

“Two?” Wooyoung asks, raising a brow. “You guys think that’ll be enough?”

“Should be.” Yeonjun takes a sip of your water as Wooyoung fills your other glass first with the fruit-flavored alcohol. “I’m abstaining.”

There’s silence for the briefest of moments. Then, boisterous laughter echoes across the room, drawing the attention of a few other patrons. Wooyoung is clutching his stomach as he continues to laugh, and Yeonjun kicks his shin under the table. 

“Would you shut up?” He hisses, nodding a thank you to the waitress as she sets down a few bowls of rice along with the plate of uncooked pork.

Wooyoung wipes the corner of his eyes, the laughter finally having subsided. “Sorry. I just – I’ve never seen you turn down a drink.”

“There’s a first time for everything, right?” He turns the grill on, smiling at you when he notices you staring at him with wide eyes, hands frozen around the glass of soju. “Come on,” he says, nudging you in the side. “Drink up, birthday girl.”

You hesitate before throwing the shot back, eyes crinkling up as you take a hard swallow. Wooyoung cheers as you pour him a glass next.

“I haven’t seen you drink in ages, Y/N,” he says before taking his first shot as well. “You deserve to let loose a bit tonight.”

You cough, placing your palm flat against your chest. “Well, I’m remembering now why I don’t drink. This tastes awful.”

“Nah, you’re just not used to it.” Wooyoung motions for you to raise your glass again. “You’ll be loving it in no time.”

You shake your head in disagreement, but oblige to his request as you lift your glass up once more, taking your second shot. You shake your head, lips pursed in disgust as you force the liquid down.

“Alright, stop forcing her, Wooyoung,” Yeonjun insists, pushing his friend’s hand away as he raises the bottle towards you once more. “You’re the kind of person they warned us about in middle school during all those assemblies about peer pressure.”

“You’re one to talk,” Wooyoung mutters, pouring a second shot for himself and taking it down only seconds later. He barely even flinches at the taste. “I see you drunk way more than I see you sober.”

Yeonjun pauses, and Wooyoung immediately knows he’s crossed a line. You clear your throat, gesturing towards the plate of pork. “I think the grill’s warm. Want me to put the meat on?”

“No, stay still,” Yeonjun insists, glad for the break in the uncomfortable tension that has settled over the table. “I’ll do it.”

The grill sizzles as the pork settles atop it, the savory aroma immediately filling his senses. He pushes the pieces around with the pair of tongs that were resting beside the plate, focusing all his attention on his task as he tries desperately to ignore the scent of the soju creeping in. The sight of the third shot glass, empty and untouched, burns in the corner of his vision. He’s determined to ignore it.

Yeonjun sets the first few pieces of cooked pork on your plate, giving Wooyoung a pointed look as he does so. The meal carries on smoothly for a bit – no more talks of sobriety or peer pressure from Wooyoung for you to take another shot of the bitter drink. There’s light conversation and laughter, reminding Yeonjun of how things were just a few years ago when the three of you first started hanging out together, right after he had asked you out.

“It’s nice to be out together again – all three of us,” Wooyoung says, taking the last piece of pork from the sizzling grill. “Why’d we stop doing this again?”

“We just got busy.” You take a swig of water, bowing your head in thanks to the waitress as she sets another dish of meat to cook and two more bottles of soju on the table – Wooyoung had already drained the first.

“You’re right. How could I forget our band taking off in infinite success?” Wooyoung shakes his head, emptying the contents of the new dish onto the grill. “The life of a star isn’t an easy one, I suppose.”

You laugh a bit, but quickly bite it back, glancing over at your boyfriend. He forces a laugh of his own, though the words of his friend are piercing blows to his already fragile ego.

“Lighten up, sweetheart.” Wooyoung reaches over the table, ruffling Yeonjun’s hair. “It’s all jokes.”

Yeonjun smiles bitterly, nodding in assumed agreement. He passes the metal tongs to Wooyoung who then takes his turn cooking the meat, returning to the light-hearted conversation he had been having with you moments before. 

This leaves Yeonjun with the perfect opportunity to begin thinking.

And thinking.

And thinking and thinking and thinking.

He thinks about the buzz of the disinterested crowd watching their show that night, a sea of blank faces and muddled voices drowning him out. 

He thinks about the bright lights, burning through his eyelids despite how tightly he shut them, desperate to keep the beams from slipping through the cracks. 

He thinks about the steel strings of his guitar, digging into the calloused skin of his fingertips, the pain so familiar he hardly feels it at all anymore, but still potent enough to remind him that it was there.

He thinks and he thinks, until he cannot bear to do so for a second longer.

Without a word, he takes an unopened bottle of soju and twists the cap off with the ease that only comes from what feels like a lifetime of experience. Ignoring how your eyes burn into the side of his head, he pours himself a glass and throws back the shot. The alcohol burns its way down his throat, and he closes his eyes as the feeling overpowers him and then subsides all in an instant.

Just one shot, to keep me sane. That’s all.

He lets his eyes meet yours once again. You quickly look away, reaching toward the grill as the second batch of meat finishes cooking. He glances at Wooyoung, who is pointedly keeping his eyes anywhere but his best friend. 

It’s guilt this time that’s flooding Yeonjun’s entire being. God, how could he be so fucking selfish? It was just one night, one night that he needed to push his own needs aside for yours. He wanted to, more than anything. Yet, somehow, he always lost in this battle against himself. No matter how hard he tried, what moves he made, this was a game he was forever destined to lose.

His throat feels like it’s closing, ears ringing, head swarmed with the sounds of the restaurant. The relief from the first shot is long gone, and he’s staring at the bottle of soju again. He’s merely a puppet, the bottle of burning liquid his master, pulling the strings as he reaches forward and takes the bottle in his hands once more.

He had already screwed things up. One more shot couldn’t hurt, right?

When he throws back the second shot, he tells himself it is just to keep the thoughts quiet. With the third, he assures himself that it’s to loosen up the tightness in his chest – nothing more.

The fourth is to chase the third. He hates leaving things on odd numbers.

By the time he gets to the fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth, he’s far too tired to think of reasons why he continues to down them. He loses count soon after that.

----------

Deep down, you had known the night would end up this way from the very beginning.

You tell yourself that you’re not resentful. It doesn’t bother you at all, the fact that you’re leaving Mr. Kim’s with Yeonjun’s arms wrapped around your neck from behind as you desperately try to pull him along the sidewalk, the buzz from the two shots you had taken long gone. All that’s left now is a searing headache and a knot in your stomach.

Wooyoung has left already, carrying Yeonjun’s abandoned guitar with him. He had offered to help you bring Yeonjun home, but you insisted that he go first. You don’t know why, but you’re embarrassed – not of Yeonjun, of course, but of the fact that Wooyoung thinks you can’t handle him on your own. You’ve gotten quite used to this.

You’ve made it a couple blocks down the street, drunken words falling from Yeonjun’s lips in incoherent rambles that you’re too exhausted to try and make any sense of.  You shift his weight, bringing one of your arms around his waist as the other holds the wrist of the arm that he has draped across your shoulders.

“Y/N,” he mumbles. “Stop.”

There’s sweat beading on the back of your neck. You shake your head, gritting your teeth as his feet drag down the sidewalk. You hate to think of the scuff marks it’s sure to leave on his sneakers “No, Jun. We’ve gotta get you home.”

“I wanted to walk you home tonight,” he croaks, his words followed by a few hiccups. “It’s your sort-of-birthday, I should – I should be carrying you.”

You shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek. “Don’t worry about it, alright? Just focus on walking. Left foot, right foot, left –”

“No.” He plants his feet, legs wobbling. The movement is so sudden that it causes you to trip, bringing him crashing to the cold hard ground with you. The back of your head smacks against the pavement, his form crashing down atop of you. You hiss in pain, but you quickly push the feeling aside, sitting up to grab Yeonjun’s shoulders.

“Are you okay?” You ask, eyes searching his dull ones for any hint of pain. He blinks at you slowly, lips settled into a pout as he brings his hands up to cup your face. His palms are clammy, fingertips rough with guitar-string callouses.

“Yeonjun.” You grab hold of his wrists, voice dripping with worry. “Are you hurt? Talk to me.”

“Do you love me, Y/N?”

The question is so sudden, it freezes you to your core. You go still, hands clasped around his wrists.

“Of course I love you, Yeonjun.” The words require no thought on your end, spilling from your lips freely. You’ve said them so many times, you’re not sure why he even feels the need to ask you to say them again. Maybe you’ve done a worse job at showing it than you thought.

He frowns, brows knit as always. “How much?”

“What?”

“How much do you love me?” You can see tears brimming in his eyes, and your heart aches.

“So, so much, Yeonjun,” you say, running your finger along the back of his hand in a soothing rhythm. “More than you could ever imagine. I’d do anything for you. Anything at all.”

He sighs, eyes falling shut. He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours. “Would you catch the stars for me?”

It’s an odd question. If he weren’t completely wasted and practically sobbing in your arms in the middle of the street, you might even find it to be an endearing one. “Yeah, sure. I’d catch the stars. I’d bring each and every one of them down to the ground for you.”

“What about the moon?”

“The moon too. If you asked me for it, I’d give it to you. I’d give you anything, Jun.”

He stares at you in silence, a single tear falling down his cheek, hanging onto his jaw.

“Kiss me,” he rasps, leaning even closer so that his lips are only a breath away from yours.

For some reason, you’re hesitating. His lips are practically against your own already, tempting you closer to the comfort they always provide for you, melting the worries of your small and insignificant world to nothing as you’re taken over by thoughts of nothing but him.

But tonight, you don’t want your worries to fall to the wayside. You’re searching his eyes again and remember how you used to see the stars shining in them. Tonight, you curse the city lights under your breath. They’ve killed your shot at seeing the starlight’s reflection there when you need it the most.

His eyes fall shut. “Y/N. Kiss me.”

Your throat feels tight, the worries in your mind pressing in on you, like the walls of a prison cell that are about to cave in, locking you forever in their grasp. They come closer, and closer, until you fear they’ll suffocate you and swallow you whole.

You throw away any reservations, closing the distance between yourself and Yeonjun, taking his lips captive with yours. Every clash of your teeth, every swipe of his tongue against your chapped lips, every breathless whisper of your name falling from his mouth – it all pushes the negative thoughts further and further away. His kiss is a haven, despite the burn of the cherry soju, just like you knew it would be.

You’re reminded once more, as you are every moment of every day: you love him. You love him, and it’s still enough to get you by.

----------

No matter how many times Yeonjun wakes up in bed with a hellish hangover, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the pain and guilt that simultaneously wash over him within an instant of him opening his eyes to the late afternoon light seeping through his window.

When he turns over on his side, squinting against the brightness in the room, his guilt multiplies tenfold when he realizes that you’re not in bed next to him. Again.

He sits up, running his hand over his eyes. He takes a whiff of his own breath, nearly gagging at the rancid smell of sour soju that pours out of him. One sniff is all the motivation he needs to drag himself out of bed and stumble towards the bathroom. He grabs his toothbrush and toothpaste, getting to work at remedying the horrible version of morning breath that’s plaguing him.

The memories of the night before are coming back to him, playing one by one in his head like a bad movie looping on a broken DVD player, skipping and replaying all the most dreadful moments, savoring the bad luck of the lovers on screen. He squeezes his eyes shut, scrubbing furiously at his back teeth as his mind works against him once more, reminding him of how badly he’s screwed up, of how awful you must feel, of how you’re definitely not going to bring it up to him, and of how he’ll need to make it up to you for certain this time, promising you to never screw up that badly ever again.

He spits into the sink, turning on the water to rinse it down. He watches it go down the drain, eyes unfocused as his mind races. He’s tired, he’s so tired of this vicious cycle that he puts you through every week – no, every day. He can promise himself til the end of the world that he’s going to change, that he’s going to abandon his reckless ways, that he won’t let the thoughts win ever again.

But he’s afraid. He can hardly believe his own promises now. How long can he keep convincing you to have faith in him, when his faith in himself is already gone?

He hears the front door to the apartment open, followed swiftly by your voice. “Jun? You up?”

He turns the faucet off after splashing a bit of cold water in his face. “Yeah, in here.”

“Ah, perfect. You’re already here,” You say as you turn the corner into the bathroom. There’s a plastic bag in your hand, and you set it on the counter, pulling the items out one by one. A box of black hair dye. Conditioner. A pair of plastic gloves. A plastic mixing bowl and a brush.

“What’s this?” Yeonjun picks up the box of hair dye, turning it over in his hands.

“Your roots are growing in.” You stand on your toes, gently pulling your fingers through his hair. His eyes flutter shut for just a moment, savoring the touch, before the guilt in his stomach pulls him back to reality. “I know it’s not really in the budget for you to go back for another bleach, yeah?”

He nods, setting the box dye back on the counter. “You’re gonna dye it for me?”

“Of course.” You respond without hesitation, and he’s not surprised. Your words from the night before are seeping into his brain, clouding everything else around him.

If you asked me for it, I’d give it to you. I’d give you anything, Jun.

You’re prying open the box, pouring the color and developer into the bowl. His throat feels tight. Whether it’s from the chemicals or the lump of regret he’s been harboring for what feels like decades, he’s not sure.

Per your instructions, he sits down on the closed toilet as you pull on the plastic gloves. You clip up a section of his hair, slowly working the product into his blonde strands, fried from too much bleach. Every touch from you against his scalp, every brush of your chest against his shoulders, every breath from your lips that he feels gently caress his neck as you lean in for a better angle is working a fire up within him. He’s suffocating from the inside out. He needs you closer, your touch, everything. The fire is creeping his way through his stomach, invading his lungs, burning his throat. He needs you. Yet, at the same time, he wants you to step as far away from him as possible. He’s afraid, so afraid, of this consuming fire within him jumping from himself to you, burning you alive right along with him.

He’s quiet during the entire process, and so are you for the most part, only the occasional hum from your lips breaking the silence. He realizes you’re humming one of his songs. His eyes burn. He chooses to blame it on the chemicals.

“Okay,” you say when you’re finished covering his hair with the black dye. “All done. I’m gonna hop in the shower while it develops, then you can rinse it out.” He nods, and you narrow your eyes. “Jun. Have you eaten today?”

He gulps. “No. . . Kinda just woke up.”

You huff out a breath, pulling the gloves from your hands tossing them in the garbage. “Go eat, please. I’ll come get you when it’s time.”

You practically shove him out of the bathroom and towards the kitchen before turning back to put the shower on. He glances over his shoulder, seeing that you’ve left the door cracked open. He wanders towards the fridge, trying not to itch his scalp. The dye burns a bit, but he barely notices.

He finds a cup of yogurt and fishes a spoon from the drawer, propping himself against the counter as he slowly starts on his “breakfast”. Soon enough, he’s finished the cup and he hears you shut the water off.

“Jun!” You call. “It’s time!”

“Mm, coming,” he mumbles, tossing his garbage into the can before he slowly makes his way back to the bathroom. He pushes the door open, a thick cloud of steam hitting him instantly. He waves his hand through the air a bit and stops when he sees you through the fog, nothing but a towel wrapped around your body, hair wet and sticking to your shimmering skin. His breath catches in his throat as his eyes travel up your body, tracing all the curves and edges until he meets your gaze. 

You smile softly at him. “Ready?”

“Ready?” He rasps, clearing his throat. “I mean – for what?”

“To rinse your hair?”

He swallows. “Oh.” He pulls off his tee shirt, leaving him in just his boxers. He feels warm as the steam wraps around his bare skin. You push back the shower curtain and motion for him to step inside. He sees the stool that you’ve set on the floor of the shower and sits down, watching as you step in behind him. You pull the shower head down and turn the water on, testing the temperature on your hand before letting the water run over his hair, gently running your fingers through his locks.

The water is lukewarm and muddied from the black dye, trickling down his neck and bare chest. He’s not sure why he feels so guilty for the way his heart is pounding against his chest, the way his hands are aching to touch you as you stand behind him and rinse the product out. He’s been with you for so long and he’s seen every part of you time and time again, but no matter how much he tries, he can never seem to shake the nervousness that overcomes when he feels your breath down his neck, sending sparks flying down his spine, igniting a fire in his veins that he had no means of extinguishing. Every touch of your fingertips against his scalp pains him. It makes him want you more and more.

“Y/N.” His voice is raspy. He clears his throat. “How long is this gonna take?”

“I’m supposed to rinse until the water runs clear.” You’re leaning down when you answer him, probably to get a better angle as you continue to run your hands through his hair as you rinse. He’s sure you’re unaware of the way your lips accidentally brush against the shell of his ear when you speak, but he isn’t so lucky. He can’t ignore it. The sparks are running all along his skin now.

He swallows. Hard. “And how long does that usually take?”

You laugh lightly, your fingers casually sliding a bit further down the nape of his neck before retreating back behind his hairline. “Why, Jun? Do you have somewhere to be?”

He doesn’t understand how you still can’t seem to see the agony you’re causing him. He doesn’t quite understand it himself; he’s made you his countless times. Yet, for some odd reason, he still feels the same desperation, the same urgency, the same overwhelming longing for your skin against his as if it’s the first time all over again.

He reaches behind him and clasps a hand around your wrist, stilling your movement. His chest is rising and falling with labored breaths, water continuing to slide down his skin, pooling beneath his feet.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He slowly pulls your hand down, your palm sliding over his shoulder and down his chest. By pulling your hand down, he’s also drawn you closer to him. He feels the rough fabric of your towel against his back. “Nothing’s wrong.”

You’re closer now; he can feel your breath against his neck more distinctly than before. Your breathing has become labored to match his own. He feels your chest push against his back with each inhale. He tilts his head back so he’s looking up at you as you loom over him. Your cheeks are flushed, and he’s unable to tell if it’s because of him or the lingering steam. He keeps one hand over yours on his chest and brings the other up to cradle your jaw, his fingers lightly grazing over your cheekbone.

“Jun.” You inhale sharply after whispering his name, still holding the showerhead in your other hand. The water is pointed at the shower floor now, occasionally splashing up onto his legs. He pulls your face down, closer to his own, until his nose is brushing against your skin. Then, his lips are against yours, soft and gentle, heart fluttering in his chest. 

You sigh against him, your hand moving freely along his chest now, tracing circles across his damp skin. He moves his other hand up to hold the other side of your face, pulling you further against him. He wants to remain gentle, afraid of the intensity of the fire that continues to blaze within him. Yet, as though entranced, he parts his lips and closes them around yours with more pressure than before. You hum at the movement, your hand halting briefly against his chest before slowly sliding lower down his stomach, reaching dangerous territory as your fingers tease the waistline of his boxers.

Electrified by the sensation, Yeonjun loses control. He breaks the kiss, leaving you with your mouth agape as he stands abruptly, prying the running shower head from your grasp and hanging it back in its place. The water pours over both of you now like rain, black from the dye as it runs down Yeonjun’s bare chest. He tosses the stool out of the shower, ridding himself of the only obstacle between himself and you. 

He cups your neck in his hand, pulling you flush against his chest as he collides with you once more, desperate and feverish as his teeth graze your bottom lip. You gasp against him, hands sliding up his back, tangling themselves in his dripping black hair. He turns and pushes you back against the wall, hands desperate as they work to unravel the towel that still covers you. He tosses it over the curtain rod once you’re free of it, his lips trailing down to explore what he’s just uncovered. Your hands are still in his hair, small gasps and moans slipping past your lips when he reaches the sensitive spots on your chest with his lips, biting gently before smoothing the skin over with his tongue.

Your hands slide down his chest, followed by a trail of black from his hair as they wrap around to his hips. You pull him into you as his mouth travels back up to the crook of your neck, grinding your hips against his. He gasps, biting at your skin when you make contact.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he whispers, palms covering your breasts as you push yourself into him once more. He groans, resting his forehead on your shoulder as you continue to move against him rhythmically, kissing along his collarbone.

“Yeonjun,” you rasp, moaning softly when he slides his knee between your legs, pushing against your sensitive spot.

“I want you, Y/N.” He knows you know this, but he feels the need to say it at this moment.

You still at his words. He raises his head, eyes meeting yours. He can’t be sure if it’s tears or the shower water, but something is welling in your eyes.

He furrows his brow, brushing your sopping hair behind your ear. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

You smile softly, shaking your head. “Nothing. I just– I needed to hear that.” You softly push your lips against his, sliding his boxers down as you kiss him slowly.

“I love you, Jun,” you whisper against him, jumping up to wrap your legs around his waist. He catches you, holding you against him as he kisses you back, gingerly, closing his eyes and shutting out the pain he had just seen in your gaze.

He’s too aware now– aware of why there were tears in your eyes. About the guilt he’s felt all these months, and the sickening feeling that has been growing in the pit of his stomach; it’s all become so clear to him. The way he’s been holding onto you so tightly, without thinking about how he’d been dragging you down with him. How he’s been so afraid of the person he was becoming that he couldn’t bear the thought of being alone with himself– without you.

Because he knows, at the end of the day, that you would do anything for him without him even having to ask. That you would stay beside him with claw marks in your skin and bruises around your wrists from how desperate he had been to keep you there, no matter the cost.

He knows that you would ruin yourself a million times over for him. You would never let him go.

Not without him letting you go first.

----------

You had heard it said before that everything would feel just right for a fraction of a moment right before it all went so horribly wrong, so horribly fast. 

It’s subtle at first. You open your eyes, smiling as the sunlight trickles through the open window. Rolling onto your side, you reach out your arm, hoping to brush your hand against his skin. When you find the space beside you to be empty, you’re disappointed, but not particularly surprised. This is to be expected.

However, when you sit up, something is off. Everything is too quiet, too empty. You slide out of bed, wandering into the kitchen, heart rate increasing with each step you take.

“Jun?” You call, biting the inside of your cheek when silence is the only response.

You see a note taped to the front of the fridge. Your breath catches.

Before even reading it, you’re certain you know what it says. There’s a feeling somewhere deep in your gut, toiling like a stormy sea.

You hold your breath as you pull the note off and begin to read.

Y/N,

Have I ever told you how much you remind me of the moon? You are soft, glowing, lighting the darkness. Constant – even when I can’t see you, I know you are there. Somber, kind. Beautiful. 

Everything.

How could I deserve to love the moon when, right now, I can barely even see the stars?

I am the tide. Pulling close to you, then rushing far away. I want to stay close, but right now, I can’t. Something pulls me back, each time.

I love you. So, so much. Because I love you, I have to let you go. I need help. The kind of help that would be cruel to continue asking you to give me. I want to get better, not just for you, but for myself as well.

My moon, please continue to shine. I may not see you, but I will always know you are there. And, like the tide, you will still hear me, even from afar. In the songs on the breeze, the melodies in the trees, the steady beat of your heart. Remember me in all of it.

When the time is right, and if I can get better, I will find you again. I promise. But in the meantime, I ask you just one thing: don’t waste away waiting for me to return. Live. To the fullest, in the most beautiful way you can. Please don’t forget to live.

Love, Jun

Teardrops stain the paper. Your hand shakes as you sink to the ground, unsure of what sounds leave you as your chest heaves, eyes squeezing shut to block out the sunlight that now feels blinding.

Yet, in the midst of it all, something small and warm settles into the pit of your chest. It burns, yet it comforts you. As you sob, fists wrapped up in the soft fabric of his tee shirt that you had fallen asleep in, you pretend that you are holding on to that warm feeling, keeping it close, never letting go.

This feeling – this hope – is what keeps you going. You know that, despite it all, you will not forget to live.

----------

THE SUN SETS, AND YOU FEEL AT PEACE.

The soft pinks and purples of the last bit of sunset begin to fade, rippling away with the ocean’s waves as the sun sinks beneath the horizon line. You take a deep breath, closing your eyes as the salt air fills your nose. The sand is cooling beneath your feet and you shiver as the breeze flows by, wrapping your cardigan tighter around your shoulders.

There’s nobody behind you now, but that’s okay.

A bell dings in the distance. You turn, letting your eyes slide open.

You aren’t sure if it’s him at first, partially due to the distance, and partially because his hair is now back to his natural black color. He’s riding his bike, dinging the small bell from the handle. As he approaches, you can see the soft smile settling on his lips. In his hand, he holds an ice cream cone.

Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes, but you smile, so big you can’t help but laugh.

He stops in front of you, nearly dropping the ice cream cone from his hand before he lets the bike fall to the ground. His own eyes are full of tears, but he too smiles, stars dancing in his eyes. He extends the ice cream cone to you, and you smile wider, fingers brushing against his as you grab hold of it. “Happy birthday, Y/N.”

Your heart skips a beat at his voice. “Thank you, Jun.”

You’re both silent, soaking in the presence of one another, listening to the waves crash against the shore, saltwater spraying across your ankles. His head is tilted towards the sky.

“Look up,” he whispers.

You lean your head back, sighing in contentment as the moon comes into sight.

“It’s beautiful,” you say.

His hand slides into yours.

“Yes. You are.”

[cruel-seduction]

Beneath the Bet: A Love Unspoken

(picture taken from pinterest)

Pairing - Sirius Black x Female Reader

Glimpse - “But if you hurt me,” she added, her tone light but laced with a warning, “I’ll kill you.”

Sirius laughed, the sound full of genuine warmth. “Fair enough, love. Fair enough.”

Summary - what happens when the thing that was supposed to be bet turned into something much more? What happens when sirius gives more attention to a specific person than james and pranks? What happens when he is about to lose someone he loves?

**

The Great Hall was buzzing with its usual energy, filled with students chatting, laughing, and eating, while the enchanted ceiling mimicked the perfect autumn sky above. Y/N sat among her friends at the Gryffindor table, a book resting in front of her as she half-listened to their conversation. Though her mind was occupied by her studies, she was always ready to chime in with a sarcastic remark or a witty quip. She was a social person, known for her loud, confident voice, and her tendency to speak her mind.

She was also a nerd—unashamedly so. Her love for books and academics hadn’t gone unnoticed over the years, but she never let it stop her from being outgoing or from enjoying life at Hogwarts. Most people knew her, not because she was trying to stand out, but because she was unapologetically herself.

From across the Hall, Sirius Black leaned casually against the back of his seat, his gray eyes focused on Y/N, who was engaged in some animated debate with her friends. It wasn’t the first time Sirius had noticed her—hell, she had been around since their first year—but there was something about her lately that kept catching his eye. Maybe it was her quick wit. Maybe it was her confidence. Or maybe, Sirius thought with a grin, it was the fact that she didn’t seem to care about his usual charm.

“Oi, Pads,” James interrupted, elbowing Sirius in the ribs. “You’re staring again.”

Sirius blinked and tore his gaze away from Y/N, trying to look nonchalant. “What? No, I wasn’t.”

