#i hope this post shows you all why i most emphatically do not draw things

[nineratsinatrenchcoat]

pretty sure this is what happened

[asherlockstudy]

How to do perfect staging: a lesson from Italy

I mentioned at some point I might actually make a post drooling over Italy's Måneskin performance and staging. I was kinda bored to be honest and decided against it but then all those trashy rumours that try to bring the winners down seemed so disgraceful and embarrassing to me that I decided again to do it. Now, the truth is that their performance was a little better in the semi-final introduction act. Perhaps this was due to the anxiety of the Grand Final. This is why I am going to use photos and gifs from that act and perhaps this will show to some that the perfect package might need a little bit of everything, and not just slap your language on the audience's ears with the expectation that this alone is always enough. *Did I make this too personal?*

Anyway, I digress. And I don’t mean that the Grand Final performance wasn’t still the best of the night, I just mean it wasn’t at the same God Tier level as the semifinal one.

Here's why the Italians took advantage of the Dutch stage until its very last millimeter and way more cleverly than any other country.

This is the only act that starts from the back of the stage, where the singer Damiano David waits for us alone.

Even with the rest of the 25 competing countries, this intro makes you forget that you are watching a contest with 26 countries as guests. Unlike anyone else, Italy looks like the host, like this place belongs to them and the frontman waits for you to show you around and possibly drag you to the world of Måneskin. In fact, you almost forget it’s Eurovision - this now looks like a Måneskin concert or, even better, a more private space of theirs with an ominous industrial feel. One of the most impactful things now is the lighting. Take a look at it. Almost all contestants throw all the lights on themselves or on some important prop they have prepared. The Italians are the only ones who chose to just light the stage itself. The simple white lights on the black stage give the impression of depth and it is the only act which shows emphatically the size of the stage. Why this? Well, we already established that in the first seconds the viewers feel they are in a new space belonging exclusively to Måneskin - the lights make us feel that their area is vast and dark and we are about to be drawn to its depths.

Damiano indeed guides us to the front as he sings, where the rest of the band are on the top of a platform. The other members won’t come down and join Damiano until he sings the appropriate verse “Buona sera, signore e signori” (=Good evening, ladies and gentlemen) and accompany it with a theatrical flamboyant bow (that feels very Italian). That’s when, technically introduced to the audience after the official greeting, bassist Victoria de Angelis and guitarist Thomas Raggi come off the platform and join Damiano.

There’s nothing excessive about the visual effects. Only the use of white lights that give the perception of depth and in the background the big shadows of the group’s silhouettes. They are in the front and they cast their shadows in the back; they create to you a feeling of being trapped by them but do you really want to escape?

When the second verse starts, Victoria and Thomas take the paths left and right of the stage and leave Damiano alone. They take even more advantage of the stage and in a typical classic rock band way. These two play with the side cameras but the focus is more on Damiano, whose verse sounds more like a tongue-twister. Since the cameras are rightfully on Damiano, I must now address the elephant in the room. Damiano is particularly attractive. In fact, the whole band is almost mind-bogglingly attractive and they clearly take a lot of care about how exactly they are going to look but Damiano, as the frontman, does especially so. So let’s talk about the outfit. They all have essentially the same outfit, however it is cut differently for each based on the person’s looks and personality. Isn’t it fantastic?

Damiano, who oozes confidence and sex appeal, has accordingly the most “provocative” outfit of the four. His chest and arms are bare so that his many tattoos can be seen. I’ll talk about the other outfits later as they all have their place in the... uh... white lights.

During the second chorus Victoria and Thomas return at the center and after the chorus it is time for the first solo; Victoria’s. The cameras are now on her but the lighting remains modest to accentuate the dark beat of her bass.

Victoria is the only girl of the group and the most dressed of them all - how refreshing! Her outfit is more similar to Thomas but she is buttoned up in the front. How does she wish to underscore her uniqueness as the woman of the band? But of course, with long flamboyant girly sleeves that come to delicious contrast with her aggressive stomping and her wide strides. Both her hairstyle and her outfit is inspired or basically just outright 70′s classic rock look.

It’s time for the bridge of the song right after her solo and Damiano has his attention on her and also draws the viewer’s attention to her some more. This part of the song is lower and softer - in relative terms - that’s why Damiano “chooses” her to sing it to. The lights now turn red, the intensity rises but there’s light flirtatiousness between them, with many smiles to each other and the camera that turns around them as they launch at each other playfully.

Then the song gets darker, more intense, the guitar stronger than the bass and Damiano’s voice turns to a scream. For this part, he turns to his bro, guitarist Thomas and he now draws the attention to him.

He grabs Thomas by the neck in an intense, intimate way (that doesn’t mean sexual, just intimate. His interaction with Victoria wasn’t sexual either). It is clear that through different ways Måneskin want to stress how good and close their relations are and that their singer, who is apparently a show stealer by birth, wants to ensure that they all get equal amount of attention from their audience. I love this.

True enough, nobody is left behind! The last chorus starts with a drums solo and Damiano goes up to the platform to now meet and introduce to us Ethan Torchio. Ethan stands up and his giant shadow is on the now blue background: this is the moment for the - so I hear - somewhat shy drummer to shine in his own aesthetic. The Italians leave none of their assets to fall down and Ethan’s impressive hair rightfully steals the show.

