#i can only hope that one day we can join hands in cooperation

[despair-tea]

[gyuswhore]

Statistically Speaking...

part of the svt TA collab

kim mingyu x reader

word count: 21k

contains: TA! mingyu, fluff, smut [minors DNI], angst, statistics, ur honour they're stupid for one another, descriptions of stress exhaustion and burnout, academic burden, disagreements, mingyu is smart as hell, shitting on bad professors, smut but its a surprise [gyu gets his soul sucked while he's reciting statistical models I mean what]

words of conviction from @highvern: Kim Mingyu, total asshole , 1-800-HOT N DUMB , THEYRE IN LOVE MINGYU SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU LOSER , sick fucking freak , i know when you wrote this you put your head in your hands , OHHHM YW GOD

synopsis: In all your years of academic endurance, you’ve never failed. A 100% success rate, despite you cutting it close at times. However, the line graph that is your life starts tanking somewhere around the time you began taking this hellsent Statistics in Psychological Research class. With a professor that wouldn’t know his ass from his head, and an overworked, overenthusiastic, and overcaptivating TA, it couldn't possibly get any worse than this. However, statistically speaking,…it could.

[a/n]: this fic is set in the same universe as @highvern's wonu fic endpoint [read here!!!], some insight for wonu's pov is included here as is some of Mingyu's pov in cam's fic if you'd like to see more about what happens in the gaps!!

I want to start by thanking everyone who chose to be part of this collab fic and for being the reason cam and I were able to open up @camandemstudios in the first place. everyone's been so kind and cooperative and I still cant believe we managed to convince such amazing writers to join us on this collab journey 🥹 I love u guys

Thanking my wife camothy @highvern for brainstorming with me since day one and for betaing for me. @seokgyuu and @miabebe for also looking over the doc and reassuring me. I'm for sure forgetting someone and I'm really sorry about that, know that I appreciate you just as much 🤍

on that note, I hope you guys enjoy this fic, im HELLA nervous for some reason so plsplspls remember to reblog and send me feedback on how you liked it, I will love you forever <333

masterlist

Monday

A normal person would’ve cried. Perhaps even sued the entire institution for all it was worth. Burn down the world, if it came to it. 

But as you stare at the tiny 37/100 on your screen, you feel…nothing. 

You could’ve said you saw it coming, which you did, but something about blaming someone else for an exam you took was beginning to feel a little manipulative. 

Clicking off the student portal, you huff loudly, five in the morning too early for you to begin breaking down over a grade that was completely unreflective of what you were taught. 

Or maybe it was, because as you count one, two, three hours till your dreaded Statistics in Psychological Research class, you can only hope you’ll hold back from spitting in your professor’s coffee. But alas, you can only shut your laptop harder than necessary for what it costs and push the grade out of your mind.

You were tired enough to sleep for a couple more hours, and you take it as an opportunity to spite the entire course by giving just as many fucks as your professor did.  

Which was little to none. 

That was a lie—on your part anyway. Because you continue to show up, and probably will until you can put this course and all of its trauma behind you. Even now as you feel the inclining beat of your pulse sitting in the white lecture hall, you know this is all but you versus the universe. 

Dr. Cho might as well have wheeled himself into the room on a skateboard with the way he struts into the room. 

He’s wearing a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off and jeans of a matching finish that do not fit him properly. There’s pins in every last colour on this earth, littering the front of his jacket with sayings that toe the silver controversial lining. There was one that said Vote for John F. Kennedy, another plain black one with I Eat Kids, and of course, the blaring Cunt written in cursive, pink sparkly letters. 

This man that’s pushing into his 60s stands before his slightly wilted class in his crocs, hands on his hips as he heaves a long breath. 

“I have to say, not the turn out I was expecting on that last report.”

He’s talking about the report you coincidentally failed, the same one you were pushed into with little to no direction and a deadline tighter than any you’ve had to bully yourself through. 

“All I can say is to read through the feedback I’ve given and try a little harder next time.” His voice is somewhere bordering comical exasperation. Feedback that consisted of sparing ‘?’’s and ‘no’’s with zero further explanation. He could say more, but you’ve learned that he simply chooses to not. 

Besides the man that drones in the front of the room, there’s another person in the other corner of the lecture hall. He’s hunched over a giant pile of papers, sifting through each and every one with a pen in his other hand. 

The TA doing a mundane task is somehow more interesting than whatever seminars of disappointment your professor was giving. He’s crossing something out on every single leaf of paper that he flicks through, and you vaguely wonder if those were today’s worksheets. 

“...and post hoc tests last week, we can start on Bayesian today. Mingyu will be handing out the tutorial papers.”

The poor TA looks like he thought he’d have more time, snapping his head up to look at the professor with an expression of pure incredulousness. He staggers for a moment before he’s flicking past the pages even faster somehow, striking out what seems like the same instruction in the giant pile of papers meant for an entire lecture hall. There’s a rustle as about a hundred laptops are being pulled out and booted up, waiting for the worksheets to land on the desks. 

You hear the familiar warble of papers being passed out and you watch as the TA pulls chunks of sheets out of the giant stack in his arms to slam down onto the front tables. 

“Pass it down, please… pass it down, please…”

There’s a voice that calls from one of the front seats, “What formula is the sheet talking about?”

Mingyu looks startled as he snaps back to look at the blaring empty whiteboard. In the midst of passing papers, you watch him sprint to the rolling whiteboards, pulling one of the giant flats of white over to the other side, the mechanism slamming into place with a louder than comfortable slam. It reveals another whiteboard underneath with the detestably long formula already written (and the one you’d have to figure out yourself).

 The professor remains with his chin in his hands behind his laptop, unphased. 

By the time you’ve registered the foreign symbols on the board, one of the tutorial papers has made it into your hands.

Sure enough, there’s a quick line across one of the steps with a thick black marker. 

Blinking hard, you attempt to pull yourself into the zone, staring at the white sheet with words that are barely stringing themselves together. Nothing out of the ordinary, especially as you lift your head to find hunched shoulders and furrowed brows all around. 

There’s one person that’s zipping back and forth, just like there always is. 

You watch as Mingyu hunches over certain laptops and whispers in rapid explanation before moving on to the next, a looming sense of dizziness that trails behind him as he shoots up the stairs to the back rows to help someone else. 

There’s a brief consideration to raise your own hand to ask for help, but one look at his disoriented gaze and the amount of hands that shoot up by the second, you guess it wasn’t going to help.

Back you go, hunched over the same wretched paper as everyone else, and praying for some divine revelation. 

Tuesday

Divine revelation did not come to you, but the good sense to make use of office hours did. 

So here you are, a printed copy of your supposedly horrid assignment and a pack of multicolour pens in your tote, and determination in your stride, you make your way to the department building. 

You’ve double, triple, quadruple checked the times to ensure you don’t dip in at the wrong moment, swiping open your phone to re-check the room number yet again. 

Standing outside the door, you knock with mustered confidence, waiting for something akin to an affirmative from the other side of the door. 

Nothing. 

You knock again.

Silence. 

You glance around the empty hall before grasping onto the cool brass handle of the door, wrenching it open just a peep. Poking your head in, you find the room…empty.

The chairs and tables that usually buzz with discussing students lay barren as you step into the room. Moving to look at the front of the room, you inhale sharply as you realise the professor’s desk has been occupied this entire time. 

Except he’s asleep.

No, that’s not the professor. 

Moving closer, you watch the way his back rises and falls ever so slowly, head resting on his arm as his hand hangs limp off the table. Whipping your head around with more attention this time, you attempt to find an explanation written on the walls. But there’s none, even in the papers that litter the table he rests his head on.

You don’t need to see his face to know it’s the TA. But as you stand in the empty room, clutching the straps of your tote, you aren’t quite sure what to do. 

Another glance around the table and you realise his laptop remains on, the screen yet to sleep. Before the obvious issue of a blatant invasion of privacy can befall you, you take a step forward to take a peek. 

It’s his schedule, a million colours blaring on the screen in a colour coded regard with barely any white spaces. It doesn’t take long to find his time slot for right now, red with importance. 

Glancing down, the man remains fast asleep, pen still in hand as it inks a faint line on the page. You look around the room for the nth time, taking constant glances back at his laptop that tells you he’s actively missing something right now. Clearing your throat, you hunch over a tad bit. 

“Um, excuse me.” He hardly moves. So you try a little louder, hunching over his sleeping form even further. “Excuse me.”

You could’ve sworn you heard a snore. 

Out of instinct, you bring a hand forward to his shoulder, shaking ever so slightly as you call for him again. “Excuse me!”

There’s a sharp inhale and he shoots up quicker than you can back away, ensuring you get an entire back’s worth of force as he bumps into you, hard.

“Wh–ow!” The noise is collective, yelps and thuds as you both back away from each other. 

“W–what’re you doing here?” he asks, hair still ruffled and eyes barely open as he stands at the table. There’s a bright yellow sticky note on his right cheek, ink scribbled on in something you can’t decipher.

“Um, it’s office—”

His eyes land on the same screen you were peering into just before and it looks like his life flashes before his eyes, widening at the sight as he slams around the table looking for something. 

“I have to go,” he announces, gripping onto an unstrapped watch as he registers the time, his other hand shoving his laptop and a few papers into a dark messenger bag. 

“Wait, isn’t it still office hours?” you call out as he whizzes past you. 

He’s swinging his bag over his shoulder and half tripping to the door as he calls out, “Wednesdays and Thursdays.”

“But—”

“It’s on the portal.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes it—” he pauses as he exhales loudly, closing his eyes and bringing a hand to rub across his tired face. “I’ll double check. But it’s Wednesdays and Thursdays from now on. You can wait till I get back if you really want help.”

“How—”

A loud slam! of the door. 

“—long…” 

You’re left draped in silence yet again, the echoes of the slammed door ringing in your startled ears. It all happened too fast for you to process, blinking rapidly as you registered that you were now alone in the room. 

He said he’d be back, but left you with no indication as to when. By the looks of his god awful schedule, it looked like he had something else to attend to right after whatever it was he buggered off to right now. 

Fingers clenched into a fist, you consider your options. You could wait, sit on one of the desks and try to get some work done until he gets back. 

The universe gives you your answer as the door opens with a loud creak in the empty lecture hall. It’s another professor who looks quite startled to find an overenthusiastic student already present for class. 

She stares before craning to look at the room number outside the door, “Am I in the right room?”

“Uh, yes! I was just leaving,” you buffer out, moving to shuffle out immediately. 

You’re halfway out the door when you hear another call of an “Excuse me!”

“Are these your papers?” The professor’s full arms are up as she gestures to the still littered table. 

The No is ready on your lips. Until it isn’t. 

Later on, you’d consider how you left that room with an armful of papers that did not belong to you. How you’d ducked under the table to ensure you’d gotten everything, down to the leather strap watch with the cracked clock face. 

But as you stare at the stack of files and sheets that lay on your desk at home, you only know of the decent act that you’d committed.

And nothing of the hourglass you’d just turned over. 

Wednesday

In your Sent box are three emails sent on three separate days, all asking the same recurring question, all responding with the same recurring reply.

I wanted to confirm the days and times for office hours. I’m aware it’s on the portal but I’d like to reconfirm. 

Regards, YN

Dear YN,

Wednesdays and Thursdays. 4 to 6 PM.

Kim Mingyu, T.A. 

So there you were on a Wednesday afternoon, 3:59 PM sharp, outside the lecture hall where office hours have always been. With the same tote hung on your shoulders, with the same printed assignment and pack of multicolour pens, and a separated stack of files and folders, you wrench the door open with bated breath. 

The blended murmur of the usual hustle and bustle of the appointment reassures you first, the sight of scattered students of familiar faces reassures you second. And most of all, a conscious TA that sits at the professor’s desk, speaking to another student over a laptop screen. 

The man does nothing to acknowledge your arrival, continuing above the babble of students that occupy the chairs and the discussion. It isn’t too full, but considerably busy nonetheless despite how early you’ve swooped in. 

There’s a brief consideration whether this was in the TA’s job description at all, craning your neck to take a full sweep of the room to find a sparing glimpse of the man who should be here. The professor and his loud fashion choices are nowhere to be found. 

The sigh you let out is heavy and full of an emotion you cannot possibly begin to unpack, taking a seat on one of the unoccupied chairs to slump against. Shoulders sagging, you feel every fibre of your being screaming against your better judgement to pull out some work and to be productive while you wait. Reading over your failed assignment for the nth time, the same one that seemed to be some sick form of rage bait. 

You pull a couple things out so as to not look awkward sitting and staring into nothing on an empty desk, uncapping your pen and pulling up your sleeves like there was business to be done. Which there was, but none of which you wished to entertain. 

People watching, you realise, is a lot easier when most of the room is preoccupied with whatever it is they’re doing, too busy to notice your blank stares. 

The faces are familiar, none of which are people you’ve interacted with before but classmates nonetheless. The room is full of shaking legs, spinning pens and hunched backs, not an un-scrunched brow in sight. There’s a particular gaggle of girls somewhere around the front, their tables suggesting a work environment but between the whispers, giggles and glances to the front of the room, you assume there’s one thing in common the both of you weren’t doing. 

Speaking of the front of the room, your matched glance finds you face to face with the student at the main table in the middle of pushing himself off his seat. Your reaction is immediate, hand coming over to slam against the flat of your bag to find the lost straps, moving out of your seat as you keep your eyes on the front of the room. 

Bad luck must be a lover, because you realise quickly that somebody’s already beat you to it. Before you even noticed the first’s intentions to. The student stands beside the chair ready to keep it warm as the previous occupant leaves. 

Slamming back down on your own seat, you realise very quickly that trying to get an audience with this TA was going to be harder than you anticipated. There’s multiple other sounds of frustration around the room, and you doubt the slowly increasing pool of students was going to help anyone’s time management. 

Realising you needed to be a little more tactical if you didn’t want to sit here for the next month and half, you find an empty spot near the gaggle of girls you’d noticed before. It was right up front, just enough for you to hear when the conversation would begin to conclude at the main table. 

Once again, the TA doesn’t seem to notice any of the hustle and bustle of the room as his mouth continues to move rapidly, eyes on the question as he invests himself in his explanation. 

It was unfortunate that the only remaining seat was right next to the louder than necessary group, but you take it as a blessing anyway. It’s then that the one right next to you turns to stage-whisper to you. 

“Are you here to see him?”

You don’t expect a conversation, ears straining to eavesdrop on the other conversation in front of you to find your cue. You snap to look at her in surprise. “Pardon?” 

“Are you here to see him? Mingyu?”

“Uh—” Wasn’t everybody? “Yeah, I had a couple things I wanted to clear out.”

The revelation makes her shoulders drop as she lets out a loud sigh, “God, I can never get anything this professor says. I've been here nearly every week trying to figure it all out.”

“Yeah he’s a bit…unorthodox.”

“He’s unorthodox too.” She looks over to the main table towards the TA, chin in her hands as she gazes. “A face like that is rare.”

It wasn’t that she was wrong, it didn’t take more than a glance to convince yourself that Mingyu was possibly one of the more attractive people you’d meet in your lifetime. But the appeal lasted for all of five minutes for you, flitting away when you noticed that he dragged along a very…overwrought… suggestion wherever he went. 

It was clear he was stressed seemingly all year round, nearly just as relaxed as your professor seemed to be. 

But Mingyu was attractive. And you realise how much of a fool you’d sound if you admitted to anything other than such. 

“It is. His willpower’s somehow even rarer,” you add. “Don’t know how he does it.”

“God, tell me about it. Forget getting his number, trying to have more than a three sentence exchange with him without some statistical nonsense involved is near impossible.” Her face has fallen, a tight little frown on her face as she irritates herself with some other memory. 

Taking a glance down at her notes, you find the printed sheet littered with glitter gel pen ink lining the edges, doodles of stars and hearts and small anime characters next to p values and z scores. 

There’s a distinct sound of a chair screeching, and it’s like a large GAME OVER sign is hanging above your head. 

You jerk in your seat, like you could jump over the table and land in the emptying seat with some god-given stroke of luck, like the person already standing next to the chair wouldn’t hold a lifelong grudge against the insane girl with an unnatural acclimation to statistics. 

Although, nothing was more unnatural than the way this TA seemed to know more than the professor. Or you were just really behind. 

Alas, you don’t tumble over the table or kick back your chair, merely making a forceful motion in your seat, palms itching terribly as you watch the girl with her open laptop balanced in her arms move to take a seat. 

You were preoccupied, hence you do not notice that the TA has also noticed you. 

Suddenly, the girl looks startled as she’s told to wait. 

“She’s been waiting nearly a week, I really hope you don’t mind,” you hear him say, voice strained as you turn to look at him. His hands are outstretched to motion towards you a few feet across from him. 

For whatever reason, you had no thought that he might’ve remembered you. Something about his half asleep state when he’d spoken to you, perhaps he might’ve thought he dreamt it. Or he’d just forgotten it altogether. 

The girl glances at you, and her shoulders sag a little as she nods in formality. 

“Thank you.”

It comes out of both of you, snapping to look at each other hardly a moment as you go back to smiling at the retreating student. 

“You can come right after her,” he reassures, his own upturned mouth tired and fading. 

Never have you felt more awkward trying to come around the elongated student tables. 

You pause at first, staring at the table in front of you like it was worth trying to climb over or even crawl under it to get to the desk. Another moment of eye contact as he stares at your unmoving form with a blank look, and the heat pools your skin. 

Staggering for a moment, you end up moving past your chair and walking the way round anyway, the screeching of the chairs only nurturing the existing budding humiliation for no apparent reason. 

It only gets worse when you sit across from him finally, backside barely touching the plastic before realising you’d forgotten your bag in your seat. 

Mid smile in a timid greeting when you make a sound resembling something of an “Oh!” as you spring back up immediately. It’s easier to reach for your bag over the table you were sitting on, reaching across to grab it off your vacated seat. 

The girl you were sitting next to just before makes a motion like she’s trying to help and you have to remind yourself to smile at her as you retreat. 

Mingyu has the very beginnings of an amused expression on his face once you’ve finally made yourself comfortable across from him, clearing your throat just for something to do. 

“Right. How can I help you?”

Pulling out your printed assignment, you bring out the sheets of stapled paper to the centre of the table, writing facing him. 

One look at the sparse format of the cover page, he blows a full mouth of air at the sight of recognition. Without you having to say a thing, he flicks to the very last page, finding the rubric printed on a separate page. 

“It’s a 37,” you inform him like he couldn’t see the bold 37/100 in the bottom Total cell. 

“Do you think you deserved a better grade?” he asks. It would have sounded direct, an accusation even. But he asks with an intonation of genuinity, like he actually wanted to know. 

It stumps you regardless.

“Well…I know I can do better, at least,” you decide to answer. 

“You’re here, which means you’re at least willing to try. That’s a start,” he murmurs. His eyes are laser focused on the sheet beneath him, holding it open as his eyes move faster across the page than you can keep up with. Somehow talking to you while taking in the words on the paper.

“I remember marking this,” he says, looking up to address you. “Your concepts are nearly there, but your structure and presentation was off.”

“You marked them?”

He raises his brow, “I hope that wasn’t an accusation. I need to stick to the rubric.”

“I thought the professor marked the lab reports.”

“He’s…supposed to.” There’s a forced reservedness in his voice. “I mark them and he puts in his comments if he has any. But I’m not sure you’d fare any better than this if it was him behind that pen either.”

Every question that floated in memorisation, from the form and structure, to the nitty gritties of the data presentation, all evaporate as you realise you’re at a loss for words. 

Even more embarrassingly, you feel tears prick the back of your eyes. You don’t have an explanation, but it’s somehow easier to feel helpless in front of the man that’s meant to help you. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

“That’s alright,” he says as reassurance, though it sounds awfully rehearsed. Like he has to say it everyday. “We’ll work through it.”

He lets out a big sigh, adjusting in his chair and running a hand through his hair. The motion has you noticing the dishevelled nature of the mop on his head, un-uniformed and sticking out at certain places, yet still somehow cohesive with his look. His shoulders are straight and taut, fingers working as they fiddle and flick the pen in his hand. 

Despite it all, his shirt is ruffled and creased, unbuttoned at the first couple steps. The buttons are misaligned, one side of his collar higher on his neck than the other. It takes an effort to not reach over and fix it for him.

“Lab reports can be quite tricky if you aren’t sure what you’re doing. Did you refer to the tutorial?”

You mean the one that did nothing to help? “Yes.”

“You got those bits right, format and whatnot. But—”

“It was a lump of writing about subheadings and word counts,” you say plainly.

Mingyu lips are in a tight line. “Well, yes, but it helps—”

“I know the results are supposed to go in the results section. I don’t need a PDF to tell me that,” you cut him off. Your voice is reserved, and you hope it comes off as a point across and not a complaint. Although it was a complaint. “I want to know why the entire section was ruled off as incorrect when we were never properly taught how to write it in the first place.”

“Dr. Cho—”

“Is no help.”

“I understand—”

“He can’t even mark his own papers. I’m quite sure that’s not in your job description. It’s supposed to be him here. Not you.”

It’s silent. There was nothing in your voice that suggested you wished to pick a fight, on the contrary, quite calm and matter of fact. Mingyu’s fingernails are going white as his grip on his pen and paper grow stronger. 

“And yet, we continue to show up. Because we do what we must.” He raises his head in control, a small smile on his face, eyebrows unnaturally raised. “And, better that I’m here rather than no one at all. I can help you too.”

Help, he did. 

Mingyu had made it quite clear his time with you was limited, but by the end of the near 25 minute session, nearly every inch of your printed assignment was covered in a rainbow of notes and corrections, additional papers and post-it notes pasted on the back as you remain careful to not lose them as you slip the stack in your bag. 

You only remember when you spot the segregated file of papers in your bag.

“I almost forgot,” you say, slipping the files and tidbits out and in front of him. 

“Where did you find this?” he asks sharply, eyes widening as sees the familiar blue. 

“You left them at the desk of the lecture hall last week,” you say, before quickly adding, “There was a class right after you left. I took them off the professor’s hands before they got lost. Thought it might be important.”

“I’ve been looking all over for these,” he says as he goes through the pages and files. Random sticky tabs and highlighted regions across the pages. The leather strap watch with the broken clock face remains on top, and he picks it up. He looks up to you with wide, sparkling eyes and a smile that feels genuine. “Thank you.”

You flush for some reason, “O–of course, couldn’t just leave them there.”

Pausing, you wonder if you should make the next comment, the words tumbling out before you can make a decision. “Maybe don’t run out of rooms still half asleep.”

By the grace of God, he laughs, “No, you’re right. I should be careful.”

It isn’t till you’re pushing yourself out of your chair that he continues. “You can come in at 3:30 tomorrow.”

“Pardon?”

He’s stood up as well. “I have a free thirty minutes before office hours formally start. I can help you out a little more without the crowd.” 

Feet planted on the ground, there’s not much you can do but stare. “Um, sure. I can come in a little early.”

He nods casually, “Thanks again for the papers. And the watch.”

You smile, “No problem.”

Thursday

True to your punctual nature, you make yourself known at exactly 3:29 PM.

Mingyu is at the desk, conscious and on the phone, eyes closed as he rests his face on his fist.

“I don’t know if I can make time for that—no, I understand, sir,”

Another pause as the noise from his speakers fill his ears, his rubbing over his face a little harsher than you doubt he’s entirely comfortable with. 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

His phone hits the table with a heartbreaking thud, both hands covering his face as he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. 

“Light on your feet or something? I can never tell when you come in,” he startles when he notices you. 

Sheepish smile on your face, you move to sit down. “Sorry.”

You know it’s invasive, and you also know you might be asking him to break some unknown university code of conduct, but curiosity takes charge as you ask a casual question. “Important call?”

“Uh, yeah, um, just work stuff,” he states, shaking his head swiftly like he’s trying to shake the thought out of his mind. 

There’s a pause while you're slipping your papers and laptop out of your bag, during which he seems to have decided to divulge a little more. 

“It was Dr. Cho. More stuff for me to do,” he says. “As always.” 

“Does he do anything other than show up to class?” you ask through a snort. 

“Of course he does. He cusses out every article he doesn’t agree with, is anything but objective and…the occasional relay of blatant misinformation.” 

For the record, you’d never really heard Mingyu speak at all for the months he’d been TA-ing for the semester. It was small whispers of choice words in a vague voice, the distant murmur as he exchanged with the professor too far for you to hear. 

The voice of the seemingly quiet and diligent TA was never known to you, not until yesterday as he explained statistical models and the flaws of your data presentation. 

Passionately too. Incredulous for a discipline so dry and unapproachable. 

That being said, something about the grit in his voice as he positively sneered through his teeth, badmouthing his professor—it was something you couldn’t quite believe he was capable of. 

“I’m sorry you have to put up with him.”

Once again, by whatever stone of tolerance the universe bestowed in his heart, you watch him sigh and smile, “Anything for that recommendation. And the pay too, I suppose. Besides, he’s done a lot for the area, can’t discredit him entirely.”

With your eyebrows raised, he seems to catch your expression. He pants out a laugh, and your stomach lurches as you watch it reach his eyes, teeth on display, a lurch in his chest; a true laugh. 

Raising his hands in surrender, he responds, “I’m stuck.”

There’s nothing you can do to stop the smile that reaches your own face, turning your laptop screen towards him with the JASP software display. “I am too. Help.”

Help, he does.

Monday

Mingyu ended up giving you an entire hour on that Thursday. 

The thirty minutes before office hours began soared by like they were nothing, and you were ready to take your leave the minute students began to scatter in as the clock hit a swift four. Except he kept going, another 30 minutes in deep concentration as he retaught you nearly everything from scratch. 

Perhaps his proven determination to ensure you don’t tragically fail is what prompted you to do this, standing at the till of your regular coffee shop as you ask, “Make that two, please.”

It might also be important to mention the 7:30 AM on the dial on a bright Monday morning as you walked into your slightly less dreaded Statistics in Psychological Research class, knowing there would only be one other person insane enough to get to the lecture hall this early. 

Something isn’t right. 

Mingyu is in a position all too familiar to you and everyone else who shares this class, hunched over something or the other in deep focus. The sun pours in through the lifted blinds, the lights of the class turned off as natural light does more than enough of the job. 

It also shows you a blaring hot pink post-it note on his face, all too familiar to a previous interaction you’ve had with him. 

He notices you before you need to announce yourself, brows separating as he recognises you in the doorway. “‘Morning!” 

“...Morning.”

“You’re early,” he comments, straightening his back with a hand behind him for support as you approach. 

“Figured we both needed this,” you hand him a tray with his cup of coffee, eyes still trained on his lower cheek with the paper stuck to it. “It’s a latte with no sugar, but I added a couple packets on the side anyway. Just in case.”

“O–oh, thank you. And you’re right I did need this.”

Now that you’re closer, the scrawled writing on the post-it note is clearer. 

To Do:

Call mom

Shoot myself

“You, um—” It’s alarmingly difficult for you to say it, despite the words being so simple. Hey! You got a lil’ something on your face.

But all you do is dumbly point to your own cheek, eyes trained on the loud piece of paper that tells more than he might like the world to know. 

There’s a loud slap of his hand on his own cheek as he crumples the paper in his hands, bringing it forward to see. “For fuck’s sake.”

“It’s okay! I wanna…shoot myself too sometimes.” 

What the fuck?

“I mean!” you correct louder than you anticipated, before covering with a laugh. “It’s okay, it happens. Good thing I caught it before someone else did.”

It’s all the more petrifying when your voice echoes across the blatantly empty lecture hall, reverberating like it was a punishment for you and your horrid lack of volume control. Meeting his eyes feels like a sin right now, so you keep them downcast and pray he doesn’t try to sabotage your education. 

“Good thing it was just you. Yeah.”

Just you.

“Anyways, I think I’m done with prepping for class. Do you wanna squeeze in twenty minutes of ANOVA?” 

“Have you seen the time?” 

“Not a morning person?”

“Nope!”

“And yet it’s 7:40 on a Monday morning and you’re absurdly early.” His brows are raised as he pulls around the professor's chair to bring it to you. 

“Do you want the coffee or not?” you ask, watching as he drags another chair for himself. 

The both of you sit away from the professors table, coffees in hand as you watch Mingyu run a hand through his hair. 

He gives you a crooked grin,“I apologise.”

“To be fair,” he continues. “I’m not much of a morning person either.”

You narrow your eyes the slightest bit as Mingyu takes a sip of his unsweetened coffee, “I’m starting to think no money’s worth this job.”

Mingyu snorts, coffee suspended in his full cheeks. He swallows with much difficulty before answering, “You’re right. Not sure why I’m still here either. I could get an offer from another professor.”

“And that isn’t happening because…?”

Elbows on his knees, Mingyu swirls his capless coffee cup, the beige liquid moving in a growing tornado. “I like Dr. Cho.”

“You—”

“I know,” he laughs loud, a deep, echoing sound that shakes in your ears. “I know. I sound like a lunatic.”

“I don’t know about lunacy, but insanity can have its reasons.”

“Another would argue that insanity was the very absence of reason.” 

“Don’t get smart with me.”

“Excuse me for doing my job.”

He takes another sip of his coffee, and you ask again, “No, but really. I can’t imagine this man having too many redeeming qualities as an educator.”

Mingyu lifts his chin as he presses his lips together. “When I was in my first year, there was this other class I had where we had to write a lab report for the first time.”

“PSYCH101?”

“That’s the one. I’d never written one before, but I liked statistics enough to do a little more digging than what the assignment called for. I ended up finding one of Dr. Cho’s studies, read the entire thing, word for word. I was up all night reading nearly everything he’d published, some of ‘em before any of us were even born.” 

“Oh. So you’re a fan.”

“Everyone tells you to never meet your idols,” he snickers. “He’s done amazing things, but I guess he pays for it with his flawed personality.”

“I’m sorry it had to be you,” you half joke. 

Mingyu looks at you sheepishly, “That might also be my own fault.” 

“Don’t tell me you offered.”

“I might as well have. All my assignments referenced his work the most. I was always talking to him about upcoming research after class, and it was like he was a different person. Forget differing opinions, some of what he was saying was just…plain incorrect. He welcomed the argument though, and I couldn’t—can’t—stand listening to someone spew nonsense when I know it’s not true. He was always emailing me extra resources which…I’m pretty sure he isn’t supposed to do. Only reason I did so well in his class was because I taught myself.” 

He sighs a loud sigh, straightening his back, “I guess he liked me more than I thought, because next thing I know I’m getting a call over the summer telling me I have a job.”

“Did he…have a TA when you were in his class?” 

“Four.”

“Four?!”

“Two at a time. All of ‘em quit at some point. Said they didn’t want the recommendation or the pay.”

“Would he…not give you a recommendation anyway? You said he liked you.”

Mingyu shakes his head solemnly, “He’s a tough cookie, everyone in the field knows that. If you’ve impressed him, you’ve impressed everyone.”

You take a moment to really absorb everything you’ve just learned. “That’s a sucky position you’re in.”

“Tell me about it. But it’s okay. Three—three and a half more months to go? This isn’t even the worst of it, I’m just dreading study week when I’m gonna have to handle all the crying.”

You wince as he mentions something even remotely close to exam season, still barely at a stage where you can accept you’d be alright with this class. 

“I know you’re not nearly as qualified or experienced as him, but I think you could take over his class.”

“Ever heard of barriers to entry? I’d be ruined if I wanted a career in this.”

You roll your eyes playfully, “All I’m saying is I’ve learned more from you in barely a couple hours combined than the last two months I’ve spent cursing this very lecture hall.”

If you weren’t lying to yourself, you could’ve sworn you saw a blush creep up his face, and paired with his shy laugh and hand at the back of his neck, you can’t help but bite back your own smile. 

“If I can help you then it’s worth losing myself.”

Your heart is in your fucking throat.

“I’m glad when students tell me that,” he continues, utterly oblivious to the landslide happening in your digestive tract. “Makes me feel like I’m doing something right.”