James snickered, adjusting his glasses. “Sure you weren’t. I’ve seen you look at plenty of girls before, but you’ve got a thing for Y/N, don’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sirius shot back, though his grin was still in place. “She’s just... interesting.”

Remus, who had been quietly reading beside them, looked up. “Interesting how? Because she doesn’t fall for your usual tricks?”

Sirius scowled good-naturedly. “I don’t have ‘tricks,’ thank you very much.”

“Mate, you’ve been trying the same moves since second year,” James teased. “You flash a grin, call them ‘love,’ and they’re all over you.”

Sirius shrugged, unbothered. “It works, doesn’t it?”

But Y/N, as Sirius had learned, wasn’t so easily charmed. Over the past few weeks, he’d thrown a few flirtatious comments her way, testing the waters, only to be met with either polite indifference or a sharp, sarcastic response. And somehow, instead of being discouraged, it only made him want to try harder.

James, ever the instigator, suddenly leaned in with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You know what, Pads? I bet you can’t get Y/N to go out with you.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “A bet, huh?”

James nodded, his smirk widening. “By the end of the month. If you can convince her to go out with you, you can take my Firebolt for a spin.”

Sirius’s expression shifted to one of excitement. “Your Firebolt?”

James shrugged. “If you fail, though, you’ve got to write Snape a love letter and leave it on his desk.”

Remus winced, looking up from his book. “Merlin, that’s cruel.”

Sirius didn’t hesitate. “Deal.”

From that day forward, Sirius Black had made it his mission to get Y/N’s attention. At every opportunity, he was there—flashing her one of his trademark smiles, throwing in flirtatious comments, even going so far as to publicly kneel in the middle of the Great Hall and loudly proclaim his love for her. Each time, Y/N would roll her eyes, or simply laugh it off, much to the amusement of her friends and the rest of Gryffindor House.

“Alright, Black, what is it this time?” Y/N asked one day after Sirius had cornered her in the hallway between classes, grinning like a cat who had just caught a mouse.

“Nothing much,” he said casually, though his tone was anything but innocent. “Just thought I’d remind you how breathtaking you are.”

Y/N’s lips twitched, clearly amused. “And I thought I’d remind you that I’m not interested.”

Sirius placed a hand over his heart, feigning deep injury. “You wound me, love.”

“Oh, you’ll survive,” Y/N quipped, brushing past him.

For the next few weeks, Sirius’s advances continued, much to the amusement of their classmates. Though Y/N remained unimpressed—or at least, she acted like it—there was a part of her that couldn’t help but feel a little flattered by his attention. It wasn’t that she was immune to Sirius’s charms, but she knew his reputation all too well. He was a notorious flirt, never serious about anyone, always moving on to the next girl before anyone could get too close. And Y/N had no interest in becoming just another name on his list.

That, and there was something else. Something deeper that tugged at her when she saw him smiling at her or calling her “love” in that playful tone. It was confusing, and Y/N wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Her friends, of course, were loving every minute of it.

“You should just say yes,” one of her friends suggested one evening as they lounged in the common room. “It’s obvious he likes you.”

“He doesn’t like me,” Y/N said, shaking her head. “He’s just bored. He’s probably got a bet going with James or something.”

Her friend raised an eyebrow. “And what if he does? Doesn’t mean he can’t actually like you.”

Y/N sighed, leaning back against the couch. “I don’t know. He’s... Sirius. He’s a player. What if I say yes and he gets bored of me in a week?”

Her friend gave her a sympathetic smile. “I guess you won’t know unless you take the chance.”

Sirius, on the other hand, had started to realise something as the days passed. It had started as a bet, sure, but the more he pursued Y/N, the more he found himself genuinely interested in her. She wasn’t like the other girls he’d dated—not because she was different or special in some cliché way, but because she didn’t care about his reputation. She didn’t care that he was Sirius Black, the Marauder, the playboy. She saw through the façade, and that was something no one else had ever bothered to do.

One evening, after a particularly eventful day of Quidditch practice, Sirius found himself sitting in the common room, staring into the fire as he thought about Y/N. It was getting harder to ignore the nagging feeling in his chest every time she laughed or brushed him off with one of her sarcastic comments. He had never had to work this hard before, and the fact that he wasn’t giving up only confirmed what he had been trying to deny.

He liked her. For real.

And that realization terrified him.

It was just before the end of the month when Sirius finally made his move. He had waited for the perfect moment—when Y/N was alone, walking back to the common room after a late study session in the library.

“Y/N,” he called, jogging to catch up with her.

She glanced over her shoulder, clearly surprised. “Sirius? What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” he said, his usual playful tone replaced by something more serious.

Y/N stopped, turning to face him fully. “Alright, talk.”

Sirius took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I know I’ve been messing around a lot. And I know you think I’m just doing this for fun, but I’m not. I really like you, Y/N. And I want to prove it.”

Y/N’s eyes widened slightly, taken aback by his sincerity. She had expected another playful remark, another attempt at flirting, but this... this was different.

“Sirius... I don’t know,” she began, crossing her arms over her chest. “You have a reputation.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “And I get why you’d be hesitant. But I’m serious about this. About you.”

Y/N hesitated, her mind racing. Part of her wanted to say yes—to take the chance and see if he was being truthful. But another part of her was still scared. Scared of being hurt, of being just another name on his list of conquests.

After what felt like an eternity, Y/N finally spoke. “Alright, Black. I’ll go out with you.”

Sirius’s face lit up, but Y/N held up a hand, stopping him.

“But if you hurt me,” she added, her tone light but laced with a warning, “I’ll kill you.”

Sirius laughed, the sound full of genuine warmth. “Fair enough, love. Fair enough.”

And with that, their relationship began.

For the first time in his life, Sirius found himself genuinely invested in a relationship. It was no longer just about winning the bet, or impressing James, or upholding the carefree persona he’d always carried. Being with Y/N was different. She wasn’t someone who swooned at his flirtatious comments, or who melted at his grins. She challenged him, teased him, made him think. And for some strange reason, that made him want to be better for her.

At first, their relationship was lighthearted. Y/N was cautious, but Sirius was persistent, showing her bits of his personality that no one else ever really saw. He showed her his vulnerable side, the side that wasn’t always laughing and carefree, and slowly, Y/N’s walls started to come down.

They spent late nights together in the common room, Y/N tutoring him in subjects he never bothered to care about before, or Sirius making her laugh with ridiculous impressions of their professors. They snuck out past curfew to go flying under the stars, Sirius teaching her how to perfect her broom skills. He took her to Hogsmeade, where they spent afternoons wandering the village, holding hands and talking about everything and nothing at the same time.

Y/N found herself falling for him, even though she had promised herself she wouldn’t. She had been wary at first, scared that he was just playing with her, that it was all part of some elaborate joke. But the more time she spent with him, the more she realized that Sirius wasn’t the player she had always thought he was. He cared about her. He made her feel special, in a way that no one else ever had.

And that scared her.

Weeks passed, and their relationship grew stronger. Sirius had long since forgotten about the bet—James hadn’t brought it up in a while, and Sirius didn’t care to remind him. What started as a challenge had turned into something real, something that made Sirius feel... different.

But it wasn’t long before cracks started to form.

Y/N was happy—happier than she had been in a long time—but there was always a lingering doubt in the back of her mind. She couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that this was too good to be true, that eventually, Sirius would get bored and move on. After all, he had done it with so many other girls before her. Why would she be any different?

And then came the whispers.

It started innocently enough—girls giggling in the corridors, casting glances at Y/N and Sirius whenever they passed. Y/N ignored it at first, brushing it off as jealousy or idle gossip. But then, one afternoon, she overheard something that made her blood run cold.

“So, have you heard about the bet?”

“What bet?”

“The one between Sirius and James. Apparently, Sirius is just trying to get Y/N to fall for him to win.”

Y/N froze, her heart pounding in her chest. She felt like the ground had just been pulled out from under her. A bet? Is that what this had all been about? Was everything Sirius had said, everything they had shared, just a game to him?

She felt sick. Her mind raced, replaying every conversation, every smile, every moment they had spent together. Had it all been a lie? Had he just been using her to win some stupid bet with his friends?

Y/N didn’t confront him. She didn’t say a word. Instead, she pulled away. Slowly, subtly, she started to distance herself from him. She stopped waiting for him after classes, stopped sitting next to him in the common room, stopped laughing at his jokes. Whenever he tried to talk to her, she found an excuse to leave. And Sirius, confused and hurt by her sudden coldness, didn’t know what he had done wrong.

He tried to ask her to figure out what had changed, but Y/N was guarded, her walls firmly back in place. She had let herself be vulnerable with him, and now she felt like a fool for doing so.

It had been a week since Y/N started ignoring him, and Sirius was at his wit's end. He didn’t understand what had happened. Everything had been going so well—he had been falling for her, truly falling—and now she wouldn’t even look at him.

One evening, after dinner, Sirius stormed into the Gryffindor common room, his frustration finally boiling over. He spotted Y/N sitting by the fire, her nose buried in a book, and without thinking, he marched over to her.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice laced with anger and confusion. “What the hell is going on?”

Y/N glanced up, her expression unreadable. “What do you mean?”

Sirius ran a hand through his hair, pacing in front of her. “You’ve been ignoring me for a week. You won’t talk to me, you won’t look at me, and I have no idea why.”

She closed her book, her eyes meeting his with a coldness that made his heart sink. “Why do you care, Sirius? You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”

Sirius frowned, his confusion deepening. “What are you talking about?”

Y/N stood up, crossing her arms over her chest. “The bet, Sirius. The one you made with James. You won. Congratulations.”

Sirius’s heart stopped. “What—no. Y/N, that’s not...”

“Don’t lie to me,” Y/N snapped, her voice shaking with anger and hurt. “I heard about it. This was all just a game to you, wasn’t it? You were just trying to win some stupid bet, and I was the idiot who fell for it.”

Sirius shook his head, his chest tight with panic. “Y/N, it wasn’t like that. It started as a bet, yeah, but—”

“But what?” Y/N interrupted, her voice rising. “You didn’t think I’d find out? You didn’t think it would hurt me?”

Sirius took a step forward, desperation in his eyes. “Y/N, please. I swear, it wasn’t about the bet anymore. I called it off. I didn’t care about it. I care about you.”

Y/N laughed bitterly, tears welling up in her eyes. “Yeah, right. You’re Sirius Black. You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

Her words cut deep, and Sirius flinched, but he didn’t back down. “That’s not true. Y/N, I care about you more than anyone. I’ve never felt like this before. You’ve got to believe me.”

But Y/N was shaking her head, tears streaming down her face now. “I can’t. I can’t trust you, Sirius. How do I know you’re not just playing me again?”

Sirius’s heart broke at the sight of her tears, and he reached out, gently cupping her face in his hands. “Because I’m not,” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. “I love you, Y/N. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, but I do. I love you.”

Y/N froze, her breath catching in her throat. She wanted to believe him—God, she wanted to—but the pain of the betrayal was too fresh, too raw.

Sirius’s hands fell away, and he took a step back, his expression crumbling. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with regret. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. I never meant to hurt you. I just... I just wanted to be with you.”

Y/N wiped away her tears, her heart aching. She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if she could forgive him. So she said nothing, and with one last heartbroken look, Sirius turned and walked away, leaving her standing there, her heart shattered.

For the next few days, Y/N felt like she was walking around in a fog. She couldn’t focus on her classes, couldn’t concentrate on her studies. All she could think about was Sirius—his words, his apology, the look of pain in his eyes when he had told her he loved her.

Part of her wanted to run after him, to tell him she forgave him, that she loved him too. But another part of her—the part that had been hurt, the part that had been lied to—couldn’t bring herself to do it.

It wasn’t until a few days later, when she overheard a conversation between James and Remus, that everything finally clicked into place.

“I can’t believe you didn’t say anything,” Remus was saying. “Sirius has been miserable.”

James sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I know. I didn’t think she’d find out. And now he’s in pieces.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat as she crept closer, straining to hear.

“Do you think she’ll ever forgive him?” Remus asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” James replied. “But I do know one thing—Sirius didn’t care about the bet. He hasn’t cared about it for weeks. All he cares about is her.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, and she felt a fresh wave of guilt wash over her. Maybe she had been wrong. Maybe Sirius had been telling the truth. Maybe, just maybe, he really did love her.

Without thinking, Y/N turned on her heel and ran. She didn’t know where Sirius was, but she had to find him. She had to tell him that she was sorry, that she believed him.

She found him sitting by the Black Lake, his head in his hands, staring out at the water. He looked so lost, so broken, that Y/N’s heart ached for him.

“Sirius,” she whispered, stepping closer.

He looked up, his eyes widening in surprise. “Y/N...”

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, tears welling up in her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I should have believed you. I should have trusted you. I... I love you too.”

Sirius stared at her, his breath catching in his throat. “You... you do?”

Y/N nodded, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand. “I do. I was scared, and I didn’t know if I could trust you, but... I love you, Sirius.”

In an instant, Sirius was on his feet, closing the distance between them. He cupped her face in his hands, his forehead resting against hers, and for the first time in days, he smiled.

“I love you too,” he whispered, his voice filled with relief.

[ckret2]

Chapter 43 of suddenly human Bill Cipher is pretty eager to remain imprisoned inside the Mystery Shack:

The Eclipse: Part 1

Gravity's disappearing in Gravity Falls. Bill has an explanation for what's going on that has absolutely nothing to do with him, and also doesn't make any sense. Fiddleford has an alternate theory that makes a lot of sense, and has a whole lot to do with Bill. Ford trusts Fiddleford.

####

"An eclipse," Ford repeated. "Gravity's vanishing, you're floating, and you expect me to believe that it's due to an eclipse."

Bill shrugged. "I don't expect anything out of you. Believe whatever the heck you want. That's what it is, though."

"Even if it wasn't a ridiculous notion, there aren't any solar or lunar eclipses anywhere near Oregon this summer—"

"Did I say the eclipse was solar or lunar?" Bill asked. "No. I didn't." He breezed past Ford, heading to the kitchen. "Hey, is anybody gonna eat those pancakes?"

"Mine." Dipper ran past Bill to his abandoned plate.

"Then what kind of an eclipse is it?" Ford demanded.

Bill leaned on the kitchen counter, crossed his arms, and pursed his lips thoughtfully. Finally, he said, "Gravitational eclipse."

"There's no such thing!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Dr. I Think Having A Mere Five PhDs Means I Know Everything! Please, enlighten the trillion-year-old all-seeing eye who spent a year correcting all your math with your superior knowledge of physics!"

"It's twelve PhDs and you know it."

"Oh, so what! I can still count 'em on one hand." (Dipper gave Bill's hand a puzzled look.)

"Is that how it is!" Ford huffed angrily. "Fine, great teacher—would you be so kind as to educate your student on what the devil a 'gravitational eclipse' is!"

He fully expected Bill to start spouting some absurd science fiction explanation; but instead, Bill hesitated, gaze flicking nervously toward the ceiling. Ford looked up, but didn't see anything.

"Just don't worry about it." Bill rubbed his right eye. He turned away from Ford to watch Dipper struggle to squeeze pancake syrup out of an uncooperative bottle. "Everything will go back to normal in three days. Just—don't look at the sky."

"Why not?"

"Don't worry about it," Bill repeated.  "Hey, take off the lid and stick a knife in, you're never getting anything out that way."

"I've got it," Dipper said testily.

Soos came downstairs at about the same time Stan joined them from the hallway. "Dudes, I think something weird's going on," Soos said.

Ford turned his back on his fruitless conversation with Bill. "We've noticed. Gravity's decreasing."

Soos paused. "Oh," he said, slightly deflated. "I thought I was developing super strength."

"Sorry to disappoint."

"So what's causing it?" Stan asked.

"I don't know yet."

From the kitchen, Bill called, "I just told you!"

Ford didn't look at him. "I don't know the real reason yet."

Stan asked, "Think it might be a portal thing? When it was powering up, gravity got kinda screwy. It wasn't like this, though. Any time there was a surge, gravity hiccuped for a few seconds. It never just... went down a little."

"And not for this long, either," Soos said. "It's been like this all morning." He paused; then asked, hopefully, "You sure we aren't just all developing super strength at the same time?"

Ford shook his head apologetically.

"Aww."

"I suspected the portal first," Ford said. "But I just looked it over and checked the equipment. There's no way any of it could have powered on. It's been completely disassembled since last summer." 

Stan shrugged. "What else could it be?"

"The gravity anomalies occurred whenever the portal was connected to the Nightmare Realm. All I can think is that perhaps it's something else with a connection to the Nightmare Realm that might be having a destabilizing effect on the fabric of reality. Something much weaker, but steadily regaining power..." He turned to cast a venomous look at the kitchen. "Power like the ability to float..."

Bill had been preoccupied with dipping a strip of raw bacon into a stolen uncapped syrup bottle; but at the accusation, he stared at Ford in disbelief. "What—are you kidding me?"

"Have a better explanation for why, the moment all this starts, you can suddenly hover down the stairs?"

"Sure," Bill said. "I'm better at floating than the rest of you because I've been doing it longer."

"Oh, that's stupid!"

"You're stupid."

"You're up to something," Ford snarled. "I know it."

"What could I possibly be up to!" Bill spread his hands, exasperated. "Seriously! Tell me! What could I possibly be up to?"

Ford screwed his face into a scowl, trying to think of any way Bill could have orchestrated the gradual decline of gravity while imprisoned in the Mystery Shack. "You are up to something," he said firmly.

Bill groaned and rolled his eyes. "Well if you ever figure out what, let me know! I'm dying to find out what I'm plotting." He chugged from the syrup bottle like it was a flask. And then had to keep holding it up while he waited for the reduced gravity to work on the syrup.

"Hey, Dr. Pines?" Soos held up his phone. "Just got a text from Tate. He says Old Man McGucket wants to know if you can come discuss the gravity issue?"

"I was just thinking the same thing. Let Fiddleford know I'll be there as soon as I can. Does he want me to bring anything?"

"Nope. Just your handsome face." Soos chuckled. "He—he didn't say that part, though. I did. I just think guys should compliment each other more."

Ford nodded solemnly. "Thank you, Soos."

"Grunkle Ford, can I come too?" Dipper dumped his dirty dish in the sink. "I could—I dunno—help brainstorm solutions, or something...?"

"I'd be delighted." Ford had wanted to spend so much more time with Dipper this summer. By now, he'd thought they would have had at least one hike through the mountains around Gravity Falls and maybe dug into a couple of old mysteries he'd never solved. At least this was one mystery Ford could bring him along for.

Dipper's face lit up. "Hold on, let me go get my journal." He ran upstairs, bouncing up two steps at a time in the reduced gravity.

Ford murmured to Stan, "You can hold down the fort while I'm gone?"

Stan nodded slightly. "I'll keep a close eye on him."

"Good."

When Dipper had returned and they were headed out the door, Bill called from the kitchen, "Keep your head down out there. And get inside as soon as you can."

Ford shot a dark look at Bill, but said nothing. "Let's go." He shut the door behind them a bit harder than necessary.

Soos headed into the kitchen to make breakfast. As he passed, Bill said, "Hey. Does the 'guys complimenting guys' thing only apply to humans, or what?"

"Oh. Uh..." Soos pulled his head out of the fridge to look at Bill. "You... look good in yellow? Is—is that a good compliment? I don't know what triangle demons consider a compliment."

Bill considered it. "Sure, it'll do." He dipped another strip of bacon in the syrup. "I look even better in gold."

####

A quarter mile from the shack, Ford drove over a small bump in the road he'd gone over a hundred times before.

The car bounced so high that Ford's head hit the car roof.

Somewhere, he just knew, Bill was laughing at him.

####

Dipper's knee had been bouncing for three minutes straight by the time they approached the gate to the Northwest Manor. "Dipper, are you alright?"

"Sorry." Dipper planted his foot flat on the floor. "It's just—we're driving really slow, and this whole gravity thing is kind of an emergency..."

Just nervous. "I know," Ford sighed. "I can't go any faster without losing control. Lower gravity means lower traction between the tires and the road." But it was driving him mad.

At the manor, Tate greeted them at the door with a slight nod. "Hey. Dad's in the lab."

"Thank you, Tate. I know the way."

When they entered the lab, Fiddleford was working with a soldering iron on an electronic device the size of a toaster. He looked up as soon as they came in. "Stanford, Dipper! Good timing. Come in. How's the shack?"

"Down a few rubber balls."

Ford left Dipper to drift around the lab inspecting Fiddleford's equipment and listening in on the conversation as he and Fiddleford caught up. Fiddleford had first noticed something was wrong during his usual morning post-coffee rambunctious rollick, when he leaped high enough to bang his head on the ceiling. ("All the way to the ceiling? In this house?" "Well, I was standing on the counter, you see." "Ah, of course.") He'd immediately built a vacuum chamber he could drop various tools and cutlery in so he could measure the acceleration of gravity. Usually, objects on Earth fell 9.8 meters per second. When Fiddleford first measured, falling objects accelerated by 7.9 meters per second—almost 20% slower than they were supposed to. Now, it was 7.7 meters per second. If that rate of decline was steady, gravity must have been going down overnight without anyone noticing. By Fiddleford's calculations, gravity was decreasing by around 1.5% an hour—and, if it continued at this rate, it would be gone the day after tomorrow, by early afternoon.

(Bill had said three days. That wasn't even two and a half.)

Fiddleford had done some scans and called some old college pals down in Texas to ask if they'd noticed anything strange—and it seemed that Gravity Falls was the only place in the country experiencing anything unusual, at least according to NASA's data. Fiddleford had asked Tate to drive around town dropping things; quelle surprise, the gravitational oddity seemed perfectly contained to the circumference of the town's weirdness barrier.

"If you're in communication with NASA, I don't suppose you could ask if..." Ford winced at himself, "they've... noticed any astronomical anomalies?"

Fiddleford stroked his beard. "I reckon I could, but—why?"

Ford sighed. "Bill said this is being caused by what he calls a 'gravitational eclipse.' Which sounds like patent nonsense, but—on the one percent chance he's telling the truth..."

"I getcha. That Bill's as trustworthy as a rattlesnake with rabies—but until we know what's happening, we ought to consider every possibility."

"Yes. Precisely." Ford paused. "Can... rattlesnakes catch rabies?"

"Absolutely not! Which is why you should never trust one what says he's rabid."

"Ah. Yes. I see," Ford said uncertainly.

Like Ford, Fiddleford's first suspicion was that this had something to do with the portal—a suspicion that was scuttled when Ford informed him he'd already checked the portal. Ford's own next theory was that Bill personally was somehow behind this. His gravity already seemed to be far lighter than the rest of the town. But Ford didn't know whether that was because Bill was causing the gravity-reducing anomaly, or because the gravity-reducing anomaly was disproportionately affecting Bill. And even if Bill was causing it, as yet Ford had no idea by what mechanism he was doing it.

Fiddleford had the first idea that might explain how this was physically happening: dimensional rips.

At the end of last summer, the town and surrounding woods had been lousy with small dimensional rips torn in spacetime by Weirdmageddon and its aftermath. A few had been large enough for a grown man to stumble through, but many were barely as long as a fingernail. Ford and Stan had spent the last few days of summer running through the town and the woods with the kids, armed with alien adhesive, glueing shut the rips; and then—after traveling back and forth to California to attend Dipper's bar mitzvah and to get hollered at by Shermie for disappearing and/or faking a death—they'd spent most of the next month taking care of even more rips. (Just enough time for gnomes to steal Ford's new Journal 4.)

The remains of the rips could still be seen throughout Gravity Falls: odd invisible seams in the air that seemed to make the woods behind them bend strangely, like the transition between air and water where light refracted differently. Sometimes the sun would line up just right with a gap in the leaves so that you could see a sunbeam bending in midair.

Fiddleford had two theories:

Theory one: even after they'd sealed up all the rips, the distressed fabric of reality around Gravity Falls had grown threadbare. Rather than a few huge rips tearing through to the Nightmare Realm, countless micro-rips were forming—hundreds of thousands of holes between the fibers of reality, too tiny to be seen or detected—and they were reaching critical mass. The structural integrity of reality itself was about to catastrophically fail. The barrier between here and the Nightmare Realm could shred apart at any minute, ripping open a massive maw too wide to ever be repaired, irreversibly swallowing Gravity Falls into Bill's dying dimension of madness and leaving a frothing pustule of chaos trapped inside the weirdness barrier, ready to spread across all of Earth if anything should ever pop it!

Or two: something else was happening.

Ford thought it was worth investigating. The damage was already there; maybe Bill knew it, was exacerbating it—perhaps by his mere presence—and was just hoping the humans wouldn't figure it out before his homecoming.

"You remember the wormhole detector I built last September to sense when new dimensional rips were openin' up?" Fiddleford asked. "Well, it ain't detected a thing in town since March—but if these micro-rips are real, they'd be too little to detect from any farther than forty or fifty feet. So's I whipped up a portable scannermadoohickey!" He picked up the object he'd been working on when Ford and Dipper arrived. "You can take it to the places with the most damage and wave it around to see if it senses anything!"

Ford inspected the scanner. "It says it's detecting eighteen right now."

Fiddleford waved him off. "That's fine, a few itty bitty little tears oughta be expected for the kinda damage we got last year. But if my theory's correct, there's somewhere in Gravity Falls that'll have hundreds of thousands of tears within the scanner's radius. That's what we're looking for."

"Great. And, what do we do if we find them? Such small rips would be impossible to individually seal with my adhesive applicator."

"I thought of that, too!" Fiddleford scrambled over two tables, knocking tools on the ground as he went, to grab a plastic cone-shaped object the size of a football. He scuttled beneath the tables back to Ford. "Look! I made a glue grenade!"

"A—a what?"

"Once you figure out where the micro-rips are concentrated, just pour that alien adhesive of yours into this spout here, pull the pin, and chuck it! It'll instantly seal up all the micro-rips in the area and then cover the whole town in a cloud of alien adhesive, closing any remaining rips!"

"Hmm... It sounds risky. It would use up the rest of our andhesive all at once," Ford said. "And the environmental impact could be devastating."

Fiddleford blinked. "Environmental impact?"

"Just think of an adhesive this powerful settling over the whole town and forest in a thin film. It would glue people's pores shut! They wouldn't be able to sweat! Imagine. And that's just one example of the potential consequences."

"Hm." Fiddleford scratched his head. "I could invent a body lotion with alien adhesive solvent?"

"Or, maybe we should only use the grenade once we're sure that such an extreme measure is necessary."