Just like Victoria and Thomas look alike, so do Ethan and Damiano, that’s why their costumes are the most similar. Ethan has a vest that covers him more than Damiano but leaves his arms bare. Because whose else the arms do you need to see if not the drummer’s?

This song has something peculiar because it was not a song originally written for Eurovision; it slows down in the end and  does not end on some impressive note from the singer as usual but with the last solo we expect, that of the guitarist, because everything is fair in Måneskin! The focus has to leave Damiano, so now it’s the time for the visual effects to finally catch fire, literally,  because nobody is allowed to take their eyes off them! Måneskin use a huge amount of pyro that however feels appropriate for the intense chorus and the ending guitar solo.

Thomas steps up for his solo and I forget we are in 2021. This is the most 70s thing I would ever hope to see.

In a hell of pyro, Thomas looks like he was tranferred right from a 70s rock ‘n roll concert. His outfit would be gladly taken by Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones. The unbuttoned jacket with this boho tie, such a classic 70s fashion touch. His haircut and even his FACE are the epitome of the 70s - what an ending sequence!

But hey we reached the end and this is Eurovision, the song slows down dangerously. Like I said, the Italians forbid us to get distracted. The attention must return to Damiano ASAP. Damiano says one last line and takes the audience with him to the very end with a death drop.

There you have it. Måneskin had me holding my breath for the full three minutes and I did not want to take my eyes off my TV. There are countless shows that are awesome - in this very Eurovision as well - but I was impressed by how they seemed to have found the perfect balance for everything in every single moment. They found the perfect stage concept for the song, they relied on visual effects only when they needed them and they stressed every twist and turn of their sound with a perfectly fitting move or interaction. They also all effortlessly could hold your attention and they made sure that they all would, with members often helping bring out other members. This performance was beautiful and, above all, clever which is why it was undoubtedly the worthiest of the win.  

[brushstrokesapocalyptic]

it’s time for the “overanalyzing one-off lines” show!

so the very first thing magnus says when he sees pit in chapter 2 of kid icarus: uprising is as follows:

“Well, I didn’t expect to see an angel here. Hope this doesn’t mean I’ve kicked the bucket.”

now, i’m not sure if you’re aware, but that’s a really weird thing for someone to say, and it’s even more weird that no one comments on it. pit and palutena go on talking about unrelated things, as if that’s a totally normal and expected thing for magnus to say.

now, if you’re like me, you probably also didn’t really react to this line the first few times you saw it. it’s the second chapter, kiu has a lot of slightly-odd lines which turn out to be foreshadowing. me, personally? my first thought was “oh, i guess angels are probably associated with escorting the dead to the afterlife,“ and then i moved on.

they’re not, though. that’s what reapers do. and there’s no way humans have these two races mixed up. just fucking look at them.

do they look anything alike to you??? no. they don’t. which raises the question of why, exactly, magnus said that.

now, we don’t know a lot about angels as a whole. pit (and by extension dark pit) is emphatically not the gold standard of angeldom. we can assume he looks fairly ordinary for an angel, seeing as no one has trouble identifying him as such. beyond that, though, a lot of what we know about angels comes from what pit isn’t. for starters, he can’t fly. and there’s something else, too, but i’ll get to that later.

before that, though, i’m gonna go through the various unsubstantiated comments made by people with a dubious level of authority on the subject. (incidentally, i sourced these screenshots from the wiki— much more convenient than trying to dig through youtube for every single random conversation.)

without any further ado! let’s get into it!

Angels as Messengers

Gaol: Aw, Palutena’s little messenger boy. And Magnus, it’s always a pleasure. (src)

in the specific context of overanalyzing magnus’s first line, this is an important sentence to pick out. magnus and gaol are both humans, both with presumably a fairly similar history as mercenaries up until gaol got stuffed in a suit of armor. but while magnus makes a weird comment about death, gaol calls pit a messenger.

and pit agrees with her!

Viridi: I wish I had an angel to do my bidding. It’s like having an intern.

Pit: I’m not an intern. I’m a messenger of the gods!

Viridi: Poor Pit. Don't you know that the definition of angel is "errand spirit"? (src)

this particular conversation is the most insight we get into angels as a whole, i think. viridi thinks of angels as like divine interns, there to do little tasks for gods, and palutena doesn’t exactly disagree with her. pit says they’re specifically messengers, which lines up with biblical mythology. i could see the traditional role of angels in the world of KI being exactly that, showing up to tell the humans what the gods have to say because the gods themselves are too busy being petty jerks to do it themselves.

The Angel’s Code of Conduct

Magnus: You go in fully dressed? Don't you at least want to change into a...swimming tunic or something?

Pit: Oh, no no no! The angel's code of conduct says that we must always be ready for duty.

Magnus: I guess you wouldn't be an angel if you didn't do things by the book. (src)

Pit: Hey! You know the angel's code of conduct! I need to be prepared at all times! (src)

another random little thing is the angel’s code of conduct. without a larger sample size, we can’t know if it’s a real thing or just an excuse to save on laundry, but apparently it’s against the rules to not be on call at all times. in pit’s case, the duty he has to be ready for is doing palutena’s dirty work, but it can easily mean just about anything— including, of course, being a messenger.