“You’re—” you swallow thickly because you sound like a toad. “You’re doing more than just something right. You’re saving us therapy and an extra semester.”

He laughs at that, and you wish he’d let you breathe. 

“Feels like I’m doing something wrong sometimes,” he huffs. “My friend’s a TA too and he’s got himself a girlfriend on top of everything else he’s got going on.” 

He goes on, “Do you know how many times I need to ask people to quit twirling their hair? To look at the page and not my face? Asking for my number, I have an email for a reason, for fuck’s sake—”

Mingyu is cut off because you’re laughing, hand to mouth as your shoulders shake through your sniggering. “W–what?”

“I’m sorry,” you hiccup. “It’s just…It sounds like you don’t know what you look like.”

“What’s wrong with how I look?” he frowns.

“Nothing!” you exclaim. “But that’s the problem isn’t it.”

Mingyu doesn’t seem to buy it, even through your coaxing as you attempt to explain to him that he is, in fact, desirable.

“Can’t possibly be enough to distract people,” he huffs in earnest, still hung up on the students he can’t get through to. 

“Majority of the class would beg to differ.”

There’s a pause as he registers what you imply. 

After a few moments, he drops his head, opening his mouth, “Would… you also—”

There’s a loud creak of the door as you hear the immediate noises of shuffling feet and chattering mouths, as low and tired as they sounded. Turning back to look at Mingyu, he’s already jumped out of his seat, wrist to face as he checks the time on the same leather strap watch you returned. 

“That’s our cue,” you breathe, pushing your chair back behind the professor’s desk as you manoeuvre around Mingyu who’s suddenly frantic. 

Of course you realise there’s people other than just the two of you in the room, heightened in seats that are designed to ensure they can absorb every detail that goes on right where you stand in the front of the room.

But you feel the soft of Mingyu’s shirt over his wrist as you give him a gentle squeeze despite it all, barely enough pressure. Half your index finger brushes the skin of his hand, just enough to register how cold your fingertips are and how warm his body is. 

“Relax,” you whisper. “You’ll be better off without all the panic.”

You don’t see his face as you brush past him and up to your seat, looking up to see him disappear somewhere in the corner hunched over another stack of papers. The next time you see Mingyu’s face is when the professor arrives and has begun his regularly scheduled tomfoolery, and realise all the age that can accumulate in the span of five minutes. 

Thursday

Midterm season is nothing you’ve ever really had to worry about. 

Something about the halfway point did make it obvious that the clock was ticking, but danger was far enough away to prevent the ultimate breakdowns reserved for the peak seasons. 

Except this class isn’t ordinary, and it’s all you’re able to worry about all semester. And as Dr. Cho in his Thrasher vest announces the date for the in class midterm, the glass once half empty, suddenly looks very half full. 

“I’m not ready.”

“You’re more ready than anyone else in class.”

“How do you know that?”

Mingyu stares at you blankly, “If I don’t know that, then who else does?”

You have tears in your eyes, which is embarrassing enough since this is the second time you’ve teared up in front of him, but also because you’re in a library following Mingyu around like a lost duck because he insists on putting the books he borrowed back onto the shelves himself after registering the return. 

“But I don’t feel like I’m ready,” you whine, turning the corner as he searches for the last spot to place his final book. 

“You’ll realise just how ready you are when all those hieroglyphs on the page start to make sense to you,” he grunts the last bit out as he reaches on his tippy toes to shove the book back up. 

Dusting his hands off, he adjusts his shirt before turning to you, “You only feel that way because I’ve been giving you harder problems to work on. You’re past the level you need to be at right now. Trust me, you’re more than prepared.”

“But—”

“Listen,” he waves to the librarian as you both leave the library, your eyes still glistening as you fiddle with your sleeves. “It’s only the midterm—”

“Only the—”

“If this goes wrong, I’m just gonna have to work you harder for the real thing. Even though I know it won’t go wrong because I said so.”

You fall into silence as he walks you towards the coffee shop across the courtyard. 

“I’m assuming…” you start. 

“Hm?” he looks over to you.

“I’m assuming you can’t hint at what’s on the paper.”

Mingyu barks out a laugh of disbelief, “You assume correct. I’m not going through hell with this job just to lose it because of a paper leak.”

“But it’s just the midterm,” you mumble, not even close to remotely audible. 

“What did you say?” Mingyu smirks. 

“Nothing,” you huff.

“You know, I’m a little offended you don’t trust me.”

“Who said I didn’t.”

“Well then, stop being such a worrywart.”

There must be something written on your face, because as you pass Mingyu standing at the door he keeps open for you, entering into the coffee shop with fallen shoulders, he seems to change his mind. 

He brings you a coffee, sits you down, and gives you something else you need. “I made the paper. Every question. And I taught you. Every concept. So I definitely know you’re gonna be fine.”

In that moment, with the large glass walls of the warm coffee shop, the afternoon sun comfortably resting on every last object of the room, you don’t see it illuminate anything other than the man before you. 

Perhaps you're being dramatic at the revelation, but you don’t take anything into account as you note Mingyu’s eyes and how they sparkle like they were gifted from the centre of a flaming volcano, brown and polished more than any jewel or stone you’d ever seen. Reaching out to touch him, you know you’d feel nothing but smooth stone, the indentations only possible by a being beyond what you could comprehend. 

He’d given you more than just reassurance, and at times, his timing makes it feel like he was sent from the heavens itself, just for you. 

You sniffle. 

His hands brush over yours as he hands you a napkin, and even more so, cover your own as he takes your freezing fingertips into his own palm, the contact burning you like hot coal. 

You know he’s real. And you don’t know why quite just yet, but that reassurance is enough to give you calm.

Monday

You were alright, but it seems that Mingyu seemed to disintegrate right after he was done reassuring you to the moon and Saturn and Jupiter and back.

It’s midterm day, and as always on every Monday morning, you enter the empty lecture hall with two warm coffees in your hand, ready for whatever shitshow you’d have to perform for today.

It seems Mingyu must defect from at least one regular string of behaviour to remain as Mingyu, who on this occasion, stands before you in a baby blue polo sweater. 

Except you only know that because you can see the unique collar, but it might also be important that his back is turned towards you. 

“Morning, champ,” he gruffs, nothing encouraging about his voice in the slightest. 

Your breath hitches when you finally see his face, eyes sunken in and face pale. His lips are chapped and peeling, eyes half closed. 

“Why’re you looking at me like that, why has everyone been looking at me like that?” he huffs in one long, rapid question. 

“Um, I mean,” you stare at his shirt that’s backwards. And inside out. “I can’t tell if that’s a choice or a mistake.”

Looking down at his front, he looks back up, “What?”

“Your collar is…not at your collar, Mingyu. And your shirt’s inside out.”

Hand at his nape, he reaches his fingers down and finds the unmistakable starched planes of his collar, eyes closing at the realisation. He’s immediately pulling his arms out of the shirt with his eyes still closed like it’d all disappear if he keeps them like that. 

“Wait!” you exclaim before he strips entirely, scrambling to put your coffees down to push him out of the room towards the restrooms. “Do you wanna strip for the CCTVs?”

You only hear him sigh as he moves out and into the hall, doors closed behind him. 

You’ve nearly forgotten about the midterm at this point, your concern now growing in a completely different direction. By the time Mingyu returns, he’s blabbing about wondering why everyone he ran into since he left home was giving him the strangest looks, and then something about you always swooping in to save him before the real bout of disaster strikes. 

It’s hard for you to listen to him when you’re more worried about him passing out, his face doing him no favours to reassure you that he wasn’t a breathing corpse. 

“Mingyu…did you sleep at all?”

“Hm?” His eyes are glazed over and unfocused. 

“Sleep? Rest?”

“Oh,” he frowns. “Not really. I had emails coming in all night.”

“And you were replying?”

“It's the midterm today,” he responds flatly, like it should’ve been enough explanation. 

You almost don’t believe him. “Doesn’t mean you stay up to answer something that should’ve been cleared out beforehand!”

“Couldn’t just leave them to fend for themselves,” he dramatises. 

“Yes, you could!” Your voice comes out louder than you expected, eyes wide as you realise what he’s doing to himself. “You barely look human and it’s only the midterm.”

“What’re you trying to say?”

“I don’t know if this job is really worth as much as you think it is.”

Mingyu’s jaw is clenched, fists tight as he releases them to grip paper weight on the desk, knuckles white. “I can’t get anywhere if I don’t—”

“Mingyu, please. This isn’t good for you.”

He says your name. Declarative, almost like a warning. “If you think this job isn’t worth it then you just don’t know.”

“Mingyu—”

“No, you don’t, because I’ve seen how good of a job I’ve been doing.”

“You have, you’ve been amazing but—”

Mingyu’s own voice is raised, a hard impenetrable floor to the words he spills. ���Then what’s the problem?”

“Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? You look like a corpse!”

And then he’s getting out of his chair with so much force it almost knocks it backwards, “Why on earth do you care so much? So what if I look like a corpse, if I‘m doing my job?” 

It might’ve been better if he knocked the chair right into you, your breath dissipating in your chest like it never existed. His face is morphed in an expression of exasperation your anxieties fear the most, every line on his face committed to irritation and anger. 

Why on earth do you care so much?

Right. Why do you? 

“Are you asking me that?”

“What?”

“Are you asking me why I care?” 

Mingyu only sighs, shoulders dropping and eyes closed. Like so many times before, you watch run a hand through his hair, except this time he yanks on the strands harder than ever before. 

His eyes are bloodshot. 

“I have to get the exam pack.”

Marching out the door in front of your own eyes, you’re left with a feeling that’s right in the back of your throat, curling and whirling into something you wish you could hack and gag out. Gripping the corner of the professor’s desk, you feel the peeling wood cut into your skin. 

There’s a draft, the delayed slam of the door has only hit its wind now, a delayed reaction. It’s like it registers in your mind as you feel strands of your hair shift, the clarity that comes with it.

Delusive. Chimeric. Cruel.

Everything you’d subjected upon yourself. A whimsical fantasy between pages of logic and numbers, a story that simply didn’t fit where the laws wouldn’t allow it. 

The null hypothesis of your most elaborate nightmares.

Monday

Your favourite commonplace box, where your mother once placed all her most prized jewels, had a finicky latch. 

It wasn’t broken, simply worn in from years of opening and closing. It took a few tries to get it shut. Simply pressing down with pressure didn’t work; you had to open it again, press down on the individual elements of the latch and then try again. 

You were never satisfied until you heard the distinct click of the latch fixing itself, the box closed and ready for you to hook your lock through.

Earlier on in your undergraduate career, you remember a professor talking about the effects of external factors on the mind, how they can sometimes cause it to ‘shut down’ when overwhelmed or stressed. 

It’s happened to you on many a occasion; like when you stayed up too late on a school night to watch a documentary about the Stanford prison experiment, or when you’d neglect food or water on busier days, or when you’d stop paying attention in class because you were too preoccupied thinking about Taco Tuesday. 

Regardless, you’d found a way to recognise when your brain would fall into some strange kahoots with daydreams, or whatever was bothering you, and learned ways to give yourself a reset. 

Pressuring and forcing the attention wouldn’t work, just like how the latch wouldn’t fit when you’d do the same with your beloved old box. So you’d take a walk, drink something cold, spray yourself with a garden hose, or even take a nap altogether. Opening yourself up, so the latch can finally click. 

On the morning of your midterm, when you’d ensured your brain was in optimal condition for the exam you knew would be one of the worse ones you’ll have to take, you were sure the only external force that could ruin your vibe was from God himself. 

Having been so preoccupied with your mind and its functions, you’d seemed to have forgotten where your heart had wandered off to. 

Somebody else might consider it a minor disagreement; an anxious squabble if you will. But your breakfast in your throat was enough reason to deem what happened that morning much more than that. At least for you. 

“Pass it on, please…pass it on, please.”

The sound of his voice is tectonic. Rattling in your head like a superior force had slammed into your skull like a padded hammer to a gong. 

You hated it. You hated everything. You hated yourself. And as the midterm paper reaches you with your pen in your clawed fingers, the first three questions already making perfect sense, you realise you hated Kim Mingyu the most. 

That was a lie. You were lying to yourself, yet again. 

Because it was quite the opposite. You couldn’t hate him. 

As you drift past every question of conditional experiments and screenshots of data and tables on a software, you hardly remember what you circle and what you don’t. Hardly remember what words you picked for the short answers and labels. You hardly remember taking the steps down from your seat to the front of the room, where the professor sat scrolling through his Skateboarders [!MEN ONLY!] facebook group, placing your paper down and leaving the classroom. 

Throughout your years of living, you’d learned what you needed to get your brain out of its clouded muffle, to refocus when you needed it. 

Everything. You tried everything. 

But on that day, when it mattered most, your latch never clicked.

It’s Wednesday. 

You order lunch from the Italian place a few streets down. Ravioli; it’s safe and you know you’ll like it. 

Savouring it is easy in front of another true crime show. You pull a lone soft drink from your fridge, one that your friend left weeks ago. It tastes just as bad as the last time you tasted it from someone else’s cup, but you drink it anyway, the empty can now in your trash. 

It’s 3:30 PM, and you sit at your desk. It’s strange. It feels like you’re missing something, which in ways, you are. But as you pull your laptop from your nightstand instead of out of your bag, you slow your movements. 

The papers are the same. But you read them anyway. 

Parameter estimation: Make inferences on characteristics of the population, including distributions of the variables and the effect of one variable over another. 

It’s accursed the way the universe won’t let you live. 

There’s a scribble in the corner in a dark blue, estimation cannot be perfect. 

Estimation cannot be perfect. 

[_]

It’s Thursday

Class. Eat. Drink. Work.

Hypothesis testing: Determine whether null hypothesis is rejected or not after data observation. 

There’s a scribble in the corner in a dark blue, no null hypothesis in bayesian approach!!

[_]

It’s Friday

Eat. Drink. Work.

Latent means to have meaning but is yet to be manifested. The greek letters are placeholder values for values yet unknown. 

There’s a scribble in the corner in a dark blue; values that you will find out

[_]

It’s Saturday

Eat. Drink. Work.

P(A|B) = [P(B|A)P(A)

              ——————

                     P(B)

There’s a scribble in the corner in a dark blue;

 it gets less complicated

 promise :/ 

[_]

It’s Sunday.

Eat. Drink. Work.

The page is blurry. Your eyes hurt. 

There’s a scribble in the corner in a dark blue;

you’ve got this!!! < 3

You give up.

It’s Monday.

8:14 AM. 

You barely glance at the front of the room; swift turn to the left and right up the steps. Dr. Cho’s outfit almost goes unnoticed by you, tamer than most. Bright Barbie pink with large polka dots, untucked into too tight white jeans. His crocs are sparkly, at least that’s what the twinkle from up here looks like. 

He’s insulting another author, the man’s ProQuest journal article open for the world to see like a mediaeval scandal. 

There’s another person next to the whiteboards, back to the wall, hands clasped in front of him. His hair is messy, shooting lasers into the carpet as he rocks the slightest bit, listening to the professor rip this author to shreds. 

An hour later, you’re staring into the JASP software like it was written in a different language. 

Glancing next to you, the boy in the spongebob hoodie is playing sharkboy and lavagirl by himself. On your other side, the girl has the same thing as you open on her laptop, her pen occupied with drawing about a hundred tiny gojos on a bright pink sticky note. 

Bright pink sticky note. 

You snap your gaze back to your screen quickly after that. 

9:58 AM. You start packing up, shoving everything into your bag. 

Dr. Cho doesn’t even notice you slip out of the room, hardly a minute to the end of the lecture.

In the hallway, you take your first real breath in two hours. 

It’s Tuesday.

You’ve come down with something, head heavy as you feel yourself burn up. Skipping class is easy when you sleep through your alarm and every phone call from a friend asking where you are. 

They drop by, armed with medicine and soup. You almost feel better. 

It’s silent after they leave, and you realise in that moment how much you hate it. 

Opening your laptop for the first time in over 24 hours, you turn on a random podcast to play in the background, needing something to fill the air before you lose it entirely. 

The screen lands right where you left on the incredulous data presentation, unsolved tutorial paper crumpled between the screen and keyboard like a wilted leaf. 

Hot, scalding tears sting your eyeballs when you realise there was nowhere to turn to.

It’s Wednesday.

After a long day of doing nothing, still sick from whatever plagued your body, you go to bed earlier than usual.

It’s Thursday. 

Walking out of class, your mind is empty. You’re still sniffling, still achey, but better than you were. The shawl wrapped around you is warm, and your hood covers the cold tips of your ears. 

This other class makes you feel better about yourself, especially when the content is digestible and so is the professor. The TA feels like a mere accessory in the room, something you’ve learned to appreciate. 

With your gaze lowered, you only see midriffs as you walk out the classroom into the busy hallway. 

It happens in an instant, the flash of a clenched hand as the owner walks by in quick stride. An unmistakable leather strap watch with a broken clock face on the wrist.

You freeze like you’ve been caught. 

The hard bump of someone coming out the room behind you is welcomed, the annoyed “Hey!” knocking you back to earth before you could even exit the dimension. 

You’re off centre. But it’s fine. 

It’s Monday.

“Midterm results are out Tuesday morning. If you have any questions I’ll be sitting at office hours on Wednesday and Thursday, four to six in the evening. Or you could send me an email, either’s fine.”

Dr. Cho isn’t here. Something you only found out when the pitt sank in your stomach as Mingyu cleared his throat at the full hour. 

You want to leave, not caring about how strange it’d look if you did. Not caring about how he would definitely notice if you did. You want him to shut up, to stop talking, for anything to halt the way his voice infiltrates your entire being, talking about things you don’t understand but more familiar than anything else. 

Mingyu’s voice is hoarse, and you loathe the way you can tell the difference. 

It’s Tuesday.

Midterm Results for Statistics in Psychological Research.

—  92/100

It’s Wednesday. 

4:10 PM. It’s almost too much for you. Almost. 

The screech of the door is loud, the slam of the handle’s rebound even more so. The room doesn’t so much as glance at you at the door, the half full seats preoccupied with more important things. 

The front desk perks up immediately, eyes shooting towards the door for the nth time that day, like he was expecting someone that never seemed to show up. 

It’s ironic, you think, how Mingyu never seemed to notice you walk into the room for the many months you’ve walked in just for him. And now, as you walk in fists clenched and jaw set, eyes wild and burning, he’s breaking away from a student to look at the door before you even come into view. 

“Did you feel bad?” you spit.

“What?” he whispers. He seems to come around, glancing back before continuing, “Can we talk? Please.”

“Answer the question, Mingyu,” you snap. You don’t care there’s a confused student sitting right across from the both of you, his slot interrupted by your barge. “Did you feel so bad you had to give me something I didn’t earn?”

He’s stood up now, half confused. “Is this about the midterm—”

“I did not get a ninety two, I know I didn’t,” you grit. “Whatever happened before that stupid paper made sure I wouldn’t.”

Mingyu says your name and the sound makes you want to vomit. “What makes you think I’d do something like that?”

“I don’t know, maybe because I fucked up because of you?” you announce, louder than before. 

The world disappeared, your tunnel vision pointed at Mingyu’s face that wears an expression you cannot even begin to read. The unbecoming tears in your eyes are of a type of unadulterated rage you’ve felt only a few times before. Your heart is going about a million miles a breath, everything else only triggering an added bout of infuriated tremble in the forefront of your emotions. Nothing makes sense. 

Mingyu pushes back his chair in silence, stalking over to a large cupboard in the corner of the room. He shuffles around for a minute before returning. 

There’s a packet being thrust into your fists when he reaches you. He does not meet your eyes. 

A bright red 92/100 marks the front page.

“Here. It was all you, if you can’t believe me.”

It’s a careful mark, unmistakable lines and curves of the nine and the two. 

Reality is slow to sink in, but for some reason it’s only making you angrier. The paper curls under the pressure of your fingertips. You don’t open the packet. You refuse to flick through the pages. 

Because you know you’ve lost.

It’s Thursday. And it’s full of regret. 

There’s a sickness in you, from that dreaded day, something beyond what affects your body temperature and your energy. It’s in your mind, flooding the nerves that swim through every crevice and cave of your brain, a physical venom that does the opposite of kill but also the opposite of letting you live. 

There’s a feeling in you, that even if you were to open your mouth, unhinge your jaw, try to scream as loud as your throat would allow, there would be no sound. Something like a horrible dream, that you need to screw your eyes tight shut to fall out of. Except you aren’t waking up from this one. 

In a coffee shop, where Mingyu held your hand in a reassurance you now bleed for, you were sure he was real. Real like some deiform image; too good to be true. 

In your bed, dry tears on your face, midterm packet sifted through that showed you absolutely everything that you did right, thanks to him. He feels too real. Real like a cloud of obsidian that follows you everywhere, like the sad that’s been sleeping with you every night. 

If there was a way to hate someone more than a human limit, you’ve crossed it with the resentment you’ve now fostered for yourself. 

Barging into office hours like that, accusing him on a basis of nothing but your own dangerously stewed thoughts. If there was a hope of salvaged parts, you took a hammer to it in disregard; tearing it to ribbons that lay at your feet. 

It’s Friday.

At least it was. It bled into Saturday before you realised the 3:23 AM on the dial. 

Two weeks of no help and you already feel lightyears behind. The hour is getting to you, and you feel the frustration pool into tears, that turn into full fledged sobs. You’re crying over Bayesian inference and it’s somehow more pressing than any other emotion you’ve ever felt. 

Impossible numbers on your data sheets taunt you, not a single reference to if it was a button you clicked wrong or if you were playing a fool’s game altogether. 

Ding! You pick up your phone, the weight of it is enough gravity to pull you back to earth. 

[Mingyu]: switch to bF10 

[Mingyu]: you’ve been pulling numbers from bF01

It’s immediate the way your eyes dart towards your lit screen, clicking off tables to get to the drop down menu you need. And there on the left, two tiny buttons, one clicked on bF01. 

With shaking fingers, you move your cursor to hover over the tiny bF10, anticipating. You click. It takes a moment for the numbers to change, but they do. The nominal values turn into something you can actually work with. 

Something akin to a tut leaves you, hidden in the breath of another sob. It’s stupid, unreasonable, absurd. Your fingers hover over your phone, shaking as tears drop onto the screen, faster than before. 

Do you not miss me?

Do you not want me around?

Talk to me

I miss you

Please talk to me

“I couldn’t—can’t—stand listening to someone spew nonsense when I know it’s not true.”

Mingyu is a product of his personality. You can only imagine he’s helped because he saw you struggling in class, heard from someone else, or perhaps, he just knew the very thing you’d make blunders out of. 

The reasons come to you, that Mingyu is a product of his personality. Then why does it hurt? Why does it feel like the knife’s twisted a full 360, that despite the way you accused him of the thing that would strip him of everything he’s bruised himself for, he helps you. The very thing that caused this rift in the first place. 

There’s a reason for that, and it is again, that Mingyu is a product of his personality. 

It’s Saturday. 

Perhaps you relied on your olfactory senses to remain calm, because you always knew you could count on a coffee shop to forever and always smell the same. 

The universe seems to want to ruin that for you too. 

“Latte, please,” you voice. “Iced.”

“We have a one plus one for the week! Would you like to receive another latte?” The lady taking your order looks no older than 17, a pep in her voice. 

“Um, no thank you. Just one, please.”

She looks taken aback, a reasonable reaction to anyone turning down a free drink. But you couldn’t bring yourself to walk home with two cups in hand. 

You’re plucking a napkin from the pickup counter when you hear his name. 

“...that he manipulated her grade because they were hooking up.” 

“He has time to hook up?”

“I remember hearing about that! She barged in during office hours and asked why he fixed her grade or something.” 

“A ninety two? In that class? Oh, they were definitely fooling around with each other.”

“Whatever, at least we know he’ll entertain you if he likes you enough. I’m just glad those two are over so I can swoop in.”

There’s an eruption of giggles. You press your head down further. 

“Unless he flirts in variables.”

“All is forgiven when you’re born with a face like that.” 

Another explosion of giddy laughter, through which your drink is slid across the counter towards you, like it was waiting for you to hear the damning evidence before you could leave. You grab it anyway, grip tighter than usual. 

Turning around, your eyes search, finding a group of people that sit in smiles and in various states of trust-falls. 

There she is, the girl you sat with on the first day you attended office hours, the one with the glitter gel pen doodles on her notes and her blatant fawns over the TA you slipped under just as easily. 

She locks eyes with you and her face falls, eyes widening the slightest bit in recognition. 

Pressing your lips into a smile, you hope it doesn’t look as menacing as you feel. You don’t wait for a response before you walk out the large glass doors.

It’s Sunday.

It seems every sip of water you’ve taken during the week has been used up in all the tears you’ve seemed to be shedding. By the bucketload.

Alas, even blurry and puffy eyed, you pour over statistical formulas anyway, running on no energy and all antagonism. It’s another tutorial sheet left incomplete, a single question taking a pour that lasts in at least an hour of struggle. 

Reading the same question for the nth time, your palms press into your temples as you stare lasers into the paper, like the revelation would come to you if you stared it down hard enough. It doesn’t make sense, the commands you’ve toggled on and off identical to the instructions on the page. 

Hence the question begs why the data was coming out like someone pressed the ultimate on a number generator. 

With a heat of unreasonable embarrassment, you find yourself checking your selection in one of the drop down menus, switching to bF01 and back just to see the difference. It does nothing to help, and you can’t help but feel a little relieved it wasn’t that particular snag. 

The library is as silent as it could possibly be on a Sunday morning, near empty as you occupy the mostly vacant seats. The librarian is having her own day off, as you could swear she’s playing computer games behind the counter instead of actual work. 

The only noise in the room is your own breathing, and that seems to be enough to mess with your concentration. You’re going cross eyed staring at the page for so long, the words doubling and  disappearing before going back to normal. 

Bayesian inference…z scores…null hypothesis…

Wait. 

It’s like you can see it in front of your eyes right now, the scribble of someone else’s dark blue on your notes.

no null hypothesis in bayesian approach

Bayesian approaches don’t use null hypotheses. And z scores are in…

“Oh my god, this is a t test,” you whisper to yourself in disbelief. Immediately, you’re scrambling to shake your laptop out of its sleep, switching over to a t test to redo everything, following the instructions on the same data set. 

And there it was…a clear 0.067 under the p value. 

In a moment of questioning, you laugh out a breathy sound, the absurdity of it all becoming too real. T tests were the first thing you learned, the foundation to all your statistical knowledge. Coming so far, and it took you days to realise the instructions under a Bayesian approach were for a different realm entirely. 

It was stupid of you. But in this difficult aftermath you can’t help but feel victorious. Laughing to yourself quietly in this empty library. 

When the initial adrenaline fades and you’ve double, triple checked to ensure you were right, you can only stare at the tiny mail button in your shortcuts on the screen. It was clearly an error, one that was given out to nearly a hundred students. 

The first step was clicking, your inbox coming to life as you drift towards the big blue button with the readily available NEW MAIL. So you click. 

There’s an attached file in the email you draft. 

The tutorial paper has titled t test instructions as a Bayesian approach. Just wanted to point it out and ask if I could receive a corrected version. 

Regards, YN

It’s almost like you’re trying to remember how it feels like when you type an experimental m in the To bar. His name pops up immediately, email address typed out in full, full name clear on top as a regular contact. 

You don’t need a suggestion to remember, his email came easier to you than your own. 

But you don’t email him, backspacing till it’s empty once again. 

Dr. Cho’s email sits in that place instead, a first for you. 

SEND.

You don’t expect him to reply on a Sunday, in fact, you aren’t sure if he’s going to respond at all. You’ve already shut your laptop, half out of your seat in an attempt to pack up. You’re forced to consider. 

Would it be terrible to go back and cc him as well? 

A spiteful part of you might find joy in correcting him for a change. The rational part of you wants to actually finish the tutorial before tomorrow’s class when you’d have to tackle another beast for the rest of the week. 

Sitting back down, you move without thinking. Your mind is still cooking up possibilities as you swing your screen open once again, still weighing as you click back into your inbox. 

There’s a new email in your sent box after you’re done, a copy of the one you sent your professor, the same attachment and the same question; word for word. The only difference, a more familiar name in the address bar. 

Before you can chicken out, you slam your laptop shut for the actual last time, shoving everything into your bag before the speeding thoughts can infiltrate your mind's barrier. You’re out the door before you know it, ready to be done with this. 

You’re afraid if you put a hand to your stomach it’d be met with kicks and punches, especially with the way you feel the aggressive cartwheels slashing away at your insides. The butterflies are making it to the end of your food pipe, and you briefly wonder if you need to break into a sprint to make it to a safe throwing up zone. Your entire being jolts as you feel a buzz in your hands, a loud click that signifies a new email in your inbox. 

Right there, in the middle of the sidewalk, you stop. 

The grip you have on your phone is unyielding, your fingers beginning to hurt from the pressure. There’s no way to tell if you’re shaking or not, but you bring your phone to your face anyway. The screen flips on, a lone notification on the screen. 

RE: Tutorial Error from Kim Mingyu

It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes since you sent that email, the library still in sight from where you stand. At the same time, it’s almost funny you expected any different from him. 

The kicks and punches in your stomach halt, the cartwheels have calmed, the butterflies have fallen asleep. The grip on your phone has loosened, and it’s like every nerve in your body went from on fire to serenity in a whiplash inducing shift. 

Clicking on the notification, the email opens. 

Noted. I have another tutorial sheet for you if you want it. I’ll be in the room where office hours are held for the rest of the morning.

Kim Mingyu, T.A.

There was no way he didn’t have a softcopy he could send you in less than a minute, and you’re sure he knew you’d realise that too. You should scoff, be upset, roll your eyes. 

But instead, you find your feet making a 180, turning around to go right back to where you came from. You walk, eyes still half trained on the email, reading and rereading as you walk back onto campus, towards the building you’d once considered a second home. 

You walk, and walk and walk, in through the doors, up the stairs and then another set of them, you take a left and look up. The hallway is empty, the door on the right coming into view as you slow your steps significantly. 

Closer and closer, you realise the light surrounding it is brighter than usual. The door is open, and you can see the empty rows of tables and chairs, set neatly against one another. It’s strange, you’ve never seen it wide open before. 

Walking even closer, you can see the beginnings of the professor’s desk come into view, and it only takes you one more step forward. 

Standing in the doorway now, you find yourself in the direct path of the sun that pours in through the open windows. It’s warm, but just enough to combat the cooling weather. 

The desk up front is occupied, as it always is. 

Mingyu is only in a t-shirt and trousers, glasses perched on his nose as he scrawls away on the paper in front of him. His laptop is turned on, screen facing the door where you stand, his inbox open and available even on the weekend. 

It wasn’t that you were waiting for him to notice, but you found yourself inadvertently taking your time looking at him. Every other situation, you’d done your absolute best to avoid your eyes grazing over him at all costs, hardly drifting over his form before flitting away. You never did it on purpose, but it was more like you were unconsciously protecting yourself.

 Like looking at him would only make the ache in your heart worse.

If that was the case, you would’ve been right. There’s a tug in your chest, and in that moment, it all comes flooding in like a gate destroyed. 

Mingyu looks up and sees you in the doorway, standing immobile. He sets his pen down, taking his glasses off. There’s the smallest hint of a smile on his face as he greets you, “‘Morning.”

You take it as your cue to move forward, stepping foot into the patch of sun slowly. “‘Morning.”

You reach the desk, standing in front of him, the only thing blocking you being the littered table with files, papers and stationary; the trench between you both. 

It’s so silent it tears at your insides, gripping the strap of your bag to have something to do. 

“I, uh, double checked when I saw the email. You were right, nobody noticed in class either.” There’s an airiness in his voice, like he might be struggling just as much as you are right now. 

He clears his throat when you don’t respond, looking back down at his workspace like he was looking for something. He finds a paper from some stack, handing it over to you. 