"Aww." Fiddleford kicked his foot in disappointment. "Hold on—let me at least whip up a spray attachment for your adhesive gun. So's you can patch up any clusters you find as you go." He darted between several tables, searching through drawers and tool chests for supplies, and then returned to his soldering station.

"Wait, hold on," Ford said. "In the space of a morning, you've built a vacuum chamber to calculate the gravitational acceleration in Gravity Falls, called NASA to get ahold of somebody to collect data across the rest of the United States, built a handheld version of your wormhole detector, and built a grenade to distribute alien adhesive?"

"I sure did!"

"And, how long have you been awake?"

"An hour and a half!"

Ford stared. "Where do you get your coffee?"

Fiddleford glanced across the room at Dipper, and whispered, "I'll tell ya later."

Dipper had drifted over to the miniature particle accelerator and was slowly circling it, inspecting all the pipes, trying to figure out how it worked. He was leaning over the trash can when Ford drifted over to join him. "Hey, Grunkle Ford? I... think there's a cat in here?"

"You don't know that!" Fiddleford shouted. "It could be dead!"

"No it's not, I can hear it meowing."

"That might be something else! You can't tell!"

"I could just open it—"

Fiddleford chucked an empty plastic spool of solder wire toward Dipper. "Don't you touch that!"

Dipper withdrew his hand from the trash can lid and looked at Ford, baffled.

"I'll explain how it works," Ford said.

While Fiddleford worked, Ford caught Dipper up on the details of the fuel they needed for the Quantum Destabilizer, the contraption Fiddleford had built to synthesize it, and the complicated way they'd tried to paradoxically (not) observe the experiment in progress. When Fiddleford came over to offer the completed spray nozzle, Ford asked, "Any progress on figuring out how to get this thing working?"

"No," Fiddleford sighed. "I've been lookin' into more stable paradoxes to replace the cat. But as far as the observer—I'd hoped usin' twins might just get close enough, but I've redid my cac'lations three times and I'm afraid the only way to get this thing working is by gettin' one person to both observe and not observe it at the same time. If we can just do that, we'd have all the fuel we need. But for the life of me I can't figure out how."

"Maybe if we had two versions of the same person from different dimensions..." Ford mused. "But that would require opening up a portal to reach another dimension, and there's the risk that uniting parallel versions of the same person might destabilize our entire dimension. It's not worth the risk."

"It sounds like one of those impossible riddles," Dipper said. "Like, 'If only a barber shaves people who don't shave themselves, and if anyone who shaves himself isn't a barber, then who shaves the barber?' Because if he shaved himself he wouldn't be a barber but since he shaves other people he has to be a barber..."

Ford said, "A second barber shaves him."

Fiddleford said, "He just don't shave at all."

Dipper paused. "I think I told it wrong."

Ford patted his shoulder. "But I think you're on to something. We need to think of this as a riddle; and every riddle has a solution. We just need to find it."

"After we save the town, right?" Dipper asked.

Ford smiled wanly. "One crisis at a time."

####

They agreed that investigating all the potential micro-rip hotspots around town would probably necessitate a camping trip—which was the only bit of good news to come out of this mess so far. Due to all of this summer's Bill bullsoup (as Stan had taken to calling it in front of the kids), Ford and Dipper had hardly gotten to see each other so far, much less do any serious paranormal investigating together. Hiking and camping while in search of the strange sounded like exactly what they'd been missing out on—and it would've sounded even better if the situation weren't so dire.

Ford and Dipper came back in the Mystery Shack as Shandra Jimenez said on TV, "Today's top story in Gravity Falls is that gravity isn't falling. Many residents recall similar incidents around this time last summer, when gravity intermittently shut off entirely, leading many to ask: could this possibly be another devastating effect of global warming? Temperatures today are—"

Ford scoffed. "Global warming. Of all things. Gravity is probably the only part of the environment it isn't affecting."

"I dunno, Ford, maybe you oughta consider it." Bill was sitting cross-legged on the couch, chin in his hand. He had his eye patch over the eye he'd been squinting that morning. "As long as you're already rejecting the real explanation to make up one you like better, why not go whole hog? Let's adopt a real crackpot theory."

"You want to talk about 'crackpot theories'? Global warming sounds at least as likely as an eclipse."

"That says a lot more about your education than it does about the theories."

Ford grit his teeth. "You know I'm one of the most educated men on Earth."

"And that says a lot about your planet's educational system."

Stan, sitting in his armchair reading the paper, folded it down to glower at Bill. "Stop antagonizing my brother."

"Tell him to stop making it so easy."

Ford grit his teeth harder, but ignored Bill. "Dipper, go pack your backpack. I'll check the basement and meet you when I'm done."

"Right!" Dipper hurried up the stairs.

Ford crossed the living room, checking the micro-rip scanner—88 detected rips, over five times higher than at Northwest Manor, but still nowhere near the 100,000 rip danger threshold. He'd see whether that remained true next to the portal. He paused next to Stan's armchair, "Stanley, do you remember where we stored the alien adhesive applicator?"

"Uhh... when's the last time we used it?"

"Last fall, right before we headed to Seattle."

Stan lowered his paper, staring at the ceiling. "I think we stored it in one of the lockers in the basement, right?"

"It's not there," Bill said.

Ford gave him an exasperated look. "And how would you know."

"Because the first day I came here, I emptied out all those lockers and hid their contents while I was waiting for the rest of you to get downstairs."

Ford smacked the back of the armchair, making Stan start. "So that's what happened to my infinity-sided die! Where the devil did you hide it?"

"Frankly, I don't think you're responsible enough to handle that kind of power," Bill said archly.

"Where's the adhesive applicator!"

"What do you need it for?"

"That's none of your business."

"Pity." Bill turned up the volume on the news.

Ford moved between Bill and the screen. "If you don't tell me where you hid it..." What threat could he make? This was the demon willing to threaten suicide if his captors didn't keep him entertained.

"Tell me why you need it."

"As if you'd give it to me if I did!"

"Maybe I'll find your cause noble," Bill said flatly. "Try me."

Oh, what did he have to lose. "Fine. I'm testing to see if imperceptibly small rips are opening between Gravity Falls and the Nightmare Realm. If they are, I'm going to seal them shut." He hoped the revelation would throw Bill off—he hoped he was close enough to the truth to shock Bill into giving something away.

Bill's eye widened, eyebrows shooting up; and then he burst out laughing. "That's what Specs filled your head with? Embryonic wormholes? That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard! And you're turning to him for an explanation when you've got a being with infinite answers sitting in your living room?"

Ford scoffed. "Sure, infinite answers—and just like the infinity-sided die, whatever I get is infinitely more likely to be trouble than anything useful. Now tell me where you put my adhesive applicator."

"I didn't put it anywhere." Bill held the remote out to the side to change the channel and stared at the TV straight through Ford, as if he didn't exist. "It's still in the basement. A little adhesive leaked out, I couldn't get the locker door open."

"Ha!" Stan slapped an armrest.

Ford whirled around to glare at him.

Stan held up his hands appeasingly. "Sorry! Sorry. That's not funny. Wasn't—wasn't funny at all. How dare you, Bill."

"I know, I'm just the worst."

Ford held in a harsh sigh and stalked out of the room. He didn't have time for this—not when they were on a deadline to prevent whatever was happening. (What if it became too late to reverse before gravity even reached 0%? What if they were approaching a tipping point when the whole sky would rip open?)

He opened the vending machine and headed downstairs.

####

He had to break the locker door to get the alien adhesive applicator out. He'd have to figure out how the nozzle had leaked before he stored it again.

According to the sensor, there were over a thousand micro-rips detectable just from standing near the portal controls. The number increased as he approached the portal itself; the highest quantity the scanner detected was nearly 5,000. Over fifty times higher than on the shack's ground level. It was clear some sort of damage had been done here.

But Fiddleford had said, for them to be concerned about reality shredding, there should be hundreds of thousands of micro-rips in one location. And Ford trusted any numbers Fiddleford gave him; wherever Ford tended to double-check his math, Fiddleford quintuple-checked his.

Even at the interdimensional portal itself—the spot where the veil between Gravity Falls and the Nightmare Realm had been ripped open and stitched shut so many times, the spot where the rift that nearly ended the world had been formed—there were less than 5% of the rips they needed before they started reaching dangerous levels.

Ford looked up at the portal, frowning.

The portal's torn and crumpled pieces lay against the cavern walls where he'd left them last summer.

Never mind. There were several other places that could be hotspots for micro-rips. He couldn't draw any conclusions about what was happening here until he'd checked them too.

But whatever was happening, it certainly wasn't an eclipse.

He added Fiddleford's spray attachment to the adhesive applicator and filled the chamber with a mist of glue, until the scanner read less than 200 micro-rips; then stopped by his study to grab a couple maps of the mountains around Gravity Falls, his antique lantern, and a tent; and headed back up to the house.

####

During their past year of travels, Stan and Ford had started keeping two emergency backpacks stocked in case they needed to flee on short notice. The backpacks contained everything they'd need to survive in the wilderness or a strange city for three days; and Ford had thirty long years of experience to teach him exactly what supplies that necessitated. He grabbed his backpack out of the guest room, and then spread out his map on the kitchen table to show to Dipper.

"If our micro-rip theory is correct, there are four potential places where I suspect they'll be most densely concentrated: the place where the interdimensional rift formed; where it was unleashed; where it was suspended for the majority of Weirdmageddon; and where it was sealed."

"And you've already checked the portal where it formed," Dipper said. "What about the place it was suspended? It was floating in the sky over town. There's no way we can get up there until gravity's completely gone, and by then it'll be too late."

"I've considered that. The closest we can get is Gravity Peak, but from there we should be able to get the sensor close enough to tell if there's an unusual amount of rips." Ford circled three spots on the map, and drew a dotted line connecting them. "We're heading out late, but we should be able to hit the locations where Weirdmageddon began and ended today. We can cross the lake to camp in the cavern behind Trembley Falls, get an early start, and take the hidden cave tunnel up to Gravity Peak."

"Not the best time for a hiking trip," Bill said.

Ford shot him an exasperated look. Bill was leaning in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, smirking condescendingly. "Or maybe it is, if you're trying to avoid as much effort as possible," he says. "But I still wouldn't go if I were you. You don't want to be outdoors during an eclipse—and you don't want to be on a mountain when gravity comes back."

"Nobody asked you," Ford said, turning his back on Bill. "Now—cooking will be difficult as gravity decreases, but not to worry—" he unzipped his backpack, "—I've already prepared everything we'll need." Grinning, he pulled out what looked like a toothpaste tube with a "beef and vegetables" label. "Astronaut food!"

Dipper grimaced. "Great."

"You should have asked me," Bill said, a bit louder. "Considering that Specs is sending you on a wild goose chase. But hey, if you're that determined to waste your time, just don't say I didn't tell you so."

"You haven't even told us what an 'eclipse' is," Dipper said. "If it's not important enough to explain, I don't see why it's important enough for us to listen to you."

"Well said," Ford muttered.

"It's too important to explain," Bill retorted. "I've told you everything you need to know!"

Ford said, "Ha," and started folding his map to pack.

There were a few seconds of blessed silence; and then Bill walked into the room, leaned on the fridge, and glowered at Ford. "Listen. As far as you're concerned, the eclipse is probably harmless. It should peak in three days—"

"Fiddleford said at its current rate of decrease, it should be the day after tomorrow."

Ford expected Bill to argue; but instead, he frowned uneasily. "I—Sure, fine, whatever, he's probably done the math, I've just been eyeballing it. Did he say what time?"

Surprised, Ford said, "early afternoon, by his measurements."

Bill nodded vaguely, glancing again toward the ceiling. "Whatever time it happens—gravity will gradually decrease until totality, and then it'll come back very quickly, so—if you want to help your town so much, tell them that they don't want to be climbing trees in zero G. Otherwise, the best thing you can do is stay inside, wait for it to pass, keep your eyes shutduring totality—and do not look up."

"Why can't we look up?" Dipper asked.

Bill laughed derisively. "Would you stare at the sun during a solar eclipse? It's like I'm talking to babies!"

The last fraying thread of Ford's patience snapped. He seized Bill's hoodie by the strings and dragged him closer. "Enough!"

Bill flailed, kicking the table as he tried to back out of Ford's grip, and ended up losing his footing and landing on the floor. It was too easy to drag him around—he was so light. Ford leaned down to glare straight in his eye. "If you're so worried about how we're handling this eclipse of yours, maybe you should come with us!"

Horror bloomed in Bill's eye. "What? No no no, that's—that's fine, I told you everything you need, I'd just slow you down, I'd really be much happier in here—"

"I bet you would be," Ford snarled. "As far as I'm concerned, the fact that you want to stay inside so much is reason enough to bring you along! Either something out there scares you, or there's something in here you want to be close to during totality! Maybe something will happen at the portal! Whatever it is you want, I don't want you to get it."

"Grunkle Ford?" Dipper had gotten out of his seat and was looking uncertainly between Bill and Ford. "I'm not sure about..."

Bill's gaze snapped from Ford's face to Dipper's, and Ford could almost see the gears shifting in his head as he latched on to a more vulnerable target. "Kid. Remember when I told you there are things out there you don't want to meet? Stay inside—let me stay inside—find a good book to distract you the next couple of days, and don't worry about things you don't want to know too much about. As far as you should be concerned, this is a weather phenomenon. You don't want to dig any deeper than that. Stay. Home."

The corners of Dipper's mouth turned down. He grabbed Ford's coat sleeve and said, voice low, "Great Uncle Ford, I... I'm not sure he's lying. I've never seen Bill scared like this before. And when he told me about things in other dimensions, this gravity thing hadn't even started, so he couldn't have..."

"Unless Bill was expecting this to happen, and everything he told you yesterday was the groundwork to make us believe whatever he wants us to believe." Bill had wormed deeper into Dipper's head than Ford had realized, if it was enough to make him consider Bill's nonsensical claims. Ford should have asked more about what Bill told him yesterday. The monster could have been filling his gnephew's head with all sorts of nightmares. "Doesn't it seem a little lucky that he told you all that one day before this?"

Dipper grimaced. "I mean..."

Ford glared at Bill again. "I'm not buying it. And the more you make up ridiculous explanations like 'gravitational eclipses' and 'things from other dimensions,' the more you insist that this is somehow both no big deal and incredibly dangerous just to witness, the less I believe this is anything but a patently ridiculous attempt to keep us from interfering with whatever is about to happen! And frankly, that makes me want to interfere even more!"

Bill let out a strangled laugh. "You've gotta be... If you think I'm that suspicious, how do you know this isn't reverse psychology?! Maybe I want you to take me outside!"

"Maybe you do. That's the awful thing about you, Bill: I can second-, third-, and fourth-guess everything you say, and I'll never be sure I've figured out the truth! At some point I just have to make an educated guess."

There was a knock at the doorway. "Hey, Dr. Pines?" Soos leaned into the kitchen. "I heard furniture and anger. Is everything... uh..." He trailed off, taking in the scene—Bill on the floor backed up against the fridge, Ford crouched over him, Dipper watching anxiously. "Everything cool here?"

Ford got to his feet. "Dipper and I are going on an expedition—and unfortunately, he has to come along. Soos, do you have a spare backpack we can use for his supplies?"

"Uh, I think so—"

"Great," Dipper snapped. "This is just perfect. I've been waiting a month and a half for us to do something cool together, and when we're finally about to go on an expedition, it's ruined by him?" He gestured angrily at Bill. "He's already ruined the rest of summer!"

Bill said, "Hey, I didn't consent to this plan either."

"You shut up," Dipper snapped. "This is all your fault! You could have just left us alone, but...!" He let out a frustrated noise. He pushed past Soos out of the room and ran up the stairs.

Ah. Ford's shoulders slumped. Sometimes he wasn't quite sure where he'd misstepped in a conversation, but this time it was pretty obvious. Between this and the nearly-disastrous trip to Portland, Ford was well in the lead for Worst Grunkle of the Summer.

"Wow. You broke that kid's heart," Bill said. "Not too late to make it up to him by going back to the original plan."

Ford shot him a dirty look.

Bill shrugged. "I'm trying anything I can think of at this point!"

Ford sighed harshly, and left to follow Dipper upstairs.

Bill sat up and waited until Ford's footsteps had receded. Voice low, he said, "Questiony, listen, I need your help. Stanford's gone completely insane. You didn't see how he was ranting and raving before you got in here. Who knows what he'll do to me if he gets me alone outside the shack with only his junior sycophant as a witness—?"

Soos looked deeply uncomfortable, but he shook his head. "Not buying it, dawg."

Bill groaned.

####

Ford knocked, and gently pushed the kids' damaged door open a crack. "Dipper?"

Dipper grunted. He was sitting on his bed, chin in his hands, glaring down at his journal in his lap.

"Can I come in?"

Dipper grunted again. Ford wasn't being ignored, so he took that as permission to enter. He delicately sat next to Dipper and tried to figure out what to say next. (He was surprised at how firm the mattress was—and then realized the real reason he wasn't sinking as far into it as he expected.) "Dipper..."

"You don't need to say anything," he sighed. "You're right—Bill probably is up to something. If he wants to be in the shack so much, and won't give us a straight answer why, then... it's probably safer to keep him out of it." But he sounded so terribly resigned.

"All the same, I understand your disappointment," Ford said. "I'd far rather go hiking with you than with him."

Dipper nodded. "Yeah. It's just..." He trailed off.

"I know. I wanted this summer to be different, too." Ford sighed. "As soon as he's gone, I owe you another hiking trip."

Dipper nodded again. He mumbled, "I've never gone hiking before."

This was some way to experience it for the first time. "We could treat this like a practice round? A warm-up with lower gravity to make it easier. Next time will be a real trip—without any crises to worry about, and without Bill."

"I don't mind the crises," Dipper said. "I'm kind of used to them, actually. They're almost fun now."

In his mind, Ford knew that this was probably another thing that should earn him a Worst Grunkle award. But in his heart, he was proud of Dipper. That was an adventurer's attitude.

"It's just... I haven't been able to get away from him all summer," Dipper said. "And even when I'm avoiding him, Mabel's spending all her free time either with her friends or trying to reform him, and you're spending all your time trying to figure out how to kill him, so I barely see you two..."

And that wasn't even something Ford could blame on Bill, was it? He hadn't been spending his time trying to figure out how to kill Bill since he'd handed over the Quantum Destabilizer design to Fiddleford. He'd simply been... obsessing. Hiding and obsessing. Ford stared down at his hands guiltily. "Tell you what. As soon as this is over, we can go do—something. I don't know what yet, but we've got a couple of days to think it up. I've spent too much time underground the last few weeks, anyway. We may not be able to go on that big adventure until Bill's gone—but it's something, for now."

"Yeah, I'd like that. Thanks, Grunkle Ford." 

Ford nudged him. "And as long as you do have to put up with Bill for this trip... look on the bright side. Haven't you been wanting to get a crack at him without your sister around? See if you can pry out any more alien wisdom before his execution?"

Dipper huffed—but one corner of his mouth reluctantly quirked up. "Thanks, but I'm starting to think that's a bad idea. Every time I try, he just says stuff that gives me nightmares."

"Well—consider it an intellectually broadening experience."

Dipper gave him a weak smile.

"Anyway, with a little luck, it won't be long before you'll never need to deal with him again."

####

Soos had an old Monster-Mon backpack with cracked vinyl around the straps that he hadn't used since he outgrew it in fifth grade. "Lucky I didn't throw it out when we moved. You never know when you're gonna need old stuff!"

Bill had no idea what he was supposed to take on a forced camping trip. He knew what humans took, but humans craved all kinds of material comforts that meant nothing to him. After a couple minutes staring at the bag forlornly, he stuck in a spare shirt and leggings—he doubted he'd need extra underwear or socks, right?—and the Pony Heist bedsheet he'd been using as his sole blanket the last month, his toothbrush and toothpaste, a cider six-pack, two boxes of cereal, a kazoo, and the TV remote.

"I need some first-aid supplies. In case of emergency," Bill told Soos.

"Sure, whaddaya need?"

"Bandages, painkillers, matches, and a knife."

"You got—" Soos paused, then pursed his lips at Bill disapprovingly.

Bill sighed. "Bandages and painkillers. And cold medicine. Woods get chilly."

He glanced up as he heard footsteps upstairs. Not much longer until he was dragged outside. He grimaced. "One more thing, Jesús. This is important."

"Whoa. Full-first-name important?" He stuck a bottle of cold syrup in the backpack, hit something hard, and peered in confusion at the six-pack.

"Stanford's being petty and refusing to believe anything I say, but I know you're not that stupid," Bill lied. "So listen: this thing will peak in a couple of days and then go back to normal. It's mostly harmless to humans—but once the peak has passed, gravity's coming back like that." Bill snapped his fingers. "So anyone you want to come out of this intact needs to do two things. One, the moment gravity completely disappears, they need to anchor themselves, as close to the ground as possible, before it comes back. And two, do not look at the sky. Got it?"

Soos hesitated; but then nodded. "Y-yeah, got it."

"Understand?"

"Understood."

"Good."

"So are you like... trying to protect the town now?"

Bill laughed bitterly. "I'm trying to cover my base. When this is all over, even if all my warnings were ignored, at least nobody will be able to say I didn't try. I could have sat on everything I know! But I didn't! And I'm going to rub. It. In. Ford's. Face." He punctuated each word with a jab to Soos's chest.

Soos endured the jabbing with a patience Bill didn't deserve. "Byyy protecting the town?"

Bill opened his mouth, reconsidered, and said, "Sure! Of course I'm protecting the town! Why would I want any harm to befall the citizens of my once and future capital?"

"I mean, no offense, but you befelled a lot of harm on us last year—"

"I did not," Bill snapped. "Everyone was perfectly comfortable in my throne of frozen human agony." He yanked the backpack's zipper shut, pulled it on, and pushed Soos aside to leave the kitchen.

Stan had stopped Ford at the foot of the stairs. "But if this is some nightmare dimension thing, isn't that just another reason not to take Bill outside? What if one of those wormholes opens up and he dives through? Maybe escaping back to his dimension will give him his power back, we don't know."

"I've considered that—but if that is what he's planning, all the more reason why he should stay with Dipper and me, so we can stop him if he tries anything."

"Are you nuts? It'll be two of you in the woods versus four of us here in the shack! We outnumber him more than you do! Plus walls and doors!"

"We have the hexed bracelets, he won't be able to escape us," Ford said.

"Aww, I get to share matching friendship bracelets with someone?" Bill gave Dipper and Ford what he hoped was his most obnoxious smile. "Who's the lucky guy?"

Scowling, Dipper raised his hand.

Bill's smile dimmed. "You are the lesser evil," he admitted grudgingly. "But I'm surprised ol' Six-Fingers doesn't want to keep as tight a grip on me as possible."

"We decided that if you try to kill your bracelet partner and escape, Grunkle Ford would have a better chance of avenging me than I would have avenging him."

Bill's brows shot up. "Ruthlessly utilitarian. Was that Stanford's idea?"

Ford ignored the question, pushing on with his conversation with Stan: "And anyway, there might be more people in the shack, but none of them would be me. I know him better than anyone else."

Bill laughed hard enough that his feet momentarily lifted off the floor. "Oh do you!"

Ford's gaze shot to Bill's face, eyes blazing with fury. "You know I do. I've spent thirty years learning every trick, every lie, every betrayal that's made you who you—"

"What's my favorite food."

Ford's mouth worked uselessly. "That—doesn't matter—"

"You think you know my innermost soul when you don't even know my favorite food?"

"Favorite... human food, or...?"

"Oh, sure, I'll give you a fighting chance. Human."

Ford chewed on the inside of his mouth for several seconds. Finally, he said, "Jalapeños."

Bill crossed the entryway, leaned into the hallway, and took a deep breath. "HEY, MABEL!"

From the far end of the house (where Mabel was seeing how high she could jump in the floor room), she shouted, "YEAH?"

"WHAT'S MY FAVORITE FOOD?"

"NACHOS WITH CHOCOLATE SAUCE AND SUMMER-SHAPED SPRINKLES!"

Bill gestured down the hall, ta-da. "THANK YOU!"

"I was close," Ford grumbled. "Nachos have jalapeños."

Stan said, "You're not even out of the house and he's getting under your skin. Are you sure you wanna—?"

"I am not," Ford said, "leaving him in the house. And if you'd heard how he was fighting to stay under this roof, you wouldn't trust him in here either."

Stan looked at Bill.

Bill looked Stan dead in the eyes and said, "I don't know what he's talking about. I agreed to go as soon as he asked."

"Oh, shut your—" Ford snatched the bracelets off the coat rack, flung one end at Bill, and handed Dipper the other. "Put these on. We're leaving."

Bill scowled, but considered his odds of successfully resisting, reluctantly put his end of the bracelet on, and yelled down the hall, "BYE, MABEL! I'M BEING KIDNAPPED BY YOUR UNCLE AGAINST MY WILL! I MAY NEVER RETURN!"

"I'LL MISS YOU FOREVER!"

Ford opened the door and gestured impatiently. Bill took a couple reluctant steps closer, but stopped to look at Soos and say, "Remember what I said. Do not let Mabel be in the air when gravity comes back, you know if someone doesn't watch her she'll launch herself as high as she can—"

Ford snapped, "Either you walk or I drag you, Cipher."

"I'm coming." He stepped outside, paused, and cast a worried look at the sky; then squeezed his eyes shut, lowered his head, and walked into the sunlight.

####

(That's this week's chapter! I'd love to hear your comments and thoughts. Next week: I'm gonna do my level best to shatter your hearts. Look forward to it!)

[redocity]

Hi, I was wondering if I could request a buck x reader fic where they are like enemies to lovers with a Kiss With A Fist by Florence + The Machine kind of vibe?

(Also just wanted to say that I love your fics)

FIRE AND FURY — E.BUCKLEY

you hate each other so much that you just can’t stay away from each other.

evan buckley x gn!reader | 1.1k | fluff? | masterlist.

a/n — florence + the machine absolutely bangs

You hate him.

Not in the passive, vaguely irritated way one might hate an early alarm clock or a slow driver in the fast lane. No, you hate Evan Buckley with the kind of passion that sets cities ablaze.

And the worst part? He hates you just as much.

Every shift at the 118 feels like a battlefield when he's around. The sharp remarks, the constant one-upping, the way your bodies always seem to gravitate toward each other—not in longing, but in challenge. It's not just competition; it's war.

You're not sure when it started. Maybe the moment you first met him, all smug grin and reckless arrogance, like the universe had birthed him just to piss you off.

Or maybe it was that time on a call when he pulled you away from a collapsing structure before you even realised the danger, holding onto you like you were something fragile—like you needed saving.

You don’t.

But he treats you like you do.