No Warrior

Chariot Master: But you are no warrior, angel. Tell me, why do you fight?

Pit: I fight for Lady Palutena. And I fight for the people under her protection!

Chariot Master: That's not reason enough for an angel. (src)

remember how i said there was something else weird about pit? the chariot master seems to think angels aren’t very prone to battle— or perhaps even that they’re actively opposed to it. this lines up well with the idea that they’re supposed to be messengers, peaceful go-betweens for gods and mortals. this does not line up well with pit, the adorable weapon of mass destruction.

and it also does absolutely nothing to explain the question driving the whole existence of this post.

you know what does kinda lean towards an explanation?

No Other Angels

Pit: Do all gods have their own angels, like you have me?

Palutena: No, I don't think that's necessarily the case. (src)

i said before that the Intern Pit conversation had the most illuminating information on angels. this is what i was actually referring to. on its own, it’s pretty innocuous, but it’s just as weird as the magnus line. shouldn’t pit know about other angels, seeing as he is one himself? but he doesn’t know if there are other angels.

the only angels we ever see are him and his clone. no one ever directly references the existence of other angels, they only make general statements about what angels as a whole are like— statements which clearly don’t apply to pit, meaning they’re not just extrapolating based on the one angel that definitely does exist.

the one time someone does comment on the hypothetical existence of other angels, palutena gives a vague answer to the tune of “no,” the topic is changed, and no one brings it up again.

let’s go over everything i’ve established about angels up to this point. they can fly, they’re peaceful messengers of the gods, and pit is the only one that seems to exist as of the start of KIU.

it should be pretty obvious at this point what answer i’m dancing around, if it wasn’t obvious from the start. pit is the only angel around because all the other ones are dead. the reason why magnus said what he did is that his thought process went something like this:

See an angel.

Think “Aren’t angels extinct? Is that a ghost? Am I a ghost? I sure hope not.“

Make a quip about that.

Move on with his life, because he isn’t dead and evidently neither is this guy.

i’m not gonna pretend i went into this post with the intent of any other conclusion to that mystery. anyone who’s bothered glancing over a plot summary for the original kid icarus can draw that conclusion. it’s certainly what i did, reinforced by fics by people who had the same thought!

the truth, however, is that this was all a trick to get you to read my analysis of the theoretical nature of angels as a race. now that you’re invested, i’m going to dramatically throw aside my cape and reveal my TRUE FORM: telling people that fandom consensus is wrong, and my ideas are cooler and better than everyone else’s and you should all throw roses at my feet and bow before your king.

(or just, y’know, take it as the subjective analysis that it is. whatever floats your boat.)

Hot Takes

the original kid icarus does not actually tell you about angels going extinct. here’s the wiki article with the full text of the backstory, just for convenience, so you know what i’m on about for the rest of this post.

so, the part of the story that i think gets misinterpreted is this part about palutena’s army.

Medusa led a surprise attack on Palutena's army which could barely fend off the attack. Palutena's army suffered major losses and was heavily defeated in the final battle.

specifically, i think a lot of people interpret said army as having been made up at least partly of angels. sure, in the actual game it consists entirely of centurions, but you have to take old NES games with a grain of salt. i know i don’t buy for a second that pit was part of palutena’s guard before the original game (he was just too goddamn young), there’s nothing wrong with reinterpreting things.

recall everything i established about angels already, though. this is the hot official lore, from the game everyone knows and loves. angels are messengers, and if the chariot master is to be believed, never warriors. pit is an outlier. palutena’s army consists of centurions, not angels. if medusa wiped them out, it wasn’t because they were fighting for palutena.

(and honestly, i don’t think angels are necessarily associated with palutena exclusively. sure, she’s got the wing imagery, and she’s got the one known surviving angel working for her, at least up until pittoo is born. but angels are messengers of the gods, not messengers of palutena. again, pit is an outlier.)

which all brings us to the real question of this post.

what the FUCK happened to all the other angels? why is there only pit? why does magnus act surprised to see a messenger of the gods, and make a quip about being dead, if not because angels are otherwise extinct?! WHO KILLED THEM, AND WHY?!

thus concludes the “over analyzing one-off lines“ show. see you next, uh, maybe at some point if i feel like it!

(also another thought i had but couldn’t find room to fit it in properly: the gods don’t really act like angels are all extinct, but i feel like that can be explained through the sheer scale of a god’s lifespan. if we assume they were wiped out sometime around the original kid icarus (even if not as palutena’s army) then that’s a whole twenty-five years. that’s a long time for us humans, but for a god, that might as well be last tuesday. “yeah, i know what angels are like. sure wish i could have one. too bad palutena’s got a monopoly on the one single angel that medusa didn’t manage to wreck.”)

[honeymoonjin]

𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: jimin x reader || 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 25k || 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎𝚜: fluff, angst, smut

𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: you weren’t meant to have a roommate in your cabin deep in the amazon rainforest, but you find you can’t say no to the shy young college graduate that’s come to study the native butterflies.

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: cursing, death of a minor character (butterfly), explicit sexual content, oral (m receiving), praise, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, subby jimin, extremely soft smut

--------

It’s a day off.