“Thanks,” you hoarse. It’s the same tutorial you had, except the instructions had been crossed out, replaced by a list of handwritten instructions instead, detailed in their annotation. You recognise it, because of course you’d recognise his handwriting. 

“I didn’t have time to print one out right now. I’ll probably send a corrected copy to everyone tonight,” he explains. 

“That’s alright.” You look up, lips pressed together, eyebrows forced into a regular position on your face. Nodding, you thank him once again. “Thanks again. I’ll…get going.” 

Every fibre in your body screams at you to turn back around, hollering profanities at your inability to deal with this. You’re already halfway to the door though, and your pride’s already deemed it too late. 

Please stop me, please stop me, please stop me, please just say something and stop me—

There it is. Your name, from his mouth, in his beautiful voice. 

Turning back around is the easiest thing you’ve ever done. 

Mingyu has stood up from his seat, out from behind the desk. He looks like he wasn’t expecting you to turn back. “Can we talk?” 

And then he’s pulling out the chair he was sitting on, presenting it like a piece offering. If you heard correctly, you could’ve sworn you heard his voice break the slightest bit when he pressed, “Please?”

So there you were, in a position all too familiar as you sit across from the man that’s haunted you for the past weeks, trying to keep your chest from falling in. 

“I guess I should start with an apology,” he’s fidgeting with his own fingers. “I don’t need to give you excuses about stress or exhaustion because…”

He closes his eyes, trying to find the words. “I didn’t mean to lash out at you. You were only trying to help and I was too preoccupied with myself to notice. I’m sorry I spoke to you like that when you didn’t deserve it.” 

For about the millionth time, you realise you’re tearing up again. He continues. “And then…right before the midterm too. You were right, I did feel horrible. But I swear that grade was all you, I didn’t touch those numbers.”

He really didn’t, because the papers he had thrust into your hands on that fateful day in this very room proved that you earned that mark. You wince regardless.

“I thought I could apologise before the exam started but I couldn’t find you, and then you were gone right after. I didn’t text or call because I was sure I’d fucked it all up.” 

“I’m sorry too. For barging in in front of everyone and basically accusing you. I wasn’t thinking straight.” You look up from your lap, wet lashes and all. “I really hope you didn’t get into any trouble.” 

“I–no, I didn’t.”

“Are you sure? Because—”

“I promise I didn’t.” He locked eyes with you when he said that, hoping you’d believe him. You nod slowly. 

“It wasn’t even that bad, what you said,” you sniffled. 

He scoffs at that, “I’d beg to differ.”

“I would’ve gotten over it,” you continue, bracing yourself to admit to something you’ve had trouble admitting to yourself. “I should’ve gotten over it. I don’t know why it hurt so much, why watching you walk out felt so horrible. But I haven’t been acting like normal ever since, and I’m sorry for stretching this whole fiasco out into something that didn’t need to turn into…this!”

“You were hurt because I hurt you.”

“People have said worse things to me. And you were practically a zombie, I should’ve just left it for another time. It was a little bit my fault too. But…yeah.”

There’s a silence as you try to remind yourself to breathe. You speak up again. “I just want us to go back to normal. I’ve missed you. Alot.”

“Me too. The go back to normal bit. And the…missed you bit.”

Mingyu’s half smiling when you look up, biting your lip hard as you try to keep a smile of your own at bay. “I’d thought if I gave up and admitted I was struggling that day, that’d be admitting defeat. That you’d think I…couldn’t do it.” 

Why on earth do you care so much? It rings in your ears. 

You sound light when you say it though, knowing now it wasn’t what he meant.“Since when are we on caring terms?” 

Mingyu cringes. "We are. I am, at least, if you aren't anymore, which is fine. I care about you. A lot."

It’s hard to not let out a laugh. He looks half constipated as he tries to navigate his words. 

“Oh well I’d hope you’d care, since you’re my TA and all.”

“Not in a TA way.”

“Tutor way.”

“Um.”

“Friend way? A human way?” 

“No.”

You both know you’re being obtuse on purpose, and you aren’t sure why. Maybe you just like to watch him squirm. 

“You know what?” he rasps. 

“What?”

Your answer comes in the form of Mingyu lurching to grab the legs of your chair, pulling the wheels to crash into him where he sits. You’re not expecting it, the clashing legs causing you to swerve forward, hands on Mingyu’s lap. 

And then his hand is on the back of your neck, and his lips placed on your own. 

You’re stiff as a board, brain computing the fact that Mingyu is kissing you in a classroom. 

It’s short, hardly a few moments before he pulls away. “Does that clear things up?”

There’s nothing you can do but blink at him, the reality of it all settles in. “Hm.”

He laughs at your half dazed state. It’s a purely instinctual part of you that speaks after this. “Maybe one more time. To make sure.”

Mingyu doesn’t even wait to laugh again as he wastes no time, putting his mouth on yours properly this time. There’s more of a drive in you this time, moving your mouth against his and he keeps your head close. 

The ecstasy is slow but sure to build in your stomach. Mingyu is kissing you. Mingyu is sitting with you and kissing you so good you’re already half faint. 

His mouth tastes like coffee and remnants of berry, a combination you can’t believe you could enjoy this much. Licking into his mouth, you let your tongue drag over his, like the tactile would convince you this wasn’t some too vivid fever dream. 

He pulls away for a moment, but hardly so as his lips remain pressed onto yours. 

“For the record,” he pants. “I love that you care. And I hope you’ll keep caring. Because I don’t think I can handle it if you walk away after this.”

Mouth back on his own, you decide there’s only one way to convince him you weren’t going anywhere without dragging him with you. 

MINGYU'S APARTMENT IS CLEANER than you expected. You aren’t sure what you were expecting, perhaps more mad scientist than anything else. But the most you find is a mug and plate in the sink, and a moderately crowded study desk, which is to be expected. 

Mingyu decided to abandon his work for the day to spend it with you, to which you contest that it was Sunday anyway. His response is making you change into something comfortable of his so you could laze on his couch. 

Like you would run away if he didn’t, Mingyu keeps his arms around you in a tight hold, fingers curling around your shoulders as you lay on top of him. Your head rests directly over his heart, his cheek and lips taking turns to occupy the top of your head.  

You fill him in on everything, and realise the most eventful weeks you’ve spent were actually quite uneventful in hindsight. He feels up your cheek and forehead when you tell him you got sick at one point, to which you have to reassure him it was either something going around or stress that you subjected on yourself. 

“I went to a frat party,” Mingyu mumbles into your forehead. “For Halloween.”

The information has you shifting to look up at him in bewilderment, “You went to a frat party?”

He snorts, “Dressed up for it too.”

“Oh my god,” you voice in mild horror. “Do I wanna know?” 

“Wonwoo and I matched,” he hums as he pulls out his phone, scrolling his gallery to look for pictures. “I was Mario, he was Luigi.”

“How adorable.”

He only gives you a look and shoves the phone in your face. By some grace of god they aren’t wearing moustaches, but the distinct red and green outfits are enough to give you enough recognition. 

“Thing 1 and Thing 2 were also possible contenders,” he informs. 

“That might’ve been a little better.”

“What’s wrong with Mario?” he asks sharply.

“Nothing. But I do hope you weren’t sporting an Italian accent throughout that.” 

“I was,” he pushes. “A horrible one too.”

You give him the satisfaction of an eye roll. 

“You could’ve gone as Peach. We could’ve matched.” 

“I don’t know if I’d wanna wear any available Peach costumes during Halloween time.” You crinkle your nose as you think of all the racy costumes that unearth every October. 

“Maybe in private,” he says with an insufferable smile on his face. 

Placing your hands flat on his chest, you rest your chin and look up at him. “I’m not sure I want to interrupt whatever you two have going on.” 

“Who?”

“You and Wonwoo, you’re practically married.”

Mingyu laughs out loud, and you can feel the rumble in his chest against your hands, his body moving against your own that’s stuck to him. “Not with whatever he has going on with his girl.”

“Oh right,” you frown in remembrance. “What happened to not understanding how he does it?” 

“Hm?”

“He’s a TA too. Probably just as busy as you. You said you didn’t know how he could juggle a relationship and his job at the same time.”

His eyes spark in remembrance, pausing for a moment. “I may owe him an apology.”

“Do you?”

Mingyu frowns, “Actually no I don’t. I don’t think he and his lady are doing too well right now. He’s been insufferable lately.”

“Is it because of the TA-ing?”

“I never know with those two,” he sighs.

There’s silence once again, in the midst of which Mingyu leans over to kiss you a few times, soft and lingering. Like he’s trying to familiarise himself with the shape of your mouth, the tactile feeling of kissing you. 

“Do you…know about us?” There’s hesitancy in the way you ask. But you can’t help but ask anyway.

Mingyu thinks for a moment, and it has your heart beating out of your chest. “I know that I want us to be concrete. That I wanna work around whatever life throws at us. You can decide what to call it, but I know I’m in it for the long run.”

“I’m glad you’re smarter than your husband,” you smile.

He only rolls his eyes, “He’s only good at one kind of chemistry.” 

“D’you think they’ll be okay?”

“Oh yeah,” he assures. “They’re just going through a…rough patch.”

“Like we did?”

“If you’re asking me, I’d say they’re being a little more stupid about it.”

The snort that leaves you is unanimous with his own. He continues, “They’ll be okay though.”

“I hope so. I’d like to go on double dates with my boyfriend’s husband’s girlfriend.” You start giggling in the middle of your sentence, too ridiculous even for you to voice. 

“This is getting weird,” Mingyu breathes. 

You only hum against his mouth, “Do I have to take your husband's blessing before we can move forward?”

“For fuck’s sake.” 

You’re both laughing again, a sound that comes from your stomachs, true and uncontrollable. For a moment, you can’t help but be conscious of how light you feel, how happy you feel with his scent infiltrating your nostrils, his presence known where his fingertips touch you. 

“I did the sticky note thing again too,” Mingyu says into the silence, and there’s nothing you can do to stop the fit of giggles that erupt all over again. 

“Said something worse this time,” he continues as you laugh into his chest. “Accept that you’ll die alone or some other shit like that.” 

There’s comfort in this moment. In your giggles and in your tears, in his voice and in his affection. His lips are another sanctuary you’ve found, and perhaps even another way to make your dreaded latch click. 

Nose nuzzled in his cheek, the feeling of his skin so soft against yours, fingers at his chin where a slight stubble grows, you relax in ways you cannot comprehend. 

MINGYU'S LIPS BECOME A feeling you’ve grown dangerously accustomed to. 

It isn’t that he has them on you too much, regardless of what an outsider might suggest; to you they simply aren’t on you enough. 

The following Monday went as usual, for you anyway. You weren’t avoiding Mingyu this time, and you were grateful for it. It was two hours of following him with your eyes as he darted around the room. You could hardly constitute it as not paying attention when Dr. Cho was preoccupied with explaining every reason he hates JASP over SPSS, but also ultimately, hates them both. 

You don’t even notice his loud outfit (overalls and a neon green sweater underneath), happy to watch Mingyu flit about and whisper incoherent explanations to students. 

The tutorial paper is barely looked at by you, because you know your boyfriend will be happy to help you out later at his place. 

You’re barely through the door that night when he gets a hold of you, tight grip across your waist as you’re catapulted into his arms, door slammed shut behind you. 

Bag still on your shoulders and your shoes still on, Mingyu’s slammed his mouth onto yours before you can take a proper breath. You stumble, squealing through the kiss as you realise you aren’t escaping the iron grip he’s got on your face. 

Somehow between it all, you manage to slip your bag off to let it drop to the floor of his doorway, shoes kicked off one after the other as he leads you inside, littering the way. 

“You aren’t actually paying attention in class anyway,” he breathes against your mouth before kissing you again. “So why don’t you sit in the back where you don’t distract me.”

“Who says I’m not paying attention.” You open your as your back lands on the couch, looking at him as he looms overhead. 

“You’re paying attention to me.”

“It was in my job description when I signed up for the girlfriend position.”

He’s all over you now, hands at your sides, mouth underneath your earlobes as he husks, “Was letting me take you in front of the entire class also a clause? Because if this goes on I might have to take up on that.”

If you didn’t know any better you would’ve assumed he’d been possessed, everything about his behaviour screaming the opposite of the well behaved, restrained man you’ve been accustomed to. The fact that he’s whispering directly into your ears isn’t helping either, a conspicuous shiver dragging across your spine. 

It lands with precision, right at your core. You’re too hot to tell, but there isn’t a doubt you’ve begun to pool. 

There’s a ding in the background. 

He’s suckling underneath your ear, his hands roaming in ways that would smear your reputation altogether. 

Another ding. 

He’s reached your mouth once again, groping your right breast lightly. Like he’s testing the waters.

Ding. 

Mingyu makes a noise of annoyance, the other hand trailing underneath your shirt. 

His ringtone blares throughout the room, whoever the caller was having reached wit’s end. 

“Gyu…” you whisper. 

“Ignore it,” he growls. The ringing has stopped. 

He ducks underneath to kiss at your stomach, lifting your shirt oh so slowly. He goes higher, and higher and higher, leaving a trail of kisses at the skin, taking deep breaths as he drags his mouth over your torso. 

His phone begins to ring again. 

Your head is spinning, your senses overcome. If you weren’t sure before, the air of wetness between your legs is definitely obvious now. 

He brings a hand to your centre, pushing inwards at your jean clad core. You exhale sharply yet shakily. 

The ringing stops. 

Mingyu makes a gumbled sound that you can’t quite make out, too preoccupied with the way your shirt is now up past your bra, at which Mingyu has taken to leaving open mouthed kisses to your cleavage. 

There’s a ding. 

“Mingyu, I really think—”

His phone begins to ring again. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he curses, rearing his head like an interrupted animal, wet mouthed and bleary eyed. He looks at his buzzing phone on the floor in an accusatory glare, like he wants to chuck it out the window and go right back to burrowing into your chest. 

“You should answer.” 

He looks irritated as he takes his phone in his hands, and you find a flash of Dr. Cho’s name on the screen. “It’s eleven O’clock.” 

“It might be important.”

“The last time he did this he asked where his peacock feather pen was,” he grunts as he silences his phone. 

You laugh, running a soothing hand through Mingyu’s hair, a tiny attempt to calm him down. Pulling your shirt down, you attempt to sit up. 

Mingyu makes a noise of denial, attempting to stick his face into your now clothed chest, knocking you back down, “Nooooo, I’m gonna ignore him.”

“He’s not going to leave you alone,” you sing quietly, running your nails across his scalp lightly, holding his head to your chest. You place your cheek on his head, playing with his ear. 

As if to prove your point, Mingyu’s phone begins to ring again, and he groans at the prospect. 

“Go on.”

He swipes to answer it. A loud sigh and then a tired, “Hello?”

His volume is bumped up enough for you to make out what’s being said on the other line. “Where have you been?”

“It’s nearly eleven, sir. I was in bed.”

“My flash drive won’t open up on my computer.”

You have to stifle a snort. 

“Is it…plugged in?”

“Of course it is, I’m not an idiot.”

“Is it showing up on your files?”

“Disk…is not…formatted.”

“Erm, it might be corrupted.”

“How did that happen?”

“Did you download something off the internet onto it?”

“Hardly matters, I need the attendance sheet on it!”

Your fingers are massaging Mingyu’s temples as you feel him tense on top of you. 

“Your attendance sheet is on the teacher’s portal,” Mingyu grits before adding, “sir.”

“...I have other things on there too.”

Mingyu exhales ever so quietly and you tighten your hold on him a smidge. “This sounds like something tech support could help with.”

“Why can’t you help?” he asks sharply. 

“I…I don’t know how, sir.”

There’s a noise of indignation from the other end, and you can’t help but keep from laughing. 

Mingyu sighs into the phone, this time doing nothing to hide it. “I’ll take it to tech support for you tomorrow. And I’ll send you a direct link for the attendance sheet for Monday and Tuesday’s classes.”

The line beeps shut. Mingyu brings the phone for you both to see the professor’s hung up as soon as the words left Mingyu’s mouth. 

“Wow,” you whisper into the silence, the weight of Mingyu’s head heavier on your chest. “Not even a thank you.”

“Absent father behaviour,” Mingyu grumbles as he moves his face to burrow into your shirt. 

It’s a bad joke, but you laugh anyway. 

“Will I be an asshole if I say I’m not in the mood anymore?” he murmurs. 

“Absolutely not. Everything sucked right back in the minute I heard his voice on the line.”

“Gross,” he comments, but he’s laughing too. 

“Should we call it a night?” he asks, rearing his head. 

Nodding, you rise with him. By the time you’ve reached the bedroom, you’ve already begun taking off your accessories, fiddling with your bracelet as you voice. 

“I need a shower.”

Mingyu throws you a towel and a t-shirt, which you catch and move towards the bathroom. Halfway through the door, you sneak a look at him fiddling with his belt. 

“Do you wanna come in too?” 

Mingyu looks at you peering through the door frame. You’ve never seen anyone leap across the room as quickly as in that moment. 

THE FOLLOWING DAYS WERE just as eventful as that phone call, Mingyu running around as the midterm low passed and the line creeped up towards finals season. 

Perhaps it was better that you stopped attending office hours, because the room seems to become increasingly packed as the days progressed. 

You only ever saw Mingyu in the wee hours of the night at his place, where he begged you to camp out till the end of the semester so he “doesn’t move to insanity”. It might even be better for you, going about your day as usual, without the usual added distraction of a partner.

Coming home to him was easier, where he could clear up your doubts while in ratty pyjamas and starfished across the bed, where you could find solace in Mingyu’s chest without prying eyes when the information became like filling an already stuffed junk drawer. 

It was a Friday night, you’re alone at Mingyu’s place sitting cross legged on the floor. The table in front of you is pouring over the final question of this week’s tutorial paper, everything seemingly whizzing right past the top of your head. 

Despite that, as Mingyu stumbles inside past eleven, you know you shouldn’t ask him for a thing. 

Tired was a look on Mingyu you’d gotten quite used to, so you’ve learned to not comment and simply let him fall into the couch cushions with all his weight. 

His face is parallel to yours as he closes his eyes with a light groan in greeting. Moving forward, you kiss the flutter of his eyelids softly, down to the apple of his cheeks, the tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth. 

Your fingers run through his tangled and distressed hair as he mumbles against your mouth. “Did you finish the tutorial paper?”

You huff in mild annoyance, that despite his state he still thinks about work. “Not yet. One last question and I’m done.”

He hums and waits a moment before reopening his eyes. With a loud groan he’s pushing himself off the couch, sliding off of it to sit with you on the uncomfortable floor. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

“I can figure it out myself, Gyu.”

“You would’ve been done by now if you could,” he answers. It’s annoying that he says it but he’s also right. 

Mingyu holds the paper a mere inch from his eyes, the sight almost comical if he also didn’t look an inch from passing out. 

He mumbles the question as he reads, “It’s nothing, just worded weird. Toggle this off and move this to mixed factors and you’re done.”

The toggles are done for you, and Mingyu takes the liberty crossing he question off with a pen he finds on the table. 

“Did you get everything else?” he asks in earnest. 

“Hm? I think so.” 

“Good.” And then he’s throwing his head back to rest it on the couch cushions behind him, breathing slowly. 

He’s in a navy sweater, collar of his undershirt peeking through the top. Your gaze leads up further, to the exposed area of his throat—clean, tan and naked. You realise this might not be a good time, but it’s only natural your mind cooks up other ways to translate your helplessness as you watch your boyfriend push himself to the brink. Release is never a bad idea. 

Besides, it’s a Friday night. No reason to not. 

“Gyu,” you shuffle closer. 

Lolling his head to look over at you, he answers in a small voice, “Yeah?” 

You put on the guiltiest face you can muster, complete with darting eyes and fidgeting fingers. “D’you think…d’you think you can go over post hoc tests again?”

“Post hoc?” He furrowed his eyebrows. You bite the inside of your cheek, having blurted the first plausible model you could think of to ask him. It’s an older bit of the syllabus, something you should already be well versed in. 

Not that you care what he thinks right now, he’d figure out why you were asking anyway. 

“Post hoc, um,” he rubs a hand over his face as if to jog his memory. 

Shifting forward, you plaster you front onto his side. He thinks nothing of it. 

“Analysis tool after you’ve already run the data,” he begins. 

Placing your chin on his shoulder, you let your nose nuzzle against his cheek. Trailing up, your lips find the shell of his ear. 

“Results have to be…they have to be…” He falters when your hand reaches his front, running across the expanse of his clothes stomach, nails digging ever so slightly as you reach his abdomen. You continue to place open mouthed kisses at the space of neck you can reach. 

“Hm? Has to be what?”

“Statistically significant,” he breathes when your palms reach the tops of his thighs. “To run a post hoc test.”

His trousers are less barrier inducing than regular jeans, something you’re both grateful for as you begin to palm his clothed bulge. “Results of what, baby?”

“For the love of—”

“Go on,” you whisper in his ear. “Please.”

One flick and his trousers are unbutton, pulling them aside as the zipper pulls open. You're pushing down his boxers when he answers you. “ANOVA.” 

“What’s that again?”

“You little shit.”

You move your mouth forward to kiss him.

“Analysis of variance.” 

You hum against the column of his throat at that, his half hard member in your hands. Light touches, that’s all they are, running the pads of your fingers across the pulsing length, coaxing him into full length. 

“What’s it for though? We already got our results.” Bending forward, you stick your tongue to kitten lick at his tip. Mingyu hisses, hips shifting. Your tongue swirls around the tip, pushing into the skin on the head where he’s most sensitive. 

“Ugh, fuck, for um,” he falters as you begin to suck at his head, tongue running over each hollow of your cheeks. 

“For…for…” His chest is moving up and down in quick breathes, every sound from his mouth coming from a deep rumble in his stomach. 

Letting go of his cock, you continue to pump him with your hand as you gaze up at him from your position. “For? Keep talking, baby.”

“For…To identify groups,” he grunts out. He lets out a louder moan when you place your mouth back on him, going past his tip and taking as much as you can of him into your mouth. “Identify…the differences, shit, hmph.”

He takes a loud breath before speeding through it again, “Identify which groups actually differ, oh my god.”

The bit of him that you can’t fit on your mouth is being pumped by your hands, fingers pushing into him like you were trying to indent them on the base of his cock. A glance upwards and you find his head thrown back, hands coming to tangle in your hair. His thumb caresses the side of your cheek.

“How many groups?” you ask, before diving back in. 

“Three,” he chokes out. “Three or more, oh I’m gonna cum, fuck don’t stop, holy shit.”

Both of his hands are at your head, guiding you as you suck him harder, faster, more tongue digging into his slit. You hum against his dick on purpose, making sure it’s coarse enough to get the reaction you want. 

You succeed, because immediately after you hear Mingyu rip out the loudest moan you’ve ever heard, his grip on your strands harder than ever. He cums into your mouth, hips stuttering as you place your entire weight on him to keep him in place. 

You let some of it dribble out your mouth and back over his softening dick like a hot coating, sucking him through shooting spurts of cum that land on your tongue. 

When you emerge from underneath, Mingyu looks like he got the soul sucked out of him; eyes closed, stuttered breaths raking through his entire body, a light sheen of the beginnings of sweat that glisten in the low light of the room. 

Reaching for the tissue box and water bottle on the table, you soak the napkins and bring them to clean him up. He whines when the cold tissues touch him where he’s most sensitive right now, you want to kiss him but account for the cum that is actively stuck to the walls of your mouth. 

You leave for a few minutes, much to Mingyu’s hoarse protests. He’s almost on all fours, hands on the floors as you promise to be back. By the time you’ve hauled his tired ass into bed, you’re just as ready to knock out as the half asleep man beside you. 

Mingyu’s face is plastered into your neck, arms and legs thrown over your form as he hugs you close to him. 

“I might love you,” he says into the darkness. A secret, just for you and the walls to hear. 

You hide the way your heart absolutely leaps, conceal the way your hands tighten around his form into an affectionate caress, hold your breath to prevent the inevitable hitch. 

I might love you too. 

You hide that as well. For now. 

Smiling into the skin of his temples, you sigh.

“Feel free.”

[Mingyu]: class ended early 

[Mingyu]: be there in 5 

[You]: ???

[You]: wdym ended early

[You]: kim did u end class early to come home

Your response comes in the form of the front door lock jiggling loudly. You’d stayed the night at his place, knowing you didn’t have anything to do but study by yourself. Sickly as you were, you doubt you could sit through two hours of even more statistics. 

He’d left you in bed with a kiss, needing to be extra early since Dr. Cho decided to dump the last crucial few weeks leading up to finals season entirely on his TA. As much as there was on Mingyu’s already overflowing plate now, you couldn’t deny the elated feeling of your attendance being taken care of regardless of whether you show up to class or not. 

A very real violation, but no one truly notes one skipped student in the midst of hundreds. Besides, the bag under Mingyu’s pretty eyes might be enough for anyone to have mercy and let the supposed mistake slide.

As Mingyu walks into the room, shoes flying and back dumped on the floor, he finds you still half clothed with leftover sleep in your eyes, standing in the middle of the living space like you were lost. 

He drops his things to come and drown you in his arms, loud kisses all over your face as you talk. “You’re getting too comfortable with this job.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t possibly expect me to teach a bunch of half asleep idiots when my woman is all alone at home, sickly and cold without me.”

You grumble wordlessly as you feel him check your temperature with the back of his hand. “How’s the congestion?”

“Bad,” you respond nasally. “I can’t find my Afrin.”

“It’s on the bedside table, baby.”

“No, it’s not.”

Still wrapped in his hold, Mingyu begins to take steps forward that lead towards the bed, pushing you to walk backwards.

“I’m not awake enough to navigate,” you sniff.

“I’ve got you,” he lowtones, pushing backwards slowly. 

The back of your knees hit the bed and you let yourself fall back into the unmade sheets. You crawl back under the covers as Mingyu navigates between used tissues, water bottles and pills on the bedside table. But no sign of your nasal spray. 

You have to breathe through your mouth and you hate it, but you send a remark his way anyway. “Told you.”

Mingyu bends down and emerges with a familiar red capped bottle. He stares at you while you stare at it, choosing to simply snatch it from his presenting hands and be done with it. 

“Good thing I came back early, hm?” 

“Shut up.”

He leaps over your form to claim the spot in bed right next to you, still fully clothed as he burrows under the covers next to you.

There’s nothing flattering about the way you stick the nozzle up your nostrils and sniff hard, but the gleam in your boyfriend’s eyes might as well suggest you were trying to get him to look at you like that. 

“Are you gonna keep doing this till finals?” you ask throatily, shifting under the covers. 

“Teaching during class time is just extended office hours, I’m gonna go insane if I keep going like this. Probably just today. Or…once more if I feel it.”

“Didn’t you say you were gonna extend office hours to Fridays too?” 

Mingyu moulded himself against you, giving warmth to your shivering body even under thick blankets. 

It seems throughout the course of your relationship, your time with Mingyu is either spent laying down or in the process of doing so. Not that you mind, you’ve found that remaining horizontal was what worked best for someone like Mingyu who seemed to want to fuse with your very being whenever you were together.

“Ugh, not this week. Do not have the patience.”

“I’m proud of you,” you say, eyes closed, already on the highway to dreamland. 

“Thank you, I do think I’ve been very brave.” Even while slipping into dreamland, you find the good sense to find his nipple through his sweater and give it a hard pinch. He jerks away in a yelp, clutching his chest. 

“What’s that for?!”

You ignore him and simply run your hand over the area you just attacked. “You’ve gotten better at knowing when to slow down. I’m proud of you.”

You’re too far gone to make out what he answers you with, but with the hot breath against your already warm forehead, you decide it's more than enough for you. 

MINGYU DOES IT FOR the fourth time, but this time round he’s smart enough to not tell you. 

It’s the Friday before finals week officially begins, and you remain in your own place for once to crack down on the last bits of syllabus you want to go over, away from your extremely distracting boyfriend. 

There’s a text when you check your phone after a couple hours of hyperfocus, and you narrow your eyes at the notification. 

It’s Wonwoo’s (actual) girlfriend, and she’s sent you nothing but a picture of both of your men on Wonwoo’s living room floor, thoroughly occupied with the floored expanse of sheets, pillows and cushions. 

It’s a pillow fort.

Your boyfriend is building a pillow fort in his not-husband’s living room mere days before the final exam for the most dreaded course of the semester. All while he’s actively meant to be available for office hours.

You want to laugh. The man that stayed up multiple nights to answer stupid questions in emails, is now less than concerned about the pandemonium that is probably ensuing in the department building. It isn’t that you’re upset, because this was what you wanted from him. To learn to take a break when it was needed. But you would also prefer he’d time them a little better. 

Inevitably, you text him, but not before sending an encouraging text to your girlfriend-in-law for putting up with the both of them all by herself. 

[You]: where are you

[Mingyu]: where im meant to be?

[You]: office hours?

[Mingyu]: mhm

[You]: are u and ur husband conducting them under a pillow fort in his house

You imagine him sending Wonwoo’s girlfriend a betrayed look. Perhaps even throw a frilled throw pillow in her unassuming direction. 

[Mingyu]: DONT KILL ME

You let him suffer in your silence, clicking your phone off and leaving it somewhere you won’t be tempted to look. 

Besides, it wasn’t long before there was an incessant banging at your door that you ended up needing to get up to open. He looks so timid, the face of an innocent perpetrator that waltzes into your space. 

“I’m sorry,” he begins, following you to your desk like a lost duckling. 

“Whatever for?”

“For lying.” 

You snort as you sift through tutorial sheets, “Might wanna take that up to the poor hopeless student that thought you were their last hope.”

Mingyu’s head sinks to your shoulder where you sit at your desk. “God.”

“Him too.”

In another few moments, his arms have come around to cage you into your desk where you’re sat, hands placed on the table as he towers over the top of your head, mouth to crown. 

“Rumour has it,” he starts. 

You make a face. “Now you’ve joined in on gossip? Maybe I have steered you wrong.”

He ignores you valiantly as his mouth drops lower, down to the beginnings of the tips of your ears. You can smell him. He smells good. 

“That a textbook recitation is all it takes to get you all bothered down there.”

Lifting your head from its craned position over your papers, you stare straight ahead. Blank and unassuming. 

“Take a hike, Kim.”

“...Sorry.”

NO MATTER HOW FAKE annoyed you were at your boyfriend, you cannot possibly credit anyone else for how smooth your finals had gone. 

Not a single tear, hack or whine. Your meals were on time, your sleep schedule the healthiest it’s been for months. You even managed a movie night break in the midst of it all. A record for you. 

The very first thing you do after walking out of the exam hall, stretching and sighing, you find Mingyu waiting with nervous eyes. 

“Well?” he asks, eyes wide and lips pulled into his teeth. 

You merely grab for his hand and pull him out of the crowded hall and past a few familiar turns. 

“For the record I didn’t want some of the questions on there,” he yaps as he follows behind your stalks. “Hard ones weren’t mine. I promise I’m not a sadist.”

Then, in an un-CCTV’d corner, marked by the broken, empty vending machine, you round up on him. In seconds you’ve pulled him down to meet your lips in an eager, full kiss. 

In the moments your lips remain intact, you can feel all the horrid statistical knowledge you’d gathered over the months slip out the cracks and crevices, relieving you. 

Mingyu is careful to let you pull away first, eyes sticky to open when you do. There’s a smile on your face. “It went great.”

A strong tug against your waist and you’re suddenly pressed into Mingyu’s all too familiar hold, so everloving tight you can hardly breathe. His lips are smacking and pressing into your skin, all over your face, neck and hands. Anywhere he could possibly reach. 

There wasn’t much he could do standing in a huddled corner at nine in the morning on a Tuesday, where anyone could pass by and question what in the high school was going on. But there was more than enough Mingyu could do behind closed doors. 

In true Mingyu fashion, he’s begun to grope in every way you love the minute the lock clicks shut of his apartment, every fibre of both of your beings giddy and jumpy, giggles erupting from your tired mouths. You haven’t been touched in ages, always too tired to do anything even when you would find the time. 