And you treat him like he’s nothing but an impulsive idiot with more bravado than brains.

“Try to keep up, Buckley,” you sneer as you race toward the firetruck, both of you scrambling into your gear as the alarm blares through the station.

“Funny,” he shoots back, tugging on his jacket. “I was just about to say the same to you,”

It’s always like this. Always sharp edges, always bruises beneath your words.

And yet, somehow, neither of you step away.

—

The call is brutal. An apartment fire, flames licking the sky, smoke thick in the air. You push forward with your hose, moving fast, clearing rooms, ensuring no one’s trapped. The heat is suffocating, sweat slicking your skin beneath your gear.

“We’ve got movement in the next room!” Buck's voice crackles through the radio.

You move without hesitation, kicking down the door just as he does the same from the opposite end. There’s a child in the corner, coughing, barely conscious.

“I’ve got her,” you say, but Buck is already moving.

“No, I’ve got her.”

You glare at him, but there’s no time for an argument. Instead, you both work together, lifting the child carefully, guiding her out. The moment you’re clear, the ceiling gives way behind you, flames swallowing the space where you stood.

For a brief second, you both just breathe.

Then you round on him. “I told you I had her.”

Buck steps closer, too close. His face is still streaked with soot, blue eyes burning. “And what if the ceiling had collapsed sooner? You ever think about that, or are you too busy trying to prove something?”

Your hands clench into fists. “I don’t have to prove anything to you.”

His lips curl into something infuriating. “Could’ve fooled me,”

Before you can stop yourself, you shove him. Not hard enough to hurt—just enough to release some of the fire in your veins. But Buck? He just laughs.

That only makes it worse.

“God, you are such an asshole.”

“And yet, you keep coming back for more,” he taunts, voice low.

You don’t realize how close you are until you feel his breath against your skin, heat radiating between you that has nothing to do with the fire. For a second, neither of you move. Neither of you look away.

Then Bobby calls your names, and the moment shatters like glass.

You step back. So does he.

Nothing happened.

Nothing except everything.

—

Days pass, and the tension only builds. Every interaction is sharper, every touch—accidental or not—lingers just a second too long. You know it’s dangerous, this thing between you, whatever it is.

But that doesn’t stop you from provoking him.

And it sure as hell doesn’t stop him from pushing right back.

The breaking point comes on a night shift. The station is quiet, the others asleep. You should be, too, but instead, you’re standing in the dimly lit kitchen, nursing a bottle of water like it’s something stronger.

Then Buck walks in.

You don’t look at him, but you feel him.

“You ever get tired of pretending?” His voice is rough, although softer than usual.

Your grip tightens around the bottle. “Pretending what?”

“That you don’t feel it,”

The words steal your breath.

Because of course you feel it. You feel it every damn second.

Still, you scoff. “You’re delusional,”

He exhales sharply, stepping closer, close enough that your arms brush. “Am I?”

Your pulse pounds. You should walk away. You should.

Instead, you turn to face him, eyes locking onto his. “Yeah,” you whisper. “You are,”

And then you shove him.

Hard.

He stumbles back, but the smirk on his lips only grows. “You really wanna do this?”

“Do what?” you taunt, stepping forward again. “Kick your ass? Always,”

His laughter is low, dangerous. “Sure that’s all you wanna do?”

Before you can answer—before you can even think—he reaches for you. Not rough, but firm, gripping your wrist and tugging you flush against him. You gasp, more in shock than anything else.

“Let me go,” you grit out, though you make no move to pull away.

“Make me,”

Your heart slams against your ribs.

There’s a moment of pure, charged silence.

Then you do something reckless.

You surge forward and kiss him.

It’s not sweet. It’s not slow. It’s a collision—teeth and heat and hands grasping at fabric. His grip tightens on your wrist before sliding to your waist, pulling you even closer. You fist your hands in his shirt, tugging, biting at his lip just to make him groan.

And god, that sound.

You barely register when he pushes you back against the counter, when his hands roam, when yours do the same. It’s fire and fury, the same way you fight, the same way you’ve always been.

It’s addicting.

Then, as suddenly as it started, you both break apart, gasping.

You stare at each other, chests rising and falling in sync.

“That was—“ Buck starts, but you cut him off.

“Shut up.”

And then you pull him in again.

Because, really, this was inevitable.

You’ve spent so long fighting each other.

It only makes sense that you'd end up burning together.

[sentientgolfball]

I'd be Home With You

Continuing the Devotion universe with this sorta sequel! You don't need to read Devotion to understand the story, but if you're worried or just want some added context all you'd need to read is the final chapter. Also Swiss is referred to as Multi throughout most of the story as he has not chosen the name Swiss…yet. Also pspsp @thehypnone

Read here or on ao3

Pairing: Swissalps

Word Count: 19k

Tags: hurt/comfort, Mountain has depression and I apologize in advance, eventual happy ending, one small mention of retching, brief violence

Summary: A new pack and Dew's elemental transition have cast a cloud of dread over Mountain's mind. He tries to remain the pack's perfect provider, but when the earth crumbles the one to fill the cracks is the last person he would have considered.

Or

How Mountain and Swiss fell in love.

Navy blue dappled with sparkles of silver slowly melt away into a soft orange. That soft orange turns into an even yellow before finally giving way to bright blue. Mountain watches each transformation the sky goes through. His head is leaning against his soft downy pillow and his blanket is up to his chin, yet his eyes are wide open. They have been for nearly the entire night. 

Sleep is not something that has been finding him recently. Not since he heard Dew’s screams and smelled the scent of burning flesh. Really it goes back further than that though. His mind has not been grounded ever since Dew first told him and Aether of his plan to become a fire ghoul. That was months ago. Long before the actual ritual. Long before their den was filled with new ghouls of various elements. 

 Mountain sighs. Even though he is beyond exhausted, he throws his blanket off him. He needs to get up. Laying in bed while the sun creeps higher and higher in the sky will do him no good. Though he is not sure how much better it will be to go out into the world with a mask of calm. But someone has to make breakfast. He has to make sure his pack is fed. Because if he will not, then who?

He swings his legs over the side of his bed, hooves clacking when they make contact with the hardwood floor. He stands, making his way to the bathroom. Each potted plant he passes leans in his direction before snapping back into place once he is out of range, as if the leaves and the vines were reaching out to him. He flicks on the light with a claw tipped finger. He takes a moment to just stare at his reflection. Dark circles have formed under his eyes, deep purple against forest green. His hair is getting longer. He does not remember the last time he trimmed it. His fur does not look as shiny as it used to. He barely recognizes himself anymore. 

He tries not to dwell on it. He has more important things to do than worry about his physical appearance. He has a pack that needs to be taken care of. 

He turns on the faucet, letting the water heat to a comfortable temperature. Once warm enough, he cups his hands. He lets it pool in his palms until it spills over before leaning down so he can splash the water in his face. He repeats the process a few more times. Until he deems himself awake and present enough. This has become a daily ritual for him. He used to have enough time to wake up and shower before getting breakfast made for the pack, but with each sunrise he finds himself laying in bed longer and longer. He cannot shower if he wants to have food ready at the same time he always has. So a few splashes of water and maybe some soap, if he remembers, will have to do. 

He lifts his head, making eye contact with his reflection once more as water drips from the fur on his face. He does not stare this time though. Instead he grabs a hand towel and dries himself. When his fur is only a little damp, he tosses the towel in his laundry basket. He takes a deep breath, tilting his head up to the ceiling. He keeps his eyes closed for a moment, searching for his center. Searching for the strength to face the day like everything is normal. He exhales, shoulders falling. He grabs his hearing aids from the corner of the counter, puts them in and walks out of the door. 

His plants reach for him again as he goes, but he does not stop. If he stops now he may not make it out. He walks down the hall, trying to steer his thoughts in the direction of breakfast. French toast sounds good. He brought in a fresh harvest of berries the other day, so he could add strawberries and blueberries to it. Though he is not sure if there is cinnamon in the kitchen. He will just have to see how many ingredients they have. 

As Mountain passes by Dew’s door, his even steps falter. His eyes glance to the handle. He knows Dew is awake. Even before the fire, he was always an early riser. But ever since the ritual, he has woken up the moment the first rays of the sun shine through the dark. Just like every other fire ghoul in the Ministry, called to consciousness by Her energy. 

A part of him wants to twist the handle, see if it is locked. See if he can get in and join Dew for whatever little morning routine he has now, even if it is just laying in bed. Mountain does not think he would mind missing breakfast if it meant hours alone with his Dewdrop. 

But then the cold fog of guilt comes creeping in. He has not entered Dew’s room without explicit invitation since that fight six months ago. When he uttered the words he so desperately wished he could take back. So Mountain just sighs and keeps walking. He will not invade Dew’s space. Especially not first thing in the morning when he has no idea what kind of pain day it is. 

When Mountain rounds the corner to the common room, he is surprised to see Multi sitting at one of the barstools at the kitchen counter. Well, he is not surprised it is Multi, he seems to always be the first up beside Mountain himself. He is simply startled to see anyone else yet. Usually he at least has breakfast started before anyone wanders in. He must have stayed in bed for too long. He will be sure to get up extra early tomorrow to make up for it. 

Multi is humming to himself, tail and legs swaying to the rhythm in his head. Mountain is not exactly a silent creature, but he makes sure his hoof falls are extra heavy so as not to startle him. When that clack clack clack reaches his ears, Multi spins around on his stool and flashes Mountain a fang filled smile. 

“Morning,” his voice is still raspy from disuse. He must have only just woken up. 

“Good morning.” Mountain returns the smile. If he shows no signs of the weight of his exhaustion then perhaps Multi will not question his tardiness. 

“Ya know when I didn’t see you right away I was worried I’d have to figure out food on my own,” He teases, “but hey there’s nothing wrong with a few extra hours.”

Of course. 

Mountain steps fully into the kitchen and opens the top cabinets to look for ingredients, “Yeah. Long day in the greenhouse. Guess I was more tired than I thought.” He keeps his voice light. Easy. Just two ghouls having a conversation. 

He is genuinely glad it is only Multi out here though. He does make it easier. Mountain has probably spent the most amount of time with him versus the other new summons. He always seems so eager to learn so Mountain has been happy to teach. Cooking lessons, an hour or two in the greenhouse to test his earth magick, technology questions. Multi seems to default to him whenever anything new catches his interest. Mountain is thankful for it. It keeps his head clear. As a result, Multi has become familiar. Easy. 

Once Mountain is sure they have all the dry ingredients he floats around the kitchen, grabbing the bowls, cups, and utensils he will need. He can feel Multi’s eyes on him the entire time. He can feel the question burning the tip of his tongue. He is always like this. Always hesitant to actually ask, but once the door opens he never seems to stop. 

“Have I shown you how to make French toast before?” Mountain turns to look at him. 

Multi shakes head causing the golden cuffs adoring his locs to jingle, “Nope.” 

“Come here then.” He smiles softly. 

Multi is quick to hop off the barstool and around the counter into the kitchen. His tag wags happily behind him as he comes to stand beside Mountain. 

“It’s a pretty simple recipe. Kind of like pancakes.” 

“So I’m gonna drop shit on the floor?” 

“I’d like to believe your flipping skills have improved since then.” 

“Only cause I have such a great teacher.” Multi bumps his hip against Mountain’s. 

Mountain simply hums, the smile on his face growing ever so slightly. Multi really has become familiar. An integral part of his morning routine. Rather than drinking caffeinated tea in a futile attempt to wake his brain up, he has Multi’s shining grin to pull his mind from the shadows. It is nice. Especially since he seems to see his original pack less and less with each day. Aether back to working in the infirmary. Dew dealing with his health after the change and his ever growing closeness with Rain. Ifrit and Zephyr doing whatever it is retired ghouls do. 

But Multi is here. Solid and present. He is still so new in comparison, yet Mountain feels content with him. 

“Okay mister chef, how do we make this toast?” Multi eyes the dry ingredients sitting next to the mixing bowl. 

“Grab the milk and three eggs for me?” 

Multi pads over to the fridge, slinging it open with enough force to make a handful of bottles on the door shelf cling together. He pulls out the glass that contains the milk fresh from Ministry livestock. He sets it on the nearest counter before grabbing out three eggs. 

He holds them to his chest like is scared he will drop them otherwise, “Now what?” 

“Go ahead and measure out the dry ingredients.” Mountain chuckles and takes the eggs from him. 

Multi nods and smiles at him before picking up the measuring cups. Mountain tells him how much they will need for each ingredient. Multi is very careful to not spill anything, brow furrowed in concentration as he scoops up flour and sugar and cinnamon. 

Cinnamon. 

Such a strong scent. It had burnt his nose the first time he walked into Dew’s infirmary room. It was so intense. Nothing like Ifrit or Alpha. Sharp and spicy. But still so sweet. A perfect contrast to the bandaged body that laid unconscious under white sheets. 

“How much is a pinch?” Multi holds the container of salt, turning it around in his hands as he examines it. 

Mountain blinks, eyes refocusing as his mind comes back to reality, “What?” 

“You said I needed a pinch of salt. I have no idea what kind of measurement that is.” 

“Right. Yes. It’s uh it’s exactly what it sounds like. Just pinch your fingers in the salt and throw whatever you get into the mix.” 

Multi shrugs, “Whatever you say. What’s next?” 

“Uh milk. We need the milk. Just a cup.” 

Instead of turning to grab the glass container, Multi turns towards Mountain, “You alright? Your inflection sounds weird.” 

He shakes his head and forces a smile onto his face, “I’m fine. Just tired.” 

“Ya know I’m sure I could figure out a decent breakfast if you wanna start sleepin in more.” 

He probably could. Mountain has been giving him cooking lessons nearly everyday. But then what else does he have? If he cannot be the one to provide for his pack then why get out of bed in the morning? He knows Multi is just trying to be helpful. Show his care for Mountain. But he does not understand how badly he needs this. 

“It’s no problem really.” Mountain assures him. 

Multi looks at him like he does not quite believe him, “Well if it ever does become a problem tell me. I’d like to help.” 

Mountain only hums, acknowledging his words but putting an end to this conversation. He slides closer to Multi, “Here let me mix the batter.” 

Multis gives Mountain a lingering look, but scoots off to the side. Though he does not go far. He stays close enough that Mountain’s arm brushes against his each time he grabs one of the cups with the ingredients. Mountain does not mind. It is better than having him continue to insist he take a break. 

He lets Multi watch for a little, just long enough to see how he slowly whisks everything in. When he gets to the last cup he tilts his head towards the stove, “Heat up a pan and grab the bread.” 

He gives Mountain’s arm a squeeze and nods. He crouches down to dig around in the cabinet next to the oven, searching for the same pan they use for pancakes. He makes a little ah ha noise when he finds it. The sound of metal clanging against metal briefly fills the room as he wrestles it out from under the pots. While he does that, Mountain lifts the whisk to watch the batter fall off, testing the thickness. 

Multi stands back up, pan in hand. He swipes the cabinet door closed with his tail as he sets it down on one of the burners. The stove turns on with a click as he turns the dial to a nice medium heat. 

“Remember to—“

“To butter the pan,” Multi smiles at him, “Don’t worry. I got it. I learned my lesson after last time.” 

Last time had Multi scrubbing egg off the pan for the better half of an hour. Mountain was just proud that he did not let anything burn even when it got stuck. 

Mountain lifts the whisk again, giving a satisfied hum. He pulls the bread from the breadbox and grabs the container of butter from the fridge for Multi. He holds it out for him and their hands brush when he grabs it. Mountain then grabs a butter knife from the utensil drawer for him. He watches Multi scoop up a little more than probably necessary and plop it onto the pan. The sound of sizzling fills the kitchen and Mountain has to fight to keep his face even. 

Like water getting burnt away into nothing. 

Oh how he wishes he could reach up and rip his hearing aids out so he does not have to listen. 

“Now what?” Multi’s tail begins to wag again. The tip of it brushes against Mountain’s calf with each flick. Mountain’s own tail instinctively reaches out to twine together with his. 

“Now we soak the bread in the mixture. Just two at a time. The pan isn’t big enough for more than that.” Mountain pulls the bowl closer to the stovetop. 

They stare at each other. Neither of them move. Multi then looks between Mountain and the bowl, a look of realization lighting up his face, “You want me to do it?” 

Mountain smiles, “Have to learn somehow.” 

Multi gives him a fang filled grin and grabs two bread slices. He plops them into the mixture with more force than necessary. He pokes them with the tips of his claws, making sure every part of the bread is submerged. Mountain does not have the heart to tell him that he definitely does not need to do that. The look of joy on his face warms his heart. If he can make his packmate happy, then he supposes a few soggy pieces of French toast are fine. He will eat those if he has to. As long as Multi’s eyes continue to sparkle. 

When he deems the bread squishy enough, Multi picks them as carefully as he can. Droplets of the mixture drip down his hand and onto the counter. Then onto the stovetop when he brings it over to the pan. As does this, a few fall into the burner. It makes a hissing noise as the mixture burns. 

Instead of charred sugar and milk, Mountain smells the sour rot of flesh. Acrid. Sickly-sweet. A scent he will never forget. He can hear Dew’s screams echoing in his head. The smell of burning fat and flesh filled the stone hallway like an invisible fog. His stomach churns like it did as he waited outside the ritual room. 

He cannot fight the gag that crawls up his throat. He is lucky he has not eaten anything yet today or it might have come up. His hands slam down heavily on the counter, keeping himself steady with the force his body bends into itself. Salvia fills his mouth and he squeezes his eyes shut as he focuses on pushing the feeling away. 

Burning. 

Dew is burning and he cannot do anything to stop it. 

Dew will die if he tries. 

Dew cannot die. 

Dew has to live. He has to. 

An arm thrown over his shoulders and a hand on his bicep pulls him from his mind. Amber and spice replaces the sour scent as Multi guides Mountain over to one of the barstools. He sits him down, but keeps a hand between his shoulder blades. 

“Mountain?” He asks with concern. 

He shakes his head, “‘M fine.” 

“I don’t think people who are fine do that. What happened?” 

What is he supposed to say? He had to stand guard at Dew’s ritual to make sure it did not get interrupted and now the slightest hint of something burning makes him want to puke? Multi does not need to know that. He does not need to be burdened with the weight Mountain carries. 

“Really I’m okay. Just need to eat something. Must’ve been more hungry than I thought.” 

Multi hums, not totally convinced but not willing to argue either. His hand runs slowly up and down Mountain’s back. Mountain appreciates the gesture. It is soothing. Grounding. Something for him to focus on so his mind cannot slip back. He finds himself leaning into it. 

They sit like that for a little before Mountain tries to stand up again. Though Multi is quick to stop him. 

“You keep your big ass in that chair.” 

“Multi it’s fine. I’m feeling better already.” 

“Nuhuh you’ve been actin weird all morning. Ass. Chair.” 

Multi applies more pressure between his shoulder blades before walking off. Mountain has half a mind to get up and just finish the cooking now that the ghoul almost as big as him is not hovering over him. But then he sees Multi pass the stove in favor of the fridge. He watches him open the door, brow furrowed in confusion. 

“What are you doing?” He asks flatly. 

“You said you were hungry.” Multi pulls the container of blueberries from the fridge alongside one of the jars with chia seed yogurt. 

He grabs a bowl from one of the cabinets before scooping out a decently sized portion of the yogurt. He then dumps way too many blueberries on top before sticking the spoon in there and walking it over to Mountain. 

He just. Stares at him. Nobody else has ever made him food. Minus his summoning day when Dew and Aether tried to bake him a cake. But still. He is the one who provides. 

“Should I have picked the raspberries instead?” Multi teases, but there is a hint of genuine worry in his voice. 

Mountain shakes his head, “No this is. Fine. Thank you.” 

Multi hums, “Of course. Now I better see that thing scraped clean.” He points at him before going back to the stove. 

Mountain does not necessarily feel hungry, especially after that wave of nausea. But it would be rude to not eat what Multi gave him. So he picks at the blueberries that sit at the top while he watches Multi. 

He moves the pan back onto the burner with heat. He stands with his arms crossed and a spatula in hand, watching the bread toast. Waiting for the right moment to flip it. Mountain is reminded of the first time they made grilled cheese together. Eyes glued to the pan as if looking away would magically ruin it. He is always so careful in the kitchen. So attentive to everything. It is fun to watch, even if Mountain would prefer to bury himself in the earth until he feels normal again right about now. 

Multi finishes the first two slices of French toast, flipping them onto a plate with enough force Mountain is worried they will slide right off and onto the floor. Thankfully they do not. They land heavily on the porcelain with a light thunk. Multi smiles to himself before setting the plate down on the counter for Mountain to inspect. He throws the handful of blueberries he has into his mouth, wiping some of the excess juice on his pajama pants before pulling the plate closer. 

The toast is dark, the crust looking a little burnt. Mountain does not have a fork, so he cuts off a piece with the spoon from his yogurt. He pops it into his mouth and hums. Once past the initial crunch, the inside is. Very soggy. It definitely does not help his churning stomach. But he swallows it nonetheless. 

“Not bad. For the next two, try not to let them soak in the mixture as long.” Mountain pushes the plate back over to him so he has somewhere to put the rest as he makes them. 

“Don’t let them soak for too long, got it.” Multi grabs two more slices of bread and throws them into the bowl with the batter. 

The two sit in a comfortable silence while Multi continues to perfect his French toast making skills. He hums as he works, hips swaying with the rhythm. A rhythm Mountain knows. He is humming one of the songs Mountain showed him when he first came to the greenhouse. Some dad rock song that came over the little beat up radio kept in there by the older earth ghouls. Multi had instantly taken a liking to it, so after their work, he had shown him how to get it on his phone. 

Mountain starts to drum his fingers against the counter alongside Multi’s humming. Even though he is not looking at him, Mountain can see the way the corners of his mouth twitch up. It brings a smile to his own face, even if it is a weak one. 

“Didn’t know we had rehearsal this early in the morning,” an airy voice calls out. 

“Lus!” Multi exclaims, tail wagging. 

“Multi!” She laughs and takes a seat next to Mountain on one of the barstools. 

“Good morning,” he says softly, turning his head to look at her. 

“Morning Mounty.” She smiles brightly at him. 

“Breakfast will be ready soon, so you just sit there and look pretty.” Multi flips the next to two finished pieces onto the plate. 

Cumulus points between herself and Mountain, “Me or him?” 

He grins, “Both.” 

Mountain huffs a laugh, but he stands up from the barstool. He pushes what remains of his blueberries and yogurt towards Cumulus. He knows she will be happy to pick at it and finish it off for him. It also gives her something to snack on while she waits since Mountain was so late this morning. He walks back around the counter in the direction of the fridge. When he passes by Multi, he feels his tail wrap around his calf. Mountain stops and turns to look at him. 

He gives Mountain a look. One that screams at him to go sit back down. He appreciates the concern, he really does, but the rest of the pack is starting to wake. It is one thing when it is just him and Multi, but with Cumulus here too he cannot just sit around and do nothing while Multi finishes up. 

“It’s alright,” Mountain whispers to him, “I’m feeling better now that I ate.” 

It is not a total lie. Eating and watching Multi took his mind off that smell. The nausea has passed. He feels well enough to work. 

Multi does not look entirely convinced, but he does let Mountain go. He forces a smile onto his face to reassure him that everything is fine before walking to the fridge. He opens it up and grabs out the rest of the blueberries and the strawberries. They have an abundance of produce right now. Yesterday was a harvest day. Mountain and Biggs picked through every plant that was ready to give. The majority of their yield gets sent to the Ministry kitchen, but the ghouls are allowed to set aside enough for themselves. Once human and ghoul alike have been fed, the remainder is sold in the nearby town. It makes Mountain happy knowing his hands can feed so many people. 

He takes the two containers and sets them up over at the bar. Cumulus trills when they are placed in front of her. Mountain huffs in amusement, “Save enough for everyone.” 

She stabs a strawberry with one of her talons and pops it into her mouth, “They snooze they lose.” 

“Who’s losing?” A sleep raspy voice comes from the hallway. Cirrus steps in the common area, making her way over to Cumulus. She yawns and buries her face in her hair, shoulders rising as she breathes in her scent. 

“Nobody is losing anything love.” Cumulus affectionately reaches up to pat her arm. With her free hand, she sneaks another strawberry, humming with delight. 

Mountain turns away from them, busying himself with the dishes. He is so happy that those two have finally got used to being with a new pack. Cumulus is fun and sweet and has such a way with words. Cirrus is confident and puts so much of herself into the things she does. They really are great. But he cannot stand to look at them when they are together. Lords Below does it make him feel awful, but he just cannot. They remind him too much of what he had with Dew. Of what he lost. Of what he wants back more than anything. 

What he would not give to get that back. 

He jumps a little when he feels something brush against him, causing water to splash onto the counter. Multi’s tail has wrapped itself around Mountain’s. He looks over his shoulder at him, but all he sees is his back. He is still focused on the French toast. Mountain cannot tell if the touch is intentional or not. Either way, he appreciates it. He turns his attention back to the dishes, curling his tail so that they twine together. 

He rinses out the measuring cups, setting them off to the side to dry. He will have to do the rest when Multi is finished cooking and everyone has made a plate. Without anything more to do, he moves to stand next to him at the stove again. He is careful to not tug on their tangled tails. 

“Just about done. Makin the last couple of slices.” Multi presses the spatula down on a piece of toast. 

“They look good.” 

“I just hope they taste good.” 

“They will.” 

Multi smiles, flipping the toast over. When the bread finally cooks to an even brown, he scoops them up and puts them on the plate with the rest. There are enough for each ghoul to have two. Mountain picks the plate up and sets it down at the bar next to the strawberries and blueberries. Multi brings a stack of plates and utensils for the others to use. Cirrus makes a grumbling noise when Cumulus moves to start fixing herself a plate. 

“I’ll make a pot of coffee.” Mountain turns from them quickly. 

Cirrus mumbles something that sounds like a thank you, but it is muffled by Cumulus’ fluffy hair. 

Mountain steps over to the coffee machine, opening it up to put in a fresh filter and fill up the water. He opens the cabinet right above the machine, eyes scanning over the different flavors. He picks out the bag of dark chocolate grounds, Dew’s favorite. He is not sure whether or not the others will like it, but that does not stop him from scooping out enough to fill up the pot. 

While the machine boils the water, Mountain picks out a mug for Cirrus and Dew. Even though he is not here, Mountain knows he will want a cup. He has been drinking more caffeine ever since the ritual. 

“Would you make one for me too?” Cumulus asks. 

Mountain nods and hums, pulling another mug out. Before he closes the cabinet he looks at Multi. 