That doesn’t mean you sleep in, though. You don’t know of a single person on the reserve that has been able to stay unconscious past sunrise without medical intervention. The chirps and calls of birds, buzzing of insects and drone of cicadas begins the moment the sun rises, sometimes even earlier, and while the cover of towering canopies filters out most of the light in the dense rainforest, the lodge camp is on an open meadow, and so you can’t avoid the heat that quickly sets in.

You’re happy to be up early, though, as it’s become a comfortable habit to make your way through your morning routine at your own pace, finally settling on your front porch with a cup of tea, bare toes poking out the cover of shadow from the lodge and into the bright pool of sunlight that warms the grass below.

Living in the middle of the Amazon rainforest wasn’t exactly something you had really planned ahead for as a young woman, but after falling in love with the place on a university trip, and then keeping an ear open for job opportunities, you had managed to land a job as a tour guide, being able to speak languages that their other employees couldn’t.

It’s a busy time of year at the Cuyabeno Lodge. Both local Ecuadorians and international tourists tended to avoid the rainier months, and after a particularly long wet season, it seemed all the bookings had been bottle-necked into one month now that the days were simply humid. Barely six in the morning, guests already roamed over the camp, some socialising over breakfast, others packing for day hikes in clumps spearheaded by your colleagues.

You take a deep draw from your mug, still steaming lightly, and feel the warm liquid warm your throat and chest, waking you up fully and putting you in a good mood. Most days, you’d crane your head down and watch the hard-working streams of leafcutter ants trail through blades of grass just taller than them, like small currents winding away towards the nearest meal. Their quiet determination and coordination was strangely fascinating to you, even after your several months living in their tropical habitat, but they aren’t what catch your attention today.

Across the wide expanse of open campground, two figures argue back and forth, one you recognise as your boss, the other a stranger lugging around three bulky suitcases and flapping a rolled-up map in confusion or desperation. You hum with curiosity, squinting at the figures as you finish off the dregs of your tea. They’re really too far for you to make out detail. All you can see of this frazzled man is the loose white tee and mussed-up blonde hair as he converses emphatically with the native Ecuadorian man that runs the lodge.

So distracted by the strange man, you don’t notice your boss turning and pointing to you until their figures start to grow in your vision as they approach. Your eyes widen and reflexively you down the last of your drink, placing the empty mug beside you on the wooden porch and staring at them hurrying over, both helping to lug over the excess baggage.

You realise the problem once they’re close enough to be in earshot. While the passionate Spanish and melodic Korean have similar phonetic sounds, it’s clear the two men are speaking completely different languages. You even hear your boss try some English - “we can talk to her, just a moment” - but it’s drowned out over the other man’s frantic explanations.

“Y/n, Y/n,” your boss greets with a tone of desperation colouring his local Spanish, “can you please help me speak to this man? We’ve had a booking error.”

Your eyes lift in surprise and you turn back to the stranger. It’s humid already, your skin warm even under the shade, but the sight of him sends a shiver down your spine. His hair isn’t totally blonde, slightly honeyed like it’s been dyed, and the warm sun sets it alight, framing the radiant skin of his face, which is angular on his jaw and nose yet soft on his cheeks and mouth, a full pout delicately pink. He’s beautiful.

You realise you’ve been staring directly at him a little too long as his cheeks colour the same shade as his lips, delicately coughing to break you from the trancelike state you found yourself in. You apologise hastily in your native language before switching to Korean when his eyebrow twitches in confusion. “I’m sorry,” you repeat in Korean, “I didn’t mean to be rude. My name’s Y/n.”

He smiles shyly, resting a hand over his forehead to block out any stray rays of light getting in his eyes. Doing this casts his face into shadow, and you can see now the warm, puppy-like brown of his irises, only half-visible as he scrunches up his cheeks. “Nice to meet you,” he greets, and you marvel at the melodic quality of his voice now that he speaks alone. It’s all soft tones, lilting even as his cheeks redden. “I’m Park Jimin. I, uh, I think they might have double-booked the room… I’m meant to be staying here,” he gestures behind you to your cabin and you blink a few times.

“Oh.” You turn promptly to your boss beside him; a stout middle-aged man who’s pretending to follow along the conversation, nodding in faux understanding even as his eyes glaze over. “Angelo,” you address, switching to the colloquial Spanish you’d grown accustomed to, “he’s saying you booked out my room.” Maybe not in those words, but still.

Angelo’s face crumples sheepishly. “About that… There’s a chance that we forgot to take your cabin off the booking website when you permanently moved it. It’s, uh, actually quite good luck that nobody has booked it in until now.” His voice trails up at the end like a question as he splays his palms out.

Awfully fond of the older man over your years here, you fight the twitch of your lips. “Good luck? This poor guy came all the way from South Korea only for his room to be already occupied. What; are you gonna just send him home?”

Your boss blinks slowly, lips pursed as he considers. “Well… That room is technically meant for two…” He trails off meaningfully with a shrug.

Your stare goes hard. “Angelo.” You force yourself not to glance at the man standing beside your boss. It doesn’t stop you from making out the concern on his face, and you feel your jaw stiffen. “The agreement when I moved here was that I got my own space. Why can’t he stay somewhere else?”

He sighs, rubbing his weathered face. “That’s selfish, Y/n-”

“I’m selfish, then. I’m telling you, I don’t wanna share my space.”