It isn’t remotely strange that you're wet from only a few kisses and hot breaths against your neck. Although Mingyu’s hands haven’t been modest either, already reaching your clothed cunt as you fall into bed. 

He says it was your reward, for doing so good, his illustrious mouth suctioned onto your naked core, moving and grinding in ways you can more than just appreciate.

His tongue is nothing below made for you, like he knows exactly when to flick his tongue, graze his teeth and all but suck the daylights out of you. It’s marvellous, even more so as you realise he won’t stop. One, two, three mind blowing orgasms later, your legs still shake around his head as you cry out for him to stop. 

Not that he was going to listen, as he did not the last fifteen times you tried, simply pushing a finger into your abused hole to chuck you into yet another climax. You’re sobbing, trembling, sweating; but also half hearted in your attempts to stop him. 

By the time he’s relented, you’re sure you won’t feel a thing down there for at least a week. If Mingyu will even let you go untouched for that long. 

But as you’re finally able to catch your long lost breath in bed, and Mingyu has curled up right beside you, like he always does, you let the finality of it all sink in. You were done. And so was he. And you could now begin to experience a Mingyu that wasn’t exhausted, stressed or tired. Even now, the long indented layers of fatigue begin to melt away, revealing a less strained man. 

Mingyu was beautiful either way. 

“Are you okay?” he asks you, his fingers tracing your features. 

The pads of his fingers glide across your eyelids, down the slope of your nose, tracing the outline of your lips. You kiss his fingers as they reach you there, hand coming up to hold his wrists. You kiss the tips of his fingers, down to the palm of his hand. Eyes closed, you keep your lips there. 

“More than okay,” you mumble. 

“Good. Thought I lost you there.”

Stretching unceremoniously, you drape yourself over his naked form, head on his shoulder. “You’re not losing me. Not after being the sole reason I pass this devil’s module.”

“Is that all it takes? Make sure you don’t fail?”

“And give head like that.” It’s a half joke. “But also be Kim Mingyu comma TA.”

He mimics you between a breathy laugh, “Comma TA. Not anymore, I guess.”

“How happy are you?”

“Still have to grade the last set of papers. But I got what I wanted.”

“The recommendation? You deserve it.”

“That, and not having to be in Dr. Cho’s presence every other day. And you.”

You kiss his shoulder. “Look at you. All grown up with your big boy grad school on the horizon.”

“Not just yet.”

“You’ll get there too. If you can power through this hellsent semester, you can power through anything grad school applications throw.”

Mingyu shifts where he lays, taking a turn to lie on his side to face you. The afternoon sun peeks from behind his form, his outline made of pure gold. His breath is in your face as he talks, and there’s comfort in the air it penetrates.

“I only powered through this because of you. I hope you know that.” He’s smiling. 

“Girlfriend duties,” you quote solemnly. 

“I mean it. I knew I was walking into disaster with how this stupid job was going, all that work was just a distraction. I didn’t wanna believe this was a bad idea. And then you walked in.”

You cup his face and pout, “Oh, my damsel in distress.”

“Hm, my knight in shining armour,” he giggles. “Galloped in and saved me from myself.”

“You saved me too. From the world and its horrible creations.” 

“I’ll start talking in formulas if this keeps up.” 

You can only grumble in mild annoyance. 

“I’m glad I asked you to come in early that day,” he says.

“I’m glad I was a good samaritan and gathered all your stuff that day.” You grin.

Mingyu leans in and kisses you. It’s soft, slow, and drips of the romance he’s trying to bring into the conversation. His lips are bliss, the feeling of him is bliss. 

It’s almost scary how easily you’ve been able to give yourself to him. How quickly he’s placed himself in every nook and cranny of your heart. With his tired eyes and stronger than himself smile, the hand he extended in ways beyond you could ever explain to him. It’s terrifying when you realise what remains on the tip of your tongue, ready and bursting. 

But it’s true, and you can only pray it remains that way. Because in that moment, naked and tangled between Mingyu’s limbs, his heart in your ears, your hands on his being, you just know. 

“I think I might love you too.” 

[moonlitdesertdreams]

Stuck like glue

Request: "I'm going to scream your domestic character joining coop on his travels from her cabin is SO good 😭 I was wondering if you would write something with the same character in her cabin when coop turns up from nearby having taken one too many bullets? Or maybe he's sick and needs some jet. Some hurt/comfort fluffy sweetness"

A/N: Thank you to the awesome anon who sent the idea! Maybe not AS fluffy as we wanted, but there's for sure some soft Ghoul going on in here. And, oh yeah, the reader has a dog now. No description of said dog has been given, so please imagine as you'd wish.

Tags: Fallout, Cooper Howard, Cooper Howard x F!Reader, Cooper Howard x You, Ghoul x Reader

WARNINGS: Canon-Typical language and violence, brief mentions of sexual interaction.

Summary: Your favorite Ghoul needs to be patched up after a spat with some Raiders, and you always know just how to make him feel better.

Word Count: 2.0k+

Gif credit to @elisefrost from this set

You’re outside attempting to hang clothes to dry when you hear it. 

The soft but distinct sound of jingling metal comes from behind your cabin. You set one hand on the pistol strapped to your thigh and walk in that direction, eyes peeled for any movement. A bark echoes the sound from your porch, and you snap at your four-legged companion in an attempt to get him to stay. 

“Tiger!” You hiss. “Quit!”

 He relents with an indignant huff and returns to the porch, while the metallic noise keeps up in a steady pattern, akin to the cadence of a slow walk. You tilt your head at the thought and eventually move the hand off your pistol; only one person would dare tread this close in broad daylight with such carelessness.

“Coop?”

You don’t see him anywhere, but you’re almost certain it was the sounds of his old spurs that caught your attention. 

“Cooper if you’re tryna scare me, you know I'll gut you.” The threat is an empty one, but saying it gives you some hope that it’s indeed him and not a Raider or Slaver looking to score some loot. 

“No need, babydoll.” His voice sounds ragged, tired. “Don’t think I could scare a bunny rabbit at the moment.” 

You follow his voice to your left, and find the Ghoul leaned up against a tree. He’s practically swaying in the breeze, very apparently unsteady. You rush over just as he slides down and collides with the dirt.. 

“Cooper! What happened to you?” 

Your hands flutter up and down his arms, brusquely checking for any injuries. Nothing obvious jumps out at you, but he heals fast and external wounds are rare. A wheeze claws its way up his throat and morphs into a hacking cough. You recognize the sound as the need for a Vial, and grab at his bag. 

“Do you have any on you?” 

A stuttered cough answers. “Fresh out… s’why I came here.”

Your stash of Vials had been growing just about as long as you’d known Cooper. When you traveled together, he’d hand some off to you for safekeeping, and there always ended up being extras. Upon your return home, he’d tell you to keep them. It wasn’t shocking, given that he found his way back every couple of days.

“Alright, come on.” You crouch down and position yourself beneath Cooper’s arm. 

You can tell he’s weak by the way he leans into you, knees wobbling relentlessly as you pull him up. Another round of coughing wracks his body and you squeeze him reassuringly. 

“Couch isn’t far.” You chose your words carefully, avoiding any inkling of pity. Having an already deteriorating Ghoul is enough, let alone a defensive one who hates being pitied. 

Cooper does his best to keep up with your steps, but his movements are sloppy and uncoordinated. You can feel the heat radiating off of him through his jacket and hear him wheezing beside your ear. Stepping onto the porch gives him some trouble, but you manage to haul him up and inside the door. Tiger whines nervously, circling the pair of you as you trek inside. The Ghoul collapses onto the couch as soon as it’s within reach. 

After making sure Cooper’s not going to slide off the couch, you continue to the med-kit in your makeshift kitchen. The Vials are hidden at the very bottom, wrapped in cloth for extra cushion to prevent shattering. You decide there’s more than enough for him to take two, and carefully extract the mysterious chem. 

Cooper’s laid out on his back when you return with the Vials. One arm is thrown over his eyes and the other dangling off the side of the couch with Tiger perched beneath. The dog nuzzles his favorite person’s hand for attention, and it elicits a chuckle from you. Even as the only conscious person in the room, you were still second in Tiger’s eyes. 

“Coop.” You shake his shoulder gently. “Hey. Hey. Where’s your inhaler?”

You nudge his hat away and he blinks slowly. “Mmm.”

“Ok then.” You mutter and pat down his jacket, searching for the contraption he always carries. The coat yields no results, and you pat down his pants until you feel it tucked away into the pocket at his hip. “Finally.”

Cooper shuffles ever so slightly when you slip your hand into his pocket. “H-hey now. I know you love me, baby, but I-I ain’t got it in me right now.”

An errant smile pushes its way onto your lips. You snap the meds into place on his inhaler 

“Open up.”

He fails to heed your instructions, and you ultimately end up forcing the inhalant into his mouth. It never works instantly, but within a minute or so of administering it there’s movement. One of Cooper’s hands lifts to cup yours, puffing on the inhaler again. 

You release your hold on it and rock back onto the balls of your feet. It’s then you take note of the holes in his clothing, and run a hand down his chest. There’s numerous holes, some as big as your finger and others no larger than a pinhead. 

“Cooper, what happened to you?” You sit on the edge of the couch beside him as he takes his first deep breath without Chems. 

“I just turn’d in a bounty and some Raiders jumped me.” He looks down at your hand on his chest. “Bastards shot me ten or eleven times. Damn buckshot got me good.”

You nod. “I can tell. You were in a bad way, Coop.”

The Ghoul sits up slowly beside you so his legs can swing off the couch. “I’ll be good as new, soon as this stuff starts workin’ good.” 

Tiger hops up on the couch next to him, tail wagging with excitement. The dog licks your cheek on his way to Cooper and pushes his nose into the Ghoul’s shoulder. You chuckle at the interaction, patting the dog’s shoulders. Coopers are still hunched with exhaustion, and his deep-set eyes look even more so. 

“Well until they do, you rest.” You stand, glancing out the still-ajar door. “It’s getting dark anyway.”

Cooper, as usual, opens his mouth to protest. If there’s anything he hates, it’s feeling useless. 

“No arguments.” You point a finger at him. “I mean it.”

He grumbles, but relents. “Fine. Only if you turn somethin’ on that ol’ TV of yours.”

The television turns out to be a perfect method of relaxation. You have to remove Cooper from the couch temporarily, but wrestle it into the pullout bed form and line it with blankets. The Ghoul had given in to his exhaustion rather easily at the prospect of a comfortable bed and kicked off his boots to climb all the way in. You hung his coat on a nail by the door, but made sure to leave his guns, lasso, and assorted weapons within arm’s reach. The TV played some old soap opera from before your time while you snagged a couple of hard candies- a luxury item, as the nearest settlement called them- and made to settle in. 

Cooper had managed to prop himself against the back of the couch, feet kicked out down the length of the thin mattress. Tiger, seeking attention as per usual, is curled up against his right leg. A wet nose rests just beneath Cooper’s knee and twitches in interest when you unwrap the first candy. 

The Ghoul might as well be a dog himself for the way his ears perk at the sound of a wrapper. 

He watches intently as you very gracefully clamber to sit next to him. You pop the fruit-flavored candy in your mouth and scoot around until you find comfort. In this case, it’s leaned up against the Ghoul beside you, head dropping onto his shoulder. His breathing is still shallower than you’d like, but a vast improvement from where it was when he’d shown up. 

“You ain’t gonna share?” 

You open your fist and offer up one of the candies. “I suppose I could. But only for you.”

A smirk twists the corners of his scarred lips. You poke at the candies and attempt to read the labels to no avail. 

“I’d offer you a choice of flavor, but…” You shrug, looking back up to your Ghoul. “Slim pickings.”

He lifts a bare hand to your chin, tilting up. “I think the pickin’s are just fine.”

You smile and lean in to meet him, lips falling into a familiar dance.The hand on your chin slides down to grip your nape and holds you firmly in place. It’s not long before the candy is gone from your mouth. Its remnants remain, mingling with the taste of gunpowder and smoke. A few moments pass before you decide to separate

“Miss me much?” You inquire, cuddling yourself down into his side. 

His arm raises to accommodate your body and lowers it back down to encircle your shoulders once you’re settled. “I always miss you darlin’. For a variety of reasons.”

You hum softly, “Yeah? Why’s that?”

Cooper’s hand trails up and down your arm, leaving wide trails of gooseflesh. “Well, the main one happens to be the lack of entertainment.”

You scoff. “I’m your entertainment?”

“Fuck yeah, you are. ‘Specially when you’re hollerin’ at scavengers and shootin’ anything that moves.” The Ghoul chuckles to himself. “Or trippin’ over a sleeping yao guai.”

You shove him playfully. “That was one time, and I shot it dead anyway.”

Cooper pulls you towards him, and you shift until you’re between his legs, back pressed against his chest. “That you did, sweetheart. I ain’t forgot.”

He grabs the nearest blanket and tosses it over your entangled bodies. You curl to the side and rest your cheek to his chest. Tiger shuffles his body with a huff, apparently frustrated with the lack of attention.

“What would you do without me?” You tap his chest gently, relishing in the warmth he produces. “Other than get eaten by a yao guai?”

The Ghoul scratches Tiger’s head. “Prolly go feral. Chase around some folk to scare em’.”

You know he’s joking, but the thought of losing him to ferality scares you to no end. Particularly since he’s just shown up on death’s door and almost hacked a lung onto your floor.

“Don’t say that.” You lift your head to catch his eye. “Please.”

Cooper may be a gruff old Ghoul with a dreadful outlook on the world, but he softens ever so slightly at your words.

“You know I don’t mean it, sugar. You’re stuck with me, whether you like it or not.”

Two scarred fingers hook beneath your jaw and pull you back up to his lips. It’s tame at first, but the Cooper you know wastes no time making an appearance. His teeth nip at your lip gently and one rough hand slides up your side until it cups your breast. You press into him eagerly, climbing upwards until your thighs slot around either side of his hips. He responds by grinding them into you, delicious friction warming you from head to toe.  

Tiger decides he’s disgusted at this point, and hops off the couch with a comical groan.

Unbothered, one of your hands latches onto the lasso that is tossed on top of his pile of weapons. You loop it around his neck, gripping either side of the rope and pulling him in. Cooper smirks against your mouth. 

“Oh I love being stuck with you, Cowpoke.” You whisper against his mouth, earning yourself a quick bite to the bottom lip.

The Ghoul grins and quickly shows how much strength he’s regained by reversing your positions. He snatches the rope faster than you can react, and wraps the fingers of one hand loosely around the column of your throat. There’s just enough pressure to shoot a pang of arousal between your legs. Cooper knows you’re squirming, and presses a knee there to relieve some of the ache. 

“Glad t’hear it.” He murmurs into your neck, “‘Cause I sure as hell ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

-------------------

thanks for reading, much love ❤

Read More: Fallout Masterlist

[0mg-bird]

Sister’s Mister ~ B. Bradshaw x Seresin Sister Reader

Summary: When Jake’s little sister pays a visit, Bradley gets himself into a sneaky situation where he might want to be the sister’s mister.

Warning: 18+ content ahead, language.

A/n: Very Nickelback coded, argue with the wall.

There was a feeling of uncertainty among the men in the locker room as they showered and cleaned up. Jake left early to pick up a package, that package being his dearest little sister. You.

“He’s bringing her to Payback’s birthday party.” Fanboy states and he pulls a clean shirt on.

The rest groan, asking Payback why he’s allowing it. He just shrugs. “Dude, I felt bad, alright? She’s coming to stay for a month, I don’t want to start off on a bad foot.”

Bob, who was currently pulling his civilian shoes on, shook his head. “Hangman’s enough, what are we gonna do when a second him is going to be hangin’ around?”

They moan about that, all making claims about what you must be like. Things like spoiled, arrogant, and self centered all came up.

Bradley runs his hands through his hair a few times. “Which sister is this anyway? He’s got about five of them.” He asks.

“Big families are common in the south.” Bob reminds.

Coyote is there to answer his question. “I think it’s the one born after him? They’re the closest ones out of the seven kids.”

“Seven!” They all exclaim, cursing with wide eyes.

Bradley shuts his locker. “Six siblings might be the reason Hangman’s a head case.” He claims, making the others laugh.

“Yeah, let’s just hope the sisters not the same way.” Omaha chuckles.

~~

At the airport, you look for the tall head of blonde hair that is your brother. Suitcase rolling along behind you, you pass security and immediately see him.

Jake leans against a pillar, looking rather bored until he sees you approaching. Then, he’s walking to you with a smile.

“I was hoping you’d accidentally board a flight to Mexico instead.” He teases as you hug him.

“Oh c’mon now, don’t act like you haven’t missed me.” You smile, air getting squeezed out of your lungs as his strong arms grip you.

He pulls away and takes your suitcase and backpack. “Hard to miss someone whose face is plastered on magazine issues. But it’s good to see ‘ya, sis.”

The two of you leave to get a bite to eat, then Jake drops you off at the small house you rented.

“We’re going to my buddies birthday party tomorrow night.” He tells you as he checks the place.

You roll your eyes at his effort to make sure no crazy people are hiding behind the curtains, then open up your backpack to unpack some things.

“Which buddy is this?” You question.

“Just someone on my squad.” Jake explains.

You let out a heavy sigh. “Yay, a barbecue in the park.”

Jake glares at your fake enthusiasm. “It’s not a barbecue, and I feel personally victimized by that stereotypical statement.”

“Ooh, Jakey’s using big words.” You fake gasp.

He isn’t amused.

“We’re going to a club, okay? You know all about those, huh?” He teases, making your brows furrow.

“Is that what you think I do all day? Go to clubs with rich people?” You ask, to which he shrugs and nods. You scoff. “I do have an actual job, I just happen to know how to party.”

Jake sits at the kitchen counter. “So do we. Look, it’ll be fun and you can meet the crew.” He says, making you give in.

“Fine, I’ll go.”

He hums. “You never had a choice but I appreciate your cooperation.”

You roll your eyes. “Get out of my house, Seresin.”

~~

“Where’s Hangman?” Phoenix asks as she greets everyone in the parking lot.

They all wait to go inside the club, ready to get drinks down and watch Payback get wasted, but the only problem was they were waiting for the last two to join.

“Fashionably late.” Bradley huffs, checking the time. They agreed to meet at ten, but the minutes continue to tick by.

“Hey, what’s this chick’s name?” Phoenix asks, looking down at her phone with a face of confusion.

They all rattle off names until one clicks.

“Yeah! That’s it.” Coyote agrees, looking at the faces of surprise. “Why?”

She shrugs. “I’m Facebook stalking her.”

Though they want to call her crazy, they huddle around the phone as she scrolls through the profile. Bradley rolls his eyes at the antics.

“You guys are being ridiculous.” He states.

“Holy shit…” Fanboy exclaims.

“She’s gorgeous…like insanely gorgeous.” Payback finishes the thought.

Just as Bradley turns to look, Jake’s truck rolls into a parking spot. Phoenix scrambles to put her phone away, trying to act natural as Jake gets out. He walks around the truck and opens the passenger side door.

Two long legs step out, they all watch with anticipation. The door is shut to reveal you in full.

Long, curled hair, a short black dress. You smile as you approach, it reflects in your blue eyes.

Bradley stands in a daze as you get introduced to everyone. He’s trying to think of a time when he’s seen someone more beautiful than you but he just can’t.

“This is Rooster.” Jake finally gets to him.

Bradley snaps out of it and smiles, shaking your perfectly soft hand.

You let your eyes rise from his shoes, all the way up his jeans and white tank top under his unbuttoned shirt. When they meet his eye, you take in a small breath at the way he gazes at you.

“Hi, Rooster.” You speak with a subtle southern accent, introducing yourself.

Then, you’re pulling away from him, his hand falls back at his side and he sees you turn to Payback.

“Happy birthday.” You say and hand him a small gift bag. “Jake helped me pick it out.”

He reaches into the bag, thanking you and saying that you really didn’t need to get him anything. He takes out a velvet box and opens it to reveal an expensive looking watch. The crew lowly whistles at it.

“Damn…my birthday’s next month by the way.” Coyote tells you, making you laugh.

Inside the club, the group of you gather in the reserved booth with a first round of drinks. Bradley sits directly across from you, watching you intently as you answer different questions.

“What do you do for work?” Phoenix asks, making Jake cut in.

“Stripping.” He says with a serious face, making you slap his arm.

“Stop telling people that.” You scold before looking back at Phoenix. “I model.”

That sparks a roar of interest, the whole time Bradley just watches your movements. Your fingers toy with the skinny straw in your glass as you tell a story about being in a rock music video or of doing an issue for Vogue two months ago. He sees your pouty bottom lip get caught between your pearly teeth when you laugh at something and his mind is flooded with thoughts he cannot speak out loud.

Here he was, worried you’d be a stone cold bitch when he should have been worried that you were gonna make him grip the table to ground himself. All you were doing was sitting there and he was already getting pulled in.

You’re Jake’s sister.

He has to remind himself of that as you are dragged into the swarm of clubbers by Phoenix and Halo.

“So…we’re just going to ignore the fact that she was a bunny?” Coyote mentions, making Jake cringe.

“Hey, asshole, let’s not talk about that when I’m sitting right here. Besides, it was like one issue, and she wasn’t buck naked.” He corrects, chugging his beer at the odd topic this has come to.

“You seen it?” Fanboy cringes.

“Our mom sent it to the family group chat! I was horrified.” Jake gags.

Bradley laughs at his reaction, then shifts his eyes to Coyote who finishes his drink. He sees the smirk he has and knows that there’s gonna be a comment to follow.

“She was hot, dude. I feel a little star struck, actually.” Coyote chuckles.

Jake points an angry finger at his friend. “I love you man, but say anything like that again and I’m putting you through this table. Got it?” He spits.

Bradley looks at his glass.

He better just keep his mouth shut, because if Jake hears the things he’s thinking, he’s as good as dead.

“What do you mean she was a bunny?” Bob questions, defusing the tension. “I thought she was Jake’s sister?”

The guys let out a sigh, Jake races off as it has to be explained to the pilot.

Lights and music pulse and as you dance along, Bradley’s jaw is ticking back and forth. You appear like a phantom, arms up as you laugh with Phoenix.

“I’ll be back.” He tells the guys before heading for the bathroom.

He locks the door behind him and leans on the sink, trying to get himself together. Then, he pulls out his phone and Googles your name.

Hundreds and hundreds of photos appear on the screen, all in which you look sinfully good.

How could he not know of you before? He feels like he’s lived in darkness this whole time.

Bradley splashes water on his face and tells his reflection to get it together. With a deep breath, he goes to the bar, trying to get his head straight.

Things with Jake were finally fine, there was a truce made. The last thing that Bradley needs is to start another war by getting too close to the miniature Seresin.

Leaning on the bar, waiting for the bartender to get to him, he’s suddenly joined.

“You weren’t gonna offer me a drink?” You ask with a playful smile.

He turns his head, looking down at you and he internally curses. Of course you’d find him, life was never easy for him.

“I figured you were a big girl and could get yourself something if you were thirsty.” He states, swallowing hard.

You let out a small chuckle, then wave the bartender over.

“Whatcha’ need sweetheart?” The bartender asks, leaning forward with a wink.

“Vodka with a diet redbull, if you wouldn’t mind.” You order, then turn to Rooster with an expectant look.

“Oh, uh, just whiskey on the rocks.” He mutters.

The bartender gets right on it, leaving the two of you alone once more.

You run a manicured hand through your hair and look up at him. “So, Rooster, you got a real name?” You ask.

He nods, avoiding eye contact. His fingers flex into fists and back out again because you smell like cherry and vanilla, it makes him feel woozy.

You laugh. “Yeah? What is it?”

Blowing out a breath, he tells himself he’s stronger than this and looks to you.

“Bradley.” He says, aching as you hum and try the name out for yourself.

“Bradley. I like that.” You nod, taking your drink as it is given to you.

Your lips wrap around the straw and slowly sip as he drinks his whiskey, focusing on the taste of it washing down his throat.

You watch the veins in his arms and the way his adams apple bobs. He’s the perfect picture of fine, the wheels are turning in your head as you establish that he’s what you want.

“You want to dance with me, Bradley?” You ask as he finishes the drink in silence.

He shoots his brown eyes down at you, but doesn’t answer. Your straw slurps as you reach the bottom of your glass. “It’s a simple question.” You state.

“No.” He shutters.

“No?” You clarify.

“I do but no, I won’t.” He says weakly.

“And why is that?” You question, lips pursing.

The way you squint your eyes makes him want to drop dead. He clears his throat. “You’re off limits, sweetheart. The last thing I need is your brother ripping my head off.”

You smile. “I’m a big girl, I can make my own decisions.”

He turns to fully face you now. “I don’t think that matters to Hangman.”

You let out a dramatic sigh. “Well, I’m standing here talking to you and he hasn’t come found me. I don’t know about you but to me, that seems like it’s okay for you to continue talking to me.”

You were being extremely difficult.

He sits on the chair behind him, motioning for you to do the same. Slowly, you sit, crossing one leg over the other. Your thumb nail gets caught between your teeth for a moment before he reaches out to pull it away. You lightly gasp at the action, then fold your hands together in your lap. “Wanna talk? Let’s talk.”

The two of you exchange friendly chatter, both very aware of the space shrinking between you. The sound of your voice is addicting, the longer you talk, the longer he adores it. All those silly things they guys assumed about you were entirely false. You were smart and kind, you were actually hilarious.

“You still don’t want to dance with me?” You ask after a breath, your fingers running over his thigh.

He sucks in a breath. “You just want me to be killed, don’t you?”

You look at the mass of people. “If I know one thing, it’s that my brother is probably all over some little blonde right now and way too distracted to worry about me.” You state, moving your fingers now to the back of his hand, slowly tracing shapes on his skin.

“What about the others?” He asks.

You shrug. “There’s a swarm of people, I doubt they’ll notice.”

He fights his inhibitions, then decides he’s aching to feel the silk of your dress under his hands way more than he is scared of getting caught.

Bradley grabs your hand, it’s strong as it guides you off the seat. You smirk to yourself as you follow behind him. He strategically places the two of you in the crowd, the lack of space makes you press yourself to him. Your arms hook around his neck, you feel the warmth of his palms on your lower back.

The different colored lights make the silhouette of you sharp and enticing. Though the two of you start out calm, your movements aren’t subtle. One hand in his hair, the other smooths up his chest. You’re hot, blame it on the people around you but the way he’s looking at you isn’t helping. The size of his hands on you, the way his hair gets messy, it has your knees feeling wobbly.

One movement forward, you’re pressed right against him, giving a delicious contact to the crotch of his jeans. His fingers grip your hips tightly, he leans down to press his lips to your ear. Your eyes widen as the heat of his breath washes down your neck.

“Don’t.” Is the only word he utters.

And you aren’t used to being told no.

You do it again, creating that aching friction as you rub against him. “Why not?” You whisper back.

Bradley shuts his eyes, trying to stay strong in the war he is not winning. “Don’t start something, sweetheart.”

You reach down to grab both his hands and slide them behind you. He grabs your ass instinctively.

“What if I want to?” You ask, anything but innocent.

He pulls away from your ear, shaking his head at you like it’ll change the situation. He’s saying no because it’s the smart thing, but really all he wants to do is slide his hand under your dress.

Your hand braces one side of his neck while you lean to the other. Slowly, like you aren’t sure if he’ll push you off or not, your lips press to his skin.

Bradley wants to curse, the way your tongue tastes the salt on his skin has him grinding you against him on his own accord. You make your way up to his jaw, then pull back. His eyes are entirely dark, you open your mouth to speak but he’s kissing you roughly.

You sigh contently as you start to feel like you’re buzzing on more than just alcohol. It only lasts a few seconds, like he just needed a taste. Bradley pulls away with a huff, you feel like you’re going to fall over.

“Still scared of Jake?” You ask him.

He shakes his head. “This isn’t smart.”

“But you want it.” You say, hand sliding up his chest.

He wants it, fuck he wants it. You can see it in his eyes, that’s why you take his hand and pull him out of the crowd.

In the secluded hallway of the bathrooms, in the low red lighting, you’re grinning as you’re backing him into the wall. You inhale deeply, fighting with his lips as he holds your waist. It’s feverish as you kiss, the way you gently press against his waist has Bradley biting back moans. Suddenly, he’s pushing you back, walking you until you hit the opposite wall.

“Don’t be a tease.” He warns lowly, hand gently squeezing your jaw.

Your smirk is victorious. “I won’t be a tease if you take me back to your place.”

He tightens his grip slightly before swooping down and devouring your lips. His strained jeans rub against you. “That’s what you want?” He asks, pulling away again.

You bite your bottom lip, nodding. “I’m up for anything you want to do, actually.”

His thumb pulls that lip down. He looks at it in awe as he makes his final decision.

“Text your brother, tell him that you called an Uber home.” He says.

“Jake already said he was taking a girl home and sent me the cash for a ride.” You breathe.

It’s all a sudden blur, the way Bradley’s dragging you out to the parking lot, helping you into the passenger seat of his Bronco. He’s definitely breaking traffic laws as he races to his one bedroom house.

He struggles to get the door open as you suck at his neck. Once he does get it open, he’s tugging you inside and slamming it shut.

Down the hall, you’re shredding his layers. His button shirt is thrown over the couch in the living room, his belt lands on the coffee table. As you pull his white tank off, your breath catches.

“Fuck.” Is all you can say, looking at how toned his upper body is. His biceps make you want to wrap your hands around them and squeeze.

Bradley smirks, feeling good about himself. “This is what gets you to shut that mouth of yours?” He asks.

You run your eyes over his abs. “You’re like…insanely hot.”

He grips your waist, then backs you up into the kitchen counter. “Says the one with the million dollar body.”

Your fingers dance over his bare skin. “Art appreciates art.” You shrug before devouring his kiss again.

At this point your lipstick is gone, Bradley wears some of it on his skin like you’ve branded him. His hands brace under your thighs, easily lifting you to sit on the smooth kitchen counter. You sit with a huff, spreading your legs wide enough for him to slot between them. The smooth material of your dress bunches on your hips, giving him a perfect view of the pretty pink thong you wear.

He breathes heavy in excitement, gazing down at the lace like it’s a prize. That’s before he’s tilting your head back and kissing down the column of your throat. You mewl softly at the feeling, how he dances down the tops of your breasts that threaten to spill out of the dress.

Then he’s sinking further down, you watch him slowly lower himself to become eye level with your core. You gasp softly as he grips your thighs and places warm kisses to them. It stimulates you, the way his lips feel. His hot breath fans over your aching center, he’s kissing the lace fabric like he’s praising it before he grips the top of it.

“You still sure you want this?” He checks one last time. “Because I don’t know if I can stop after I start.”

You grow impatient, flexing your hips to move your heat closer to him. “Bradley, I don’t want you to stop.”

That was enough for him to yank the panties down your legs, letting them hang on one ankle. He keeps your heels on, enjoying the way they press against his upper back as your legs drape over his shoulders.

His tongue comes to run up your center, you take in a sharp breath. He tastes your arousal, immediately becoming intoxicated off of it. Fingers pressing into the flesh of your thighs, he keeps you spread open for him as he dives in, eating you out in a way you haven’t experienced before.

Your head falls back, hand wringing in his hair, holding him close to you. A moan tumbles free from your throat. “Oh fuck, you’re good at this. Fuck! Like that.”

He can’t help but grin wildly, stimulating your erected clit before stretching two fingers inside of you. Your hips buck at the feeling, you’re humming out, panting at the feeling. He eats it so good, you don’t even think to muffle the sounds you make.

“Ah, Bradley.” You breathe, making his cock twitch in his jeans.

“You like it, pretty girl?” He vibrates against you, making you cry out.

His eyes lift to look up at you writhe. You’re perfect, open mouthed and grinding against his tongue, reacting when he curls his fingers.

“Yes.” You encourage.

The sound is wet and lewd as he sucks on your sensitive skin, your eyes widen as you feel your finish coming on.