“Oh nah. I can’t stand that stuff. Tastes like hot bean water.” Multi wrinkles his nose as he fixes himself a plate. 

“That’s because you don’t know how to make it good,” Cumulus teases. 

“Taste is irrelevant.” Cirrus finally lifts her from Cumulus’ hair and takes the seat next to her. She does not make herself a plate yet, but she does pick from the strawberries on Cumulus’. 

Mountain brings the three mugs over just as the coffee machine clicks, signaling it is finished brewing. The noise makes his ear twitch. He picks up the pot, pouring the steaming liquid into each cup. The scent of dark chocolate and coffee wafts through the air. A pleasant smell, but similar to Multi, Mountain cannot get past the taste. 

With each mug filled, Mountain places the now half filled pot back on the machine. He grabs the milk from the fridge and pours it into Cumulus’ mug until the dark liquid turns into a lighter shade. He then adds just a sprinkle of sugar. He does not add anything to Cirrus’ cup. He picks both of them up, walking them over to where the two are sitting. Cirrus takes hers from his hand, not even blowing on it before taking her first sip. Cumulus hums her thanks when he sets hers down next to her plate. 

Mountain gently pats her shoulder before going back to the mug meant for Dew. He picks up the bag of sugar and begins to pour it into the cup as if it was milk or creamer. Too sweet to stomach. Just the way Dew likes it. 

As Mountain stirs the coffee, the scent of petrichor and sea salt breaks through the rich aroma. He looks up to see Rain shuffling in from the hallway. The muscles in Mountain’s jaw flexes as his stomach tightens. If Rain is out here by himself then Mountain was right to not go into Dew’s room earlier. 

“Morning little fishy,” Multi grins at him. 

Cumulus and Cirrus also greet him. 

“Good morning Rainy.” 

“Morning.” 

Rain just simply hums and nods. 

Even though it has been six months since his summoning, Rain is still quiet around the entire pack. He seems most comfortable with only one or two people around. Or Dew. If Dew is nearby then he looks as content as a cat in a sunbeam. If Rain came out to the kitchen without Dew then today must be bad. He normally tries to make an appearance first thing in the morning. His pain usually worsens through the day until Aether can coax him to sleep with a spark of quintessence. It has been getting better. Less flare ups. Lower doses. But there will always be days like this. 

Mountain wishes there was something he could do. When the pain would take hold of Dew for days, Mountain would run himself ragged creating herbal mixture to soothe him. None of them were ever enough. 

Rain makes his way over to Mountain, head ducked just enough that his hair covers most of his face. When he is close enough, Mountain presses the warm mug into his hands. Rain takes it without hesitation. This is not the first time they have done this dance and it definitely will not be the last. 

“He says he can’t eat,” Rain murmurs. 

“Is he okay?” A stupid question. Mountain knows the answer to that. But he needs to know if he has to go pull Aether from the infirmary or not. 

“We’re steaming up the bathroom right now. He wants to see if it helps.” Rain taps his claws against the porcelain of the mug. 

Mountain nods, “I’ll make him something light. His body needs something to burn.” 

Rain nods in acknowledgment and rests his elbows against the counter. He stares down into the mug. Mountain rests a large hand between his shoulder blades, “You need to eat too.” 

“I’m not hungry.” 

“Rain.” 

He sighs, hanging his head. He is still for a moment before pushing his hair out of his face. He turns to glare at Mountain, but does not say anything more. 

“I’ll make you a bagel,” his voice has a hint of finality in it. No room for an argument. Another step to their dance. 

Rain is too much like himself for his comfort. Like a distorted reflection. Rain is so much like how he was when Mountain was still fresh from the Pits. But the way he puts Dew before even his own needs is too similar to how Mountain is now. Maybe that is the reason Mountain has kept him so close compared to the others, even Multi. He cannot bring himself to focus on his own needs, so he makes sure every single one of Rain’s are met. Maybe if he keeps the weeds from sprouting in Rain’s heart then they will not take root in Mountain’s. 

He grabs the bag of bagels from one of the cabinets. He grabs out two, twisting the end of it shut once more. Mountain adjusts the toaster settings before popping the first one in. While it cooks, he goes to the fridge. He pulls out the cream cheese and a slice of raw salmon. The scent of warm bread wafts through the air as the bagel toasts. When it pops, Mountain instinctively jumps. He grabs the two halves, setting them on an empty plate before putting the other two in. He gives it a moment to cool before spreading the cream cheese and cutting it in half. A plain bagel for Dew. 

He goes through the same process for the other bagel, only this time adding the salmon for Rain. The conversations of the pack act as a pleasant background noise. They keep his mind from drifting to far away places. Once he cuts Rain’s bagel in half, he hands the plate to him. 

“Thank you.” Rain shifts the mug so he can grab both. 

“You don’t have to thank me,” Mountain shakes his head, “Just tell Dew I love him.” 

Rain stares at him for a moment. His lips twitch like he wants to say something but apparently he decides against it. He takes the food and Dew’s coffee and turns to leave. 

Mountain follows him with his eyes until he disappears down the hallway. He sighs and rinses off the knife he used to spread the cream cheese in the sink. He has had enough fun for one morning. He is more than ready to head to the greenhouse to get lost in his element until it is time for rehearsal. 

He turns the water off and dries his hands with a nearby rag. He begins to head to his room to get changed, but a hand on his shoulder stops him. He turns to see Multi smiling at him. 

“Any chance I could join you? I wanna work more on what you showed me last time.” 

“Of course. You’re always welcome.” Mountain says it before he can even think about it. Though he does not really need to think about it. Teaching Multi how to tap into his earth magick has become one of his favorite things. 

Multi beams when Mountain says yes. He pats him on the shoulder again, “I’ll go get ready then.” 

Mountain nods and they both walk off. He turns down the right side of the hallway while Multi turns down the left. As Mountain passes by Dew’s door again, he can hear voices. They are too muffled to make out what they are saying though. His hands twitch at his side as he glances at the doorknob. 

One day. One day he will be able to just walk right in like he used to. But today is not that day. 

He continues on to his room, closing the door softly behind him. He takes a moment to slump against the wood. His horns clack against the frame as he closes his eyes and tilts his head back with a deep sigh. He tries to ground himself. Tries to find his center again. A pair of shears to that unkempt garden. 

But then he groans, scrubs his face with his hands, and pushes off the door. He cannot linger. Multi is waiting for him. It is a good thing Multi is waiting. Otherwise he may have been tempted to throw away the shears and let nature reclaim the garden for good. 

He walks over to his closet, fingers petting against leaves and petals as he goes. He pulls out a sandy canvas button down and a pair of grey cargo pants. His go to for working in the greenhouse. It is rather helpful to have so many pockets. Well that is until Mountain forgets he put something in there and then drives himself crazy looking for it. But still. Helpful. 

He tosses his work clothes onto his bed before pulling his sleep shirt off and tossing it into his laundry basket. He does the same with his flannel pants, leaving him in nothing but his boxers. He gets dressed quickly, tugging on his pants and then the button down before going into his bathroom. He stares at his reflection, playing with the ends of his hair. He really should cut it. But he is always either too tired or too busy. 

Sometime soon though, he tells himself the same thing everyday. 

He grabs a hair tie from the dish on his sink, pulling it back into a loose bun. Something simple just to keep it out of his face while he works. He keeps gaze away from the mirror as he turns and leaves the bathroom. He quickly waters his plants that need it before heading back into the hallway to go find Multi. That ever present nagging of guilt chews at his insides as he walks. Usually he likes to take his time with his plants, check in with each of them. See how they are doing. What they need. But because he woke up too late, he does not have the time. He never seems to have the time anymore. Just another reason to wake up extra early tomorrow. 

He spots Multi waiting where the hallway opens up to the common room. He shifts his weight back and forth on his feet, staring out of a nearby window with a small smile on his face. He looks happy. Content. It chases away that nagging. Shrinks the gaping hole. 

“Ready?” Mountain rumbles when he is close enough. 

He immediately turns around at the sound of his voice, small smile only growing wider, “Course I am. Oh wait. Here.” 

He shoves a brown paper bag into Mountain’s hands, “Made us lunch. It’s nothing crazy, just some pb and j but ya know. So we don’t starve out there.” 

“Oh. Thank you. If you were still hungry though, I could've made you something.” 

“I just said they were for later Mount,” he teases, “consider it my thanks for teaching me a new recipe this morning.” 

“Alright,” Mountain offers him a smile, “Well then if you’re ready we can head out.” 

“After you big guy.” He gestures to the door with one hand. 

Mountain heads toward the door. He waves his goodbye to Cirrus and Cumulus who are still sitting at the barstools. Before leaving, he pauses to grab his leather messenger bag that hangs on the coat rack. While he does that, Multi slips on his boots and crouches down to lace them. Mountain waits patiently for him, adjusting the strap of his bag so it is comfortable on his shoulder. When Multi stands again, he smiles at Mountain and laces their hands together. A touchy ghoul since the day he was summoned. 

Mountain gives his hand a light squeeze and opens the door. The sun is high in the sky, casting shining columns of light through the grand windows of the Ministry. Siblings and ghouls walk through the hallways, murmuring their good mornings as they pass the two on the way to their own duties for the day. Mountain simply nods with a smile while Multi greets every one of them. 

When they are not passing by the other inhabitants of the Ministry, they walk in a comfortable silence. Mountain is always reminded of Dewdrop when they walk together. Just like him, Multi can talk for hours on end but then be perfectly content without making a noise. Like some kind of switch has been flipped. Dew only gets silent around humans he does not know. It makes him wonder what causes Multi to go quiet. 

They eventually reach the door that connects the greenhouse to the Ministry. It is on a more remote side. Far from the chapel and the den. Mountain does not mind it though. There is something nice about being able to see the sun rising through the windows, painting the ancient stone architecture pink. Though it is not like he has seen it recently. Not with his habit of lingering under his sheets. 

“I swear that walk gets longer every single time,” Multi huffs with a smile. 

“Well you don’t have to make it if you don’t want to.” Mountain pushes the door open, holding it for Multi. 

He steps inside, “What? And miss out on quality dirt boy time?” 

Mountain hums a laugh and follows in after him. The moment his hooves make contact with the dirt floor he pauses. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, breathing in the musky, earthy scent. The tension in him seems to melt away as he is enveloped in his element. He scuffs his hooves, digging them deeper into the dirt. He can feel the hum of the earth. The vibration of life. It greets him warmly, arms wide open to welcome home. The temptation to take root is strong, but he cannot. He has work to do. Ghouls to look after. 

He opens his eyes and starts walking to his work bench, Multi tailing after him. He sets the paper bag with his lunch in it on the nearby shelf so it does not get in the way. He picks up his apron, unfolding it and shaking out some of the excess streaks of dirt from yesterday's work. It does not really do much. The material has long since stained. No amount of washing will ever get it all the way out. 

He puts it on, tying the strings comfortably around his waist. Multi has already grabbed one of the spares that hang on the wall by the sink. He crosses the strings behind his back before bringing them to the front to tie. Once that is situated, Mountain pulls out a pair of gloves and tosses them to Multi. Mountain never uses them. He prefers to feel everything that is around him. Sometimes he ends the day by picking thorns from his palms, but it is worth knowing that the roses wanted more sunlight. 

Multi slips the gloves onto his hands, flexing his fingers as he walks back over to Mountain, “So what’s the plan?” 

“Harvest the vegetables.” Mountain hands him a basket. 

He raises an eyebrow, “Thought you said yesterday was harvest day?” 

“It was. Biggs and I picked all the berries, but there’s a lot more that still needs to be done.” 

“Riiight. So I just,” he makes a nonsensical gesture with his hands, “pull shit from the ground?” 

Mountain huffs a laugh, “More or less. I’ll show you.” 

He leads Multi over to where the vegetable rows are. He figures starting with the tomatoes and peppers will be easier than the carrots or potatoes. He brings him to the towering vines, light reds and oranges peeking through the green foliage. Water droplets glisten off the flesh, making them shine. Mountain palms one of the larger tomatoes, giving it a light squeeze. The fruit gives a little before slowly bouncing back into shape. Definitely ready for harvest. 

He nods his head, motioning for Multi to come closer. He awkwardly shuffles over, shoulder pressing against Mountain’s as he looks down at the tomato in his hand. 

“You see how it’s a kind of pinky color?” Mountain asks in a hushed tone. It always feels right to keep his voice low on harvest days. 

“That’s orange. Maybe yellow.” Multi raises an eyebrow at him. 

Mountains chuckles, “It’s just a term. When they’re like this they’re called pink or blushing since they’re getting closer to red.”

“Uhhuh…”

“It means they’re ready to be picked.” He pinches the vines between thumb and forefinger as close as he can get to the tomato. He twists and pulls with expert force, pulling it free from the plant in one smooth motion. He places it in his own basket down by his hooves. 

Multi blinks at him before turning his attention to the plant Mountain pulled from. He grabs one of the tomatoes that have a similar color. He mimics Mountain, giving it a squeeze even though he is not quite sure what he is looking for. Mountain watches though, humming in approval. 

“That’s a good one,” he says gently, “be careful when you pull it. Try to get as close to the body as possible. We don’t want to hurt the vines.” 

Multi hesitates to pluck it from the plant. He tries to keep his normal face of confidence, but Mountain can tell by the flick of his ears that he is nervous. For what, he has no idea but Mountain does not care. He can take this as slow as he needs. 

Mountain reaches into the basket he handed Multi. He pulls out a pair of shears, “Here. It’ll be easier if you use these.” 

Multi takes them from him, turning them over in his hand, “Thanks. So where do I…?” 

He traces his claw at the perfect spot for Multi to cut, “You don’t want to take too much of the vine with you.” 

He nods and snips the shears in the same place Mountain pointed out. The leaves rustle as the tomato breaks free from the vine and it snaps back into place without the excess weight. Mountain pats him on the shoulder with a smile, “That was good.” 

Multi beams at the praise, shadows of his nerves melting away. He places it in the basket Mountain had handed to him, “That’s all there is to it?” 

Mountain hums and nods, “Yup. Well. Now that you know what you’re doing, how about you do these and I’ll take care of the peppers?” 

“You want me. To do it by myself?” 

Mountain nods again. 

“But what if I fuck something up? I don’t wanna ruin your plants.” 

“You won’t,” Mountain shrugs, “but if it really worries you, try to listen to them with your magick. They’ll tell you everything they need.” 

Multi still looks unconvinced, but he does not protest. Mountain quickly knocks their horns together before standing, grabbing his own basket, and heading over to the rows with the peppers. 

Normally Mountain would not dare let anyone who is not an earth ghoul near the produce. It is too important, feeds too many people, for him to feel comfortable with it. But he is confident in what Multi can do. He is keen on learning and understanding everything shown to him. His earth magick is already so much stronger than what it was six months ago. Mountain does not think there is anyone else he would rather have helping him. 

Well. 

Except one. 

Dew used to come out here to help. Back when they were both so new to it all. Back when Mountain was still finding his own footing as one of the greenhouse earth ghouls. Dew used to come out here to find him. Spend time with him. When Mountain got overwhelmed, he would be there to help him go through the rows to water everything. He always had such a gentle touch, hyper aware that Mountain had a connection to the plants. Like taking care of them somehow would make adjusting to the Topside easier on him. 

Mountain cannot remember the last time Dew came to the greenhouse. It was before the ritual that is for sure. He still gets a regular visitor in the form of Multi, but. He misses the scent of spring water and wet moss. 

He startles when he feels something slither around his pointer and ring fingers. He looks down to see one of the vines of the green pepper plant wrapping around him. He blinks at it before thumbing over the leaf. Gently. Soothingly. Guess that is his queue to get to work. 

His body works almost automatically at this point, pinching and pulling the peppers from their vines and placing them in his basket. He occasionally lifts his head to steal a glance at Multi. He is so focused, eyebrows pulled together in a little furrow. Far behind Mountain in the rows too, taking his time with each and every tomato. It makes Mountain smile, watching him be so careful with the plants he cares so deeply about. 

He always is. It makes Mountain wonder how his earth magick is barely present. It seems so natural to him. Though he supposes he knows nothing about multi ghouls. How their mix of all the elements works. That and Multi is mostly quint and fire. Probably means he lived somewhere without much green Down Below. But he could be wrong. Mountain does not know. Nobody does really. Multi has yet to utter a single word about his time in the Pits. He understands, it is not always a kind place. But it does make him wonder. 

The next time Mountain raises his head to glance at him, he catches Multi’s eye. Mountain immediately ducks his head again, staring at the group of peppers he is working on. 

“Caught you staring Mountain,” he teases, dragging out his name. 

“Not staring. I was just checking on you.” He has the urge to stomp on his tail to stop it from flicking. 

“More like checking me out,” Multi laughs. 

Mountain snuffles, pulling another pepper off its vine and into his basket. They are silent for a few moments before Multi speaks again. 

“But uh seriously now. Am I. Doin okay?” All the bravado gone from his voice. 

It amazes Mountain how quickly he switches between bold and confident to soft sincerity. And it makes his head spin just a bit. He thinks he knows who the real Multi is, but he is never quite sure. 

Mountain lifts head again to smile at him, “You’re doing just fine.” 

His eyes seem to light up again, corners of his mouth tugging up into a grin, “Just fine?” 

Mountain rolls his eyes, stepping over to the next row of peppers. They go back to working in a comfortable silence. The rustling of leaves as they harvest the produce is the only sound filling the space. Occasionally they can hear a bird chirp or some Siblings shouting from somewhere outside. The sun is at Her highest point now, bathing the greenhouse in Her rays. It is warm, but not unpleasantly so. At least, not yet anyway. Though Mountain starts to wish his winter coat would finish shedding. It is already late spring and he still has thick tufts all over his body. 

Multi’s hums begin to join in with the bird songs the longer they go. They are all nonsensical, not a single tune Mountain recognizes. Simply just whatever rhythm lives in his head. But then it slowly morphs into something he does know. Quite well actually. One of the Cardinal’s songs, Rats. The one they have been drilling over and over again in all of their recent rehearsals. 

Mountain’s tail starts to thump back and forth with the beat, instinctively keeping time even when he is not behind his kit. He bobs his head too as his mind fills in the lyrics. 

“Rats,” Multi mutters before sticking his head up to look at Mountain, “What the fuck is a rat anyways?” 

“Did you ever see a diabolus mus Down Below?” 

“Course. Fuckers were everywhere.” 

“Rats are like that. But a lot smaller and without all the spikes and fire.” 

“Huh. Gross.” 

Mountain huffs a laugh and steps around to the next row. They continue to work, conversation sparking up every so often. Mountain finishes harvesting all of the peppers before Multi is done with the tomatoes. He sets his baskets off to the side, grabbing an empty one to help him. By the time both of their baskets are full, they are sweaty and hungry. 

They each gather their harvest and bring it over to the largest workbench in the back corner of the greenhouse. Luckily they do not have to do the sorting, that job is reserved for Biggs. Instead, they wash their hands and shuffle back over to Mountain’s workbench where their lunches await. Mountain offers the stool for Multi, but he refuses. He insists Mountain sit at his own seat. After a never ending back and forth, Mountain relents and pulls the stool out. Multi grins happily and plops himself down on the nearby bags of soil. 

“Thank you again for making this,” Mountain says as he opens the paper bag. 

“Mount it’s a sandwich and two oranges. It’s not like I made you a five course meal,” Multi laughs. 

“And I appreciate it,” he says simply. 

Multi pulls one of his oranges from his bag, “Well I’m glad.” 

He stabs his claw into it with more force than necessary for peeling a fruit. Juice squirts out, dribbling down his arm and onto his pants. He hisses, shaking his hand and flinging stray droplets everywhere in a futile attempt to get the stickiness off of him. Mountain sets his still wrapped sandwich down, leaning forward and holding out his hand. He motions for Multi to give it to him. He does so, standing to go wash his hands once Mountain takes it. 

“Still not used to how soft everything is Topside,” he throws over his shoulder from the sink. 

Mountain hums in acknowledgment as he slides his own claw into the puncture Multi made. He gets the peel under tip before slowly turning the orange in his hand. The skin follows easily, peeling off in one perfect spiral. 

“How do you do that so good?” Multi cocks his with a smile as he walks back over. 

“Don’t know. Lots of practice I suppose.” He picks off some stray pieces of the peel before handing the now naked fruit back to Multi. 

He sinks his fangs into it, tearing half of the flesh off in one bite. Juice drips down his chin as a rumbly little purr kicks up in his chest. Mountain just smiles and begins to peel his own orange. He gathers all of the skin in a pile to dry later before picking out pieces of the fruit one at a time. 

Conversation carries easily between them as they finish their lunches. Mountain gathers their trash and tosses it away into one of the bins near the main entrance of the greenhouse. He rolls his shoulders as he walks back over to where Multi is sitting, stretching the stiff muscles and popping his joints. His tail wags as Mountain reappears. 

“Back to harvesting I presume?” Multi stands up, ready to grab another basket. 

Mountain hums, “No. figured we could work on your magick.” 

“Oh thank the Lords Below. My back was starting to kill me. Not that I didn’t enjoy it but well.” He shrugs and smiles. 

Mountain just goes back to his work bench, clearing off as much room as he possibly can, “Go on then.” 

Multi gives him a pat on the back before dashing off to the corner they keep his mini pots at. Mountain has been teaching him to feel the earth the way he does. Hear Her song. Her voice. If he can do that then the rest will come easily. He has been doing this by giving him some spare seeds. Something to grow all on his own so he can tune into the whispers of the plants. Progress has been slow, but still, Mountain can see him improving every single time they do this. 

He returns, four mini pots clutched to his chest and a blinding grin on his face. He sets them down carefully and looks at them with pride. Each of them has the smallest dot of green beginning to push through the dirt. 

“Which do you want to work with this time?” Mountain cannot help but trail his fingers over the lip of the terracotta, dipping his claw into the soil. Listening. 

“Sheryl.” 

“Sheryl?” 

“Yeah Sheryl.” Multi points to the pot marked mint. 

Mountain has no idea when he decided to give them names, but it makes him smile, “Sheryl it is.” 

He pulls the mint pot forward, setting it between the two of them. He gives it a quick once over with his own magick, making sure it is in the right condition before letting Multi practice. 

“Remember what I told you last time?” He nudges it closer to him.

Multi nods, voice suddenly quiet, “Listen for their voice because they’ll tell me what I need to do.” 

“Good,” he praises, “try helping her grow.”

His lips pull together in a thin line as he turns his attention from Mountain to the pot. He reaches forward and grabs it, bringing it close to him. He stares at it, thumb rubbing up and down the smooth terracotta. It feels like an eternity of Multi just staring at the plant. Mountain does not rush him though. The earth requires patience. 

Multi chews his lip, “How do you do it? Make them grow?” 

“I told you. Listen to them,” he speaks in a hushed tone. 

“But what does that mean Mount? They don’t have voices, all I can hear is sounds.” 

Mountain hums in thought, “You’ve used your quintessence to heal before yes?” 

He nods. 

“Well it’s like that,” Mountain grabs some stray seeds scattered on the workbench, “You have to connect yourself to them. Find the part of them that needs nurturing and pour yourself into it. You become the thing that gives them life. Give it to them with a gentle hand.” 

He squeezes his hand shut. His eyes seem to shine a beautiful green as the scent of pine and freshly churned dirt fills the air. When Mountain opens his hand again, a white carnation rests in his palm. Multi delicately picks it up, brushing his thumb through the petals before tucking it behind his ear. 

“I don’t think I can do that,” he admits. 

“You can.” 

He stares back down at the mint pot. Mountain can see the gears turning in his head, lip still pulled between his fang. He finally relents, taking a deep breath and bringing the pot close to his face. Multi closes his eyes, letting his fingers dip into the moist dirt. He begins mumbling to himself, but Mountain tries to tune it out. Whatever words he speaks now are not for him. They are meant for the earth. 

He can feel it when it happens, Multi’s earth element sparking to life. It smells herbaceous and sits thickly on his tongue. Mountain locks his eyes onto the ring sprout of the mint plant, watching for any signs of change. For a moment nothing happens. But then very slowly, the green begins to grow. The little sprig grows taller and taller as more leaves begin to shoot from the stem. Soon another branch pushes its way from the dirt. Then another and another. It is growing quickly. 

A little too quickly. 

“Multi.” Mountain calls his attention back. 

The moment he says his name, the growing stops. Multi cracks his eyes open, the normal black and white overtaken by a deep forest green as his earth still flows through him. 

“Did I fuck up?” 

“Well I wouldn’t say that.” Mountain motions with his head to look. 

He now completely opens his eyes to see the nearly fully grown mint plant. His expression immediately lifts, eyes shining as his lips pull up into a beaming smile. His tail starts to wag rapidly behind him, “I did that?” 

“I knew you could.” 

Multi laughs and raises his pot into the air, “I made a fucking plant grow! I actually did it!” 

Mountain laughs with him, but it quickly dies in his throat. That look in his eye. So much like Dewdrop. It teleports him back to the first time he came to help Mountain water the flowers. He looked so pleased that he was actually able to conjure a water bubble. He was so happy that he could actually help. 

A lifetime ago. 

“Mount?” 

He shakes his head, turning his eyes back to Multi with a hum. 

“You good? You spaced out there.” Multi raises an eyebrow. 

“Yes, sorry. I was just. Thinking about how we should move Sheryl to a bigger pot.” 

“Oh. Yeah I guess that makes sense. Have any laying around?” 

Mountain stands from his stool and walks over to the sink area. Usually they did have some extras, though with it being late in the season he is not quite sure if they will have anything bigger. And he just needed to get away. He liked Multi he really does and he is beyond proud of him, but that look. It just makes him hurt knowing Dew will probably never show him that look ever again. Multi does not deserve to have his happiness crushed because of Mountain. He cannot do that to another ghoul. 

He locates another pot after taking a moment to breathe. It is not that much bigger than the mint’s current one, but it will do for now. Until something else can be moved into the garden. He takes it back over to Multi who smiles when he sees him again. 

“Do you want me to do it or do you remember from last time?” Mountain sets it down between them. 

“Nah I got it. She’s mine, I should take care of her.” Multi looks at the soil selection on the workbench. 

Mountain waits to see if he remembers what kind best suits mint. His hand hovers over something that holds a lot of water and he makes a noise in the back of his throat. 

“Maybe a different one.” 

“Right right. I was just testing you.” Multi’s eyes scan over the selection again before landing on a good one this time. Though before he picks it up, he glances at Mountain. He nods and Multi grins. 

He opens the bag and begins to scoop dirt out with his bare hands. Mountain watches him for a little before that voice in the back of his head creeps in. Whispers to him. Makes his jaw clench so hard his teeth hurt. This is not fair to Multi. 