“And I’m telling you that you don’t have a choice. It’s only temporary. He stays.”

Before you can protest further, Angelo shows you his back, rushing away the way he came. You go limp with resignation, leaning back against one of the wooden posts on the veranda.

There’s no excuse for you to avoid his gaze now, so you reluctantly tip your head towards him. He’s shifting his weight back and forth nervously, pillowed lips pressed together and eyes downcast. Against your will, some of the anger slips from you, relaxing the tension in your jaw and the hardness from your voice. “Guess you’re rooming with me,” you murmur in Korean, snapping his attention back to you.

His eyes dance worriedly over your face. “I h-hope it’s not too much bother. I didn’t mean to make things difficult.” Jimin scratches at his exposed collarbone, leaving red lines on the almond skin. He speaks so softly, like a child in trouble. “I can sleep on the floor if I need to. All I really need is one room to set up my equipment.”

You frown, eyes darting to the three heavy suitcases behind him, as well as the bulky backpack slung over one shoulder. “Equipment?” As your eyes wander, they’re drawn to the pockets of people beginning to cluster behind him, the staff and locals whispering back and forth with eyes locked on Jimin’s silhouette. Pushing off the post, you pick up your mug and stand up straight again. “Actually, let’s talk inside. You look like you’re about to keel over.”

He doesn’t, but you don’t fancy giving the gathering crowd more time to ogle the mysterious man seemingly moving in to your private accommodations. Not even 9am and your day was already shaping up to be a disaster.

"It's a nice place," Jimin offers up weakly as you reach for the lightest suitcase, figuring you should probably help at least a little.

You grunt in confirmation, leading him - as he waddles with two larger pieces of luggage and the backpack - down the short hallway to the room across from yours. You'd been using it as a sort of living room; it had a single bed that you'd repurposed as a couch, a cheap projector that you used to stream Netflix onto the opposite wall as a makeshift television, and a couple bookshelves of novels, Spanish textbooks, and knick knacks you'd acquired over the past two years or so.

Jimin doesn't make it through the doorway as is. Instead, he stops and shuffles each piece in one-by-one, the final, largest hardshell suitcase dragging noisily along the doorframe as it barely squeezes in. He straightens up with a huff of exertion and lifts the edge of his white shirt, dabbing the sweat off his face.

You blink, staring at the smooth, flat planes of his stomach as he hunches over self-consciously. He makes the motion quick, clearly shy of revealing skin to a near-stranger. However, long after his shirt falls back in place, your mind is still replaying the sight of his pale caramel skin taut over his hip bones, and the thin trail of golden, almost translucent hair that leads from his belly button down past the button of his jeans.

Jimin coughs in discomfort and you swallow hard, forcing the image out of your mind for now. “Um,” you start, cringing at the way your voice wavers, “anyway; this is your room. I can move out my stuff for you.”

He nods, still awkwardly hovering in the doorway, hunched behind the suitcases like he’s trying to keep a barrier of protection between the two of you.

Like a final wisp of smoke from a blown-out candle, the last of your irritation distinguishes, and you sink down onto the edge of the bed. “It’s not you,” you explain softly, face crumpled into an apologetic frown. “I was angry at the situation, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I’m sorry.”

His eyes dance around the room, before finally jumping up to yours, a tentative smile playing at his plush lips. “It’s okay,” he shrugs simply, “I invaded your territory without warning; it’s only natural for you to react defensively.”

You blink. “Uh…” The silence you trail off into is stiff, but you find yourself at a loss for words. “Sorry, you never got the chance to tell me; what is it you do exactly?”

He shuffles out from behind the nearest suitcase with glittering eyes. “I’m a lepidopterist,” he announces proudly, before correcting, “well- not yet, I guess. I’m here to do research for my thesis.”

You mouth the unfamiliar word, frowning. “But we don’t have leopards in Ecuador.”

He grins, then, and your heart stutters unevenly in your chest at the way it lights up his whole face. “A lepidopterist studies butterflies and moths. I’m here to study the life cycle of a specific butterfly that’s found in this type of habitat.” His expression turns sheepish. “I know most people find it silly, or- or girly that I want to study butterflies for a living, but they’re really special. Special to me.” He glances down, then, gripping self-consciously at the strap of his backpack. “Anyway… I don’t mean to ramble, you probably have stuff to do-”

“I’d love to see them some time, if you wanna show me,” you blurt. “The butterflies, I mean. See what all the hype is about.”

His eyes crinkle at your interruption, cheeks warming candy pink. You fight a blush of your own, again overcome by how radiant he is. “Of course! Though- Don’t you live here? Surely you’ve seen them before. The one I’m studying, the longwing erato, it’s said to be pretty abundant in these parts.”

“I mean, sure, I’ve seen butterflies around,” you shrug. “But I haven’t seen Park Jimin’s butterflies.”

He lets out a flattered laugh, soft and tinkling. “Oh, they’re not my- I just-” He breaks off with another giggle, cheats heating up even further, biting desperately on his bottom lip to suppress a shy grin.

As much as you love seeing him all flustered, it’s his first day, so you cut him some slack. Standing up, you snake past the scattered suitcases and pat him on the shoulder. He ducks out of the doorway to let you pass, mouth dropping into a shocked oh shape at your sudden movement, but you just throw a playful warning glare at him as you pass into the hallway. “I have one rule,” you declare firmly.