“Rooster, I’m close.” You whine slightly, it only makes him focus more and get you closer.

“You want to cum? Do it, finish for me.” He encourages.

Your chest heaves, you tighten your grip in his hair as you clench around his fingers. You curse loudly, feeling the orgasm build and build until you finally snap. You shudder, your thighs clench around Bradley’s head as you feel the wave wash over you. He’s there through it, cleaning you up with his tongue, sucking his fingers clean.

You lick his lips, tasting yourself on him before kissing him.

“Come on, pretty girl.” He coos, helping you off the counter, chuckling at your uneasy legs as he guides you to his bedroom.

The door is clicked shut behind you and Bradley’s pulling you against him, cradling your face in his hands as he clashes his tongue with yours. His pants are pushed off by your greedy hands, then he’s watching you crawl onto his perfectly made bed. Your eyelashes fan perfectly as you stare at him, slowly pulling your dress off and dropping it to the floor.

Fuck.

You’re perfect.

Sitting pretty for him, he lets his eyes roam over your perfect skin, how great you look in his bed.

He’s in trouble.

Your leg extends out, lifting your foot up expectantly. With a pleased smile, he comes forward to the foot of the bed, unbuckling the heel, then the other. He tosses them carelessly behind him, they hit the floor with a clatter.

“Those are expensive.” You warn as he tugs at your ankles, making you gasp and fall onto your back.

“Yeah? I’m sure you have five more pairs just like them.” He states, crawling up the bed to hover over you.

Slowly, the two of you share the same air. You lay, looking up at him. “Come on, Bradley, I won’t tell if you won’t.” You tease.

He could devour you.

“You do this often? Target your brother’s friends?” He jokes back.

Your nails run down his scalp. “I can’t stand my brother’s friends. You on the other hand, you’re different.”

Tongue in your mouth, he’s moaning, sitting up to pull open his nightstand drawer. The foil of the condom is cool in his fingers, he pulls back to sit on his knees as you sit up. You pull his boxer briefs down his toned legs, breathing heavy as his full erection is freed. It aches against his stomach, the tip dripping with precum. You swipe your thumb over it, making him groan.

Completely infatuated, you pump your hand over his length as he rips open the condom package.

“I’ll cum if you keep doing that.” He grunts out, pulling your hand away so he can roll the rubber on. “Get on your stomach.”

The direct tone of his voice has you a mess between your legs, you roll over, legs spread, yelping in surprise as he tugs your hips, positioning your ass in the air.

“Is this okay?” He asks, warmly rubbing your back.

Hair falls in your eyes, he moves it away. You look back at him and nod. “It’s more than okay.”

His dark eyes gleam, then he’s positioning himself at your entrance. You feel the tip of him run down your folds, nudging your clit, making you mewl lowly and grab the pillow.

He pushes halfway in before you gasp, he slowly enters your walls to make sure you’re relaxed enough for him. The pressure his size gives you has you breathing hard already.

“I’m almost there, sweetheart.” He says lowly, letting his head fall back as he finally bottoms out.

Adjusting, you can feel how good he fills you. “Oh god.” You pant, squeezing your eyes shut as he slowly pulls back and pushes into you again.

“You sound so perfect.” Bradley says, slack jawed.

He kneads your ass, gripping it as he sets a pace. The way you lay out on front of him, arched back and taking him so good, he wants to cum inside of you in that moment.

“Mm, like that.” You guid. “You’re so fucking deep.”

Hearing those dirty words from your perfect lips, his vision threatens to go blurry.

“Yeah? Is this what you wanted the whole night, my cock buried inside you. Fuck, you’re so tight, it’s amazing.” He says through gritted teeth.

Pulling your hips, he fucks you back into him. As you meet his thrusts, broken sounds are coming from your throat.

You’re picture perfect, he’s going to be getting off to this image for weeks.

Mind completely cloudy, you mutter your words, they slur together. His fingers snake down to rub your clit and it has you choking on a sob, burying your face into the pillow at the build up inside of you.

“There you go, baby.” He breathes, picking up his pace. His hand stretches to gently tangle in your hair, his thrusts are hard, jolting you.

His name is muffled as you chant it, warning him that you’re oh-so close. You can’t even turn your head to look back at him, you just lean your head back and cry out as you clench around him.

“Holy shit- I’m almost there, hang on.” He grunts, edging himself closer and closer.

Your body shakes. “Bradley.” You whimper out, then you’re coming all over him.

The shout of him is what makes him push fully inside of you one last time and release. He bucks against you, riding his high out.

You’re collapsed onto the mattress now as he pulls out of you, mouth open as you pant, face and hair a mess.

“Holy fuck…” He runs a hand over his face, moving to lean back against his headboard.

He looks down at you, thinking you’re utterly spent. His gentle hands pull you up to him, slowly kissing you, trying to comb your hair down.

You learn how affectionate he can be. Especially after another round, where you’re watching him fuck up into you as you ride him, and genuine tiredness overcomes the two of you. You both clean up, then you try to decide what your next move is.

Hookups weren’t something you were too familiar with, you’ve only ever slept with your previous boyfriends.

Were you supposed to go back to your house? Did he expect you to leave?

The answer is decided when he shifts to his worn side of the bed.

“Come back to bed.” He says, watching you stand in the doorway, looking at your shoes.

Your eyes lift back up to him and his heart stops for a moment, you’re wearing a genuine grin.

Tangled in his sheets, not bothering to get dressed, the two of you talk until you eventually are lulled to sleep. You tried to fight it, but he’s so warm as he holds you, his voice is such a perfect tone, he’s rubbing your head and doing everything a hookup doesn’t do.

He’s well aware of this.

And when you’re snoozing peacefully, tucked against his chest, he curses and looks up at the ceiling.

He was already in too deep.

Part 2 here

[skyeslittlecorner]

Omg loveeee your works and the smol kings 😍 Can I have some more plssssss 🥺 Like MC teasing them for being so little (poke and bite those cheeks... 👉👈), then carrying them in their hands for cuddles or some kissie and huggie 🥹🥹🥹 Or any other fluff stuff too!!!!!

Ahhh they're just too precious 🥺 Nobles move aside, it's time to take care of these rascals personally. Little, lovable rascals. The more I see them like this, the more I hope that PB will take the opportunity and turn them into kids one day. Even for a moment. Let me hold and cuddle baby Satan pleeeaseee 🙏🙏

PS. I swear it supposed to be fluff BUT Levi said noooo who need fluff when we can have ✨trauma✨. He doesn't cooperate even in fanfics.

Satan

Remember how Sitri was worried about whether it was good idea to show Satan to people of Gehenna? You found out how wrong he was as soon as the other kids appeared on the horizon. Satan's gaze was glued to them. Silenced by the Paimon’s bubble gum, tearing the teddy bears brought by Leraye, didn't even pay attention to the nobles, he just grabbed your hand and pointed towards the group of kids with sticks.

"Over there! Let’s go!"

You were alone with him for a while, but it wouldn't hurt if you two went out to play, right? He didn't need the nobles' presence. But you? You were supposed to sit with him and the kids. When Satan took a stick they were pretending is a gun, you expected to get one too. Instead, he stood in front of you and stated seriously:

“You're my queen, you don't fight! I'm fighting for you.”

He looked so cute that you burst out laughing and pinched his fluffy cheek. He groaned and pushed your hand away. 

"No! You can't! You don't do that to warriors!”

“Then protect me bravely, my king.”

You moved away to a safe distance so as not to accidentally get hit by a piece of bark or a bullet of the mud. Two women who stood a little further away, apparently the mothers of some kids from group, invited you to join them.

“I didn't know you had children, he looks so sweet…”

“He's really strong! Just like his majesty Satan. Incredible”

You watched tenderly as the little ones rolled in the dust and puddles. Kids. You had to explain everything to the women, but maybe not yet. A family with him… The very idea melted you inside. More and more often you wondered if you really wanted to come back to Earth.

Mammon

You were gone for fifteen minutes at most. It took you a moment of wandering around the gallery to find the bathroom, and then an even longer moment not to get lost in the bathroom itself (why was a sauna there?). As you returned to the alley where you left the nobles with the little king, you heard howling. You had a bad feeling. They were confirmed when you turned between the shelves and a scene straight from Dante's Inferno appeared before your eyes.

Bimet was crouching and waving toy cars, Eligos was swinging a gold-plated candy bar, and Mammon was sitting on the floor and crying. Valefor was the only one who looked conscious, with the phone to his ear.

“There you are,” he smiled with relief as you came closer in your stupor. “I tried to call you. His Majesty… You see what happened as soon as you left us.”

Bimet narrowed his eyes and huffed.

“Come here and fix it.”

You didn't even feel like making fun of them because this sobbing was tearing your heart apart. Mammon was really tiny as a child. You knelt down and gathered him in your arms, his slim body clinging to you with all his frail strength. He calmed down, but only a little.

“Here, here. Everything's fine. What happened?"

“I found… something… for you.” His voice was interrupted by hiccups. "But you were not there…"

You kissed the top of his head, between the curled horns. His head sometimes tilted to the left, where the heavier horn was.

“Shhh, I won't leave you anymore.”

“You promise?”

You nodded, and the kid smiled through his tears. He sniffed and pressed a candy bracelet into your hand. When he grabbed your hand, you felt that he still had some of his adult strength in him. From now on, you were forbidden to leave his side.

Beelzebub

You spent the entire day running back and forth around Avisos after the little king who refused to sit still. You thought your legs were going to fall off. When you were sitting on the couch in the office and the little boy was falling asleep on your lap, you realized that you simply went about it wrong. It was a better idea to take him to the feast immediately. It's true that he ate three pubs, but this bill was nothing compared to his usual conquests. He lay curled up, his head in your lap, holding your hand.

“My tummy hurts.”

Bael, although he took pity enough not to rush him to work, still preferred to have you both with him, in the office.

“So you didn't have to eat that much?”

“I am the king of gluttony.”

“You're a little worm, Beel. This is how you end up mixing newt eyes with Eastern European moonshine. Next time you'll think about what you're cooking."

He was answered by a childish grumble, as Beel squeezed your hand tighter.

“Don't listen to Bael, he's stupid. It tasted so nice…”

"I heard it."

"He worries about you." You stroked the blond hair that you had already braided.

Beel wanted to talk to you again, take you somewhere, but you saw that his eyes were closing completely. You laid down on the couch and let him snuggle against your chest. 

Bael just glanced at you, but soon you were both asleep. He sighed and covered you with the blanket, and now that Beelzebub was asleep, he could stroke his hair a little too. Stupid... but he's still his king. And a friend, after all.

Leviathan

Young Levi was even quieter than usual, and much, much more fearful. He didn't want to have anything to do with anyone. He hid in corners and nooks, and the fact that he was tiny didn't help. You knew that the invisible Foras was watching over him, but that didn't calm you down. A gift for this child came to your mind, when you saw that all the pens were missing from the desk.

You found Levi hidden behind his coffin, with a stack of notes scattered around. All the drawings were black, gloomy and hastily sketched.

“Leviathan?”

He started like a frightened deer ready to run away.

“Don't go, please… it's me. It's just me. I have something for you."

He didn't back down, but he didn't invite you in either. Still, you sat down across from him and placed a new pack of colored pencils next to drawings. He looked at them, his small lips quivering as if he were holding back tears.

“I don't want them.”

"Why?"

“It wasn't… it wasn't colorful there.”

His drawings made it all too clear to you what he was thinking. You saw the castle of Hades and the spindly Levi himself. You could tell by the horns. But other children, with broken horns, with bandages...

“They want you to be happy.” You reached out and wiped away the tears that ran down his pale cheeks. Little fists rubbed eyes in anger. Tears came to your own eyes as you looked at his silent pain.

Leviathan himself must have felt terrified, because he stood up and staggered closer. Trembling fingers grabbed your sleeve. A piercing sob hit you straight in the heart. All you could do was cradle him in your arms. 

You took a new piece of paper, the brightest color you could find, and started to draw. You gently stroked the shaking shoulders and only picked up the paper when you finished.

"Look here."

Your artistic skills left much to be desired, especially that you didn’t draw with your leading hand, because thi one was holding a crying child. The picture of Levi with his nobles and, above all, you, was bursting with colors. Foras must have had a lot of fun seeing this, but you had to swallow your pride.

“It's nasty.” Levi commented through tears. “And Glasyal looks like he has a hump. That's not how it should look."

But you managed to distract him. Now, until he fell asleep in your arms, little Leviathan never left your side.

[cowgurrrl]

The Palace in Flames

Pairing: Javier Peña x CIA!reader

Author's note: okay two things 1) fuck it we ball on this timeline 2) i don't love how this turned out but I need to finish it otherwise I'm gonna stare at it for god knows how long so enjoy anyways

Summary: "I'm not a violet dog. I don't know why I bite." [3.8k]

Warnings: canonical violence and language, alcohol, a little bit of backstory, discussion of PTSD like symptoms, a touch of misogyny, canon events but slightly canon divergent timing i think

There's not a lot you can do at the scene of the car bombing. You and Javi talk to local police and take witness statements from frightened neighbors and anybody else willing to come forward with information while Steve takes pictures. From what you can tell, it looks like it was a crude C4 bomb, one of the easiest to make and detonate. All it takes is the right amount of pressure, and boom. A few unfortunate souls died right beside Jorge as they walked past, unaware of the explosion to come. A hit for one quickly turned into a hit for five. 

You're good enough at your job to recognize the fact that Steve and Javi went poking around for information about the person who ratted on you, and then a few hours later, he's dead, not even ten minutes outside of your neighborhood. Medellín is a big place. It could've been a coincidence, but you're almost certain it's not. You really hope you don't have to make good on your promise to return to the US if they go after you again. 

You, Javi, and a handful of other police officers finish with the witnesses and join Steve by the truck. All files and statements will need to go through the proper channels tomorrow, and it's too late to do anything else. You'll start fresh in the morning: follow through on the plan to send out CENTRA SPIKE to see what they can find, monitor movement, and stay vigilant. But tonight, you deserve to get a drink with your two self-appointed bodyguards.

The great thing about working at the Embassy is that everyone touts interagency cooperation and work, but in reality, you rarely want to see each other in the same place. DEA will hang out at one specific bar while CIA will go to another. You don't even want to know where soldiers and higher-ups go once the clock hits six o'clock. Every agency thinks another agency is fucking them over or doing their job wrong. Everybody wants a medal for being in Medellín and fighting the narcos and communists but rarely wants to work together. You like to think your agencies have the upper hand with the three of you being friendly and sharing information without going through official, classified paperwork. It's not the most recommended or legal way to go about it. But, you've been able to pass on valuable information Javi let slip in between rounds and shared cigarettes under the guise of a Confidential Informant.

You were friends with Javi first. He came to Colombia around the same time you did, and you worked the same hours. You did him favors, and he returned them. You learned not to ask each other too many questions and to take what you're given and hope it leads somewhere. You've gotten little victories here and there: guerillas extradited, kidnapping victims recovered safely, witnesses given protection and visas in other countries. It was nice to have someone you could rely on and bounce theories off of when the office was empty, and you two were puffing your way through a pack of cigarettes. The lines got blurry about six months in. It happened fast and without warning, and you swore it was a one-time thing. And then it happened again. And again. And again. Then, it just made sense to keep doing what you were doing instead of going through the cycle of fighting about it and giving each other the cold shoulder, only to end up fucking in his apartment before the end of the day.

Steve, however, got stuck with you. When he became Javi's partner, he was forced to know your name and seek you out in the office when he needed something. At first, he wasn't super keen about the idea of having to rely on CIA for things— something to do with that DEA machismo of not needing anything from anyone— and then he realized how good you are at your job. Once you helped them get an especially important collar, he opened up. He told you about the killing of his last partner and a little bit about his career up until this point. He practically begged you to talk to Connie when she started getting homesick and having doubts, and you came to care for her. Now, you're an inseparable trio (quartet if you count the nights Connie makes her way from the communa clinic and into the bar). 

You think Noonan knew that when she asked Steve and Javi to join the Colombian police on your recon. Something about friendly faces in an unfriendly territory. She was right. You stuck to Javi the entire ambulance ride to the hospital, and they each took turns at your bedside. Even Connie showed up to take care of you during those long few nights in the hospital. You were less willing to accept help once you were discharged, but Steve would knock on your apartment door every night and leave a covered dish on your doormat while Javi bought you groceries. You owe them a lot, though they'll never let you admit it.

Javi buys the first round to celebrate your reinstatement. He gives a brief, flattering toast to your work, and you roll your eyes but clink your glasses together anyway. You avoid talking about theories and leads in the bar, even though you probably could talk about those things in English and get away with it. Everybody already knows you work for the American Embassy. No reason to give anybody anything to report back. Instead, you talk about stupid things like Steve being unable to speak Spanish.

"I can understand a little," he tries to defend himself, and you and Javi share a knowing look. He definitely doesn't understand enough to quantify it as a little. He might pick up every tenth word and know enough commands to dole them out when he's in the field, but that southern accent anglicizes every single syllable he utters. "Alright, y'all can go fuck yourselves." He says at your silence, making you laugh.

"Don't worry about it, Murphy. Couple more years and you'll be running circles around Javi." 

"I don't know about all that, but she's right. You'll get better," Javi takes a sip of his drink. "Eventually." 

Over two more rounds, you talk about things back home, tell stupid stories, and whatever else you could think of. It's nice to see Steve and Javi acting like they kinda like each other outside of work. Lord knows they're at each other's throats most of the time. You enjoy hanging out with them, and even though you know you can handle yourself, you like feeling protected by them. Years of CIA training and undercover work don't mean shit when all people see is a woman alone at night. 

"Alright, I've gotta get home," Steve says as he drinks the rest of his whiskey and puts his cigarette out. He probably should've been home hours ago, but that's none of your business.

"Tell Connie I said hi." You say, and he smiles, nodding and mumbling a quiet "yes, ma'am." He loves her so much, even just the mention of her makes him light up. Your thought from earlier creeps up. A good man. And yet he's here, doing the same shit you and Javi are. It's a little funny how squeamish he still is about things, but you figure that's the last sign of his humanity. God, please let that linger for as long as possible. Javi takes a drag from his cigarette and blows the smoke away from your face.

"Yeah, give her a kiss for me." He says. Before Steve can even open his mouth, you smack the back of Javi's head and groan.

"Ay, Javier," you scold. "Malo, malo, malo." Javi smiles, a rare sight reserved for moments like this, as Steve bids you goodnight again and leaves the bar. The second he's out of sight, you reach over, snatch the cigarette from Javi's hands, and bring it to your lips. 

"Get your own," he grumbles, but there's no heat behind it. You roll your eyes and exhale. 

"Stealing from you is so much cheaper, though," you shrug as you hand it back to him. "You think he got suspicious when we showed up at the same time?" 

"We live down the road from each other and got the call around the same time. Even if he figured it out, he wouldn't say anything. Plus, I think your little attitude at work throws him off." He says, and you raise your eyebrows at him. 

"My little attitude?" You ask. You know he said it just to piss you off, and you hate that it's working. He smirks and you shove his shoulder, stealing the cigarette back from him. "Pinche cabrón." You mumble, and he laughs. He gets a new cigarette from his pack and lights up. A comfortable silence falls over you as you sit there, his hand finding a home on your thigh under the table. 

"So, how're you doing?" Javi asks, seemingly out of nowhere. You shrug and ash your cigarette into the half-full tray in front of you.

"'M fine." You say, and he hums. He takes a long drag of his cigarette and glances around like he's looking for something you can't see. He blows smoke away from you and leans in. 

"So, waking up screaming is fine for you?" He asks. You didn't want to talk about it when you woke up, and you especially don't want to talk about it now. You poke your tongue into your cheek in annoyance. 

"If you thought I wasn't okay, why'd you push for Noonan to clear me?"

"I didn't say I didn't think you're okay."

"Then, drop it." 

"Look, I know you wanna go all in again, but maybe you should take it slow—at least for a little while," he says, and you scoff.

"Give me a fuckin' break, Javi. Did you take it slow when you got shot?" You ask.

"Getting shot and getting kidnapped are two completely different things."

"And yet we both survived," you say, gesturing between you as proof of your survival. "The doctors wouldn't have cleared me to come back if they didn't think I was ready."

"Yeah? How much you pay 'em off for that signature?" He asks. You sigh and bite the inside of your cheek. You're not going to dignify him with a response but you so easily could. "C'mon, just... let your feet get wet again. Everyone knows you've already got the lay of the land, but they don't know that you won't freak the fuck out once you're fully back in the field. I think some of them are waitin' for it," he says. It would explain why everyone's treating you like you're a time bomb. "If you won't do it for yourself, at least do it because I'm asking you." 

"And are you asking me as a coworker or a friend?" You ask. He's staring at you in his weird Javi way: hardened brown eyes softening just enough to bring your guard down. It's not something he learned from years at the Academy or in the field. That's all him. 

"Would it make a difference?" He asks quietly. Answering a question with a question. What a cop.

"Not really." You say, and he sighs. He scrubs a hand down his face and picks up his drink, a cigarette lingering between his fingers. 

"I'm asking as someone who saw what they did to you." He says before taking a big gulp of whiskey. You haven't talked about it. Not about what he saw and knew before finding you or what exactly happened in that room over those few days. You spent hours upon hours repeating the story for doctors, depositions, agency paperwork, and even to the court-appointed psychiatrist who had to screen you before they could even let you back in the building. So, you weren't necessarily gunning for the opportunity to repeat it again when Javi asked you about it. There are only so many sympathetic looks and half-hearted reassurances one person can take.

Even though you relied on him to tether you back to earth during those first few days, he took the brunt of your emotions. You refused to answer his questions and pushed him away. "I'm just trying to help," he told you when he tried to take care of you. "Where was your fucking help when they grabbed me from the street, huh?" You snapped, exhausted and sore and a little out of your mind. It was mean and unfair. You know how hard everyone worked to find you. You know how he blames himself. You know how scared they were to find your body.

When he puts his empty glass down, you look at him and nod. You can't take back what you said, but you can soften it a little. You put your hand over his and trace the contours of his knuckles. They're a little bruised and cracked, but still a part of him. You take a deep breath and rub your thumb against his skin. 

"Okay," you concede quietly. "I'll slow down for a little while, but the second we have good intel, I'm all in again." He lets out a relieved sigh and squeezes your thigh. 

"Thank you." He mumbles. To anyone walking by, you two would look like a couple having a drink after a long day of work before going to your shared home and sleeping it off. You indulge in the thought for a second longer than you meant to before you retract your hand and reach for your drink. 

"You're gettin' soft on me, Peña." You accuse, and he chuckles.

"God forbid I wanna see you make it outta here alive." He says, and you hum as you finish the rest of your drink. His eyes stick to the corner of your lips where a few drops of tequila spilled, his thumb twitching as he stops himself from wiping them away. "What're you doing for the rest of the night?" He asks. It's an opening. An invitation to finish what he started earlier. What happened with Alemán earlier in the day must've wound him up, made him tense and in need of release. Unfortunately for him, there are few things you like more than making him sweat.

"Well, I've got a dinner I need to pack away in the fridge and dishes to clean."

"I can help."

"I don't think you can," you say as you stand and grab your jacket from the back of your chair. "Besides, I'm supposed to be taking it easy. I should probably get some rest before my first actual day back, right?" He rolls his eyes as you throw a couple of bills down on the table for your share of the drinks, and you smirk. "I'll let you walk me home, though." 

"You'll let me?" He asks, but he's already standing and pulling his own jacket over his shoulder. Like clockwork, you think.

"Figured it's the least I could do." You say, and he scoffs, swatting at your ass when he passes behind you.

"Vámonos princesa." 

You get a warm welcome back to the office by immediately getting thrown into the chaos of the CIA. A corkboard with all known names of M-19 and other communist group members looks like a serial killer's wet dream with all the notes and grainy photos that stare you down as you talk about recent developments in the jungle. Honestly, you don't care what a group of kids are doing or planning to do, but everyone else in the CIA seems to think it's the most pressing matter.

Despite what the Agency and Reagan want you to believe, you know communists are not the most dangerous group in Colombia right now. Narcos are practically running the country and ruining countless lives with their rampant murder and exploitation. So even though Lou wants to sink a billion dollars of American taxpayer money into fighting guerillas in the jungle, you have one eye on the situation with the narcos. You're just waiting for the message to come down through the ranks that it's all hands on deck for taking down Escobar. Lou knows about your indifference and exacerbates it every chance he gets.

"Agent, I want you to work with Mil Group on tracking their movement to see if there are any patterns. I want to know where they're going and what they're planning." He says, pointing to you. You give him a look and cross your arms over your chest. You hate working with Mil Group. It's a group of guys with sticks up their asses and, somehow, never see the outside of an office. You catch Javi and Steve walking by through the windows, obviously going somewhere, and you lose whatever patience you have.

"All due respect, Colonel, but Ambassador Noonan took me off of desk duty effective immediately. I think I could be of more help in another area concerning M-19." You say, and he raises his eyebrows at you. You're also not fucking boss, you think.

"I'm sure we can find the time for you to show us how big and bad you are another time, sweetheart, but right now, this is where you're ordered to go." The nickname is abrasive in your ears, and you want to correct him, demanding your title as Agent, but Javi's words ring in your ears. They're waiting for you to freak out so they can send you home. They're waiting for you to blow up on somebody for a small thing. They want you to fail. You sigh and bite your tongue. 

"Yes, sir." You say before making your way to the Jarheads. 

For being off of desk duty, you still feel like you're doing mind-numbing work. All you're doing is plotting points on a map where satellite phones have pinged off of cell towers in an attempt to triangulate where they might be hiding out. Considering how there are barely any cell towers that reach that deep into the jungle, and even if they did, the calls drop after about thirty seconds, you don't have a ton of riveting information to work with. You listen to the recorded, half-legible calls and translate what you can to another agent, but nothing suggests they're planning anything. If they are, they're keeping it off your radar.

After wasting a stupid amount of time doing that, Lou draws up a bigger map and makes you replot all the points down with an estimate of where they might be. You're not CENTRA SPIKE or well-versed in how triangulation even works, and he knows this. It's a fool's errand at best, but he demands it by the end of the day. "So I can give it to the tech analysis guys." He says. You're about one more pointless task away from bashing your head into a wall, but you start on the map anyway. 

You're about halfway through when you hear Murphy calling your name, and you turn to see him and Javi walking through the crowded Mil Group office. 

"You're working with the Army now?" He asks, and you sigh. 

"For the day. Lou is on everyone's ass about this M-19 shit and thinks I'm the best person for the job, apparently," you say. "Please tell me you have something better than this." 

"We just got a sicario's son off the street. Dumbass was distributing in broad daylight in front of a cop." Javi says, and you furrow your eyebrows.

"We both know that's not a good enough reason for a cop to pick up a sicario's kid. What're you holding out on me?"

"Apparently, the cop heard him bragging about rigging a car with a bomb. He said something along the lines of, 'That's what happens to rats,' and then said something about going after La Golondrina next." Steve supplies. So this sicario's kid rigged the bomb to kill the informant who sniffed you out, said he also had a bomb for you, and now he's sitting somewhere in DEA custody? If Escobar's men weren't going after you before, they definitely are now. 

"Do you think he even knows anything? He might just be daddy's errand boy." 

"He asked for a deal," Steve says.

"Wheeling and dealing might not be grounds for extradition, but threatening to blow up a United States CIA agent just might be," Javi says. Something shifts in his eyes just enough for you to catch it, and you know it has to do with the conversation you had at the bar. You shake your head and break eye contact with him to look at Steve.

"Right, but you know how Wysession and Jones are. If it doesn't involve communist groups, they don't even want to look at it."

"The kid told us that some of Escobar's men have been talking with one of the leaders of M-19." Bingo. You throw down your marker, stand from the desk Wysession relegated you to, and all but march into his office with Steve and Javi close behind you. 

"How's that plotting coming along, honey?" Lou asks as he looks up from his paperwork, his face falling at the sight of the two men behind you. Lou might not like you, but he dislikes Javi and Steve more. 

"Agents Peña and Murphy have intel that Pablo is communicating with M-19 guerillas," you say. "That means there could be a joint attack coming, which means we can't keep separating the communist and narcos task forces." 

"Has this information gone through Noonan?" He asks.

"No, sir. We wanted to relay the information to our Agent here first since the intel involves her kidnapping." Steve speaks up, using your actual title, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smirking. 

"Is your intel good?" Lou asks Steve, ignoring you and Javi, and Steve gives him a look. 

"You think we'd be wastin' your time if it wasn't?" 

"Well, then, you better get a move on and go tell her." He says like he doesn't actually like the idea, but he can't think of anything else to say. You, Javi, and Steve quickly leave his office and start the trek to Noonan's office when Steve gets a call on his sat phone. He looks like he's about to ignore it before remembering it could be Connie, and even though she's supposed to be at work, he doesn't take any chances and answers it. You're close enough to him to hear her frantic chattering on the phone and saying something about M-19 and Escobar. The walk to Noonan's office turns into a run, but it doesn't matter. By the time you get there, thousands upon thousands of pages of evidence against Pablo Escobar are burning on the TV as M-19 takes over the Palace of Justice. 

This isn't just a singular agency fight anymore. You doubt it ever was. You know that the Palace of Justice Siege will change everything for better or worse, and you have to be ready for it. Promises made over glasses of scotch be damned.

TAGLIST:@abbyhaslongshorts@kiwiharrykiwi@sumsworldz@myloveistoolittle@anavatazes @marantha @cosmoscoffeee @shyminnie07 @beezusvreeland @eddiemunsonsbedroom @harriedandharassed @doodlebob-mp3 @ignorethisplz2004 @buckyispunk @d1lf-loverrr @vee-bees-blog @moel-jiller @anoverwhelmingdin @casssiopeia @space-zaddy-din-djarin @rainy-darling (let me know if you don't wanna be tagged for this series!)

[still-breathing-au-p3r]

It takes him far too long to get a hold of himself. Even once Nakai-san had come to let him know he was allowed back in Shinji’s room, it hasn’t been any less of a struggle. 

Every time he starts to think he’s managed to get his head above water, another wave goes crashing over him and he’s swamped again, overcome.

Shinji would have a field day, seeing him like this. He’d never let Akihiko live it down.

Even that thought makes his throat tighten all over again. Shinji’s still around to poke and prod at him for being so sentimental. 

God, what a stupid thing to get so emotional about.

He knows he shouldn’t be like this; if he lets himself get carried too high by hope, he’ll have that much further to fall if it gets shot out from under him. Just because Shinji woke up once doesn’t mean he’s out of the woods. There’s still a million things that could go wrong, or get worse, or…

Akihiko grips at his hair and tugs a little. He really doesn’t want to think about any of those hypothetical disasters. Is there really something wrong with being relieved in the moment? After all the anxiety he’s been forced to shoulder over the past two weeks, he has to have earned the privilege, right? 

That’s what he tells himself, at least. Now if only the rest of him would cooperate. His body is still buzzing with a surge of adrenaline that refuses to ebb. The buildup of restless energy pricks and stings like he’s got nettles growing under his skin.

Mitsuru’s arrival with the juniors (half of the juniors, at least– he makes a note to ask about that) in tow offers him a reprieve from his little mental purgatory at last.

“How is he?” Mitsuru asks immediately. Akihiko can tell that she’s attempting to look and sound completely collected, but he’d be able to hear the fragile note in her voice even if he couldn’t see the haloes of red around her eyes. Finding him standing in the hall just outside the door to Shinji’s room, instead of inside and attached to his bedside like a magnet, probably didn’t lend itself to many optimistic interpretations.

“He’s asleep right now. Normal sleep this time, he didn’t–” He clears his throat. He knows it’s ridiculous, but he’s reluctant to speak the alternative out loud. “The way Nakai-san explained it to me, even though he’s been unconscious all this time, his body was still burning through a lot of energy trying to heal, so– it’s no wonder he’s exhausted. He was already out like a light before they’d finished examining him, they said.”