He stands abruptly, “While you work on that I’m going to finish harvesting. If you need help I’ll be in the potatoes.” 

“Oh. Uh. Yeah okay. I’ll come over when I’m done.” He barely gets the words out before Mountain has turned around in the direction of the vegetable rows. 

What is wrong with him? He is supposed to care for these ghouls and he cannot even look at Multi’s face without his chest aching. He needs to be better than this. 

Maybe some time alone in his element will clear his head. Let Her take it away from him. At least, that is what he begs for when he sinks his claws into the dirt to pull at the potatoes. 

Mountain gets about halfway through the rows when Multi joins him again. He does not say anything, neither of them do. Mountain is focused on each plant that he barely notices when he first approaches. The silence is not the same as before. It hangs in the air as they work side by side. It is not until the Ministry’s bell rings that Mountain realizes how much time has passed. 

He stands from where he was kneeling with a groan, brushing dirt off his apron. The sun is beginning to sink lower in the sky, not quite setting but enough to make the blue of the sky darker. When the bell stops ringing, Mountain cracks his back. It is time for rehearsal. 

He steps over to where Multi is crouched a few rows from his. He does not look up at him until Mountain extends his hand. He blinks, glancing between Mountain’s face and his hand before deciding to take it. He hauls him, patting him between the shoulder blades. 

“Thank you for your help today.” Mountain gives his hand a squeeze. 

The corner of Multi’s mouth twitches up into a smile. It only makes Mountain feel worse. 

“It was all my pleasure and I’ll happily do it again. Dirt boy.” 

Mountain offers him his best smile at the nickname. It does make a small part of him feel better though. It does not seem like he totally ruined Multi’s day. 

“Alright come on now,” Mountain tugs at his hand, “we can’t be late to rehearsal.” 

Multi waves his hand, “Ah what’s a few minutes, Cardi won’t care.” 

Despite his words, Multi does walk off with Mountain. The pair cleans up as best they can, washing their hands and putting their aprons back on the hooks. Mountain is definitely worse for wear, dirt smeared on the sleeves of his shirt and the bottom of his pants. It does not bother him though. He really only notices it when Multi points it out by trying to brush it off. 

Mountain does not let him fuss over it though, stepping away towards the main doors. Multi jogs after him, flicking his tail against Mountain’s when they are side by side. He hesitates for just a moment before flicking his in return, giving his permission. Multi immediately takes it, twining their tails together. 

The halls are much more alive than what they were this morning. Siblings and ghouls bustling through. Finishing their chores and heading back to their dorms to change for dinner. None of them greet the pair this time, too caught up in their own conversations. It does not bother Mountain though. He is happy to fade to the background as they make their way to the practice room. Multi still offers every one of them a wave or a smile. 

The journey to the rehearsal room is much shorter than the one they took this morning. The crowd thins as they get closer, as stone and marble turn to wood and metal. This part of the Ministry was added much later, a renovation when the Clergy first created the Ghost Project. Stuck at the back of the building so as not to break up the flow. A pair of metal doors painted black is the only thing separating the rest of the inhabitants from the work they do. The music they create. 

Mountain pushes those doors open, holding them so Multi can enter first. It is a stark contrast to the greenhouse. Bright fluorescent lighting and blasts of cold air. The floor is carpeted with a few odd stains dotted around. A mock stage, if it can even be called that, takes up most of the space. 

The Cardinal looks up from where he is talking to Cirrus and Cumulus. He smiles and waves at them. Mountain is a bit surprised to see they are not the first ones here. The Cardinal is a given, he is always punctual, but usually Mountain is the first ghoul to be present. He should have paid better attention to the time. Tomorrow, he can fix his schedule tomorrow. 

“Mountain, Multi! It is ehh good to see you!” the Cardinal greets as they step further into the room.  

“Cardi. Ladies.” Multi grins at them. He walks closer to them, opening his arms for a hug. Cumulus is quick to dodge him with an indignant squawk. 

“Don’t you dare touch me! You stink!” The feathers on her neck poof up, but there is a smile on her face. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. C’mooon Lussy c’mere!” Multi swipes at her, trying to wrap her in his arms. 

She laughs and jumps away again, “Absolutely not!” 

They stare at each other for a moment. Multi’s tail whips back and forth, like a cat who caught a glimpse of a bird in a window. Cumulus’ feathered tail splays out behind her. As if they could read each other’s minds, she darts off at the exact same moment he tries to pounce on her. Their laughter fills the practice room as he chases her around the space. 

The Cardinal watches them nervously, wringing his hands. Mountain can tell just by the look on his face that he does not know if he should stop them or not. He glances at Cirrus every so often, trying to gauge her reaction. She is watching them as well, eyes glued to Multi. The fact that she does not seem like she is going to intervene seems to keep him quiet. 

Mountain crosses the rest of the distance to stand with them, The Cardinal gives him a lopsided smile, “I hope the ehh planting was well for you today.” 

“We finished harvesting most of the vegetables,” Mountain says simply. He is still not quite sure how he feels about the Cardinal. He seems mousy but he acts high and mighty whenever the Clergy is around. A complete opposite of Terzo. Not that Mountain really got to know Terzo before he was dethroned. But he was the man who summoned him. By nature he has a loyalty to him. 

“Good good. Well ehh keep up the great work!” He nudges Mountain lightly on the arm. 

“Speaking of work…” Cirrus chimes in. Her hand darts out the next time Multi and Cumulus run past them, scruffing him by the back of the neck causing him to yelp. 

“…shouldn’t we get started?” 

“Aw come on Cir, we’re still missing like half of our damn band.” He tries in vain to wiggle free from her iron grip. 

“I would love to leoncina, but Multi does make a good point.” He toys with his fingers as he speaks. 

Rain, Aether, and Dew are the only ones missing. It makes Mountain’s stomach churn. He knows Dew is struggling today if his absence at breakfast is anything to go off of. This would not be the first time he has missed a rehearsal because of it, but the other two not being here. It makes him only think of the worst. What if Dew is being rushed to infirmary right now and Mountain is not there with him? What if he is already at the infirmary and Aether nor Omega can help him? 

What if? What if? What if? 

As if they could hear his thoughts, the door to the practice room swings open only a minute later. Aether enters first, a smile on his face despite the dark circles under his eyes. Rain follows in after him, expressionless as ever. To Mountain’s surprise, Dew brings up the rear. He looks small. Of course he is not the largest ghoul, but he always carries himself in a way that makes him seem bigger. But right now he is slouched over with his arms wrapped around his middle. There is a furrow between his brow and scowl on his face. Mountain does not know if it is from anger or pain. 

Both seems like a good guess though. 

“Ah there you are my ghouls!” Copia spreads his arms, gesturing with his hands. “I was wondering where—“ 

“Let’s just get started.” Dew grits out as he stomps over to the guitar rack. 

“Eh hehhhh right. Yes. Let’s.” The Cardinal deflates a little before shuffling over to the podium to get his papers in order. 

As the ghouls begin to get set up for rehearsal, Mountain makes his way over to Aether. He taps him on the shoulder, dragging his attention away from where he had begun to pull out his guitar. 

“What do ya need Mount?” He looks up at him, smile still on his face. 

“Is he okay?” He keeps his voice low so Dew will not hear him. 

Aether’s smile falters for only a moment before it is back, “It’s his joints. Rain brought him down just before rehearsal to get some quint. Couldn’t give him much though because he had a treatment yesterday. That’s why he looks so grumpy.” 

“Should he even be here then?” 

“Do you wanna tell him to go sit and do nothing?” 

Aether sighs, eyes dropping to the floor, “I tried Mount. Believe me I did. But he wouldn’t listen.” 

Of course he did not. Stubborn as always. More so now that fire courses through his veins. Dew will not rest until his body gives out on him. But it makes Mountain worry. He still needs to heal. He still needs to take it easy while he adjusts to his new element. So much could still happen to him. Delta did not succumb to the void right away after all. Nobody knows what lies in store for Dew. 

“I know. I believe you. I just want him to be okay.” 

“We all do.” Aether rests a hand on Mountain’s arm. He pulls him down and Mountain goes easily. Aether presses a quick kiss to his lips when their faces are level. 

“It’ll all work out sapling. Now go get ready so we can rock out.” Another kiss and then Aether pats his cheek before letting him go. 

Mountain bumps their horns together and then leaves him to go get ready. He tries to focus on Aether’s optimism. Take it at face value. But he knows him too well. It is not optimism. It is desperation. He could almost hear the it has to as he spoke to him. But if he can lie to himself, convince himself Aether really is confident everything will be okay, then maybe it will come true. Anything to get the pit inside of him to be filled. 

As he goes to his drum kit, he passes by Multi’s mock platform. He sits cross legged in the center with his guitar in his lap, tail swiping back and forth as he tunes. He pauses only to lift his head and wave at Mountain as he goes by. He waves back only with much less enthusiasm than Multi. It is like his body is running on autopilot as his gaze keeps finding its way across the room. To Dewdrop.

 He cannot hear him from here, but he can see the way his lips curl up in a snarl at something Rain says. Dew immediately hangs his head though. Should he go over there? Try to talk to him? Convince him to rest? But would Dew even care? If Aether could not get through to him, then Mountain certainly will not. Maybe in a different time, a different life, one where there is not a stain on their hearts. But not this one. 

“Hey Mountain!” Multi calls. 

He lifts his head and stares at him, eyes wide. 

“Pass me the tuner will you?” 

He nods and digs through the cabinet that is right behind his kit. All of the excess electronics are kept here. Spare mics, tuners, in ear monitors. Alongside Mountain’s spare sticks.

He grabs the little grey box and tosses it over to Multi. He beams brightly in return, chirping a loud thank you. Mountain is not even sure why he wants it. He is confident in saying Multi probably has perfect pitch. He has watched him during rehearsal enough times to guess as much. He is probably wrong though. All he has been is wrong lately. 

He grabs a monitor from the cabinet and a pair of sticks before sitting himself down behind his kit. He places his things onto the ground, freeing up his hands to stretch. He cracks his knuckles before sticking his arm out with his palm out and fingers pointing up. He wraps his other hand around his fingers and pulls back just until he feels the muscles in his wrist and forearm grow taut. He holds for a moment before repeating the stretch on the opposite hand. 

As he does this, the room becomes abuzz with disjointed notes. Plucks of strings and vocal warm ups and squeals of keys. Mountain soon joins in, tapping his way through his scales. 

“Alright my ghouls!” Copia speaks through his mic, “Let us pick up where we left off last time with ehh Dance.” 

Everyone gets into their places as Mountain puts in his monitor. He sets the metronome to the proper speed, tail flicking with each tick. He has each song memorized by heart at this point. A result of long hours spent practicing when his mind would wander too far in the dead of night. He could probably get by without the metronome at this point, but still he uses it. He has to make sure he is right on time so that the others can follow. 

“Mountain. Whenever you are ready.” The Cardinal gives him a nod. 

Mountain returns the gesture, tapping his hoof against the floor to find the beat. When he gets it, he shifts to press against the pedal of the bass drum. Dew’s guitar joins in two counts behind where it normally should. The notes sound shaky at first, like he is not quite pressing down on the strings hard enough. Mountain has to resist the urge to look at him. If he does he knows he will see pain etched onto his face, there is no other reason Dewdrop would not be perfect. It will throw his focus. He needs to stay focused so they can get through this rehearsal. 

Despite the unsteady beginning, the rest of the ghouls quickly find the rhythm. Aether and Rain join in at the proper counts as do Cirrus and Cumulus. The Cardinal stands center stage, watching all of them play as he nods his head to the beat. This is how they always start, with the song they finished with last time. One run without vocals to warm up and then another with Copia joining in. 

They have been working on Dance Macabre for a while now. Once they settled on their opener, the Cardinal insisted they move onto one of their closers. Something along the lines of starting strong and finishing stronger. 

They get through the first run fine. No hiccups minus a few wrong notes from Aether near the end. The Cardinal praises them, applauding as the room goes silent again. 

“Molto bene! Let’s ehh see if we can improve.” He points at Mountain, giving him the go ahead. 

They start again, only this time Copia’s voice joins the mix. He wanders the mock stage as he sings, going through the blocking he has in his head. He drifts a little too close to Dew though. Mountain can hear the faintest hiss catch on the microphone. He grits his teeth and slams his stick down on the cymbal with more force than really necessary. 

Get through rehearsal. Just get through rehearsal and then he can rest again. Stay focused. 

They wrap up Dance with no bumps this time. The Cardinal finally must feel satisfied with it because he does not have them run it again. Once again, praise falls from his lips when the last note rings through the air. He keeps babbling on as he shuffles over to the podium where all his papers are. He sifts through them, mumbling to himself as he decides what to do next. 

Without the music, the urge is too great to resist. Mountain glances over in Dew’s direction. He is looking down at his hand as he opens and closes his fist, flexing his fingers. Mountain can see the way they shake from his platform. Clearly he is not the only one who sees it too as Aether wanders over to Dew. Aether takes his hand in his, bringing it up to his lips. Mountain’s nose twitches at the pop of ozone in the air, gone just as quickly as it came. He watches as Dew’s shoulders sag ever so slightly in relief. 

All he can do is watch. That is all he can ever do. Watch. He longs to do more yet the claws of guilt keep him pinned in place. Dew would have every right to turn him away but Mountain fears if he does, the weeds will over take the garden. 

Thankfully though, before Mountain can contemplate any longer, the Cardinal pulls them back together. He decides they will work through the first three songs of the planned act one setlist. Mountain adjusts his metronome, grips his sticks, and waits for the Cardinal’s direction. 

It all goes fine. Nothing too out of the ordinary. Rain nearly tripping over a cord, Aether falling out of time, the Cardinal forgetting his own lyrics. But they still manage to work through their problem spots. Though during all of this, the room has gotten noticeably hotter. The temperature seems to spike every time Dew’s fingers slip from the fretboard. Mountain is used to being drenched in sweat during a good rehearsal though so he works through it. 

It all comes crashing down though. The Cardinal wanders too close to Mountain’s mock platform. A sharp squeal pierces his ears, feedback from the microphone and his hearing aids. It makes his heart pound in his chest. The sound of splintering wood replaces the snare and cymbals as he grips his sticks so hard they snap in two. 

Not this again. Please not this again. 

All he can see is the look of horror on Aether’s face as he pounds on Dew’s chest. All he can hear is the screeching heart monitor. All he can feel is fear of not knowing if this is it. If this is the end. 

It cannot be the end. It just cannot. He has to come back. He has to so Mountain can apologize to him. So he can love him again. He has to stay with them. He cannot survive without him. Dew cannot be dead. 

Dew is dead. 

Dew is dead. 

Dew is dead. 

Dew is—

“Mountain!” 

He jumps, head snapping up at the call of his name. All eyes are on him as he slowly looks around the room, getting his bearings. His eyes catch Dewdrop’s. Even his scowl is gone, replaced with concern. Mountain quickly averts his gaze. 

“Mountain? Cerbiatto, are you well?” It is the Cardinal’s voice that pulls him more and more into the present. 

“What?” 

“Are you well?” 

Not at all. He can still see the infirmary room when he closes his eyes. But the others do not need to know that. 

He shakes his head, “Yeah. I’m fine.” 

“Are you ehh sure?” The Cardinal glances down at the broken sticks he is still clutching. 

Mountain follows his gaze, blinking down at where the top half of them sits on the floor. He did not even realize. He quickly sets the bottom ends on his snare, being careful to shield his shaking hands as best he can. 

“Yes I’m sure. I guess I just got too into it.” 

“Yeah. You must have. Considering you didn’t respond to the Cardinal when he called for you.” Cirrus narrows her eyes and tilts her head. 

“I did.” 

“After the third time maybe.” 

He looks away from her too, opting to just stare at his broken sticks instead of anyone else. The silence hangs heavy in the air. So quiet he is painfully aware of his own deep breaths and beating heart. 

Finally it is broken by the Cardinal clearing his throat, “Well ehh I think we should call it there for today.” 

“Really I’m fine—“ 

“It is okay cerbiatto. You all worked very hard today and I am very proud of you. Go enjoy the rest of your evening.” He gives him a lopsided smile. 

They stare at each other for just a moment longer before Copia turns and saunters down the mock platform to the podium. Everyone else is hesitant, but as he begins to pack up his papers they start to move. Mountain stays glued to his seat though, staring at the splinters in his hand. 

“Should probably get Aeth to take em out.” Multi shuffles over to Mountain. He does not get close though, giving him any space he may need. 

Mountain swallows thickly, “Yeah. Probably.” 

His body feels like it moves on autopilot as he slowly stands and makes his way down to Aether. He is only vaguely aware of Multi following after him. Everything feels so fuzzy.

Aether crosses the rest of the distance between them, quickly meeting him, “Mount what happened up there?” 

“Broke my sticks.” He holds his splintered hand out to him. He takes it with a huffed laugh. 

“Well yes I saw that part. But why?” 

Mountain does not say anything. He does not need to. He knows the moment Aether touched his skin his quintessence told him everything Mountain is feeling right now. 

Aether just sighs and begins to examine where the splinter is, “We’re talking about this later.” 

Mountain opens his mouth but is caught off by a spark of quint coursing through his body. Something gentle and sweet yet wholly overwhelming. 

“Don’t you dare say you’re fine. I know you better than that mister Mountain ghoul.” Aether is able to pull it out with the tips of his claws as his quint soothes the pain. He kisses the spot where it was. 

“Okay?” He mumbles against his palm. 

Mountain hesitates before responding, “Okay.” 

Aether smiles, “Okay. You and me then. After dinner.” 

“After?” 

“I have to go back to the infirmary. It’s swamped right now. Siblings and their allergies.” He gives him an apologetic look, but he still smiles. He then stands up straighter and points past Mountain. 

“You. Make sure he doesn’t break anything else until I get back.” 

“As you wish.” Multi now steps closer to them. 

Mountain looks down at him before turning back towards Aether, “I’ll make your favorite tonight.” 

“Well then, now I have something to look forward to,” he kisses Mountain’s hand again, “I’ll see you soon sprout.” 

With that, Aether takes one last look at him and then over to where Dew and Rain are before heading out of the door. Before he even has time to dwell on the fact that he definitely ruined rehearsal, Multi’s hand slips into his with a squeeze. When Mountain looks at him, he just smiles. 

“Come on Mounty. We gotta shower before dinner, we stink.” 

He does not  say anything as he lets Multi lead him out of the practice room and into the hallway. He does not say anything the entire walk back to the den. He does not say anything when they enter through the ornate wooden doors to see Ifrit and Zephyr lounging together on the couch. He does not say anything as Multi pulls him to his room. 

All day he has told himself tomorrow will be different. He will fix everything tomorrow. But how can he do that now? After causing a scene at rehearsal? The way they all looked at him with pity and concern. Even Dewdrop despite being the one suffering the most right now. How could he do that? How could he let his pack catch even a glimpse of an unkempt garden when he is supposed to be taking care of it? He is supposed to be their foundation. He cannot crumble. He is not allowed to. Because if he does then what stops the others from falling into nothing? 

“Did you hear me?” Multi tilts his head. 

“Hm?” 

“I asked if you want me to stay. With you. Help you wash up.”

“No.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yes.” 

Multi looks like he wants to say more. Argue, push back and convince Mountain to let him stay. But he does not. He just nods and pulls him into a quick hug. Mountain’s limbs feel too heavy to reciprocate. 

“Just holler if you change your mind.” Multi pulls back, stares at him for a moment longer, and then slips out of Mountain’s door. 

Without anyone around to see, Mountain finally crumbles. He sinks to the floor next to his bed, forehead pressed to the cool wood. He digs his claws into his hair as the events of the day play over and over again. He wants to scream. His throat burns from the effort to hold back his cries. 

What would be the point? What would it solve? It would be nothing but a waste of the little  energy he has. Crying will not make Dew’s body stop aching. Crying will not repair their fractured relationship. Crying will not fill the chasm that exists at the core of his being. 

He has spent enough nights over the last six months with tears streaking down his cheeks to know it will do nothing. So when he feels the first drop slip out of the corner of his eye, he takes a deep, shaky breath and pushes himself up. He kneels there for just a moment longer, eyes closed as he wills himself to get a grip. 

He has to shower so he can go make dinner. He promised to make Aether’s favorite and that is exactly what he will do. With another sigh, he finally stands again. He shucks his shirt off as he walks to his bathroom, throwing it in the direction of his hamper. He can hear his plants rustling as he goes past them, desperately reaching for him. He ignores them in favor of undoing his pants and kicking them off. 

He does not even turn the light on when he enters his bathroom. He just sticks his hand behind the plastic curtain and turns the shower handle towards hot. While it warms up, he pulls his hair from the bun he put it in this morning. He does not bother with brushing it despite the way his claws catch in tangles. He just needs to be quick. He would not even be doing this if not for Multi walking him to his room. He would be able to tell Mountain did not actually shower. He does not need another awkward conversation. Not when he knows Aether will not let him out of the one he promised. 

He sticks his hand under the spray from the shower head. He deems it warm enough, stepping into the shower. He hangs his head under the water, letting his hair curtain his face in wet clumps as he watches the stream swirl down the drain. The heat does feel good on his muscles, sore from the harvest and rehearsal. But cannot stay. If he lingers for too long then the others may come knocking, especially after the scene he caused. 

So, he sits up straight and gets to work scrubbing himself clean. He lathers his eucalyptus shampoo into his hair, messaging it into his scalp. He does not give it time to set, immediately rinsing it out when he is satisfied with the amount of bubbles on his hands. He places the bottle back on its shelf before grabbing the one with his body wash. He forgoes the rag he normally uses, squirting some of soap into the palm of his hand. He rubs his fingers through his fur over the planes of his body, the scent of pine filling the air. It rinses as he works since he did not bother moving out of the warmth of the water. 

Quick and easy. A simple wash is all he needs to keep Multi, or anyone else, off his back. He flips the handle to turn the shower off and steps out. He grabs his last clean towel off the rack and pats himself dry. He steps back out into his bedroom, picking up his pajamas he discarded this morning and pulling them back on. His fur is still slightly damp, but he does not let it bother him. It will fully dry soon enough. The shower did help. Just a little. It at least gave him something else to focus on for a bit. 

Dinner will give him another distraction. As he steps out into the hallway, he mentally runs through the recipe for Aether’s favorite. A creamy mushroom soup. Repeating the list over and over drives the shadows in his mind away, only tinting the edges rather than consuming him whole. He rounds the corner into the common room to see the rest of the pack back. Some are still in their day clothes while others have already changed into their pajamas. 

Dew is one of them, dressed in baggy black sweatpants and an oversized purple hoodie. He sits on the couch, leaning heavily against Ifrit. He looks ready to pass out. Mountain has half a mind to suggest taking him back to his bed so he can sleep, but he holds his tongue. He has no room to give him advice after the things he said to him before that ritual. So he just goes into the kitchen instead. 

“Mount come lick this.” Multi does not look up from where he is cutting mushrooms. 

He stops dead in his tracks and just stares. Multi has his locs pulled back into a bun and the recipe binder out in front of him. Various ingredients are dotted throughout the kitchen, a bottle of olive oil, butter, discarded parts of an onion. A pot sits on the stove, steam rising off of it. 

“You. Started dinner,” Mountain says almost in disbelief. Like he cannot fathom the idea that someone else is cooking. 

“Course I did, now come lick this.” Multi’s tail flicks in the direction of the stove. 

Mountain still feels stunned as he walks over to the pot. He does not even know what to feel. Anger? No, that is not fair to Multi. Disappointment? Annoyance? He just does not know. The last task of the day he has to distract himself got taken. He knows Multi probably means it as a way to show he cares, take something from Mountain’s shoulders, but he is unaware of how desperately Mountain needs this. But what is he supposed to do? Kick him out of the kitchen and tell him to never do this again? What would be the point of that? 

So, he simply does what Multi asks. He picks up a nearby spoon, stirring the broth in the pot before bringing it up to his lips. He blows to cool it down as he tentatively puts it into his mouth. It is definitely missing most of its flavor, though he has only just gotten started. 

Mountain licks his lips as he sets the spoon down, “It. Could use just a little bit more pepper.” 

Multi finishes slicing the mushroom, scraping off the cutting board into the bowl with the rest. He grabs the pepper grinder and gives the top a twist over the broth. Flecks of black sit at the top before he takes the same spoon Mountain had and mixes it in. 

“Okay now try.” He scoops up some of the broth and hands the spoon over to Mountain. 

He lets the liquid wash over his tongue. It is warm as it goes down. “Better.” 

“I’ll take it.” Multi grins and grabs the bowl of mushrooms. He begins to scoop them out, tossing them into the broth by the handful. 

“Would you like me to help?” Mountain’s eyes stay glued to his hands. Watching as he works. 

“Sure! You can start by taking a seat.” 

“Excuse me?” 

When about half of the mushrooms are in the broth, Multi sets the bowl down and turns to look at Mountain, “You need to take a damn break. I’m worried for you Mounty.”

“I’m okay. Promise.” 

There is a flick of hesitation in his eyes before he speaks again, “Come on. This morning when you almost got sick? Snapping your sticks at rehearsal? I may be stupid but I’m not an idiot.” 

Mountain does not know what to say. What can he say? Keep insisting that he is fine? Multi clearly is not buying that anymore. But he is not exactly keen on the idea of spilling his guts in the middle of the kitchen. Especially when the whole pack is only a few feet away in the common room. It is bad enough Aether is going to make him sit with him, he does not need to throw it at Multi too. 

He opens and closes his mouth. The longer he goes without saying anything, the more Multi’s expression softens until eventually Mountain relents. He would rather not cause another scene. He takes a hesitant step forward. Then another and another until he plops himself down on one of the barstools. 

Multi smiles at him, “Just sit and enjoy the show.” 

But what other choice does he have? With dinner gone, he searches for something else to trim the unruly garden. Ears twitching as he listens to the pack’s chatter. Eyes focused on every movement Multi makes as he stirs the rest of the ingredients into the soup. Grasping onto every little thing he can to keep himself present. Reminding himself that tomorrow will be different, the mantra that has kept him going the entire day. He just has to hold on a little longer. 

He does not even realize he is picking at the skin around his claws until movement next to him makes him startle. He turns his head to see Zephyr now sitting next to him on the other barstool, cane leaning against the counter. They take one of his hands and lace their fingers together. 

“I heard you caused quite the ruckus at rehearsal today clover.” They rub their thumb over his knuckles. 

Mountain sighs, “Really nothing happened. I snapped a few sticks, it’s not like I’ve never done that before.” 

They hum, “And that’s it? It was only some stick snapping?” 