He stays silent for a moment, waiting for you to continue. You simply lift your chin and stare, waiting for him to ask. It’s Jimin that breaks first, but that doesn’t surprise you. “Uh, which is?”

“No bugs in the house. As pretty as butterflies are, you keep them outside, got it?”

He smiles softly, but you can see a cheeky glimmer in his eyes. “Butterflies aren’t actually bugs, they’re lepidoptera.”

You flatten your glare. “You aren’t a bug either but if you break my rules, I’ll chuck you out.”

He baulks, eyes widening innocently. “I, uh… I don’t know if you’re joking or not,” he admits in a small voice.

“Good.” You throw him one last satisfied smile, and leave.

--

You manage to occupy yourself for the rest of the day outside of your now-shared hut, wanting to give him some space to settle in. Though you successfully keep your eyes away, pitching in on some errands that needed doing throughout the campsite, you couldn’t stop your mind from lingering on the gentle, unsure young man that was now going to be staying with you.

In fact, you’d ran over those fifteen or so minutes together so many times that when you finally came home, feet aching and stomach grumbling, it almost came as a surprise to you to see him wandering around and greeting you as you entered. Like a reminder that it wasn’t a movie you had seen, that he was a real thing that happened that morning.

“Hungry?”

“Huh?” You blink, very nearly tripping on the lip of your own front door as your eyes fall downwards, to the coffee table in the main room. The haphazard mess of snacks, remotes, and other knick knacks had been neatly placed on the floor beside the couch, and instead the square wooden table was laden with food, the quantity of which you hadn’t seen in this hut the entire time you’d been here. “Oh my god, what is all this?”

Running a hand through his hair anxiously, he shrugs. “I packed myself a bunch of food from home in case I got homesick.”

You tip your head to the side with a frown. “You’re homesick already?”

He lets out a breathy laugh, sheepish. You swallow down the way your stomach flips, not quite hunger. “No. Well- a little bit, but no, I just… I thought you maybe hadn’t had Korean food in a while, so we could, um, have some?” He breaks off, shifting uncomfortably as he holds a bowl of steamed rice in one hand and fiddles with the hem of his shirt with the other.

As you stare down at the aromatic offerings, it hits you with a belt of clarity. Just like you gave him space today, this was his olive branch to you. A way of starting off on the right food. You smile warmly. “I’d love to. That’s so sweet, Jimin. Do you need any help?”

Unfiltered relief glitters in his eyes and he shakes his head, slipping gracefully onto the floor, cross-legged. “It’s all ready,” he explains simply, “come sit.”

“It smells amazing,” you groan, stomach growling embarrassingly loud, “you must be an amazing cook to have whipped this up in that tiny kitchen.”

He glances over to the corner in question, barely a few cupboards, a refrigerator and some table top appliances. Looking back, he chuckles, lips pursed into a cheeky grin. He uses his chopsticks - the type of cheap wooden ones you’d receive at a takeout place - to point to the various dishes. “Ramen, microwave rice, Ottogi microwave soup, microwave jjajjang, and packet kimchi.”

“Ah,” you hum in understanding, reaching for the spare sleeve of chopsticks, “very traditional.”

Jimin quirks a smile, focussed below as he serves himself a helping of rice. You take the opportunity to look over him again, closer in the intimacy of your hut. The radiant daylight has given way to a burnt umber, a sunset glow like hot coals on the horizon. It casts a softness onto his face, a gentle warmth that spreads across the fullness of his cheeks and the honeyed blonde of his hair.

As he hunches over the table, his baggy white t-shirt exposes more skin than you think he realises. The short sleeves ruck up as his chopstick-bearing arms dip into various bowls across the table, revealing shallow slopes of muscle, and the hemline dangles low, bare chest hidden not by fabric but by shadow.

You mulishly redirect your attention to the steaming banquet in front of you, all the staples of your college days. “So,” you start, wishing for anything to distract you from the extremely good-looking figure across from you, “Mister Leopard Optimist, what’s first on the agenda?”

“Lepidopterist,” he corrects with an encouraging smile, and your heart swells at his pureness. “Well, first I need to get a sample group. I think I’ll spend tomorrow setting up properly and then around dusk we can go find some specimens.”

You blink in surprise. “We?”

Jimin’s warmth dissipates into pouted confusion, eyes round as he swallows the mouthful he had taken with poor timing. “You, uh- sorry, you said earlier you were interested. I shouldn’t have assumed…”

“It’s fine, you assumed correctly. We’ll be like the dream team,” you assure, wiggling your eyebrows at him playfully. “You, the leper doctorist, and me, your loyal side kick. Those butterflies will be toast. You’ll have specimens out your ears in no time!”

Even with the golden rays of sunlight, he looks paler than a ghost, choking on his own breath. “We don’t hurt the butterflies,” he corrects hastily, waving his chopsticks in alarm, “we just take note of them so we can study them over time!” He sits back, setting his chopsticks down with a dull clatter. “And it’s lepidopterist,” he adds gently, even as a concerned pout dimples his lips.