“It would be better to let him rest, then.” Mitsuru nods with poised understanding, but Akihiko catches the smothered traces of disappointment under the relief in her eyes. She had to have been hoping for the chance to speak with Shinji, or at least speak to him and know for sure that he could hear her.

“May– may we still come in and see him?” Yamagishi asks, her hands clasped formally in front of her. “As long as we’re quiet?”

“Yeah, of course,” Akihiko says. “And if he wakes up on his own before visiting hours end, we might still get to talk to him.” He looks at Mitsuru in particular as he says this. She smiles gently, gratefully. 

Yamagishi, Takeba, and Aigis all look elated by the idea as well. A comfortable warmth blooms in his chest to see it. He’s known that the juniors looked up to Shinji more or less since he had re-joined S.E.E.S (even longer than that in the case of Arisato, Takeba, and Junpei, who had all continued to enthuse to each other about how Shinji had come to their rescue in June for days after the fact), but to see so clearly how much they care about him–

Shinji had tried to remain aloof and keep everyone at arm’s length, and Akihiko has never been so pleased to see someone fail. Despite his best efforts, the juniors still saw through him, saw the person that Akihiko and Mitsuru know: the one who makes such an effort to hide his kindness but never withholds it; who watches out for people as not just a matter of habit, but reflex. 

He’s always been that way. Akihiko is so, so glad that the younger members of the team can see it too. Back when they were kids, there had been precious few people that saw Shinji’s good points– who’d even bothered to look… It had basically only been Akihiko himself and Miki, and a couple of matrons at the orphanage, and then eventually Mitsuru as well.

Now he’s got a whole slew of people who know  him. Who care about him. Shinji deserves that.

Whether he believes it or not.

Akihiko holds the door open and the juniors file into Shinji’s room in silence, with Mitsuru taking up the rear. As she passes, she catches his eye and flashes another brief smile, and he can tell that she’s following the same train of thought as him. 

“Is anyone else on the way?” Akihiko whispers to her– by which he means, ‘is Junpei on the way?’ He wouldn’t expect or ask Amada to be prepared to see Shinji on such short notice, and it hasn’t escaped Akihiko’s notice that Arisato has never come by either. He refuses to judge either of them for it. He gets it. He knows.

He’d be a hypocrite if he said anything.

Mitsuru nods and lingers near Akihiko as he closes the door most of the way, leaving just about a centimeter’s gap. “Iori and Arisato volunteered to escort Amada to the hospital,” she replies. “They should be en route to meet us here by now.”

Akihiko hums an acknowledgement. Does that mean Arisato will actually be here? As far as surprises go, he’s grateful that this is a pleasant one for a change.

Shinji’s right where he left him when he turns his attention back to the bed; soundly asleep despite the juniors crowding around him. He breathes in a slow, even rhythm.

“I’m so glad…” Yamagishi hiccups, dabbing at her eyes with a pink handkerchief. Takeba must have lent it to her, judging by the color. Aigis pats her shoulder, earning a wobbly smile.

“It’s really incredible how much better he looks now without the mask.” Takeba murmurs. Akihiko definitely agrees. 

Along with the oxygen mask, most of the wires and tubes have been detached; the reduced number of IV drips he's on now means that only one of the needles is needed anymore, and the monitoring equipment has been reduced to just the heart monitor and oximeter. It all makes it so much easier to believe that Shinji’s really back– that he’s really only sleeping and not trapped in limbo, beyond their reach.

Arisato does indeed make an appearance, trailing behind Junpei and looking pale and antsy, with Amada trailing behind him in turn. Seeing Shinji for himself seems to bring most of Arisato’s color back almost immediately. 

They all stay for as long as they can, quietly chatting as they wait to see if Shinji will wake up. Takeba has to shush Junpei several times, but there’s never any real bite to it. Even a rivalry like theirs– one that’s nearly a match for Shinji’s and his own (though it does favor entirely verbal needling over actual brawling)– takes a back seat to relief. Amada hovers behind the loose perimeter formed by the rest of the team and says almost nothing, but his reassurance that he’s alright when Akihiko checks in with him seems entirely sincere.

Visiting hours end, and Shinji remains asleep. Akihiko stamps down his impatience. He’ll get the chance to visit again by tomorrow, and he’ll stay as long as he has to. There’s…a lot that needs to be said, after all.

[squinch-depraved]

Begging for anything cscoop related 😭🙏🙏

long distance video call sex with cooper (self indulgent and very short but here you go)

adjusting your camera to make sure you were in frame was the only thing you could do to help calm your nerves while you waited for your boyfriend to join the call. dressed in nothing but one of his shirts that you had stolen from him last time you saw each other and his favorite pair of your panties, you sighed and fiddled with your phone until his voice started to pour through your speakers.

"hey, sorry, travis needed some help with some stuff. holy fuck, you look so good," he greeted you as he turned his camera on.

"hi, baby. you look even better," you cooed once you could see him. he looked perfect in his sweatshirt, dark blond hair peeking out from under the hood.

"shut up," he joked smoothly. "been thinkin' about you all day."

"yeah? like what?"

"like how bad i wish you were here. when's your next trip out?" it was so like him to make you beg for his filthy words. cooper loved making you ask for whatever you wanted, always savoring the desperate expressions on your face as you pleaded with him to tell you what he wanted to do to you.

"few weeks. please, coop, talk filthy to me like you always do, please, i've missed you so much..."

"needy today, aren't we?" you didn't even have to look at him to know he was wearing a shit-eating grin; it was so easy to hear in his voice.

"please don't be a dick about this right now. i need you." bringing your knees to your chest so he had somewhat of a peek at your soaked underwear, you bit your lip and tilted your head, hoping to draw him in.

"you always need me," he chuckled softly, palming himself through his sweats offscreen.

"can you blame me?"

"yeah, i can. you're pathetic." his words cut through you like a knife, sending warmth straight to your core and causing your legs to tremble visibly just a bit. "fuck, i forgot how much you enjoy being talked down to like that."

"only when it's you," you purred back.

"spread your legs for me," he instructed, leaning back in his chair. obeying, you opened your legs and pushed your panties to the side just enough for him to see how wet you were. "fuck... need to be in you."

"mmfh, please, coopie," you moaned, tossing your head back and inserting one finger into yourself.

cooper grunted and pulled his length out of his pants, stroking himself as he admired your fingers working deftly in and out of your tight, dripping hole.

using your other hand to trace swirling circles on your clit, you shifted anxiously in your seat, bucking your hips in an attempt to get more pleasure.

"such a good little whore for me," he groaned when you removed your digits and brought them to your mouth. "go get your toys, i know that's not enough for you. needy fucking slut."

with a nod, you leaned offscreen and grabbed a wand, bringing it to your sensitive bud and squealing when you turned it on.

"fuck, yeah, keep making those noises," cooper panted, eyes dark and ravenous. "sound so good for me, baby, i wish you were under me right now."

"oh, god, cooper, fuck!!" you wailed, eyes rolling back into your head. "i need you so bad!!"

"i- fuck- i need you too," he stammered, thrusting up into his fist. "need to feel your tight pussy around my cock, need you to scream while i pound you so hard, need you to finish for me so i can watch your beautiful face while you cum."

his words earned a sharp whine from you as you rolled your hips forward rhythmically, desperate for your orgasm to take hold of you. "'m so close, coop," you whimpered. he just grinned and continued pumping his shaft in his hand.

"i know, baby, i know. you can do it, c'mon. cum for me. i'm almost there," he encouraged. "you always do so good for me, whether i'm fucking you or just watching you play with yourself. such a good fuckin' slut for me."

"fuck!!!" his praise sent you over the edge, legs shaking, body convulsing as you rode out your high. screaming his name, you twitched and spasmed until you couldn't take it anymore and switched off the toy.

cooper sat there, breathing heavily, and reached for a tissue off his desk.

"aww, did i miss you cumming?" you complained, taking a long sip of water.

"yeah, sorry. could probably go again in a bit if you wanna just play a game for a while?" he offered.

"you're on. fuck, my legs are shaking," you giggled, loading up minecraft and logging onto your shared world.

"few weeks and i'll be the one makin' 'em shake again," cooper joked. you couldn't wait until he was right.

[noelle666]

Rogue Trader AU - Janus (a little piece)

So, I need to strart writing the story based on these AU ideas since some scenes are already appeared in my head and need to be put on paper. The problem is... I can't find words. The only thing I can drag out of myself right now is a little scene which I can see clearly and it takes place somewhere in the middle of the story. So, maybe if I write it down it'll help with the rest of writing.

Ok, here we go. Again, it is an AU universe, Noelle is not a Rogue Trader, she was and still is an Ecclesiarchy priestess who ended up on Janus and lives there for several months as a member of Vistenza Vyatt's retinue (it will be explained later (I hope I'll make a proper explanation) why she wanted the young priestess to stay).

***

The young woman was sitting on a chair reading her notes, trying to remember all what she learned from Master van Calox. It was indeed easier to understand principles of regicide when you have a board and a partner patient enough to spend enough time for a lesson. No matter how good and detailed all the explanations and illustrations look on paper of a textbook, theory intertwined with practice is more convenient than raw theory. Fire was slowly dancing in a decorative hearth, the day was coming to an end. Suddenly someone knocked at the door; Noelle wasn't expecting visitors and hesitated at first, but stood up and went to the room's entrance. She opened the door and saw Heinrix: he looked even more serious than usual.

"Ma..."

The young priestess wanted to greet the interrogator and asked what brough him here at this evening hour, but the man pressed a finger to his lips commanding to not say any word. Van Calox entered theroom, closed the door and took an envelope out of a pocket, he handed it to Noelle and started waiting, looking at her with a gaze of his cold steel eyes. The priestess looked at a piece of paper on which she read words "Read. Silently. Now"; she felt this was a serious matter if a member of the Inquisition asks, no, demands to do something, so she opened the note and started reading.

"Noelle,

First of all, forgive me for approaching you so suddenly and without warning - the matter is serious, and there is really not much time. I must ask for your cooperation tomorrow evening. I cannot share many details but my investigation has led me to a conclusion: all cases of strange deaths and dissapearances are related to the Archenemy's activity, and I know where exactly is the source. Although, with all these knowledge I cannot act openly since I am alone here and my collegues, I am afraid, won't arrive in time, so I want to attack a snake while it suspects nothing with a single accurate strike. And here I need you.

We have to put on a little show to confuse the culprit. Again, I cannot tell you much, but to make everything look belivable I'll have to break rules of decency and violate your personal boundaries, for which I must ask your forgiveness. I will not hurt you and will not do anything terrible, you may be assured, the situation will be under control. When the play gets to its culmination I will say to you one word, only one word, which you MUST obey.

I believe you understand the situation will indeed be dangerous, hence I am asking you and not commanding. I wouldn't put you at risk if I wasn't sure and calculated all possible outcomes with all possible variations of actions. I give you a choise: if you join me, burn this note right away in front of me. If not, give the paper back to me. Yes, you can decline my request (it is a request, not an order), but I am hoping you will join me for your little role can help me a lot".

Inqusitors never "ask", if they tell you to do anything you must do it and even more. And yet Noelle could've said "no"... no, she could have not. She'd seen with her own eyes what demonic power can do with a person, how a mind can be corrupted and how light leaves human's soul. A terrifying view which no one would've wanted to witness, a view which makes you think how weak you are since your mortal hands cannot bring any help to those who got under control of dark Warp powers. The priestess folded a note in half, she came close to a hearth and threw the paper - fire swallowed this little meal quickly, chewing it and turning into a small pile of black weightless ash. Noelle turned to Heinrix: she noticed a little sigh of relief, a shade of tension left the face of the interrogator. The man gave a short nod, he turned around and left the room with no word.

So, tomorrow evening then. Let The Emperor guide them and help them with their uneasy mission.

[uboat53]

Man, it is frustrating being a liberal and a Democrat these days. Not because of Republicans or independents, they're always out there, it's because I have to be on the same side as some of the stupidest people on the planet. At least, I hope they're stupid, because, if they're not, then they're lying about everything they claim to believe.

Over the last three and a half years, Biden has checked dozens of boxes that liberals have been trying to mark off the to-do list for decades. He passed a massive infrastructure bill, the first gun control law in 30 years, and a huge investment in combatting and preparing for climate change, but that's only the headline stuff. Under the hood he's done hundreds of other things as well; from canceling billions of dollars of student debt despite conservative courts fighting him every step of the way to joining unions on the picket line, negotiating on their behalf after the limelight has faded, and passing pro-union policies to reclassifying marijuana and pardoning those convicted for it to appointing dozens of women, minorities, and defense attorneys to the federal courts to restoring the rights of Native Americans to their historical lands to protecting the rights of LGBT+ people and hundreds of other small actions across the whole breadth and scope of the federal government.

What do other liberals and Democrats think about him after that? Well, they think he's a bland centrist who has betrayed their cause.

Inflation turned negative this last month and has generally returned to very low levels over the last year. Wages have continued to grow even as inflation has toned down and it looks like we're about to have the first "soft landing" in which we manage to tame inflation without suffering a recession since the mid-90s. Meanwhile, crime rates have crashed over the last two years and are now some of the lowest in history.

Are liberals and Democrats going to mention any of that? No, they're perfectly happy to let the conservative narrative of a devastated economy and crime-ridden country stand without comment.

Biden spent the last four years traveling the world, reassuring allies of our commitments and rebuilding cooperation among western nations and beyond to a degree that hasn't been seen in recent times. He deftly denied Russia their chosen narrative with regards to their invasion of Ukraine and coordinated a massive, multilateral effort to supply Ukraine and allow them to resist a nation many times larger. He's also quietly built up alliances in east and south Asia, allowing us to better limit Chinese expansionist influence in the region. Though constrained by a massively pro-Israeli Congress, Biden still leaned heavily on a bloodthirsty Netanyahu to limit the violence and protect Palestinians. His success has been limited, but he has successfully forced some cessation of hostilities and some provision of aid even while retaining the general support of the Israeli public.

What do other liberals and Democrats think of him after that? Well, he's apparently an imperialist who's bent on crushing freedom around the world and has murdered Palestinians with his bare hands.

Look, I get it, Biden isn't flashy and exciting, but the fact that he isn't flashy or exciting is exactly what's enabled him to do all the things he's done; things we claim to desperately want and support! He talks to people privately and persuasively, forming relationships with the key stakeholders on issues, he negotiates in private, building trust with the people he talks to that he won't stab them in the back by leaking damaging information, he presents himself as neutral and non-threatening to prevent a backlash from growing, and, finally, he allows the people he's negotiated with to take a lion's share of the credit in order to get things done.

If you're not a liberal or a Democrat, then fair enough, but if you are one then how can you not tell that this has been the most liberal, progressive, and overall successful presidency of most of our lifetimes? The only conclusion I can come to is that you don't actually care about any of the issues we all talk about, you just care about performances.

I believe in something. I believe that liberal ideas like universal health care, addressing climate change, promoting unions, promoting minority rights, and building infrastructure will make life better for all Americans (even the ones who oppose those things), I believe that international alliances between countries that accept liberal democratic ideals is essential for peace, prosperity, and freedom; not just for Americans, but for people all around the world, and I believe that we should enthusiastically support and champion anyone who can achieve those things.

Apparently that makes me unusual for a modern liberal Democrat and that makes me somewhat frustrated.

[whump-me]

Obscure: Chapter 9

Chapter 9 of Obscure, novel-length interrogation whump about a rebel leader who can erase memories with a thought, an interrogator who can see inside his subjects’ minds… and the connection they share that neither of them suspects.

Masterpost | the Mind Games universe | Read the completed novel on Patreon

---

Elias

Every day, the hard metal chair bit into Elias’s legs a little more. Every day, the reflection of the harsh light off the table stabbed a little deeper into his brain. Every day, the world felt a little foggier, his thoughts a little muddier. A product of his lack of sleep. That cot in his room—or call it what it was, his cell—was no better than sleeping on the floor. When he did sleep, he dreamed of Sammy, or occasionally of Max. His dreams were not restful.

It was a small consolation that Kirill looked as if he hadn’t slept well either. His eyes had lost a little of their sharpness, his stance a little of its rigidity. Of course, he had put on that act before. Elias had vowed not to fall for it again. But this time, it looked like Kirill was trying to hide his exhaustion. And that told Elias it was likely real.

What was keeping Kirill awake? Elias hoped it was his question—the question the man hadn’t been able to answer. Who was he under his endless number of masks? Who was this person who had joined PERI willingly to work against his own kind?

Elias didn’t let himself think too long about why he wanted to know. He didn’t let himself wonder who else he was trying to understand.

“Sammy.” Kirill let the name hang in the air. He said nothing else.

As if the name alone would be enough to make the memories spill out of him. But even as he thought it, the memories came, half a dozen in quick succession—birthday party, a skinned knee, a mouthful of baby food spit clear across the room.

Elias blinked away the images and focused on Kirill’s eyes. “A child like you,” he countered. “But you don’t know who you were as a child, do you?” Tit for tat. If Kirill wanted to play press-the-emotional-button, it was only fair for Elias to play, too.

“Not like me,” Kirill said. “I joined by choice. It was an act when I said otherwise. One you fell for.”

“I won’t make that mistake again.”

“You won’t need to worry about it,” said Kirill. “Everything I say from now on will be the truth. We’ve recalled your son from his current operation. He’s here right now, waiting to find out the reason for his change in assignment. We can tell him his recall was an unfortunate mistake, and administrative error, and send him on his way.” He paused. “Or we can hurt him.”

The words were a knife. They tore open Elias’s memory center, and Elias bled.

He bled images of Sammy as an infant, and the woman curled in the corner of his bunker with burn scars up and down her arms.

He bled Sammy at two years old, and a man dragged away screaming through an abandoned industrial park as Elias watched helplessly, the man’s eyes warning him to stay hidden.

Sammy at four, and a corpse facedown in brackish water, her skin pockmarked with electrical burns, her eyes gouged from her head.

Sammy at six—

Elias took a shaky breath. Then another.

“I shook you up that badly yesterday, did I?” His voice trembled. So did his hands.

“Don’t give yourself so much credit. I set the recall in motion yesterday morning, before we spoke.” Kirill gave him a thin smile that wasn’t a smile. “I told you I wouldn’t let you play cat and mouse forever.”

The memories kept going. His shaky breathing exercises couldn’t hold them at bay. He tried anyway.

Inhale for four, exhale for four.

Sammy at eight.

Inhale for four, exhale for four.

A man staring into his eyes in the bunker, eyes haunted. I was with them for two years. Do you know the kinds of things they do to make a person cooperate?

Inhale. Exhale.

He clung to his breaths like a rope thrown to a drowning man. The rope slid from his hands like it was only more water. So he clung to something else instead. Those pale gray eyes. He reached for Kirill’s mind, clawing his way in, all subtlety gone.

The electric shock, when it came, was a relief. It burned the memories from his mind, along with his concentration.

For a few seconds.

“No more of that,” said Kirill. “If you try it again, I’ll make sure your son gets every shock I delivered to you.”

“You’ll hurt him anyway,” said Elias, even as he knew he would never try to obscure Kirill again.

“Only if you don’t cooperate.” Kirill’s voice cut like a knife through the images flashing through Elias’s mind. But it did nothing to stop the memories. “I’ll need the names of everyone who works with you, in order of seniority. The locations of your safehouses. The different branches of your network, their responsibilities, and the complete chain of command for each.”

Safehouses. His mind was already in the bunker, and it stayed there, all the details sharpening until they stood out sharper than real life.

He willed his memory to remain in the bunker, tried to concentrate on every detail—reading the titles of the books in the bookshelf, counting the squares of the quilt. But his treacherous mind, fueled by emotion and steered by Kirill’s suggestion, moved on.

It moved to the second floor of a small doctor’s office in a strip mall two states away. Elias had never been there personally, but he had seen pictures. Those pictures flashed through his mind now in a series of still images. Half a dozen cots; cabinets crammed full of scavenged medical equipment. Scarred patients with haunted eyes.

On the rare occasion they could rescue someone from one of PERI’s research facilities, that was where they sent them for treatment and rehabilitation. Their survival rate was almost sixty percent. Elias was told that was impressive.

His memory moved on again, to a circle of cabins at the end of a logging road, deep in a forest so thick the sunniest days were shadowed. A community where people could stay over the medium-term—one year, two, sometimes even five—when they didn’t have the resources to flee, or wouldn’t be safe even under an assumed name.

Elias had visited a handful of times. It reminded him a little of home, even though his home had been wide-open meadows and long, low ranch houses built from scratch. Every time, he had wished he could stay. But it would have put the people there in danger, and they were at enough to risk as it was. And he had his own life waiting for him at the farmhouse.

That thought brought his memory to the farmhouse. He clung to the familiar images with relief. Walking inside with Laina for the first time, carrying her across the threshold like she was a new bride, even though they had been married for almost five years by then. The first breakfast he had cooked in that kitchen, eggs and bacon, presenting it to Laina with a flourish and saying they were real farmers now. Laina had laughed at him, reminded him that he had bought those eggs and that bacon at the grocery store, and that they were growing apples, not keeping chickens or pigs.

Their first fight in the farmhouse, two weeks later, when she had broached the subject she had sworn not to bring up, dropping hints about how the house was awfully big for just the two of them. He embraced the memory. He would take anything, no matter how painful, as long as Kirill couldn’t do anything with it.

Then he breathed away the memory, and let it go.

He had won.

This round.

“Spoken answers would save us the trouble of tracking down those locations,” said Kirill. “The more you give us, the less your son will suffer.”

At the mention of Sammy, the memory-wound tore open. Elias struggled to breathe. “You’d hurt him so easily? I thought he was one of yours now.”

“He is. But your information is worth more. And we have a plan in place to handle the aftermath.”

The last word, spoken in the cold tones of Kirill’s current persona, curdled Elias his stomach and set loose another gout of fear-memories. “Aftermath? You mean the body?” He pictured Sammy, the age he had seen him last, but lying on the ground cold and dead. The image that had plagued his nightmares until he found out the truth.

But that was imagination, not memory. So Kirill got nothing. His pale eyes remained clear and focused.

Kirill shook his head. “PERI prefers not to waste valuable resources. We won’t kill him. Not unless you make it necessary.” He smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe not even then. He’s more useful to us alive, even if we’re only using him as a weapon against you. Once he’s dead, there’s nothing more we can do to him.”

Elias stared into those cold eyes. There had to be a person in there somewhere. There had been once. That child Kirill claimed he didn’t care about remembering. The one who, in the grip of grief, had made a Faustian bargain.

“Is that how you see yourself?” Elias asked. “As a resource? There’s no difference between him and you, you know. Or do you think they see you differently because you joined voluntarily? They don’t.”

Elias didn’t have to know Kirill personally to know that much. He knew his enemy. He had studied them for the past fifteen years.

Kirill showed no reaction. “The addresses of your safehouses,” he said. “The names of your subordinates, and their areas of responsibility.” He nodded down at Elias’s wrist. “For your son, we’ll start with a shock bracelet like yours. Then we’ll move on to worse.”

“You don’t need to give specifics. I’ve seen what you can do.” Elias forced the words out like a talisman against memory. A distraction. It didn’t work. The memories squeezed out around the edges of his focus.

Lark Albright, who had only agreed to go into hiding on the condition that she could join his work. Annemarie and Nabor Eichmann, who had lost their child and wanted to make their loss mean something. Kevin Kasperski—

Elias kept talking. “Do you think they wouldn’t do the same to you if they thought it was worth their while?” Each word was a struggle. Each syllable was a pebble placed in a dam, an attempt to hold back the river of memory. The current washed them away almost as soon as he could place them.

“I’m too useful to them,” said Kirill. “And there’s no one left alive who cares about me.” There was no emotion in his words.

Elias struggled to focus on those cold eyes. Not to obscure Kirill—he wouldn’t do that again, not after Kirill’s threat. Just to give himself something to focus on besides the fear and Kirill’s questions.

His eyes were as pale as Max’s. Was Max working in a facility like this somewhere, staring into a prisoner’s eyes with a flat, empty gaze?

And Sammy. What had he been doing for PERI before they had recalled him? Were his eyes as cold as Kirill’s now?

“You’re not focused enough,” said Kirill. “Let me change that. We can snap the bones in your son’s hand, one by one. He doesn’t need them for his work. I could demonstrate on you, so you know what your son will be facing.”

Elias’s hands involuntarily twitched away from Kirill. Memory surged through him—a reddened, wrinkled infant hand, impossibly small in his, less than a day old. A bigger hand, but still small in his, clutching his index finger as they walked across the street together—Sammy had been too proud to hold hands the way he used to. A scraped palm, tears, tweezers picking out the bits of gravel from the wound.

“Your contacts,” Kirill said, like Elias had known he would.

Elias dug through his own memory ruthlessly, throwing out images like roadblocks. A man bleeding out in his arms. A woman facedown in the water. PERI had already killed too many of his people. Now the dead could shield the living.

“Your active contacts,” Kirill said implacably. “And you don’t have to wait for me to pluck the memories from your head. Give me a thorough accounting, out loud, and guarantee that your son will be sent back to his current assignment with no knowledge of your presence here.”

Would his name mean anything to Sammy? Did he remember him? A sharp pang of grief. His son disappearing onto the school bus, its accordion door swallowing him.

“Your active contacts,” Kirill repeated. His voice showed no hint of frustration.

And Elias’s memory obeyed. Despite his attempts to throw up roadblocks, despite the pebbles placed in the roaring river of memory, Kirill’s voice steered his thoughts expertly. He pictured Mikyla Cogburn, a bored mother of three who had occupied herself by hacking into government systems and discovered one of PERI’s research projects by accident. Fleming Hammerberg, a weedy and freckled man who Elias had tried to recruit for the better part of a year for his rare distance-telepathy skills. Hayat Jalil—

Elias breathed in and out. He stared at his hands, and willed himself not to think of broken bones.

But that was the wrong approach. Resisting pain only ever brought more pain.

There would be pain. There would be grief that would never fade, and wounds that would never heal. That was the way of the world.

He stared his grief in the face until it looked away.

The river slowed, then stilled.

“You’ll do what you’re going to do,” he said, his voice even. Almost as if he meant it. “I can’t stop you.”

He tried to tell himself it was the truth. Pain was inevitable. Grief was inevitable.

But Sammy’s suffering was not. Elias could save him, send him back to his life as a cold-eyed PERI resource. If he traded away everyone who had put their trust in him.

Maybe tomorrow he would do it. Maybe the day after. Maybe the anticipation of Sammy’s pain would be too much for him, and he would give in and hate himself for it later. Or maybe his moment of weakness wouldn’t come until he saw Sammy in front of him, and heard his son’s adult voice for the first time in the sound of an agonized scream.

But not today.

He took another breath. And another. The memories didn’t return.

There would be more rounds. He wouldn’t win them all. Kirill had already handed him a few painful losses—and others would feel that pain in his place.

But for the moment… for the moment, he had won.

Kirill’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Maybe hurting your son isn’t the right strategy after all.”

Elias restrained himself from flashing Kirill a smile of triumph. But he felt it in his heart. If his victory had shaken Kirill, maybe it was more significant than he had thought.

Then Kirill’s thin lips curved into a smile of his own. “An account from your mouth would be the most efficient method of gathering information,” he said, “but for now, it’s not necessary. I got more than enough from your memories alone in the last few minutes.”

The flame of victory in Elias’s heart turned to ash.

His victory had been no victory at all. Kirill hadn’t backed down because Elias had successfully held the memories at bay. He had backed down because he had gotten enough to satisfy him for now.

Kirill stood. “We’ll discuss the remaining unanswered questions another time,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Maybe you’ll change your mind about talking to me. If not, we have plenty of beds. Your son can stay here as long as we need him.”

---

Tagged: @cakeinthevoid @suspicious-whumping-egg

Ask to be added or removed from taglist.

[kumeko]

A/N: For the Spirit & Strife zine! I really need to stop trying to cram EVERY relationship into a fic. Which I guess can be solved by me writing more fics.

…

…

…

…

i.

Cloud’s mouth was dry. It was a small problem. His head ached, his sight was foggy, and he wasn’t entirely certain of where he was. Or, for that matter, who he was. The only thing he did know was that there was a muscular arm wrapped firmly around his waist, that his own arm was wrapped around broad shoulders, and that he wasn’t alone. And that this man—man?—next to him was talking.

“We’re almost there,” the man said, his dark hair brushing against Cloud’s arm as they trekked forward across the dried earth. The desert around them looked how Cloud felt. The man’s name was Zack. Probably. “And then when we get back, we’ll celebrate.”

Why? What happened? Cloud was made of questions at this point, but his tongue refused to cooperate. He grunted, the sound coming out raspy and weak.

“I know, I’m excited too.” Unphased, Zack continued to drag Cloud forward, forcing them through the desert. “We’ll have a round of drinks, on me. Hell, we can get Aerith to join us—you haven’t met my girlfriend, right? You’ll love her, trust me.”

Where are we going? Dazed, Cloud glanced up at the man beside him. The sun was bright. Zack smiled and squeezed his waist.

“I’ve got a real nice bottle hidden away.” Zack laughed, though his voice cracked halfway. “We can…”

If he said anything else, Cloud couldn’t hear it.

ii.

“We’re drinking,” Jessie declared, her voice echoing through Seventh Heaven as she stood up. As usual, the place was empty. As usual, they were the only ones there.

Cloud wasn’t sure how this place made any money. Few drank during the day and most of their missions were at night. If it was a problem, Tifa hadn’t told him. Not that it mattered if she had; he didn’t care. All he needed was his cash and whether they got that from selling booze, collecting filters, or robbing a bank, it didn’t matter.

Besides, an empty bar was better for counting gil. He didn’t have to worry about thieves eying his paycheck as he leaned against the bar, double-checking the bag Barret gave him.

“For a job well done,” Jessie continued eagerly, her hands on her hips as she regarded everyone.

Cloud hoped that everyone didn’t include him; he wasn’t sure exactly how many ways he could say not interested before he had to start resorting to his sword.

Biggs grinned as he ran a hand through his hair. As usual, grime and grease streaked across his face, his fingers dirty from taking apart Shinra’s latest creation. “Sounds good.”

“But Tifa isn’t here,” Wedge objected nervously. Despite his words, his chair scraped against the floor as he trailed after the other two to the bar. “She’ll get angry if we make a mess again.”

A petty part of Cloud wanted to see that; the bigger part of him wanted to finish counting his money and leave. He spent enough time as it was without watching them fall into a drunken stupor.

“That’s only if she finds out, and she won’t if we’re neat and tidy about it,” Jessie stressed, a steely edge to her voice as she glared at Wedge. “Got it?”

Wedge gulped and nodded. “R-right.”

It was easy enough to piece together what happened the last time they’d taken over the bar. Not that Cloud wanted to know. He pulled the drawstrings of his coin bag, the gil clinking as they hit one another. Done for the day, he spun on his heel to leave.

Or at least, that was the plan before Jessie grabbed his shoulder, gluing him in place. Despite her slight build, she was as strong as iron when she wanted to be. “And where do you think you’re going, handsome?”

“Away,” Cloud grunted.

She mock-gasped, clutching her heart with her free hand. “And skip our celebration?”

Cloud had enough of the charade. For some odd reason, AVALANCHE was determined to drag him into all of their affairs, and he couldn’t understand why for the life of him. He shook off Jessie’s hand. “I didn’t get hired to celebrate.”

Biggs snorted as he stood in front of Cloud, as though his scrawny arms could stop a SOLDIER. “It’s a celebration. You don’t get hired for shit like that, you just do it.”

“And we should totally be doing this more often,” Jessie chimed in, vaulting over the bar in a way Tifa definitely wouldn’t approve of. The glasses rattled slightly when she landed.

“What kind of drinks do you like, Cloud?” Wedge asked, and his innocent smile was somehow more of a restraint than Bigg’s hand as he guided Cloud to a seat.

Jessie pulled out a whisky bottle. “Bet he likes a strong one.”