Of all the ghouls his little incident has to get back to it just has to be Zephyr. They’re too smart, too perceptive. If it were not for the feathers and that symbol on their chest, Mountain would be convinced they have quintessence in their veins with how well they can read a room. 

“Yes. That’s all it was. We were having a good run and I got too into it. Is that a problem?” He snaps out the last part, though when he hears himself he immediately regrets it. But he cannot help it. He is tired of everyone trying to break the dirt to search for something that is not there. He is fine. Everything is fine. He has just had a tough couple of weeks but it will work itself out. He does not need this prodding. 

Zephyr eyes Mountain for just a moment before replying, “No. No problem at all.” 

“Great,” Mountain says flatly. 

They do not say anything more, but they do keep their hands laced with Mountain’s. It just makes him feel worse for snapping. Luckily though, Multi calls from the kitchen. 

“It’s almost ready!” 

He drops Zephyr’s hand as he prepares to stand, “I’ll set the table then.” 

But before he can even put one hoof on the ground, a burst of heat passes him by. Dewdrop enters the kitchen, jaw set in either pain or determination. Mountain is not sure which. Dew glances over at him, a blinding blaze meets a dark forest as their eyes catch. 

“I’ve got it.” His voice is rusty in the way that is when he first wakes up. 

“Dew…” he breathes. 

He leans heavily against the counter as he stares at Mountain, waiting to see what he wants to say. 

What does he want to say? A lot. He wants to tell him to rest. He wants to usher him back to where he was with Ifrit. He wants to ask if he is feeling better. He just wants to talk to him. Hear his voice. Feel his warmth. Bask in his light. But doubt creeps into his mind as the guilt settles like a stone in his gut. 

He keeps his mouth shut. 

When the silence stretches for too long Dew just pushes himself up and goes to the cabinet where the bowls are. His body screams at him to stand up and actually do something like he is supposed to do, but he does not even twitch. He sits paralyzed as he wrestles to free himself from the vines of that unkempt garden. As wrap around him and hold him still. 

Dew should not have to do this. He should be doing this. He needs to get a hold of himself and what he is supposed to do. 

“Why thank you little sprite.” Multis nods as he stirs the soup. 

Dew says nothing in response as he opens the cabinet door. His arms visibly shake as he reaches up for the first stack of bowls. He purses his lips as he gets a hold of them. He quickly pulls them out and sets them onto the countertop with a heavy thud, as if their weight is too much for him. He flexes his jaw as he reaches up again for the second stack, still trembling. As he lifts them, the faint sound of porcelain clinking together can be heard over the chatter of the pack. He pulls them out of the cabinet to put them down next to the first stack. But he does not make it that far. 

A shatter echoes through the kitchen as the bowls hit the ground. Shards of white go flying, cascading over the floor like cracked ice. 

All of the noise in the den stops. 

Everyone turns their attention to Dewdrop. 

Everything is still, frozen in place for only a moment. Then there is a flurry of movement as the pack jumps to see what happened. 

Multi turns the stove to a simmer before trying to step over to Dew, careful of the broken pieces of porcelain that now litters the floor. 

Cumulus peers over the back of the couch calling from the common room, asking if he is alright. 

Rain pushes off the loveseat to make his way into the kitchen. 

A loud beeping starts to blare as smoke curls from Dew’s nostrils and mouth with each heavy breath he takes. Cirrus quickly opens a window as Zephyr tries to funnel the smoke out. 

Dew balls his fists at his sides as the breeze flows through the room. He hisses and slams the cabinet door shut with a heavy thunk. Before anyone can reach him, he storms out of the kitchen. His steps are dotted with red, a trail of blood left in his wake from ignoring the shards. 

Heat rolls off him in waves as he stampedes away from Multi. Past Cumulus and Rain. Past Mountain. Past all of them so he can get to his bedroom. 

Like ice left out in the summer sun, the heat finally makes Mountain move. He jumps off his stool at the same time Dew slams his door shut. He immediately moves to follow him. 

“Rain.” Mountain does not even look back to see if he follows. He knows he will. And he cannot bear to take his eyes off where Dew disappeared down the hall. 

The white porcelain now stained red as it lay cracked and shattered in the floor acts as shears to the strangling vines. Dew is hurt. Really hurt. There may be a million things they need to say to each other, but if Dew is hurt then there is not a single thing in this world or the next that will stop Mountain from going to him. He would claw his way out of a landslide just to get to Dew when he needs someone. 

Now that Rain and Mountain are outside of his door, the smell of smoke is suffocating. The fire alarm still blares from the kitchen as they glance at each other. Something heavy crashes to the ground from inside. Mountain does not hesitate to throw the door open. 

It is dark inside yet they can see perfectly thanks to the orange glow emanating from the farthest corner of the room. The only thing they can hear now are Dew’s hiccuping sobs and pained snarls. Rain dashes past Mountain, heading straight for that orange light. 

Dew has squeezed himself in the space between his bed and the wall. He is curled in on himself, knees to his chest with his face hidden. Rain immediately drops down onto his knees to scoot closer to him. 

Dew’s head lifts slightly, just enough to see his eyes. They burn brightly, shining like embers being stoked to life. His brow is set in a hard scowl, but the look in them screams nothing but fear. Like a fox cornered in its den. 

Rain moves even closer with his hands outstretched, “Dewdrop. You’re bleeding. You have to let us see.” 

He only hisses sharply in return, growling as he presses himself closer to the wall. His tail whips across the floor in front of his feet, curling from his calf. His pupils are narrowed to slits. His ears pin back as Rain continues to inch forward. 

Mountain narrows his eyes at him. He has seen him like this once before. When he hurt so badly he could not get out of bed. He had missed rehearsal and tried to still practice on his own, but he could not even hold his guitar. That moment ended with a destroyed bedroom and scorched carpet. 

“Rain. Back away from him.” Mountain’s tail twitches behind him. Something is not right. He needs to get Rain away from Dew. At the very least he needs to put himself between them. 

“He needs help,” Rain snaps. 

“I’m aware. But just look at him. We can’t touch him like this.” He has to be glowing for a reason and if the heat of the room is any indication, then Rain really needs to move. 

But Rain just ignores him. He crawls forward on his knees again, only a few feet away from Dew now. He hisses again, baring his fangs as if he were a cat. 

“It’s okay Dew. We just want to help.” Rain reaches forward toward his bloody feet. 

A dull thud echoes through the room as Dew lunges at Rain, knocking him to the ground. His claws are extended as he rears back to swipe at his face. Rain flinches and brings his arms up to shield himself but before Dew can do much as twitch, Mountain rushes forward. He grabs Dew around the middle and yanks him off of Rain. 

He hisses as Dew struggles in his grasp, causing their skin to touch. He is burning. 

“Go get Multi! Now!” Mountains yells at Rain. Aether is not here. They need his quintessence. 

Rain sits up, shaking his head and blinking hard. He looks at where Mountain is restraining Dew for a second before jumping up and darting out of the room. 

Dew continues to wiggle in his hold, desperately trying to get away from him. He hisses and spits, whipping his tail against Mountain as he digs his claws into the meat of his forearms. Mountain grunts pressing him closer to his body despite the way Dew burns. He cannot let go. Not until he is himself again. If he lets go now, he will only hurt himself more. He could even hurt the others. 

Mountain has to stop him. He has to keep everyone safe. 

The heat makes it hard though. It is oppressive, like standing too close to an open flame. Sweat collects at his hairline. His shirt clings to his body. 

“Dewdrop,” he hisses when his claws finally break the skin on his arm, “stop. It’s only me. I’m trying to help.” 

Whatever states Dew is in, it does not seem like he can hear Mountain. He growls low in his throat before slamming his head back against Mountain’s nose. He cries out, instinctively dropping his hold to clutch at his face. Dew practically pushes off of him, knocking Mountain’s head against the wall. His ears begin to ring as stars dance across his vision. 

He blinks hard to clear the fuzzy edges. Everything feels like it is moving in slow motion as he watches Dew bolt for the door. His mind screams at him to move. To stop him. With a grunt, he grits his teeth and forces himself up. He has to protect everyone. 

He is unstable on his feet, nearly falling right back over once he is up. But he does not have to go far. The space is small and Mountain lives up to his name. He takes only two steps forward before his hand shoots out and grabs at Dew’s wrist to pull him back. 

He spins on his heel immediately, lips curling up in a snarl but all Mountain can hear is the sharp ringing. Sweat makes his fur feel heavy. His head pounds in time with his heart. His limbs do not move with the speed he needs. He is not able to react fast enough. 

Dew’s claws slash across Mountain’s face, hot blood splattering onto the floor. Mountain roars as he stumbles back, hand coming up to clutch as the oozing wound. Blood pools into his mouth from a slice on his lip as his vision is clouded with red.

 His back collides with the wall as he tries to get his bearings. He feels like he cannot breathe. What is left of his visions blurs and swims as the shape of Dewdrop breaks for the door again. He weakly tries to follow, but his knees buckle. 

So much blood. 

Too much blood. 

Hot. 

Too hot. 

He cannot think. He cannot move. He has to move. He has to. Someone has to get to Dew. He tries to crawl forward in the direction he thinks he went but he does not make it far. He screams at his body to keep going, but his muscles do not even twitch. 

He collapses fully, leaning his weight against the nearest solid object as black tinges the edges of the world. The only thing he registers before he closes his unscathed eye is an overwhelming scent of ozone, amber, and spice. 

He only opens his eye again when the sound of ringing fades away, replaced by the call of his name. He slowly looks up to see Multi crouching in front of him with his arms extended.

“Mountain? Can you hear me now?” 

He nods, but immediately regrets it as his skull pounds, “Did you…?” 

Multi returns the nod, “Got his mind back.”

“Where. Is he?” 

As if on queue, Mountain can hear the sound of retching echo from the open bathroom door. 

“Is he. Alright?” Mountain’s breath comes in heavy pants. 

“Is he alright? Mount I think there are other things to worry about right now.” 

It is only then that Mountain realizes Multi has his hands pressed against the wound on his face. He can still feel the warmth of blood as it trickles down his chin to drip stains into his shirt. 

“What the fuck happened?” Multi practically begs. 

“He. He didn’t mean it. Wasn’t himself. It’s the pain and the fire. He’s not used to it yet. He just needs someone to help him.” Mountain makes a half hearted attempt to push against Multi. To try and stand. 

“Help him?!  You can’t be fucking serious right now?” He does not budge. 

“Just let me—“ 

“Mountain stop.” 

“He needs someone to help him.” 

“So do you!” 

Mountain tries to find the strength to form a rebuttal, but he cannot. The adrenaline is fading. He is starting to become aware of the pain from the slash across his face. It stings as sweat drips from his hairline to mingle with the blood. Mountain slumps back again, horns clacking against the wood of Dew’s bed frame. 

He feels like the weight of the world has been placed on top of him, body buried under layers of rock and dirt. He closes his eye again as he feels Multi move on his own hands to his face. He uses the last of strength to hold it there, keeping pressure to the wound as Multi hooks his hands under Mountain’s armpits. He lets himself be hoisted to his feet, swaying like a tree in a windstorm. 

Multi steadys him, grunting with the effort of holding up most of Mountain’s weight. He takes a tentative step forward, trying to lead Mountain towards the door. He does not have it in him to fight it. Oh he wants to. He wants to pull away and go to the bathroom to make sure Dew did not get injured in the spat. But it takes all of his focus just to put one hoof in front of the other. He would fall flat on his face if he tried. 

“Come on. We’re gonna get you out of here and we’re gonna get you fixed and cleaned up and you’re gonna be okay.” 

Mountain barely resisters the words, head still pounding. A quiet ringing coming from his hearing aids. He keeps his head down as they pass the threshold and enter the hallway where the rest of the pack is gathered around. 

They try to talk to him, call his name. Ask what happened as Multi heads towards his room. But he ignores all of them. How could he face them? Answer them? He is their foundation, or at least he was supposed to be. How can he call himself that now? When he is being carried away as a bloody mess. The last of the light leaves his garden. All that remains is weeds and thorns. Everything he was is eroded away, crumbling into dust. 

How can he be their protector, their provider? 

How could he have failed so badly? 

[sehtoast]

The Mentor and The Mirror (Homelander x Reader)

700 words, similar powers!reader, gender neutral reader.

Ask prompt: What if Homelander was "given" someone, by the higher ups of Vaught, to mentor? They have powers like his, but are a bit weaker and different. What Homelander doesn't know is that they are from the lab like him.

If he found out this person grew up like him, do you think he'd be meaner or sympathetic to them?

“Someone could kill you with a sneeze.  They really think you’re worth training?”  He asks bitterly.  You two have been out in this field for hours now, and he’s fucking over it.

Well, for the most part.

There’s something endearing and fun about teaching your pet new tricks.  See, they’d told him flat out that you were his to mentor, but all he heard was you’re his. The sentence stopped there.

You’re a peculiar thing, equipped with all of his same abilities, except that you lack invulnerability.  You’re a liability for crime fighting, but those fucks on the board of directors already made their choice.  Besides, either he trains you or Stan will be an ever present thorn in his side.  Last thing he wanted was to deal with that asshole.

“Why the fuck can’t you fly yet?  Just do it,” he gestures with his hand, “like a… I don’t know, a normal person?”

“Sorry-”  You blurt out, accidentally flipping upside down.  “I uh, they didn’t let me practice much in the rooms growing up.  Ten foot ceilings, you know?”

He blinks rapidly at that, cocking his head slightly.  What rooms? 

Homelander stores that little bit of information away for later, chuckling instead as you plummet to the ground and land on your ass.

You groan pitifully.  This has been absolutely awful.

“I don’t think I can do it…” You murmur dejectedly, sitting upright.  “It’s hard.”

Now that bothers him.  No student of his is going to fail and make him look bad, and you’re certainly not going to make him have another fucking meeting with Stan.  He rolls his eyes in exasperation before leaning down to lift you.

“Wh–”

You’re weightless in his arms as he spins, winding up to–

“N- NO, NO, NO!”  You shout as he hurls you into the sky.  You flap your arms and legs, begging your powers to work as you ascend past the clouds, further and further until the air gets thin and the world below is square patches of various greens.

“Always gotta do these things the hard way,” Homelander muses, clicking his tongue below.

You continue falling, tears spilling as you plummet faster than you can gather yourself.  You see your life flash before your eyes until–

Oh.

You flex your shoulders back and suck in a breath, and suddenly…

“About fucking time!”

He’ll never admit it, but the excitement on your face and the hug you give him makes him so fucking proud of you.  

Later that night, he delves into your files.  Madelyn’s access codes still work, and he finds your full file with ease.  Your record is squeaky clean.  No past employment, no education, no family records…

There’s nothing. 

And that’s how he knows.

He knows exactly what you meant earlier, and he knows exactly where you came from.

He knows because that’s how his file looks, too.

He knows because he came from there, too.

The next day, when you excel with laser practice, he’s proud, but he’s also resentful.  You’re not just his student now; you’re him.  You’re a physical reminder of everything he’s gone through.  

He hates you for it.

But he hurts for you, too.

It breaks his heart when you pass the medical ward and shuffle closer to him.

He used to do that, but there was never anyone walking with him.

The next time you two are out in that field, he’s much more patient despite how much it grates his nerves to watch you flounder in the air again.

He looks at you and suddenly he’s back there.  Remembers when the doctors would correct his mistakes with enough electrical voltage to actually hurt him.

It always made the lights flicker.  Made the room smell terrible– all hot and rotten.

He hears Vogelbaum’s voice.  

Not good enough, John.  Do it again.

He’s angry that you clearly weren’t subjected to the same. How the fuck was that fair?

And yet…

He’s so fucking happy knowing you weren’t.

If nothing else… they clearly didn’t hurt you as much as they hurt him.

This time, when you fall, he catches you.

Just like he wished someone would have done for him.

[mayvora]

SPREAD THE SCULK SPREAD THE SOULS

he is not my favourite. he is me. I am him. he is my entire personality I make everything about him I have so much cub/sculk cub/sculk stuff it is CRAZY. My hair is blue because I wanted to be more like him. My friends call me cub. I stole this guys identity or something.

small drawings/sketches for work days because. well. work u know! goin easy on myself! also if you too think that this one looks better than others - thats because I spend entire Saturday drawing and learning and stuff and I think it affected me a little bit tehee.

Lil headcanon below the cut just because I can

Sculk looks like the night sky full of stars.

When you're in the ancient city and it's fully dark and ominous and you're out of your torches and lights... You can look at the ceiling and mistake it for the sky with small white stars - cold and cruel stars of the forever lost city that will not lead you home but instead will give you to the grey walls and endless corridors and... maybe to something that was once full of life but will never be truly living again.

Before Cub got corrupted he would spend endless nights with his best friend; lying together on the grass, they would stare at dark sky and Cub would talk about the eternal cosmos, explaining star maps, planets, black holes and everything he ever learned; starting from the birth of the universe and ending with theories how it will die. Scar would listen to every word again and again, thousands of nights in a row, always smiling and asking questions and laughing and sharing the joy with his favourite person in the world.

Sculk-infected Cub would stare at the ceilings of the ancient city for hours; he didn't know why, didn't remember why, but he still would. Looking at fake sky the same way he would look at living... but without his best friend at his side.

Maybe that's why it was so hurtful to look up and count stars he didn't know and didn't recognize but still tried to find constellations Scar loved most.

[savorypink]

king and queen seat

you, alex, and some papers.

contains smut. + tbhc!au.

"What do you think?"

It's breathtaking. You marvel at your home planet's brilliance as you gaze from the large office window. The vast darkness of outer space leaves you hollow, but tonight, it aids in the mesmerising showcase before you. The orb is luminous in the dead, black sky, adorned with deep ocean blues and swirling clouds of white.

Patches of earthy greens and browns emerge, though not in great detail. You can almost pinpoint each continent. Watching from your seat, you feel microscopic, too puny and weak to handle it all.

As Alex settles beside you, the couch cushion sinks under his weight. Only when his large, icy hand envelopes your clammy palm are you thinking: Who in the hell puts a casino up here? You scramble through the file cabinet of your brain to muster something—anything worthwhile to say — but when your mouth opens, nothing emits. Alex adores it.

"Any adjective will do." He says, his warm lips brushing your knuckles in a gentle kiss. Your heart goes into overdrive, unsure if it's from Alex's touch or from realising how silly you must look.

"Wow." Your voice is but a whisper, but awe blankets every letter.

"Not an adjective." He sets your limp hand on your lap before returning to his desk. "I'll accept it, though."

Your gaze fixates on him as he rolls the sleeves of his button-down, hauling you deeper into a lovesick trance. Under the warm ceiling lights, the gold band on his finger flashes in the light as he does so, causing you to fidget with your own. A certain feeling crawls up your spine, mirroring the same puny insignificance you felt observing the Earth. Your man belongs here; you don't.

In the past, he might have shown initial protest, and leaving you on Earth certainly didn't help ease his guilt. However, you never doubted his ability to run this place. No one else had the capacity for care and detail as Alex did. From the green nylon carpeting to the flashing neon lights of the casino below, he had everything and then some.

Was it too ambitious? It'd be dumb to say otherwise. However, you can only see one man behind the desk running it all. And he wants you in the passenger seat? You should be happy, yet you wish for the couch cushions to swallow you whole.

You startle when a stack of documents slams onto the desk and again when you hear the thud of the desk drawer closing. From the drawer, Alex retrieves a pen adorned with a cute rubber charm of an astronaut at the top. A pair of readers also emerges from the drawer, which he perches on the tip of his Romanesque nose. Yes, he's your husband, but you're here solely on business. What's with the teenage swooning?

In silence, you watch as he reviews the documents. He's already pre-signed them, and the dotted lines await your signature, but you know how thorough he likes to be. The pen looks like a plaything in his giant fist. The veins in his wrist pulse as he clicks the pen, obnoxiously echoing off the office walls. For a moment, you're convinced the clicking is in perfect synch with your frantic heart despite the inattention of the action.

When the clicking ceases, your heart does, too, only to start again once he brings the clicker between his teeth, his lips brushing the astronaut charm. You're realising how uncomfortable your pencil skirt and button-up are as you sweat like a sinner doused in holy water. Are you seriously jealous of a pen?

"Baby." The air loses its stillness when his velvety voice fills the silence, causing you to sit upright. "What are you thinking about?"

Where do you begin? This co-manager role is a lot of responsibility, and I'm terrified. Do I want to do this? Why do you look so sexy when reading stuff? We should kiss. Cute pen, by the way. None of these thoughts leave your mind. Instead, the sour tang of word vomit tumbles out.

"You look good in that chair." It comes out more gravelly than you wish, and Alex notices it. The smirk adorning his handsome features says more than enough.

"Our chair now." He leans further into the velour chair, playfully twisting until he gets up. "Unless you don't want it. I know my girl likes to decorate." He slides the papers in your direction, placing the pen beside them.

"She does. It's very...you."

The office could be mistaken as a set for Mad Men. The scent of the mahogany walls and a newly vacuumed carpet float through the air. Though you're worried your sweat may have soiled it, the orange couch under you is intact, comfortable and plush, with no signs of sinking. You also notice this in the two spare chairs, the same burnt orange colour as the couch. Men in suits should be scaling the walls to be here. Yet, the office feels uninhabited; the only lingering animal prowling is Alex.

It is muted and lonely. It feels just like space. It feels like Alex.

"Eh," he shrugs. "It could use some plants. Gonna need your name on these papers, little lady."

Temporarily, you don't rise from your seat. Your nervous system isn't sending the neurons to your legs. You're realising this isn't some fawn-in-headlights moment. You're aware of your surroundings and what you're here to do. Yet, the painful churning of your guts and the weight of this—what you're sacrificing your life on Earth for—is weighing twice as heavy. These aren't first-day jitters. This is a warning.

Ultimately, your legs take you to the desk, but you're shouting at your body to stop shaking. It's only you, Alex, and some papers. It's almost like your wedding day.

You can pick up the pen without spasm, and Alex smiles when you do. Before your eyes meet the papers, you spot your wedding photo in a brown frame on the desk. The picture shows signs of wear and tear, with some fraying around the edges. The imperfections stem from the photo being in his wallet for years, but the flaws increase its charm. From the sepia colouring to you and Alex's stiff posture, the picture looks antique and fragile, your poses complementing the retro feel. Regardless, you hold your bouquet of dried peonies and foliage, beaming ear to ear with Alex behind you. You recall his offer to decorate, and while there are some things you'd like to rearrange, that photo isn't one of them. Your poses? You would change in a heartbeat.

To kill time, you skim the papers as slowly as you can. Alex simplified all the legal jargon for you beforehand, but you feel like a child picking up their first book. The most straightforward words look like gibberish, and your head is reeling as it attempts to comprehend everything. Your skull feels as if two large hands are squeezing your temples, the pain throbbing even harder when you reach the dotted line awaiting your name.

With your mind muddled and the room doing 360s, you don't even register Alex has moved behind you, his lips ghosting over your ringing ear.

"Is everything alright?"

His hushed whisper is soothing, grounding even. You can feel the carpet under your heels again. The dotted line is no longer a blur, and your head is no longer doing pirouettes. The air stirs again, and the burning in your lungs drops a few temperatures. You can breathe once more.

"Yes," you say. You click the pen and scribble your name. Although it looks like chicken scratch, Alex is familiar enough with your penmanship to deem it acceptable. He knows how you write when in a hurry, not when you're trying to make him happy.

Alex's arms firmly close around you, squeezing air out of you with mere strength. Elated isn't a strong enough word to define his happiness. It overflows in the scattered kisses he plants all over your reddening face, and you can feel him even trying to pick you up for a moment. You bask in the affection as if you hadn't signed your life away moments ago. You even giggle as his beard tickles and scratches your face.

The tenderness spilling from him is the only thing that feels normal. It's almost possible to forget you're here, on a floating rock in the middle of celestial nowhere. But the gleaming Earth outside the office window will always remind you of your sealed fate.

You're stuck here.

His lips meeting your mouth don't evoke the same enthusiasm from you. Hesitantly, you kiss back, imitating the lip movements of a kid kissed on the playground. Your nerves go unnoticed by your husband, likely mistaking your hesitance for teasing. His hands are still frigid, unyielding in temperature despite caressing your burning face. As the kiss deepens, you allow your previous doubts to dissipate, though Alex's tongue has done it for you. His grasp on your skull is tight, headache-inducing, but your relief is in his restlessness.

You can't blame him for wanting to tear you apart, his tongue roaming your mouth as if you were a lifeline. You've been gone for too long. Saying that he missed you would only scratch the surface. When he pulls away, both of you are breathless, your lungs clinging to the surrounding air.

"We should celebrate."

A lopsided grin adorns his features, making you want to kiss him all over again. Before Alex heads over to the bar cart near his desk, he leans in to give you one more peck on the lips. The bar is complete with coffee, teas and cookies you sent to him from home. The only alcohol is a small champagne bottle, which he returns to the desk. After pulling a corkscrew from the drawer, Alex releases the cork with a loud pop. The sound makes your heart misstep, but you can't contain your giggles, as it all happens in a rather lacklustre fashion: no foam, no clapping, no cheering. It's a surprise party thrown for the wrong person.

Alex hands you a paper cup filled halfway with champagne. As you take the cup, your hesitation mirrors the one in your kiss. You gaze at the cup, watching the bubbles ascend and burst. When he's back in front of you, you keep your eyes on the cup. You don't waver, even as you feel his eyes boring into you.

"What are you thinking about?" He asks. "And be honest this time."

The revelation doesn't shock you. It's somewhat reassuring that he caught up on your lie. The part where you have to tell him is what tugs at your heartstrings. Your eyes remain on the cup as if your answer is in the bubbles. Telling him should be a cakewalk; say how you feel. It's not like you're trying to reverse a major decision or anything!

You let your eyes leave the cup, meeting Alex's concerned expression; you're looking at a kicked, beat puppy, and the sight is nauseating. Perching on the desk, you sigh, watching your trembling legs sway beneath you.

"I know you can do this. And you do it well," you state. "I'm just not sure if I can do it. At all."

The light against your feet goes dark as Alex's shadow eclipses your form. For a moment, you're freezing as his shadow looms over you. You're fighting with your body to stop shivering, the weight of his shadow heavy and biting; it's almost unnerving. Soon enough, you find warmth as Alex's hand cups your cheek. The tenderness washes over you like a tidal wave; it's what you've yearned for this whole time. This should feel like something other than a business meeting. This is you and your husband.

"I don't need you to be perfect," he begins. "I need you to be here."

You swallow a lump large enough to make you choke, fixing your unsteady eyes on his warm gaze. "Is that enough?"