You muffle your grin with a sip of water. “Lepidopterist,” you repeat softly, if not a little cheekily. “I’m just messing with you, Jiminie. We’ll be the dream team of…studying them over time. Hm. Doesn’t have the same ring to it. I’ll come up with a cooler name for us.”

After you finish speaking, the room settles into an unanticipated silence, and you look up from your bowl. Jimin’s spluttering silently, cheeks and the tip of his nose a violent pink as he holds his eyes so wide you can see a ring of white all the way around. His mouth dangles open until he forces a swallow to close it, clearing his throat in short, self-conscious bursts.

You’re taken aback by his strong reaction. “Did I say something? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” You trail off. Offend you? Upset you? Did he think you were making fun of him?

“W-what did you call me?” he asks in a small voice, settling down his chopsticks in his empty bowl so that he can wring his fingers together.

“Um.” You have to think back, and your eyebrows lift in realisation. “Oh. Jiminie. That was too familiar, wasn’t it? We’ve only just met. I’m sorry.”

But his face is a strange mix of relief and confusion, shaking his head with enough emphasis to gently rustle the honey blonde locks of his hair. “No, Jiminie is okay. I, uh, misheard. It’s okay; don’t worry about it. Have you tried some of the stew? Here, let me…”

You let his abrupt topic change slide, accepting another serving of food, but you can’t help but linger on the thought well into the night: what did he think you were calling him?

--

Jimin doesn’t mention your late-night expedition until just before dusk, but that doesn’t mean it slips your mind.

On the contrary, you find it hard to concentrate on anything else. He leaves his bedroom door open, and every time you walk past you see him deeply focussed on set-up. Out of those three massive suitcases come electronics, fresh logbooks, blueprint papers, drawing tools, worn textbooks, and, rather confusingly, a framed photo of two chubby-faced children, grinning at each other in matching school uniforms.

You spend a concerningly long portion of your morning conspicuously hovering around the hut, sneaking glimpses of the way the pink tip of Jimin’s tongue sticks out when he focuses, or the strain of fine muscle beneath the grey striped t-shirt he donned that morning, making miniscule grunts of exertion as he wrestles out heavy tomes, stacking them with care on the shelves of the bookcase you had emptied out for him. By the time you break out of your ruling curiosity, it’s nearing midday, and you dash out of the house before Jimin breaks for lunch and wonders why you’re still here.

It’s a beautifully glittering Saturday in the Cuyabeno Reserve, which means that you’ll probably see half of the campers leaving for a day trip to Quito for shopping or activities (or decent Wi-Fi), leaving behind a steady number wanting to go on tours. You didn’t typically work Saturdays, but all the tour guides were encouraged to help out in busy times, or take initiative and offer them to any tourists awkwardly milling about. As you slip out from the shade of your hut and into the warm bath of Amazonian sunshine, you figure a tour might just be a good way to get one Park Jimin out of your head for a few hours.

The best thing about your job was the freedom. Even as you know the paid tours like the back of your hand, you’ve always been welcome to forge your own path in the rainforest, adjusting duration, location and information depending on your customers. In just fifteen minutes, you’d managed to gather a handful of couples, eight people in total. The group was primarily dominated by English speakers – several young Americans and Canadians, an elderly couple from Australia, as well as a set of parents from the UK that had left their college-age kids at home while they took an anniversary holiday. Also accompanying you were two shy young men from Spain, who seemed to understand partially what you were saying in English, but nevertheless you made sure to tack on regular translations for them just to be sure.

From the moment you set out, picking up one of the high-vis flags from reception on your way, you knew exactly what type of tour you were going to do. It had been a paid tour last year on Valentine’s Day, one of your personal favourites, because the story of it was centred around the more romantic aspects of nature; toucans and parrots in colourful pinks and reds, monkeys that curled their tails into a heart when they intertwined with another (you’d yet to see it actually happen in front of a tour group, but the fact alone was often enough to make them coo) and finally a meadow just on the edge of the river that, because of the plants and flowers that grew there, became a hotspot for about twelve different species of butterflies.

You’d been able to lose yourself in the vibrancy of nature for the past hour and a half, stopping regularly for drink breaks, chatting with the different couples on your tour. It was always special to you hearing what brought them to Cuyabeno, and you were known amongst your colleagues for always running overtime on your tours because you just loved getting to know the people on your tour, and making their adventure into the rainforest special for them.

It wasn’t until your first boot fell down onto the lush grass of the meadow that you knew you fucked up in choosing this tour route. As the eight people behind you gasp and gush about the magical bank, you freeze, your mind exploding into a silver stream of jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin ji-

“Woah, there’s so many of them!”

Stepping forward to encourage the tourists to spill into the meadow, you look around you at the flurry of motion. On one side of the group are the looming trees from whence you emerged; opposite that, the murky jade green of the river, barely lapping at the narrow bank, but glittering a sharp silver below the early afternoon sun. And in between is where the real wonder lies.

Shifting and darting, the air is alive with the vibrant array of butterflies, abundant as falling snow. The group is awash with awe as some stay perfectly still, hoping for the small creatures to land upon them, while others stir their arms gently through the air, watching the butterflies part and eddy around them like fish in a stream.

This had always been the reason the Valentine’s tour was your favourite; almost every other route took you in the opposite direction, since the other side of the island was where most of the river’s inhabitants were. So many tourists wanted to see as many animals as possible with the least amount of walking, and the tip of the island where you stood now was a long walk from camp.