“I like the fruity ones myself,” Wedge added, bouncing in his seat as he plopped next to Cloud.

“I’m leaving,” Cloud gritted, trying and failing to stand up.

“Come on, don’t be such a sourpuss!” Biggs hit his back before grabbing a glass. “It’s just a drink.”

A glass was forced into Cloud’s hand before he could say or do anything else.

iii.

Cloud was used to a confident Barret, an angry Barret, and a doting Barret. Every single iteration of Barret was loud, as though he were continuously declaring who he was, as though he were continuously reminding the world and himself of what he stood for.

What he wasn’t used to was a quiet Barret, and that was the Barret he found in Aerith’s garden. He sat amongst the flowers, looking entirely out of place as he nursed a beer with his good hand.  A half-filled case was next to him. Glancing at Cloud, Barret gave him a slight nod before returning his gaze to the sky above. “It’s funny how even here, you can’t see the stars.”

Standing next to Barret, Cloud shoved his hands in his pocket as he glanced up. A black sky embedded with tiny glowing dots filled the gaps in the plates. Even here, where the sky was at its clearest, the lights from the other layers made it hard to see anything.

The stars had been much brighter at home.

Cloud frowned, not sure where that thought came from. Dismissing it, he grunted, “Not like they give much light anyways.”

“That’s not the point.” Barret shook his head, disappointed. He took another swig of his drink. ���I don’t know what Tifa sees in you; you’re as cold as they come.”

That bothered him more than he cared to admit. Cloud snorted. “Don’t know what gave you any other impression.”

“I dunno.” Barret shrugged, for once not in the mood to trash him. “Maybe just the way you’ve been on the missions lately. Jessie…” He swallowed and bowed his head, staring at his bottle now. “They all liked you. I’d like to think there was a reason.”

Cloud looked away. He could still feel Jessie’s hand in his own, still hear Bigg’s rattling breath. Their deaths were too close, too raw. The dust from the collapse lingered in his lungs, suffocating him with each breath. The only miracle was that Wedge hadn’t died that night too.

“You know, we’re fighting for that tiny patch of sky. I thought at least here at least, Marlene could see it.” Barret raised his bottle, staring up through the amber liquid. Lowering his voice, he murmured, “Everything we sacrificed for it…I want her to know it’s worth it.”

Despite himself, Cloud reluctantly admitted, “It is.”

Barret snapped his head to Cloud. He scoffed, “I thought you didn’t believe.”

“I don’t,” Cloud agreed, sitting down next to Barret. He grabbed a cold bottle and snapped off the lid. If he was going to say all this, he needed to be drunk. “But they did. You’ll just have to make it worth it.”

Barret stared at him before bursting into laughter. “You’re a cocky sonofabitch, you know that?” He shook his head and hit Cloud on the back. “Oh, it’ll be worth it alright, just wait and see.”

iv.

Cloud rubbed his hands absentmindedly as he sat in front of the crackling fire. In all honesty, he should have expected this even before he’d left Midgar—if a single city could contain government conspiracies, secret labs, and more, the entire continent was bound to have even more mysteries to unravel.

Though, he wasn’t entirely certain it was a good idea to dig deeper into this mess. Even out here in the wilds, with only his slumbering teammates to help fight against the monsters, he could still feel Sephiroth’s breath on his neck, still see his silver hair in the dark. The visions felt stronger, more vivid these days. His headaches were even worse.

Did they have something to do with the ancient Cetras? The black materia?

They certainly had something to do with the pained look Tifa gave him from time to time, her secret as deeply hidden as the planet’s lifestream.

“Cold?” Aerith asked, abruptly leaning over him, her long hair tumbling after her like a waterfall.

To his pride, he didn’t jump. He even managed to keep his voice even as he asked, “Aerith?”

The only thing he didn’t know was where to look. She was close. She was always too close. Judging by her teasing smirk, she was doing it on purpose.

Aerith pouted as she straightened. “Aww, such a boring reaction.”

Cloud cleared his throat. Her sudden distance didn’t make it any easier to breathe. “It’s the middle of the night. Did you want me to wake everyone up?”

“Mmm, well, that’d be fun in its own way, but no.” She traipsed next to him and plopped down.

Once again, she was too close. Her knees touched his. Cloud stiffened. “Then what? It’s not your turn for the watch.”

“So?” Aerith cocked her head as she regarded him. He heard a small clink as she set a small bag in front of her. “Any rules that it has to be for me to join you?”

Cloud frowned, unable to argue the point. With a sigh, he let go of the point. “So, why’re you awake?”

“Maybe I just wanted to give you company?” Aerith smiled charmingly as she pulled out a small flask from the cloth bag, along with two tin cups. “It’s no fun drinking alone.”

He only frowned deeper, now certain something was wrong. “Aerith.”

She flinched before sighing. Her bangs covered her eyes, shielding her expression from him as she leaned forward and started to pour a cup. “Fine, fine. It’s been a busy few days, you know. I’ve got a lot to think about so…it’s a little hard to sleep.” Smile back in place, Aerith held out the cup. “I heard rum’s a good way to warm up.”

He stared at the cup dubiously. “You want me to drink while on watch?”

“Just a glass,” she cajoled, her eyes innocent. “It won’t do anything to you, Mr. S.O.L.D.I.E.R, right?”

Somehow, the moniker felt wrong these days. “I won’t.”

“Come on,” Aerith pleaded, pressing the cup into his open hand. “I got this as a thank you gift.”

He stared at her blankly. “Thank you?”

“For saving me all those times!” Aerith’s shoulders slumped. “I already gave Tifa and Barret their gifts…”

Reluctantly, he wrapped his fingers around the cup, accepting it. “Just one.”

“Just one, promise!” She beamed like she’d won the lottery. Humming, she poured herself another one before sitting back. Aerith sipped and sighed blissfully. “Feeling warmer already.”

When she looked at him expectantly, Cloud rolled his eyes but drank his too. “Thanks.”

“See? I was right.” Aerith tapped her cup happily, her expression fond as she stared at it. “I wish we could have done this at Tifa’s bar. Maybe after all of this…the three of us. No, actually, we could invite everyone and it’ll be a party.”

“I don’t like parties.” Cloud nudged her gently with his knee, tired of meandering around the topic. “So, what’s really the problem?”

“Who says there is one?” Aerith asked quietly.

“Aerith.” When she didn’t reply, he nudged her again.

She glanced at him, then back at her cup. “It’s nothing serious enough to be a ‘problem’. It’s just…for a moment there, I thought Sephiroth was a…that I wasn’t alone for a moment. And now I am again.” Aerith laughed tiredly, the sound jagged and stiff. “It’s nothing new but…”

Her expression bothered him. “You’re not alone.”

Aerith snapped her attention to him, surprised. “Huh?”

Suddenly embarrassed, Cloud looked away. Just what had he been thinking, blurting that aloud? To the woman who never let things go? “You’ve got us.”

“Oh. Oh.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “Thanks.”

For a second, all was fine.

Then she was too close again, smirking mischievously, and he regretted opening his mouth. “So, that’s what you think, huh?”

v.

Cloud had expected to see Vincent by the fire when he’d gotten up to take over the night watch. The sight of Yuffie next to him had been a surprise.

The sight of Yuffie with a glass of wine was something bigger than that.

She swirled it carefully, the red liquid as dark as blood in the dim light. Sniffing it lightly, she took a careful sip and grimaced. “You know what, they lied. That doesn’t help at all. This tastes worse than whisky and I didn’t think that was possible.”

Vincent merely shrugged, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

Cloud cleared his throat.

Unsurprised, Yuffie merely glanced up and grinned. “Hiya, Cloud!”

Her glass was still clearly visible. She didn’t even make a move to hide the bottle at her feet. Cloud glanced at her, then at the still slumbering Barret and Tifa. Clenching his jaw, he approached Yuffie. At least he could claim plausible deniability. “Aren’t you a little young for that?”

Unrepentant, she winked. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Cloud glanced at Vincent, who was usually the voice of reason in trying times. Who was also clearly allowing this by the way he merely stared back, his expression as unreadable as ever. For a silent, cryptic, if dependable man, he oddly seemed to enjoy Yuffie the loudmouth’s company. Vincent merely inclined his head. “She’s old enough to kill.”

Somehow, Cloud knew that logic wouldn’t fly in front of Barret and Tifa. “That isn’t—”

“He’s right! If I can do that other shit, then why not this?” Yuffie held out her glass, an obvious attempt at a bribe. “Have some. We’ll split the bottle.”

Cloud resisted the urge to rub his forehead. “Split? I thought you didn’t like it.”

“I don’t,” Yuffie agreed easily. “But I hear it’s an acquired taste. Also, and more importantly, we can’t leave any evidence.”

Strangely enough, that was the most sensible suggestion he’d heard so far. Well, if he couldn’t beat them, he might as well join them. Cloud sighed as he sat down and took the glass. “You really shouldn’t.”

“Plenty of things we shouldn’t do.” Yuffie poured herself another glass and held it out. “Now you’re an accomplice. Cheers!”

vi.

High up on the Highwind, it was easy to forget the world below existed. On the deck, there were only the clouds above and the wind blowing through Cloud’s hair. Nothing else existed, whether it was the problems on earth or his personal ones inside.

The door creaked behind him and Cloud stiffened. As usual, reality had a way of intruding.

“There you are!”

Though, at least this time it was a pleasant surprise. He relaxed at the familiar notes of Tifa’s voice, the sound of homecoming he’d recognized even when he still couldn’t remember everything about himself. Cloud glanced over his shoulder as she stepped out onto the deck, a dark bottle in her hand, two glasses in the other.

She smiled gently as she joined him and leaned against the railing. “I had a feeling you’d be up here.”

“A feeling?”

Tifa shook her head as her hair blew in her face, trying to remove the irritating strands. “Yeah, don’t know why. Just thought you’d be here.” She lowered her voice and asked softly, “How are you feeling?”

“Strange.” Cloud brushed her hair away from her face, the movement both familiar and strange. She was both Tifa the little girl on the water tower and Tifa the woman from Midgar. She was the teenager guiding him with a smile and the jaded adult who had lost her place in the world.

And Cloud didn’t know who he was. She had helped him piece together his memories, to pull apart Zack and Sephiroth and everything else that had shattered his memories. And yet, he still felt a little jumbled, a little lost.

A little uncertain on just what remained.

“Thanks.” Tifa shifted the glasses to one hand as she tucked the stray locks behind her ear. “That’s not a bad thing, you know? After all you’ve been through, I’d have been surprised if you’d said something else.”

Understanding didn’t make it any easier. Cloud glanced at the bottle in her hand and changed the topic. “Gin?”

“Oh.” Tifa flushed and rubbed the back of her neck sheepishly. “I…just ignore this. Barret shoved it in my hand before I came here. Something about how you can’t have a real talk without alcohol.” She chuckled wryly. “I think he forgot just how many drunks I’ve dealt with.”

Unbidden, Cloud remembered a night in a flower garden, a beer bottle in his hand. “He said that to me too once.”

“Oh really? Full of bad advice, isn’t he?” Tifa carefully returned the glasses to her free hand. Her expression softened and she smiled sadly. “Actually, you know, Aerith said that too once. I guess they can’t both be wrong.”

Guilt flooded him and Tifa snapped her attention to him immediately. She winced. “Sorry, I didn’t—”

He shook his head and grunted, “It’s fine.”

“It’s not.” She squared her shoulders and stared at him, her gaze steely. “It’s also not your fault. And she wouldn’t want you to think so either.”

He looked away. “That…”

“Maybe we really do need a drink.” Tifa all but forced the glasses into his hand before tugging off the gin’s cap. Her hands were steady as she poured. “I think you’ll like this, but…I guess I don’t really know what you drink anymore. Back at the bar, was that something you liked, or Zack?”

Faintly, he remembered the last time they’d shared a drink like this, a bright moment where she’d shown off her skills. Cloud shrugged as he watched her set the bottle down at her feet, as she took a glass back.

“I don’t know.” That felt like the answer to everything these days. What did he like? Dislike? Who was Cloud? What did he want? He felt even more lost than he had all those years ago, when he’d realized his dreams of becoming a S.O.L.D.I.E.R. were impossible.

“Then I guess we’ll have to find out,” Tifa replied firmly, breaking him from his thoughts. She leaned closer, forcing him to look at her. “After everything’s done, we’ll find out. That’s something to look forward to, right?”

He didn’t know what to say to that. A small knot in his chest eased.

As usual, she noticed. Tifa smiled and clinked her glass to against his. “Before I forget…welcome back.”

vii.

The church was empty. It was empty and abandoned and broken beyond belief. Despite the months they’d been away, it was like nothing had changed, and Cloud didn’t know if he should feel disappointed or relieved.

Aerith’s loss should have had a bigger impact.

The world still spun on.

His footsteps were too loud as he crossed the wooden floor. The planks cracked and groaned. Maybe he’d gather the others later and they’d repair this place. They could fix everything except for the holes in the roof; he could almost hear Aerith telling him how her flowers needed the light.

Somehow, even in her absence, the flowers bloomed brightly in the gloom. They were unchanged by the threats Midgar faced, the destruction that almost rained down on the planet. Cloud stared at the flower patch in front of him. The red ribbon wrapped around his arm felt tight.

“I’m sorry, I’m late,” he apologized before pulling out his sword and planting it firmly in the patch.

No one replied. No one ever would. Cloud pulled out a small flask and sat down in front of the sword. He poured a little in front of the sword, a little on a flower, and then took a sip himself.

And in his mind’s eye, Zack and Aerith clinked their glasses against his flask.

[agirlattea]

Sincerely, a Rainbow of stories for you: 

Please Tell me the story of the rainbow: Part 1

(Location: ???)

???:  Even if the sky above me isn’t one that has fully cleared of rain, I can still see the rainbow, painted in gentle colors.

The sound of the wind flowing. The faint ringing of a bell. I engrave the images into my mind and draw the impressions they leave behind. 

A story that began with a bundle of tattered parchment.

…Hey, Roxy. You were the only one who ever stuck by my side. 

I don’t want to lose anything else. That rainbow color, the sound of the bell… because this place is my own special world. 

Please, please don’t disappear. Because you’re the only one…

(Location: Magic Manor’s Foyer, Central Kingdom, Daytime) 

It was a sunny afternoon, and we were all gathered in the Magic Manor’s foyer. 

Snow and White: Sage

Akira: Snow, White. Is there something you’ve gathered us all here for?

Snow: Yes, but before we explain, let us do a roll call. 

White: First the Central Wizards!

Cain: Alright. Arthur is away on official business, but everyone else is here.

Riquet: I went to see him with Cain, and Oz came with us too.

Oz: ……..

Snow: I see. Next, the eastern Wizards.

Faust: We’re all here. Did something happen? Why have we all gathered?

Heathcliff: Maybe it’s a group mission… 

Nero: I hope it isn’t anything annoying. 

Shino: Is it a big task? If so, leave the combat to me. 

White: Hohoho, rest assured that there is nothing to worry about. 

Snow: Next up are the Western Wizards… but I don’t see enough people.

Shylock: Everyone was here but a moment ago. 

Chloe: Wait, Rustica? Rustica is gone! He was right next to me just now though… 

Murr: Maybe he left on a whim, or maybe he’s playing hide and seek. I love hide and seek! 

Rutile: No matter the job, we will do our best! Right, Mitile?

Mitile: Yes! It’s so exciting for everyone to finally get to work together! 

Snow: It seems the Southern Wizards are already motivated. 

White: How reliable.

Figaro: Yes, and as their teacher I suppose I also have to meet those high standards.

Lennox: I will help as well. If we encounter a difficult task, please leave it to me. 

…By the way, does anyone else smell something burning? 

Mithra, Owen, and Bradley: ……..

Akira: Umm… the three of you… your clothes are singed… are you all okay? 

White: It looks like you got in some good shots, Oz. You must have had a hard time.

Oz: There were no difficulties. 

Bradley: Huh…

Mithra: Hmph…

Owen: Is that so… 

Akira: (Somehow, the air seems to have gotten heavier. I’m getting a little anxious…)

White: They’re all hot-blooded guys, after all. 

Snow: Well then, let’s announce today’s challenge!

The drifting bloodlust in the room, stemming from the Northern Wizards who seem to have just lost a fight against Oz, seemed to focus on the twins. 

Snow and White: Today we are cleaning the Magic Manor! 

Heathcliff: Housecleaning…? 

Chloe: …Together?

Snow: Yes. 

White: That’s right. 

Snow and White: <Noscomnia> ! 

The twins cast their spell, and suddenly cleaning tools appeared in everyone’s hands, accompanied by cute popping sounds. 

Mops, brushes, and brooms. Before I knew it, I was holding a dishcloth. 

Owen: What? We gathered here for something like this? 

Mithra: Did you not just say that this was an important mission? 

Oz: I heard him say that as well. 

Bradley: Generally speaking, it doesn’t make sense to dedicate a day to cleaning. If you’re a wizard, it’s only natural to keep your surroundings neat. 

It’s careless to even leave a single hair around, since you don’t know what it could be used for. 

In any case, there should be nothing to clean. 

Snow: Well, you are right. However, that's besides the point! What’s important is that we join forces and work together towards a common goal! 

White: The two of us have determined that what the Sage’s Wizards lack is harmony. 

Snow: Cooperation. 

White: Since we’re living together, once in a while we have to cherish our interactions. 

Rutile: That’s right! If we all work together, not only will we finish our tasks faster, but we’ll be able to clean every nook and cranny that we wouldn't be able to reach on our own. 

Shino: I’m disappointed it's not a battle, but I’m good at cleaning. Leave the garden to me. 

Nero: Then I’ll take care of the kitchen. I’ve been waiting for a chance to reorganize the pantry anyways. 

Murr: I want to be in the kitchen too! 

Nero: Huh? 

Shylock: Oh? That’s an unusual request. Are you expecting spills?

Murr: There’s that too, but mostly I want to try the recipe for a new potion that I found the other day. 

Blackened, mushy, magma-like bubbly stuff made with blackened newt and mandragora! 

Shylock: That… sounds like a troublesome dish. 

Please obey Nero and behave. Don’t make too much of a mess. 

Nero: What….

Owen: I don’t really care what you do, but don’t touch the pot used for making sweets. I don’t like it when smells are transferred between dishes.

Cain: Nice try, but that pot still might not be safe… 

Mitile: Nii-Sama, why don’t the two of us clean the library? 

Rutile: Right, everyone has brought in more books lately, haven’t they. 

Riquet: I’ll help too, as I often use the library. 

Familiar places should be kept clean, and lately I’ve felt like the shelf in the back has been getting messy. 

Mithra: It’s best not to get too close to that place. I put a magic book that I couldn’t keep in my room there. 

It bites when it’s in a bad mood. It may suddenly run out and attack you. 

Riquet: What?! 

Mitile: Please don’t leave dangerous things in a space everyone uses. 

Rutile: But I am a little interested in Mr. Mithra’s book. 

Snow: Everyone is motivated.

White: Sage, we’d like you to give the starting signal. 

Akira: The starting signal? 

Snow: Something like “Let’s go! We can do it, everyone!” 

White: A chant can boost morale! Or at least, that’s what the previous Sage said. 

Snow: He also said that if you can get people to laugh at your speech, then you can be considered a fully-fledged leader.

Akira: Wait..!

Pushed forward by the twins, I stepped in front of everyone. 

Akira: Umm, it may be difficult, but in order to deepen our friendships, we should work to clean the manor together. To that end, I ask that you try to avoid using magic as much as possible… 

Mithra: &lt;Arthim> 

Mithra languidly spun around. Following the sound of him chanting his spell, we heard a small explosion somewhere else in the manor. 

Akira: Umm, did you… 

Mithra: Yes. I’m done cleaning up. 

I’ve eliminated all the nuisances, so please be grateful. 

Mithra grumbled as he sat on the stairs, crossing his legs lazily. 

Bradley: Over in 5 seconds. 

Figaro: It’s over, is it? 

Owen: You should’ve done this from the beginning. 

Shylock: I would have prefered it to be a little less fleeting… 

Oz: Sigh

Light footsteps echoed in the midst of the awkward silence. Despite the tension, the air in the hall was soft and bright. 

Rustica: By the way, did everyone receive a party invitation? 

Chloe: Rustica! Where were you?

Rustica: I was strolling through the courtyard. The marigolds in the garden were very beautiful. 

As I watched them sway in the wind, music filled my head and I couldn’t look away. Chloe, next time I’ll bring you with me. 

Chloe: Jeez, I was worried because you suddenly disappeared. You always do things at your own pace! 

Cain: …By the way does anyone smell smoke?

Nero: Yeah, like the smell is drifting in from outside… 

Rustica: Now that you mention it, there were some ribbons of flame here and there in the courtyard. 

I erased some of them so they wouldn’t spread to the flowerbeds, is that a game someone is playing? 

Chloe: Ribbons of flame…? 

Akira: You mean  the garden was on fire?!

Rustica: Yes. Watching the crackling sparks was interesting, but it might be a little dangerous. 

Akira: Umm, Mithra’s magic just now… 

Mithra: I just turned everything that got in my way to ash, right? 

Snow and White: That way of cleaning is way too extreme! 

Mithra: Thank you. 

Bradley: No, you’re not being praised. 

Figaro: In other words, is it okay to say that our mission has changed from general cleaning to extinguishing fires? 

Cain: A fire in the manor is a big deal! We need to hurry up and put it out! 

Riquet: O-okay! The garden isn’t the only place that’s on fire, is it? 

Heathcliff: Let’s split up! Does anyone have a bucket…

Mitile: I do! 

Chloe: Me too! 

Shino: Use the water from the fountain. There’s always water flowing there. 

Lennox: Master Sage, please stay here. We will extinguish the fire immediately. 

Akira: Thank you but… 

Cain: What’s wrong? 

Akira: I think right now it’d be okay to use magic…

The wizards who were running around stopped moving. 

Rutile: …Yes, you’re right about that. 

Nero: Sorry… I guess the timing confused me. 

Faust: Me too. 

Snow: I was overwhelmed by the vigor of the young people. 

White: I as well. 

Behind the younger wizards who looked at each other and smiled sheepishly, I saw Oz holding up his staff. 

Oz: <Vox Nox>

In the blink of an eye, dark clouds covered the sky and large drops of rain soaked the Magic Manor. 

Back to Event Masterlist

[llitchilitchi]

Ako je možné, že aj po všetkom tom scrollovaní tvojho blogu stále nachádzam nové veci? Je chyba vo mne?

So, I just discovered (or re-discovered? I could swear I saw that art before) the holy grail au and I'm starving for more content. Is there anything you could spare me? 🥺

pravdepodobne je to len v tom obrovskom objeme vecí čo som za tie roky postla, tento blog mám od zimy 2020/2021 aj keď som ho poriadne začala používať len pred asi rokom

! english starts here ! warnings for: violence, abuse, torture and all the stuff related to prison arc and its aftereffects, nonconsensual drug use, overall fuckedupness

as of Holy Grail AU, I don't really know how much there is to share save for what has been already said. Aeri is no longer active in the fandom but at some point she mentioned to me privately that she would like to use some of the ideas from the AU in an original story (can't blame her, I do that a lot myself)

I went thru the tag and noticed that we only ever really talked about the first arc of the AU - it was going to be three arcs in total, with the first arc (Cotard's Solution) being centered around the happenings after Dream became Sam's puppet, combining multiple POVs to address what was happening on the SMP and Dream's day-to-day existence. tensions are rising all over and Sam greatly benefits from the death and destruction it brings with the Revive Book coming in handy to keep everyone wrapped around his finger, while Bad slowly grows more and more uneasy with how things are, only sticking around to make sure Dream is safe, or as close to it as he can get. Ant has little care or say in what happens, simply following orders in hopes of one day being on Sam's (or Dream's) good side so he can ask them to revive Red for him. the Syndicate catches wind of Sam's nefarious activities and his growing power, goes investigate and run into Bad who immediately seizes the opportunity and helps them get Dream out of the fortress, which Techno is more than happy to do.

the second arc (Kintsukuroi) then focused on Dream's recovery in the Arctic while the server slowly falls apart, as the Revive Book has gone missing and Sam's grip on power begins to slip. Dream has to slowly regain himself after spending months upon months drugged out of his mind, has to deal with the initial withdrawals and the constant anxiety and panic that all the time in inprisonment has brought him. Bad serves as Techno's informant on what is happening with Sam and Ant joins him soon enough, still hoping to benefit from the help. at some point, Kinoko residents catch wind of things happening in the Arctic and George and Sapnap find Dream hiding in there. both of them have since changed their attitude towards Dream, especially after Sam declared him dead months and months ago, so despite the lingering anger all they feel is relief at him being at least alive. Dream's mostly non-verbal and very cautious of everything and everyone around him. as time goes by and he's in a good enough shape to move around and be his own person, though more docile and way more weak than he used to be, everyone agrees on Dream moving to Kinoko to be with Sapnap and George where he spends his time tending to Karl's library. I don't remember as much of the political machinations that were running parallel to the recovery. some time after Dream's relocation, Quackity comes to Kinoko to speak to his fiancés and instead of finding Karl he runs into Dream. he recognises him almost immediately and draws a weapon and Dream bolts for the exit. a short scuffle follows but Dream manages to get away, making his way towards the dojo where he knows Sapnap is so he can get his help. when Sapnap comes out, Quackity demands Sapnap hands Dream over but Sapnap stands in Quackity's way. Quackity declares it a betrayal on both him and the whole SMP and says that if Sapnap won't cooperate he will have to take the revive book by force, thus starting the last arc of the story.

the third arc (Epitaph) then follows the ensuing conflict between Las Nevadas and Kinoko, which with the tensions across the entire server turns into a much bigger conflict than it initially seemed to be, everyone desperate for the revive book or disgusted by the truth of what happened to Dream behind closed doors and trying to help him get away from the abuse. George, Bad and the Syndicate immediately make plans to get Dream far away from the mainlands to avoid the conflict. Sam, upon learning part of the truth of what happened to his holy grail, drunk on power and paranoid out of his mind takes his anger out on Antfrost whom he discovered to have been involved with the "conspiracy" that took Dream away from him, locking him away in the fortress where he kept Dream earlier. a war breaks out, people die. this arc is the least fleshed out since it's the last part of the story that never was. a few of the key elements of the arc involved Bad freeing Ant and then burning down Sam's seat of power and Ant eventually getting his wish of reuniting with Red. during the conflict, Quackity ends up taking Sapnap's final life but is unable to cope with the guilt. Karl is the one to find Sapnap's body and he drags it thousands of blocks across the server to where Dream and George are hiding. Dream doesn't even have to be asked twice to revive his friend.

I don't remember what the ending was, or if we agreed on a definitive one at all. the story, despite being about the revive book, had Dream be mostly idle through its course and instead focused on the lengths people would go for the power of the book and the eventual destruction the thirst for power would cause.

[ailendolin]

Grace - Chapter 8/10

Title: Grace [AO3]

Characters: Thomas, Alison, Mike, Baby Cooper, the Ghosts, the Plague Ghosts

Summary: “Mike and I are going to have a baby.”

Baby Cooper’s arrival at Button Houses changes many things, and all for the better - at least at first. Or as Mary once said: babies can see ghosts sometimes but usually only up until they can walk.

Chapters: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8

————

Grace

Chapter 8: The Birthday

Alison wakes up the next morning to a gentle tap on her shoulder. She swats at the hand and turns onto her side, intent on going back to sleep. Quiet laughter rings out behind her before Mike presses a kiss onto the tip of her ear and whispers, “Come on, Ali. We need to get the kitchen ready.”

Alison groans but forces her eyes open. They had actually planned to decorate the kitchen the night before but since Grace refused to settle down once again, they’d ultimately decided to just do it in the morning. Alison regrets that now. She squints up at Mike and is pretty sure he does so too despite the amusement twinkling in his eyes. They share a tired smile before they roll out of bed and, still in their pyjamas, quietly tip-toe past the still sleeping birthday girl.

Once downstairs, Mike gets started on the balloons while Alison goes to grab the presents. She arranges them together with the cake and lots of paper streamers on the kitchen table before they join forces to hang up the Happy Birthday banner and decorate it with the balloons. Alison can’t help but laugh when Mike tries to turn one of the elongated ones into a dog and ends up with something that looks more like an octopus than man’s best friend.

“Maybe you should have watched a YouTube tutorial first,” she can’t help but tease.

Mike frowns at her. “I have – two, actually! This looked a lot easier in the videos.”

Alison bites her lip but doesn’t say anything when he tries again and somehow manages to create a dinosaur this time.

Once everything is ready and hung up, octopus and dinosaur included, they take a step back and admire their work.

“Not bad for a first birthday, eh?” Mike says and pulls her close.

Alison nods and wraps her arms around him. “If only she could still see the ghosts.”

Mike drops a kiss onto her hair. “Yeah, I know. But we’ll make the most of it. We’ll make her happy.”

He sounds so confident that Alison can’t help but look up at him and smile. “Of course we will. I just wish we could do the same for the ghosts, you know?”

Mike contemplates that for a moment before he says with the same confidence, “We’ll think of something.”

He has never met these people, has not talked to them or laughed with them and yet Alison knows Mike means every word he said: he will think of something because he cares, and because he knows their ghostly housemates mean the world to both her and their daughter. Nothing she could say could possibly hope to convey how much that means to her, so Alison simply leans up to kiss him, long and gentle and lingering.

“What was that for?” Mike asks with a besotted grin after they pull apart.

Alison shrugs and kisses him again; a quick peck on the lips this time. “Nothing. I’m just glad to have you in my life.”

He looks a little confused but also pleased. “Right back at you.”

They meet for another kiss when the clock chimes, Fanny screams and Grace begins to cry. It’s not the desperate, grieving crying they’ve gotten used to over the last few days but her old, grumpy Why am I awake? crying, and it makes Alison smile.

“I can’t believe she’s a year old already,” she says with a shake of her head as she steps out of Mike’s arms.

“Remember how tiny she was when we brought her home?” Mike asks, holding out his hands to indicate Grace’s size back then. He errs a little on the small side but Alison doesn’t correct him.

“She’ll be grown before we know it,” she says instead, her tone just a little wistful.

Mike hushes her. “Don’t remind me. She’ll be bringing boys home in no time.” He pauses, thinks. “Or girls, I suppose. God, can you imagine? Our little girl, all grown up?”

Alison takes his hand and gently pulls him out of the kitchen. “Let’s celebrate her first birthday first before we start panicking about her kissing someone behind the barn.”

They ascend the stairs together and Alison’s heart melts when they enter their bedroom and find Grace standing up in her crib with her tiny fists wrapped around the railing and hiccupping as she looks up at them.

“Where’s my birthday girl?” Mike asks with the biggest grin Alison has ever seen. He reaches down and swoops Grace up into his arms, turning the hiccups into giggles. “There she is!”

He hands her over and Alison hugs her daughter close for a moment. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

While Mike dresses Grace in a pretty light green dress for the occasion, Alison gets dressed herself. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Mike holding up one of his fingers while patiently explaining to their daughter that she is one year old today. Alison is not sure Grace is able to grasp the concept of birthdays yet but she does mimic Mike by holding up her own finger just like he does. Mike, proud as any father would be, beams down at her, his heart overflowing with love. “Yes, that’s right! One!”

Grace repeats the word and happily claps her hands when Mike praises her.

“Well done, Grace!” Alison cuts in, taking over so Mike can get dressed as well. She holds up her own finger to show Grace how old she is. “You’re one year old!”

Outside the bedroom, she can hear the ghosts excitedly making their way downstairs to the kitchen. It’s the happiest she has heard them since Grace has started walking and everything went to hell. Their hushed whispers – completely unnecessary now that Grace can no longer see or hear them –make her smile. Grace, clever girl that she is, picks up on it immediately and covers her eyes with her hands. “Boo?”

Alison briefly wonders if moments like this will ever not feel bittersweet.

“The ghosts have just gone downstairs to the kitchen,” she tells Grace, willing her smile not to wobble. “And you know what? I think they have some presents for you!”