"More than enough. We've always been a team. Now, we're a team on the moon."

You chuckle, leaning your head into his calloused palm. "In a casino. On the moon."

"Right. Treat like we're at home. You cook, I do the dishes. I wash, you fold. It's all 50/50." He leans in and lowers your head, planting a tender kiss on your scalp. "You'll never do it alone. I promise. You can say your husband loves you to the moon if it's any consolation. And it'll be true."

A boulder is gone from your shoulders. It's like you're breathing for the first time, feeling the knot in your chest finally come undone. Your doubts will continue to linger; that won't change. The bittersweet aftertaste lies in the comfort of Alex being there to remove those hurdles for you. And he'll continue to do it—always—just as he promised you.

Sighing, you rest your head against his chest, focusing on the steady beat of his heart. "One hell of a celebration, huh?" You snort, looking at your cup. "We didn't even make a toast."

Alex withdraws from you, lifting the paper cup halfway. "What shall we toast to?"

"I dunno." You shrug, mirroring his movements albeit meekly. "Teamwork?"

With a small smile, he taps his cup against yours. "To teamwork."

Before taking a sip, Alex raises the cup once more. "And to Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino's First Lady."

First Lady, it's difficult for the title not to make you smile. As you sip your champagne, a comforting chill travels down your spine at the fizziness. You glide your tongue along your lips to catch the hints of melon, an action that feels like a blissful eternity in Alex's mind. His sharp eyes wander from your champagne-coated lips down to the tan pencil skirt you wore to match his tan trousers.

With ease, the stretchy fabric lifts and sculpts the curve of your butt, accentuating your hips and supple thighs. The skirt's ability to cling to you is equally alluring and irritating, moulding your body into perfect form and embracing you better than he could. It's not fair; it should be him instead.

Alex downs the last of his champagne in a swift swig, pivoting his aching lower half away from you. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches you clam up again, your eyes vacant and your hands pleading to shake. Your stress is infectious in the worst way possible, suffocating the office with unbearable weight, making his heart fall into his stomach.

Alex clears his throat before speaking, likely masking the shakiness threatening to slip out. "Can I do anything to make you more...comfortable?" He asks. "As far as your new position's concerned, I mean."

"Kiss me again."

You say it without delay. It's the most confidence you've had today. Alex quickly grants your wish, almost tripping over his feet to kiss you again. This kiss holds more ferocity than the one before. It's painful when your lips meet, the alcohol burning, teeth colliding. Your tongues are lacking in grace, twisting and fumbling over each other, rough and greedy. When you moan, he calls back to you with ten times the intensity, his groans deep, almost primal.

Both of you are equally breathless, like the first kiss, panting as you two separate. With your foreheads against each other, you realise nothing needs to be said between you. Besides a question from Alex, you two are pure telepathy. But sometimes, Alex likes to hear it from your mouth.

"What do you want to do?"

Through your quivering lip, you utter the command. "Sit."

The desk beneath you rumbles as Alex drops to his knees. He wastes no time from there, his hands mirroring the same insatiable hunger as his tongue. To your dismay but with delight, his impatient hands form tears and holes in your stockings. Your gooseflesh expands as your bare skin becomes exposed, your body tingling when his hands graze you, sending delightful shockwaves to your core.

Alex's eyes lock with yours, holding a gaze that swirls your heart and head. The fabric of your skirt wrinkles as his hold on the hem tightens; he's beyond eager to please you. He's a chess piece awaiting your skilful hand—a jester desperate for the royal's approval.

You give a simple nod, and to Alex, you've moved the piece that will lead you to victory. He hikes your skirt up to your stomach, releasing a swarm of butterflies with his movements. Alex tears through the remaining material of your stockings to access your drenched panties, his breathing ragged and hot against your flush skin. He yanks the flimsy fabric to the side and glides his fingers along your leaking entrance. The touch may be minimal, but the impact is immense; you clutch the edge of the desk tightly, unable to hold back a moan as his fingers glide into you.

"Deeper," you command. Alex's fingers delve even further into your core. His knuckles flex as your walls shut around the digits, his teeth clenched in a tight hiss. Your thigh quakes when you feel it, the frigid metal of his wedding band sliding past your warm walls. It's as deep as he can get, but your ache refuses to subside. Using your hips, you buck to motion for Alex to take the wheel or do anything. Your walls morph into quicksand around his fingers, rendering them immobile as his fingertips strike the area of your rioting ache.

His eyes, devoid of focus, shift back and forth between your quivering, moaning form and the fingers plunged within you. Your arousal dribbles clear and hot on the mahogany desk, and it's pretty—fuck, it drives him mad, but solely for the time being. He's thankful you can't hear the annoyed 'tch' he lets out.

Below your stomach, the heat is scorching as his fingers work you further, poking and prodding your bits as your vision turns cloudy white. A tender kiss on your knee jerks your head downward, and your eyes meet your husband's once more. There's a glimmer in both of your gazes, ample in heart-stopping warmth; it's unshakable, too loud to ignore. The sight of you is ghastly, sweat clinging to your body like a second skin, and your makeup melting off your face. You're aware of it all, but it doesn't matter to Alex, and it never will. He'll look at you all the same; he'll hang you in the Louvre while holding the same gaze that put a ring on your finger. You'll always be perfect in his eyes.

The sounds bouncing against the office walls assault your ears, echoing your moans and those wet, squelching noises. Alex is inaudible through it all, but you can decipher his words by studying the curves of his lips.

"Close?" Alex asks.

Your body betrays you before you can answer, moaning instead of a simple "yes", yet you're able to nod your head. His fingers curl as they thump against your core once more, the bricks you've stacked steadily beginning to crumble. Alex is saying something else, and you are pretty familiar with it. You recognise the curving of his lips. He utters the words–your favourite words.

"I love you."

You don't say it back. Instead, you allow yourself to come undone on his fingers, your walls collapsing around the digits as you cry out to him. Your vision is a lovely cloudy white when you spasm. Through your haze, you forget entirely about the remaining liquid in your cup, accidentally pouring it on the documents that still lack your signature.

As the clouds roll out, you can hear Alex cooing you back to reality as he utters sweet nothings against your skin, rubbing away the never-ending gooseflesh. He slides his fingers out of you with fragility, as if you'll crack again at the slightest touch. 

You will.

Alex stands up with a sigh, observing the mess formed on the desk. The champagne seeps into the documents, causing the ink to bleed and smear your signatures. When you look like this, it's hard to let his anger rear its horrid head. He knows better than to ruin your bliss, to rip you out of your cosy headspace, but he's your boss now. His words are merely a slap on the wrist.

"First Lady, you've ruined my desk."

You gulp as you try to regain your breath, your chest burning hot as you pant. "Our desk."

[yvesssssssss]

heyyy if this is too much/too uncomfortable of an ask, feel free to ignore it by not responding to it. Could you do a type of scenario where reader has panic disorder (panic attacks consistently) and hasn’t told shin (her fiancé) about it yet, but when one of her biggest panic attacks starts while he’s sleeping, she gets up to like go to the balcony or just out of the room to calm down, until she’s met with shin and she’s like forced to tell him about it and he comforts her (puts her hand on his heart to try and steady her breathing) and when she calms down, he kisses her all over and like promises her that he’ll try to be there for her maybe?

Again I apologize if this is pretty dark and uncomfortable, I myself have panic disorder and it would be really nice to read something like this for comfort you know? (Oh and I hope this doesn’t sound like me guilt tripping you into writing this, I 100% will understand if you don’t want to write this.) i also apologize for my lack of good explanation, i kinda suck at those. But yeah, if you’re not up to it, you can delete the ask and I’ll understand.) thanks again and take your time, the best work of a writer comes from time and energy. Your writing is super inspiring by the way, almost makes me want to write <3

Steady

Please don’t apologize — I’m so glad you felt comfortable sharing this with me. What you asked for is not too much at all. It’s real, it’s important, and you’re not alone in this. You did an amazing job expressing yourself, and I’m truly honored to write something that might bring you comfort. Your feelings are valid, and you deserve all the care in the world. If it ever helps to talk or read more comforting stories, I’m here for you. And if you ever feel inspired to write yourself, know that I’m rooting for you every step of the way. You’re strong, and you’re not alone.

The room was quiet, wrapped in the deep navy silence of early morning. The soft sound of Shin’s breathing—slow and even beside you—should’ve been enough to ground you. But your chest felt tight. That familiar, choking pressure had started building again. You stared at the ceiling, willing yourself to breathe, to move, to not panic.

But it was happening anyway.

Your throat burned. Your fingers trembled. The air felt too thick, too thin, wrong. You couldn’t cry—your body wouldn’t even give you that. Just this wide-eyed, frantic dread that never made any sense but always felt like the end of the world.

You slipped out of bed as quietly as possible, your legs unsteady. The balcony. Just get to the balcony. Maybe if you could see the sky, maybe if you were alone, it would pass.

You didn't hear Shin stir behind you.

Didn’t hear him call your name softly when the blanket shifted and you weren’t there.

Didn’t hear his footsteps until the door creaked open and he whispered, “Y/n?”

You turned, arms wrapped around yourself, shoulders rigid. Caught.

Your breath hitched painfully. “Shin. I—I was just getting some air.”

He blinked, eyes adjusting to the faint blue light outside. His hair was sleep-mussed, his voice raspy. He looked at you for maybe two seconds too long, and then he took a step forward, something unreadable flashing across his face.

“Your hands are shaking,” he said gently.

“I’m fine,” you said too fast.

He reached out but didn’t touch you—not yet. “You’re not.”

You tried to smile, to laugh it off, to run back into the dark like a secret. “It’s nothing. I just—sometimes I get like this. It’s stupid, I should’ve told you sooner—”

“Hey.” His voice cut through your spiraling thoughts. Not harsh. Not angry. Just... solid. Grounding.

“I get panic attacks,” you finally whispered, the words tiny and brittle. “A lot. They don’t always make sense. They just happen. I didn’t want you to think I’m broken.”

Shin’s face didn’t change. No pity. No confusion. Just Shin, quiet and strong and here.

“C’mere,” he said softly, stepping closer. “Come here.”

When you didn’t move, he did instead—closing the distance and taking your hand in both of his. Then, gently, he brought your palm to his chest and held it there, over his steady, thudding heart.

“Breathe with me,” he murmured. “Just try.”

You could feel the rhythm—slow, firm, reliable. His heart, beating as if the world hadn’t just collapsed inside your chest.

“Can’t,” you whispered. “It won’t slow down.”

“It will. I’ve got you.”

He stayed like that—his hand over yours, yours over his heart—until your breathing stopped hitching, until your fingers stopped trembling. His forehead touched yours and he just breathed with you, anchoring you, never rushing.

When your body finally began to unclench, your chest still a little sore but manageable, he kissed your cheek. Then your forehead. Your temple. Soft, grounding kisses like he was trying to press calm into your skin.

“You are not broken,” he said, fierce and warm. “Don’t you ever think that.”

Tears welled up before you could stop them, and he wiped them with his thumb like they didn’t scare him at all.

“You don’t have to go through this alone anymore,” he said, pressing another kiss to your brow. “Even if it’s the middle of the night. Even if I’m asleep. I want to be there for you. Let me.”

You nodded, voice too thick to speak. He pulled you into his arms and you sank into him, his heartbeat still steady beneath your ear.

For the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel ashamed of the panic.

You just felt held.

[willowedspirits]

Soul Bound

Words: 3,116

Chain References

---

The sight of home was always a welcome one.

Entering the city’s gates was enough to help Legend relax under the circumstances—the dewy smell, the patrolling sentries, the snobs, the rain. Being in more familiar terrain took a great weight off his shoulders.

He could almost forget about the band of stray bugs following him if it weren’t for the awkward stares the late-night city dwellers sent his way.

“My shop is in the lower region, closer to the streets. I shouldn’t be long. Just need to grab a few things for our...” Legend paused, looking for the right word, “Journey.” He settled with. Honest truth, he was excited to venture further into Hallownest’s caverns. Not that anyone but him needed to know. But if he was going to be parading around with a bunch of strangers, he wanted to at least have a decent nail.

He wouldn’t say his shop was the finest in the city. The upper capital indeed had competitors, but Legend prided himself on the standards he held for his business.

He was lucky to have bought it when the old landlord was selling for any geo they could get their claws on. It was an old building at the bottom of the capital with creaky doors, and a cracking ceiling constantly covering his products in dust.

But it was home.

“With how important this business you allude to is, you’d assume it would take up more space.” The bee remarked while examining the small structure fronting the empty street.

Legend scoffed, “You try finding prime real estate in the middle of all this foot traffic.”

Warriors laughed, a harsh buzzing sound.

Twilight didn’t respond. Time didn’t seem to care. “We will wait out here then,” he said simply, his tone flat.

Legend’s claw lingered on the door, glancing back at the large group that definitely would not fit comfortably inside, “To your point, though, the eight of us will not fit. Especially not the giants back there.”

Warriors hummed, “I can assure you we aren’t looking for souvenirs anyway.” It sounded like a joke, so Legend chose to interpret it as such.

The little dragonfly, Wind, was not too happy, “What?! But I wanna see! Why did we come all this way just to end up standing out here in the gutter?” His little wings twitched in irritation.

“Why don’t we go see what Twilight’s looking at instead?” Sky negotiated.

The mantis had slowly migrated away from the group, examining the Lumafly fluttering in a street lamp down the path. Wind paused to watch him and scoffed but followed the moth’s lead as he started walking away. Wind could honestly come inside if he wanted. Him and the caterpillar, Four.

They probably wouldn’t even reach the table tops with how small they were.

Legend sighed, hoping he wouldn’t regret bringing them here, and finally opened the door.

“I’m back!” He shouted once the door closed behind him, surprised to get no response; he rarely returned to an empty home. Ravio must be out, meaning Sheerow was also gone.

Odd, but not unheard of for the duo.

The space was well used. Shelves barely scraped the arched ceiling and tables were pushed as far up against the walls as possible.  All of which were covered in old relics, antiques, and curiosities. Each table was divided and objects were labeled with a generous amount of written signs listing their values. With all his travels have provided him with, there needed to be a space for everything. It was an organized chaos that Legend found himself simply accepting the longer he stayed in the city.

And lived with Ravio.

He sighed, breathing in the old musty air he’d come to associate with home. It was still nice to be back, even if Ravio was nowhere to be found.

Actually, it was probably better that way. He wouldn’t be keeping his new acquaintances waiting. “Okay,” he muttered to himself, stepping around the counter. He’d collected a few nails over the years but wouldn’t call his collection extensive compared to other shopkeepers he’d met. Ruins were prime spots to find old weaponry, and repairing them was relatively easy as long as it was in one piece.

These nails, hidden from the public behind a locked drawer built into the counter, were considered his finest. Short-ranged nails made up most of his inventory, with some made to be hidden away under a cloak or behind a claw; most were honestly more decorative than practical. His great nails and lances were further back in his personal space. He’d once gotten a compliment for his variety by a blacksmith, which felt nice.

Legend didn’t think he would be bringing any of them, given how flashy they could be. He didn’t know how Time could wield the largest and, no doubt, heaviest nail he’s ever seen.

He leaned back, thinking to himself. Ideally, he would want to bring something easy to carry, easy to conceal, and something that wouldn’t get taken away easily. Not that he didn’t trust his new acquaintances, but you wouldn’t catch him without a nail around any of them alone.

(Yet.)

He was pulled out of his internal rationale when the door opened. A gentle breeze rattled the hanging lamps illuminating the shop as a sliver of the conversation amongst the strays outside slipped in before becoming muffled by the closing door.

Legend waited, listening. A beat passed, then a shuffle, somebody moving through the cramped shop, before he heard a loud thump, making him wince. The intruder yelped. Legend slowly pushed the drawer closed, only making it halfway before the intruder made themselves known. “Oh no!” they hissed. There was a lull, then a very hesitant, “Uh—Legend? Hello?”

Legend peeked over the counter, staring at Hyrule, who only spotted Legend once he cleared his throat. Whatever just broke, it better not have been expensive, for Hyrule’s sake. The poor firefly looked nervous, antenna flat against his head as he stepped back. “I didn’t mean to- It... I hit the table.”

Legend didn’t react, glancing at the closed door behind him.

“They’re trying to climb the light post. Bugs were... watching...” Hyrule trailed off.

Legend sighed and leaned over the counter to see a dark shape at Hyrule’s feet. It was a stone relic, old and long fossilized, 250 geo unless Ravio upped it without telling him. He waved a claw, “Just put it back where you found it.” Dropping it wouldn’t make the value any less; what’s one more crack? In pieces, however... “Carefully.” He added.

“Okay.”

Legend returned to the drawer, not hearing anything else hit the floor but keeping himself alert.

“Are these all from one place?” Legend almost didn’t hear it, with how quiet Hyrule kept himself.

He looked back up. Hyrule had gained the courage to step further into the space, though he kept to the middle of the walkways between the tables with his tail tucked closer to himself. “No,” Legend said. “Most of its from the surface.” They do well in the shop since many in the capital haven’t been higher than the Crossroads.

“The surface...” Hyrule muttered, which made Legend assume he was one of them.

Hyrule didn’t say any more; he just continued to look around the shop, noticeably avoiding the counter. It gave Legend time to settle his debate.

A pair of short nails, light and easy to slip under his armor, comfortable to maneuver with and strike. He settled one on each side, tucked away in his cloak.

He finally closed the drawer and stood, watching Hyrule slowly migrate towards the shelf with his Greenpath relics. He leaned forward, resting his claws on the countertop, “Now’s your chance to buy something. I don’t think we’re going to be back for a while.”

Hyrule didn’t respond, pulling away from a particularly expensive and mossy idol. He turned, meeting Legend’s eyes before quickly averting them.

Legend squinted.

Hyrule moved onto the next shelf. His antenna twitched, curious, and his claws occasionally reached out to carefully touch an item before moving on.

It was a habit that made Legend cautious. Many experiences with grifters or bugs that think they’re sly. He didn’t believe Hyrule would take anything, not with Legend standing right there and his very... wary personality. But he’s met bolder bugs. Houses one of them himself.

“What is that?”

There was a single window in the shop, on the wall to the right of the door, showing a perfect view of the street outside. Ravio had decorated it with a lovely display of some relics, one from each region in Hallonest they had inventory for. There was also a little bed for Sheerow pressed against the glass, which was ‘another incentive to come inside,’ as Ravio had insisted. “What?” Legend said, asking for a specific item.

Hyrule stepped carefully through the shop when approaching the window, claws curled in his cloak. “That,” he said, nodding at a long object against the wall, leaning against the window frame.

“Oh, that.” He passed Hyrule easily, grabbing what caught the firefly’s attention.

A staff. One that he’s had before he arrived in the city. 1,000 geo. It was an old relic that sat in ruin for who knows how long before he found it during his travels. The bottom was broken, forming a jagged point that Legend suspected used to be a decorative heel. The swirled carving at the top was chipped but intact, which was partly why it was so expensive.

The other reason…

It didn’t take much for Legend to make the staff glow, for a spark of light come to life in the rivets of the carving. It was a neat little trick, something only Legend had been able to do and something he, admittedly, still didn’t fully understand. There was a pull from… somewhere within him.

Taking.

Using.

Guiding?

He didn’t know what to call it.

Hyrule took a step back, the flickering glow reflecting in his eyes. “Where did you get that?” He said, wide eyes never leaving the light.

An odd choice of words.

He didn’t think he would have picked up on the slip if he hadn’t heard similar ones so many times before from the other traders. Legend let the glow fade, watching Hyrule’s claws gripping at his sides, looking like he wanted to snatch it right out of Legend’s claw. He leaned the staff against his shoulder, relaxed but guarded. “Some old ruins. Bordering Greenpath and the Crossroads. Why?”

The implication was there, and Hyrule must have been aware of the suspicion because he backpedaled, physically and verbally. “I—It looks... familiar. Is all.”

Legend continued to stare.

“I think- I mean… I could be mistaken?” He faltered, trying to recover.

Legend blinked, then put the staff back into place by just a fraction; the oldest trick in the book.

It worked. “It looks like a Shaman’s staff.” Hyrule caved, “One they use for Soul...”

Now, that was interesting.

Soul had been growing in popularity throughout the city, with the Soul Sanctum being the main culprits. Legend’s grip on the staff tightened. He figured it was something special to do with him since Ravio and other potential buyers had never made it glow before. Was it really his Soul?

Research was needed. The Soul Sanctum has been very interested in the recent gossip regarding magic.

Perhaps they could help?

Would they?

“Soul, huh?” he said simply, examining the staff, which suddenly had a whole new meaning. “Shamans. I’ve never met one.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to. They aren’t... around anymore.”

“You knew them?”

Hyrule laughed, “You could say that. I wouldn’t know most of what I do now without them.”

“And this was one of theirs?”

Hyrule examined it as closely as he could without touching it. Legend wondered if he wanted to. Wanted to hold something that clearly meant something to him. Something that Legend didn’t- couldn’t understand. “Looks like it, the carving up top—” Legend lowered it, looking closer at the spiral that decorated the end. “Is traditionally a shaman’s design.”

He had wondered about the design. Whether it was carved by other bugs or just a happy coincidence created with time. Legend’s seen such fine craftsmanship before, but knowing the context for its design added a lot more value to the “stick” he’d once simply used as a bludgeon and occasional nightlight. Hyrule was still watching, antenna stood alert, leaning forward, with a desire in his eyes. A genuine snail shaman’s staff. It was definitely worth more now in terms of geo, but the sentiment it held for Hyrule seemed greater.

“Do you want it?” Legend tested.

Hyrule flinched, gaping at Legend, “You- really?”

If Ravio were here, he would be calling Legend a soft-hearted sentimental bitch.

Legend shrugged, “Not like I’m going to be doing anything with it. All it does here is collect dust.” This is the first time anyone has shown such interest in the staff.

The light in Hyrule’s eye dulled, “I don’t have any geo.”

Legend smiled, “Then it’s a good thing I don’t just deal in geo. This is a trading shop, after all.”

Hyrule’s antenna lowered, suspicious, and looked between him and the staff. “What do you want?”

It was really hard not to mess with him, the first thought being your right arm, but Legend knew he’d be skeptical in the firefly's place. There was always a catch in this business. He switched the staff from claw to claw. “How about...” he said, pausing more for dramatics. He already knew what he wanted: “You show me all the tricks this thing can do.”

“...Seriously?” Hyrule sounded both relieved and doubtful, “That’s all?”

“That’s all I really want out of it now. It used to be something I could wack over someone’s head if I didn’t like them. Either that or a fun party trick. It would be... interesting to see what it was really made for.” He held out the staff, letting his grip ease around it, “Deal?”

Hyrule reached out but hesitated to take it from Legend’s claw. He squinted, looking the staff up and down, antenna twitching. “I shouldn’t...” he said. “It’s not mine.”

So?

Legend kept the offer out.

“You found it.” Hyrule added as if that elaborated anything.

Hyrule kept his claws to himself, even going further to prove the point by taking a step back.

Okay, How are we going to do this?

“So you don’t want it?” He pushed.

Hyrule’s antenna twitched again, “I can’t take it. It’s not mine.”

That still didn’t help.

Legend leaned back, taking the staff with him. He hummed, thinking. He’d heard of Soul here and there during his travels. Each bug had a different definition, but a similar sentiment was that it kept bugs alive and going. He’s heard rumors of some bugs that could harness and use their Soul to their benefit.

He would have... has laughed in their faces at the notion.

Then, he met Hyrule.

He’d seen what Hyrule could do, how his very being lit up when using his power. Legend wanted that knowledge. Would Hyrule be willing to share?

What would Legend be willing to give in return?

“You’ve put me in a rough spot here Rule.”

Hyrule squinted at the nickname but didn’t comment.

The ball was in Hyrule’s court. Legend hated that.

Mercifully, Hyrule seemed to pick up on his internal conflict. “I could teach you.” He said, “How to use it, I mean.”

That was kind of him, but... “I don’t like... I have plenty of debts I need to pay off already. And I wouldn’t want to scam a potential customer.”

Hyrule looked around the shop, eyes drifting from item to item stacked on tables and shelves, pausing on one full of tablets and old scrolls. He gasped, “Your journal!”

Legend stepped back, claw automatically going to his satchel. “Absolutely not!” He said it perhaps too sharply, seeing how Hyrule flinched, but he didn’t care.

“No! Sorry, uh-” Hyrule scrambled, raising his claws, “Your map. I meant your map. Or- What’s on your map?”

It was Legend’s turn to waver. He recalls their journey to the city, traveling through the twisting caves and tunnels, and how none of his comrades had the necessary skills to navigate outside their regions. “Yes?” he prompted.

Hyrule didn’t waste it. “I want to see them—all the places you’ve been, where all of this came from.” Hyrule gestured around the shop.

His map was far from complete, but he remembered the look in Hyrule’s eyes when he first opened it in front of the group. His travels were something he rarely got to talk about. Few bugs actually cared where their treasure came from.

Legend forced himself to relax and collect himself. Soul lessons for a tour? It didn’t seem fair at all. Hallownest was huge, and Soul was... He wasn’t entirely sure what it was. Hyrule clasped his claws before him, pleading silently, eyeing the staff.

“Mmmm,” a pause, debating. If what he’s heard is true, Soul was a bug’s life force, their essence, their very being; controlling it would be an excellent tool. The staff only glowed in his claws; if he could somehow do more... “I can do that,” He decided.

Hyrule beamed, his antenna vibrating. He extended his claw, closing the space between them. “Deal?”

Legend couldn’t hold back the laugh. This was perhaps the strangest barter he’s wagered, but you wouldn’t catch him complaining. “Well,” he said, taking Hyrule’s claw, “If you insist.”

Only Time and Warriors were at the door when they finally vacated the shop. Looking down the street, Legend could see the rest of the group circling something on the ground, along with a Great Sentry. Wet red armor shone against the flickering light, and Legend felt his eye twitch.

“What in the queens of old is that?” Warriors exclaimed, gesturing to the staff still in Legend’s claw. This caught Time’s attention, who looked interested but remained quiet.

Legend had a response, a quick, perhaps snide comment about this bee’s so-called queens. He held back as Hyrule took hold of the staff, jerking it in his claw but not pulling it away from Legend. He presented it with a sudden confidence. It glowed bright under Hyrule’s hold, more of an even pulse compared to Legend’s weak flicker. He wasn’t sure if Hyrule was doing it on purpose. Legend hoped the Sentry didn’t see, too busy with whatever the rest of the group was occupied with (which he’d no doubt have to pay for later).

“A souvenir!”

Legend sighed and allowed it.