Grace’s eyes grow wide even though she understands the concept of presents about as much as she understands birthdays. It’s quite adorable how easily excitable she is, though, and Alison fiercely hopes she’ll never lose that, no matter how many candles sit on top of her birthday cake.

With that thought, she picks Grace up and reaches for Mike’s hand. “Let’s get this party started.”

Grace happily waves at Humphrey’s portrait as they pass it on their way downstairs, and Alison absentmindedly wonders if Thomas, true to his word, will be there when they enter the kitchen. She hopes he will be but at the same time would never hold it against him if he chose not to. She knows she asked a lot of him yesterday when she brought up Grace’s birthday; asked, perhaps, too much.

Before her thoughts can spiral, they reach the kitchen and Mike, along with the ghosts, shouts, “Surprise!”

Grace’s eyes widen in awe as she takes in the colourful balloons, paper streamers, presents and, finally, the cake Mike made for her the day before. She’s clearly delighted by all the colours and glitter – and so are Robin and Kitty, Alison notices as her eyes stray to the ghosts. They’re all there, every single one of them, even young Jemima. And there, standing by the stove with Humphrey’s head in his hands, is Thomas, flanked by Lady Button and Julian. The moment his eyes fall on Grace – the first time since that fateful evening – his tense smile begins to waver. Longing like Alison has never seen before washes over his face for a brief second before he visibly reins it in to keep smiling even though Grace can’t see him.

It breaks Alison’s heart, and when Mike lights the single candle on the cake and begins to sing Happy Birthday, she knows deep down in her heart that it was wrong of her to ask Thomas to be here today. Guilt churns in her stomach but since there’s nothing she can do about it now, she pushes it down as far as it will go and joins in on the song. It doesn’t take long for Mick’s unmistakable voice to rise above everyone else’s, much to Lady Button’s chagrin, and if she listens closely, Alison thinks she can also make out Thomas’s voice. It’s so quiet it’s barely noticeable; small and fragile like a wind chime made of glass. He always had a lovely voice but today he sounds brittle, like he’s been stretched too thin or tasked to carry a burden he can’t bear. If Grace could see him right now, Alison is sure her daughter would stretch out her tiny hands towards him in an attempt to comfort him. She’s always done that whenever Thomas got that far away look in his eyes around her, and it has never failed to put a smile on his face.

“You make it so easy to forget my worries, Lady Cooper,” he used to tell her before he stuck out his tongue and made silly noises to make her laugh.

As they sing the chorus one last time, it suddenly hits Alison that Grace will probably not remember this day; that she’ll forget the ghosts who have doted on her and watched over her for the first year of her life. She will forget Thomas’s stories, playing peek-a-boo with Kitty and the Captain, and the funny faces Lady Button liked to pull for her (and still firmly denies ever doing). The ghosts will quite literally become just that for her – ghosts. Faint memories she will never be able to fully grasp and which will grow ever fainter as time goes on. Alison will do her best to keep them alive for her – of course she will – but no amount of stories or paintings or retellings will be able to capture the soft look in Thomas’s eyes when he made her smile or the spring in Mary’s step when Grace said her name for the first time.

None of it will let Grace ever hear them sing Happy Birthday to her.

The song fades into silence, and as Alison blinks hard against the sudden tears in her eyes, Grace claps her hands excitedly and points at the corner where Jemima is standing, hugging her beloved doll close to her chest. “’mima!”

And just like that Alison feels like laughing rather than crying.

Of course, she thinks as Jemima’s lips twitch into a small but happy smile and mentally slaps her forehead. Of course she can hear her sing!

And so can Mike.

“I swear, this will never not be creepy,” he mutters under his breath.

Alison flashes him an admonishing look before she tells Grace that Jemima is waving at her. Grace giggles and waves back at the corner. It’s moments like these that remind her that not all is lost and that the ghosts can still be a part of their daughter’s life.

Just not all of them.

“All right, time to blow out the candle!” Mike declares and together with him, Alison leans forward so they can help Grace should she struggle. In the end, after three tries (and a slightly disgusting amount of spit splattering all over the cake) Grace manages to blow the candle out all on her own and the room erupts into cheers – along with a sad, “Aw,” from Robin who is mourning the loss of the flame.

“Well done,” Alison says proudly and presses a kiss to Grace’s cheek that makes her squeal in delight. She shares a look with Mike. “Cake first or presents?”

“Presents, of course,” Mike says.

He’s looking deeply affronted, and so does Pat. “You can’t keep her waiting, Alison! She’s just a child!”

Alison holds up her hands in defeat. “Pat says you’re right so presents it is.”

“Pa?” Grace asks curiously, looking around.

Alison bites her lip, silently hoping she hasn’t just ruined the birthday morning by mentioning one of the ghosts Grace can no longer interact with. “Yeah, Pat’s right there. And so are the others! They’re wishing you a very happy birthday!”

Grace blinks at the empty air around her for a moment.

“Pa,” she declares happily. Then she looks up at Alison, her young face way too serious for her age. “’omas?”

She sounds so hopeful that Alison is glad that this time, she can actually tell her, “Yeah, Thomas is here, too. He’s right there.”

She points at the stove where Thomas is standing and Grace, bless her, shrieks and waves her tiny hands excitedly in its direction. “’omas!”

Happy to see her daughter not bursting into tears for once at the mere mention of Thomas’s name, Alison looks up and smiles at Thomas, expecting to see him smiling too. He isn’t, though. His eyes are full of heartbreak and even though he’s biting his lip so hard he would probably draw blood if he were still alive, the next ragged breath he sucks in catches in his throat and turns into a broken sob.

Oh no, Alison thinks, feeling the smile slip from her face. Thomas ducks his head when the others turn towards him and seems to shrink under the unwanted attention.

“I’m sorry,” he manages to choke out before he turns and presses Humphrey’s head into the Captain’s hands. “I thought I could do this but I can’t.”

With that, he pushes past the Captain and runs from the room.

Alison wants to follow him, wants to fix this mess she made, but Grace is still happily babbling away next to her and hasn’t even opened any of her presents yet. She can’t go after Thomas, not now. Her daughter has to come first, no matter how much it breaks her heart right now.

“I will go after him,” the Captain suddenly states, and Alison has never been more grateful that he’s a man of action than in that moment. Knowing that Thomas won’t be alone – won’t vanish without trace again – make the guilt she feels a little easier to bear. 

“Take me with you, will you?” Humphrey asks before the Captain gets the chance to pass on his head to Julian. “You’ll probably need reinforcements.”

“Very well,” the Captain says before he clears his throat and, with a nod to Alison, marches out of the room.

For a brief moment, Alison allows herself to close her eyes. A tug on her shirt makes her look up into Mike’s concerned face.

“What happened?” he whispers so as not to alert Grace who is currently trying her best to reach the cake with her short arms.

Alison shakes her head and mouths, “Later,” before she takes a deep breath, puts on a smile and ignores the heavy silence from the ghosts around her. “All right, Grace, are you ready to open your presents?”

The fake excitement in her voice is enough to make Grace giggle but not enough to stop the ghosts from glancing at the door Thomas has vanished through. Still, they shuffle forward a little to watch the unwrapping. After all, most of the presents are from them.

Weeks ago, Alison had gone around and asked each of them if they wanted to get Grace something for her birthday. They’d all said yes – of course they had – so now the majority of the presents on the table are from them. Alison had been forced to intervene with some of the suggestions – because no matter what Julian says, Baywatch Barbie is not a suitable present for a one-year-old – but overall, her and Mike’s idea to include the ghosts had been a huge success.

Grace for her part seems to be enjoying tearing off the brightly coloured wrapping paper immensely. In the end, three of the presents capture her attention the most. There’s the little doll that’s made of fabric rather than plastic and was Jemima’s idea (“It will always make her feel safe.”). Then there’s the plush moon Robin chose (“Moonah always watching over her.”) and last but not least, the musical book Thomas selected after carefully browsing through the options in the online shop for an hour – which had felt more like two at the time, Alison has to admit. It plays different melodies, depending on which symbols get pushed, and it delights Grace to no end. Alison isn’t really surprised by it – the book is from Thomas, after all. That alone makes it special, especially now.

And speaking of special – when Mike hands Grace the painting and helps her unwrap it, Alison gets out her phone and starts filming. She wants to capture this moment – not just for Grace but for Thomas as well. The portrait is as much a present from him as it is from her and Mike, and she wants Thomas to be able to see how happy it made Grace, whenever he is ready. So she does her best to hold her phone steady while her daughter’s tiny fingers struggle adorably with the wrapping paper. With Mike’s help and gentle encouragement, Grace eventually manages to unwrap one corner of her present.

“Oh?” she makes, clearly intrigued, before she proceeds to tear the rest of the paper away with little finesse but boundless enthusiasm. Alison swears she can hear Grace’s breath catch in her throat when she finally unveils Thomas’s waistcoat and cravat. “’omas!”

She giggles excitedly and then, more carefully than before, pushes away the remaining wrapping paper to reveal Thomas’s face. A smile so bright and beautiful Alison feels her throat close up lights up Grace’s eyes and she touches the contours of Thomas’s face even more reverently than she’s touched the Ghost Chart the day before.

Alison looks up and catches Nigel’s gaze. He nods at her with soft eyes, approvingly.

“Well done,” he mouths. The others murmur in agreement and watch, bemused, as Grace stretches out her little arms, clearly wanting to hold the painting.

“I think that’s a bit too big for you to hold, sweetheart,” Mike says but holds it out for her anyway. Grace presses her face against it and closes her eyes, causing everyone’s hearts to melt instantly. “Aw.”

She looks like she wants to crawl into the picture and it gives Alison an idea. She files it away for later and stops recording to press a kiss on the top of her daughter’s head. “Happy birthday, Grace. Do you like your presents from the ghosts?”

Grace smiles toothily up at her and nods.

It takes a bit of convincing to get her to let go of the painting but in the end, Mike’s persuasive arguments – the promise of cake, mainly – win out and Grace relinquishes her hold. Alison props it up on the cupboard along with all the other presents so Grace can see it while she eats, and as she passes behind Mike she whispers, “I’m going to check up on Thomas, all right?”

He gives her a worried look. “Too much too soon?”

“Yeah,” Alison sighs guiltily.

Mike nods. “Go. I’ve got breakfast handled.”

“You’re the best.”

She slips out of the kitchen without Grace noticing and doesn’t have to go far to find Thomas. He’s sitting on the lowest step of the grand staircase with his head in his hands while Humphrey’s head is propped up against the step above him. The Captain is sitting on his other side, and one of his hands is resting on his shoulder in comfort.

“I let her down,” Alison hears Thomas murmur against his palms, and her heart goes out to him. She has no idea if he’s talking about Grace or her – perhaps both of them – but she knows she’s the reason he’s blaming himself right now. She added this guilt to his pain and made an already difficult situation even worse for him – all because she wanted to celebrate Grace’s first birthday with all the ghosts and pretend for five minutes that everything is normal.

It’s not an unreasonable thing to want, Alison knows, but it’s a terribly selfish one.

“You didn’t let anyone down,” she says softly as she approaches the staircase, guilt weighing down every one of her steps. “I did.”

Thomas drops his hands and looks up at her. His eyes are dry but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been crying. Alison gives him a sad smile and sits down next to him. “I shouldn’t have asked you to come today.”

“Oh,” Thomas says. He sounds small, and he looks that way too when he glances down at his hands. “My deepest apologies for ruining the party.”

His voice breaks on the last word and something inside Alison breaks with it.

“Oh Thomas, no, that’s not– that’s not what I meant at all. You didn’t ruin anything,” she says softly and desperately wishes she could reach out to him and take his hand in hers to emphasise her words. “I wanted you to be part of Grace’s birthday so much that I didn’t stop to think what you wanted, what you needed, and I’m sorry about that. I should have given you more time.”

The Captain gives her a curt nod of approval before he glances over at Thomas who is still staring down at his hands. His fingers are restlessly fiddling with the cuff of his sleeves, a nervous habit that’s as much a part of him as his dimples or poetry are.

“A week ago,” he begins quietly, “I was so excited for today. I wouldn’t have missed it for anything in the world. Now I can barely look at her without feeling my heart break.” He takes a shuddering breath and finally meets Alison’s eyes. “But I don’t regret being there. It … it was good to see her happy.”

He offers her a wobbly smile that Alison knows is meant to put her at ease but has the opposite effect. It only lasts a few seconds. Then it fades away like sunlight on a winter afternoon and Thomas lets out a very long sigh. “I just wish love didn’t always have to be mingled with grief.”

He wraps his arms around himself and looks away again. The Captain regards him quietly for a moment. There is an old pain in his eyes that death has not yet managed to soften. Alison has often wondered what had caused it and certainly had her suspicions but she’s never asked him, knowing the Captain isn’t ready to talk about it yet. If only she had extended that same kind of patience towards Thomas yesterday. “Sometimes, that’s just how it is and all we can do is make the best of it.”

“Or fade away,” Thomas murmurs.

Alison’s heart misses a beat. She exchanges an alarmed look with Humphrey and the Captain before she scoots closer to Thomas, as close as she can without touching him, and says in a low voice, “Don’t you dare, Thomas Thorne. Don’t you dare put us through that again. We searched for you for three days, day and night. And do you know why?” Thomas sniffs and shakes his head. “Because we love you. You’re family, Thomas, and I … I can’t lose you again. I just can’t.”

She’s breathing hard by the time she’s finished and her eyes are burning with tears she thought herself no longer capable of crying. But at the same time it feels good to finally let it all out; cathartic.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas whispers miserably. He looks like a kicked puppy with his hunched shoulders and cast down eyes. “I did not think–”

“That we’d miss you?” Humphrey asks softly. “Of course we would, mate. We’ve already lost Grace. We don’t want to lose you too.”

The Captain nods. “Who’d bore us with terrible poetry if you weren’t around, hm?”

Alison winces at the Captain’s clumsy attempt at a light-hearted joke but, surprisingly, it seems to work. Thomas lets out a soft laugh and in a moment of rare vulnerability and trust, rests his head on the Captain’s shoulder and lets him bear his weight for a moment. “I’ll have you know my poetry is not terrible. You’re just not sophisticated enough to understand it.”

“Sure. Whatever you say,” the Captain says fondly and reaches around him to pat his arm.

Thomas sighs and closes his eyes. “Grace lovedmy poems and stories.”

“She sure did, mate,” Humphrey says.

“Do you think she’ll remember them? Remember us?” Thomas asks, very softly.

Oh Thomas, Alison thinks.

“Of course she will,” she says, leaving no room for doubt. “I’ll make sure of that.”

Thomas opens his eyes and looks over at her. “Even if it will cause her pain?”

Behind them, Humphrey chuckles. “Trust me: the look on her face when she unwrapped your painting was as far from pain as it gets.”

“Young Grace is more resilient than you give her credit for,” the Captain adds. “She’s already finding new ways to hold onto us. Granted, it won’t be like before but – well, we’ll still be a part of her life, and she of ours, so to speak. So no more talk of getting sucked off, all right?”

Alison mentally cringes at the expression the ghosts insist on using despite her many attempts to get them to call it moving on. The Captain has a point, though and Thomas – Thomas slowly nods.

“All right,” he whispers. “I’ll … I’ll try.”

“That’s the spirit,” the Captain smiles and gives his arm another pat. “Now, are you ready to re-join the celebrations or would you rather retire to your room?”

Thomas sits up and flashes Alison an apologetic look.

“My room – but there’s no need to accompany me,” he hurriedly adds when the Captain reaches for Humphrey’s head and starts to get up. “Really, I’ll be fine on my own.”

Feeling an irrational fear claw its way up her throat, Alison exchanges a pleading look with Humphrey and the Captain. Please go with him.

“I’d be happy to stay with you,” Humphrey says easily, answering her silent prayers.

“And miss Grace’s birthday?” Thomas shakes his head. “No, she needs you more than I do.”

Alison’s stomach plummets. “Thomas–“

“I won’t run again,” he says quietly, earnestly, and holds her eyes as he places his hand, the one that has bloodstains all over the cuff, over his heart.

It feels like they’re having a whole conversation without saying a single word and in the end, Alison swallows around her fear and gives in. “Promise?”

Thomas bows his head. “Promise.”

“Okay,” Alison whispers. “See you later.”

With a last, grateful nod to her, Humphrey and the Captain, Thomas pushes himself to his feet and ascends the stairs. There is no spring in his step, not like there used to be, but he holds his head up high as he goes. Alison desperately hopes it’s not just for show. She can’t bear the thought of him hiding from them again.

“Don’t worry,” the Captain says, pushing himself to his feet. His knees crack. “He won’t go MIA under my watch – not again.”

“Thanks, Captain,” Alison smiles and tears her eyes away from the upper landing. “I hope you’re right.”

“Thomas is many things,” Humphrey says as they walk back to the kitchen. “But a liar is not one of them. If he’s saying he won’t run, he won’t run.”

The certainty in his tone puts Alison’s frayed nerves at ease, at least a little. She knows she’s overreacting but after the week she’s had, she doesn’t think anyone can blame her for that. Letting go of her worry is hard but when she sees Mike and Grace covered in bits and pieces of cake, she feels a laugh bubbling up her throat and leans down to kiss their sugary sweet cheeks. 

————

Thomas, just like Humphrey said, keeps his promise.

He’s in his room when Alison looks in on him after lunch, and to her surprise he’s not alone: Jemima is with him. She’s sitting next to him with her legs dangling from the bed, and before Alison can make her presence known she hears her say in that quiet, subdued voice of hers, “I’ve been thinking – if you’d like, I could sing one of your poems to Grace. I know it’s not the same but … she’d still get to hear it that way.”

Jemima’s dark eyes are full of anticipation and hope when she looks up at Thomas, and Alison holds her breath as they wait for his reaction.

“You’d do that for me?” Thomas asks, very quietly. He sounds surprised, and deeply moved.

Jemima shrugs one of her shoulders. “I like singing to her, and I like your poetry.”

Thomas blinks. “You do?”

“I don’t really understand it,” Jemima admits, nervously looking down at her doll. “But it sounds nice.”

Something shifts in Thomas’s face, gentles the laugh lines around his eyes. “Maybe we could select a poem and compose a melody together?”

He sounds a little unsure but when Jemima nods with the barest smile on her face and earnestly says, “I’d like that,” he relaxes.

“Yeah, me too.”

Alison decides to leave them be. Thomas is okay – well, as okay as he can be – and most importantly, in very good hands. He doesn’t need her right now and knowing that makes it a little easier for her to enjoy the rest of the day without that constant feeling of worry nagging at her.

She returns to his room later, though, after Grace has been put to bed for the night. Thomas is alone this time so Alison pokes her head around the door and gives him a little wave. “Hey. Can I come in?”

“Of course,” Thomas says, offering her a place on the bed.

Alison smiles and closes the door behind her before she joins him. After a moment of silently debating what to say, she finally settles on, “Grace is asleep.”

Thomas frowns. “But – I didn’t hear her cry.”

Alison allows herself to smile. “That’s because she didn’t. We placed your portrait on the dresser where she could see it and she fell asleep gazing at it. No fussing, no crying.”

“Oh,” Thomas breathes. He glances down at his hands. “That’s … that’s good. Really good.”

“Yeah,” Alison agrees. “It honestly never even crossed my mind that the painting might help her sleep but it worked like a charm.”

“To be as easily soothed as a child,” Thomas muses sadly.

They are both quiet for a moment, revelling in the silence that has settled over the house after days of distress. It almost feels normal, Alison thinks, and even as the thought fills her with hope for the future, she knows that Thomas, out of all of them, will find it the hardest to embrace.

“Is there anything I can do to make things a little easier for you?” she asks softly.

Thomas opens his mouth only to close it again. He shakes his head.

“No, I – I think I just need time.” He pauses to look at her. “Is that okay?”

Alison’s face softens. “Of course it is. Take as long as you need. We’ll be here when you’re ready, and I promise: no more pushing.”

“Thank you,” Thomas says, heartfelt.

He sounds as if a huge weight has just been lifted off his chest and there’s a hint of a spark in his eyes again, a glimmer of optimism that hasn’t been there since the day Grace started walking. It’s that spark that prompts Alison to ask, “Want to watch the sunrise with me tomorrow?”

She knows she’s probably going to regret this when her alarm goes off the next morning but seeing the surprise in Thomas’s eyes, followed by a shy but genuine smile – the first one in days – makes losing an hour of sleep more than worth it. “I’d love that very much.”

Alison smiles. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

With that, she leans over to kiss his cheek, just like she’d done that first Christmas she and Mike had celebrated in Button House, so many years ago, when neither of them had any idea yet what life and death would hold in store for them.

“Goodnight, Thomas,” she says softly.

Thomas, startled by the ghost of her touch, raises his hand to his cheek. His eyes soften. “Goodnight, Alison.”

[j-graysonlibrary]

The Xiang Chronicles: Book Three Chapter 31

Title: The Xiang Chronicles: Book Three

Author: Jay Grayson

Word Count: 107k

Genres: Fantasy, adventure, drama, LGBT+

Available on: my website

Synopsis: Only one Xiang remains and her name is Merra. She hopes to unite the land by force and plow down anyone in her way—especially the people of Agni who she deems faithless and the native people of Terra who refuse to cooperate with her.

Raine continues to serve his Lord but he has taken to alcoholism to soothe his grief—a fact he keeps out of his letters with Heidi. Baiya has returned to mercenary work in order to keep his family safe while Kira is on the warpath. He, fully, takes on the title of Chaaya and means to defeat the Xiang he sees as false.

And, in a guarded castle in Enlil, a stir-crazy Princess dabbles in the dark arts, setting in motion something even Tiandi cannot see.

Full chapter 31 under the cut

Chapter XXXI:

The trip toward Agni was slow and agonizing but there had been no terrible complications either. For Kaz, it had felt like a weeklong trek across the plains but, really, it had only been two days.

Two days of leading the way. Two days of keeping an eye on everyone. Two days of splitting the responsibilities of finding food, cooking, and guarding between himself and his sister.

At least Pangu had started to talk more, listless as he was. But he spent all of this time trying to talk and get through to Raine who had been pretty much silent for over forty-eight hours.

Whatever Pangu was doing was not working.

Kaz sighed as he watched the two at the campsite, sitting side by side. He could see Pangu’s mouth moving but Raine kept just staring forward, into the fire.

They would get nowhere.

His eyes shifted over to Fujin who was lowly chatting with May. She had been a little more vocal as well today but she was still drawn into herself. Her head was tucked in toward her neck and she curled like a shrimp around Fujin’s body as if desperate for protection.

Kaz knew she was in the best hands as long as she was with Fujin. It was not as if there was something he could tell her that would be more profound than whatever his sister was currently saying.

So, he looked back at the Xiang and his first disciple.

Part of him wanted to just get Pangu away from Raine and talk to Pangu privately. He wanted to know where he was, emotionally, and offer comfort but he also knew Pangu would reject the notion of leaving Raine alone. Until he was better, no one would feel better.

Kaz grumbled under his breath and walked over to the campfire. “Pangu,” he said, clearly, “Could I speak with Raine for a minute?”

As he expected, Pangu gave him a puzzled look. He did not say it, verbally anyway, but his expression did all the talking. ‘What?’

He forced a smile, as best as he could. “Just a minute?”

Pangu stood, slowly, and gave the two a look before walking away. He joined Fujin and May but kept looking back as if he expected something wild to happen the second he turned his back.

Kaz sighed to himself and took Pangu’s place next to Raine. The man was huge—even sitting down, he was taller than most people. But, with how hunched and droopy he was at the moment, Kaz sat a little taller.

“Hey,” he opened with.

Naturally, there was no response.

He chewed on his lip, fighting for something to come to mind. But he did not know Raine. He did not know where to even begin.

“Look…” he tried again, “I know Sun-shi was tough but Pangu is relying on you to get him to Agni. We are all relying on you to show us the way. Whatever crisis you are having can at least wait until then, right?”

Raine’s head turned and, slowly, he looked over. His dark blue eyes caught the light of the fire and there was a sheen over them. Unshed tears.

“Crisis?” he repeated, quiet. “This is no crisis. My ignorance was a crisis. My naïveté.”

Kaz quirked an eyebrow. “Okay?” He was not sure what else to say but he pushed, “Like I said, you can beat yourself up over it once we are safe and in Agni…like you promised.”

Raine closed his eyes and shook his head. “I have no right to claim I can keep him safe. Maybe Baiya can but Pangu should drop me as a disciple the first moment he can.”

“I…do not think he would?”

“But he should,” Raine continued, “I have done wrong by him since the start. I doubted his decisions before, when choosing other disciples. I believed in Tiandi, more than I should have. And my blind faith cost him—not me. And while I believed him dead I worked for the people who were responsible for his death…THEN I have the fool’s hope that bringing him and Kira together again will fix everything—magically—and that we could all be happy like before.”

“What is wrong with wishful thinking?” Kaz frowned. “You did not know how Kira would react. You just hoped for the best.”

“Hoping for the best got Pangu killed.” His hands balled into fists. “Do you not understand? Optimism…my optimism is poison.”

“No worse than miasma.”

Raine tensed. “It is not Kira’s fault,” he responded, strangely, and his limbs shook. “Kira is not a bad person.”

“I…did not imply that?” Kaz scooted away.

“It is what he thinks of himself,” Raine grumbled and lifted his hands to his face, hiding away. His voice echoed against the curve of his palms as he spoke, “He sees himself as this villain. But, Pangu never saw that. I hoped…foolishly, that Pangu could convince him of his worth again. Since I could not. Since Kira sees no value in my words. Since he cares not…for me…”

There was far more folded into those statements than Kaz was expecting. He had barely pushed and Raine was just letting all of this out though it was hard to sift through. His mind was clearly all over the place but self pity was at the forefront and a lot of guilt.

“You and Kira did not get along before?” he decided to ask.

“At first, no.” Raine sighed and moved his hands so they were not directly in front of his mouth. Now, they were rested on either side of his face so, while Kaz could not see his expression, he could hear him more clearly. “But we got closer. Or I thought we did. I…he was my friend…”

“Your…friend.” Kaz repeated with hesitancy.

He did not know much about relationships—for most of his life it had been himself, his sister, and the princesses with few other people inserting themselves into the group. No one else ever lasted long and it was just them. He watched as his sister and May fell in love, of some kind, and he noticed the small changes in their behavior both in the group and just with one another. They were small, barely noticeable by most peoples’ accounts. But they were there. The small touches, brief glances, and the way they spoke about one another.

“May is, well, my…she is my friend. I…I like her,” was something Fujin had said in their youth.

Kaz had no personal experience until just recently and he knew his relationship with Pangu was difficult to compare to other people’s relationships. It was a strange occurrence and even he had been surprised by it. He had grown attached and fond of the man before he had a chance to stop it.

His feelings—they just were. Almost as if they had always been there but were merely uncovered in a flourish one day. He could not be sure it was the same for everyone but he did feel as if he could pick up on some hints as to whether those feelings existed in another. And, maybe, who they were directed at.

So he sat there, staring at Raine whose face he could not currently see but he could feel the energy whipping around him. When he spoke of Kira, there was a disturbance in his energy field and the slight ripple and crackle he felt were akin to what he noticed in his own energy.

“Raine,” Kaz cleared his throat, “are you in love with Kira?”

He hoped he had not pushed him too far when his hands dropped but he could see no clear indicator on his face. Then, Raine stood up and walked away, in the opposite direction of the camp and everyone else. He did not disappear over the hillside, thankfully, but he did walk quite a distance.

Everyone joined Kaz by the fire, expressions ranging from confusion to worry.

“What happened?” Pangu asked with a furrowed brow and frown. He was already prepared to chase after his disciple.

“We talked. It did not go well.” Kaz summed it up. “I think I touched a nerve.”

“I shoul—”

Pangu did not get to finish as Fujin reached out and grabbed his arm. “No,” she said, “I will talk to him.”

Kaz watched his sister walk past the camp fire and over toward Raine. He could not fathom what a talk between them, just the two of them, might sound like but he forced his attention back forward.

Pangu reluctantly sat down and May settled in beside him, resting her head against his shoulder. Which promptly reminded Kaz that, while he had been attempting to cover some ground with Raine, the others had probably been talking as well.

He did not have a chance to ask what about when May glanced up at Pangu and said, “I am sorry.”

“None of that was your fault,” Pangu responded, clearly carrying on from their earlier conversation.

Kaz took a gamble that they might fill him in and he asked, “What is going on?”

May closed her eyes and shook her head before taking a long, deep breath. “The reason I’ve been out of it. Fujin talked to Pangu but I feel a bit better. I can tell you.”

Pangu held her around the shoulders and looked down at her as best he could without disturbing her.

“In the city…” May started and then stopped to take another breath, “That fight…I…I got scared.”

“You have not been in a real fight before,” Kaz said, understanding.

She closed her eyes tight and her body tensed up, all at once. She then relaxed and fell, more, against the Xiang. “I…you are right.” Her throat bobbed as she gulped. “I just…I don’t know, assumed I would be good at it? I thought with these powers I could do anything.”

“Remember the bear?” Kaz raised an eyebrow.

The princess frowned. “That was different.”

“Still.”

She groaned. “ANYWAY. I thought I was going to die the other day. With all those people who could actually fight back, I was scared. And I froze and I probably made everything harder and more dangerous for everyone.”

“It is okay,” Pangu assured her and squeezed her shoulder. “You can always train more. Or, if there is another fight, we can have you stay behind.”

“No!” May jolted up, nearly knocking into Pangu’s jaw. “No, I don’t want to be left behind…”

“Well we would not just abandon you somewhere,” Kaz replied, ensuring his feelings on the matter were well understood.

She shook her head. “I cannot…I will not be a burden again. I…it is not fair.”

“You are not a soldier either,” Kaz pointed out. He scooted closer. “Fujin and I have trained for fights and, clearly, Pangu and Raine have been in their fair share already. You cannot expect to be an expert or on our level immediately.”

“But I can’t be crying and pissing myself every time either!”

“Well, no.” Kaz laughed a little. “There is a middle ground here.”

“He is right,” Pangu seconded and moved his hands to hold hers, keeping them between their laps but closer to her knees than his. “You did not slow us down in Sun-shi. If anything…it was me. I became so overwhelmed I could not think straight and my memories are still, slowly coming back. A few more flooded back when I saw Kira and then even more when we were escaping. It would be unfair to blame the sloppy escape on just you, May.”

“You and Raine at least had a reason to be out of it.” She frowned. “I was just…being a baby. And weak.”

“Our opponents were stronger than I would have liked,” Pangu countered, “If you all had not been there, I do not think it would have gone as well as it did. That is to say, I do not think I would have made it out unscathed—physically. So, I should be thanking you.”

“They were also unexpected opponents,” Kaz tacked on, “We did not know there would be a fight when we stopped that morning.”

May nodded, a little calmer now. “Sure but…still…”

“But nothing.” Pangu held her hands tighter. “I should be thanking you every day anyway.”

She lifted her head up. “Why is that?”

“You are my savior. You gave me life again. A gift I do not intend to take lightly…as difficult as it has been lately.” Pangu smiled at her. “You could do no wrong to me, May, you are the reason I am here.”

Kaz could not help but snicker as a thought made its way to his mind. He had to share, “You make it sound like she is your mother.”

Thankfully, it did not anger May but it made her laugh instead. “It does sound that way when you say I gave you life.”

Pangu grinned, looking happier than he had in days. “Should I start calling you mother then?”

“Ew, no.” May jerked her hands away but still giggled. “I do not want anyone to think I could possibly be old enough to be your mother.”

They all shared a laugh and only stopped when the two missing members of their party walked over. Fujin and Raine both wore somewhat somber faces but Raine’s expression was not quite as grim as it was when he left.

Kaz glanced up at them, worried.

But, Raine surveyed the group and let out a sigh. “Let’s go.” His words were short but there was determination in them. It was not much improvement but it was something.