You’d even come here once or twice with solo travellers, since they had more patience than a hustling group, and the magic of it never got old. Just last Christmas your boss, Angelo, had gifted you tinkling windchimes for your hut; instead, you had taken them down here.

There wasn’t much of a breeze now, so the delicate notes of glass and ceramics were quiet in the background, but they added to the feel of peace and serenity that you could tell all of the tourists were feeling, no matter their age. The Northern Americans had formed a group, pointing out the different species and trying to count them off on their fingers. The elderly couple had a surprisingly modern Android phone out, using the man’s longer arms to take an extremely high-angled selfie. Closer to the lazy shallows of the river, one of the Spanish boys had picked a pale purple flower from the grass to offer to the other.

Surrounded by love and butterflies, you’d quite literally led yourself back to the thoughts of the one you had tried to distract yourself from.

Jimin. Jiminie.

You’re approached by the middle-aged parents, suggesting here might be a good place to break for snacks and a drink, and so you acquiesce, sinking down onto the pillowy grass of the meadow and wondering which of the graceful wings that danced in the sky belonged to a longwing erato.

--

You manage to spend the rest of your day on tours, making sure to go on those well-worn tracks far from the butterfly meadow, and by the time you turn in your reflective orange flag for the day, Jimin’s waiting on the porch with a backpack, a chunky flashlight, and a pair of binoculars dangling from a cord around his neck.

“Where were you?” he questions instead of a greeting, fiddling with the hem of his beige shorts.

You tilt your head in confusion, staring down at him. It occurs to you that he’s in your spot, the place you sat with your steaming mug every morning. In fact, as you stand over him, it’s like your roles are reversed from the first time you met. “I was working,” you reply simply.

“Oh.” He deflates a little, eyes staring past you at the now-silent campsite, all the lodgers having since returned to their huts for curfew. Only employees were allowed to be out after sunset most nights. The one exception was the occasional night-time tour, but given the additional risks involved, your boss jacked the price right up and there weren’t many takers. Jimin must’ve spoken with your boss to be allowed to roam around at night. He focuses back in on you, and perks up. “Are you ready, then?”

“To go butterfly hunting? Always.”

Rather than leading you to the meadow, Jimin consults an extremely detailed (and scribbled-on) map, forging into the forest along the centre of the island, instead of out either side towards the river. You follow along, marvelling at the new territory that even you haven’t really explored.

The two of you move in concentrated silence, Jimin methodically tying little cornflower blue ribbons to branches along the way. At one point, you slow to a stop, crouching as you make out two red flashes. Upon closer inspection, you recognise the lime-green body to belong to the red-eyed tree frog making its way down the wide trunk of a tree, clearly spooked by the light from Jimin’s flashlight.

You sigh in relief as it tucks itself away safely. Frogs, specifically tree frogs, were a good indicator for the type of habitat you were entering. The fact that it was a non-toxic species meant hopefully your companion wasn’t leading you into a pit of venomous and poisonous creatures. The island was pretty safe, for the most part, but you still had to exercise due caution, and it seemed Jimin was so focussed on his butterflies that he’d forgotten they weren’t the only ones in here.

A hushed whisper of your name and the returning of bright light is your only warning before an impatient hand slips into yours, tugging you up and deeper into the rainforest.

You’re too stunned to protest, simply letting Jimin lead you into the untamed wilderness. His palm is warm in yours, fingers interlocked. His hands are smaller than you expected, and even as he holds on tightly, so gentle. You can’t help but feel the care that emanates from him down to the smallest detail.

As the active hum of the rainforest’s creatures and the rustle of leaves and bushes surrounds you, you barely notice the slight incline of the ground beneath you, the only indicator being that over time your calves begin to ache slightly.

Every time you open your mouth to ask how far, or if you could take a break, you’re stopped by a soft squeeze to your hand. Even though he’s in front of you, looking ahead rather than back at you, he seems to know just when to reassure you.

The walk isn’t particularly challenging, nor is it too hot, but you find yourself short of breath anyway.

When the two of you finally come to a stop, he lets your hand go. The loss of pressure around your hand gives you a weird pang of disappointment, and you tuck your arms around yourself to make up for it.

“Do you know what the longwing erato looks like?” he asks in an excited whisper.

You shrug. “Long wings?”

His eyes crinkle before his smile joins them. “I mean, yes; they’re more of a stretched-out oval compared to the roughly squarish shapes that most butterflies have. They’re black, with one or more red stripes on each wing. Here; hold the flashlight and I’ll find some.”

He passes off his equipment to you and directs the beam of the flashlight to the lowest branches of the trees in front of you, still well above eye-level. Although you do your best to keep the light steady, you find yourself glancing over to Jimin, his mouth dangling unconsciously open as he puts all his focus into staring down the pair of binoculars he brought. His warm blonde hair has been pushed off his face with a stretchy fabric headband, exposing the smooth skin of his forehead and the furrowed arches of his brows, slightly darker than the rest of his hair.

“On the trees,” he mumbles, with a minute jerk of his elbow as a gesture.

You startle, correcting the slant of the torch beam that had slipped astray as you watched him. This time, you focus on the yellow moon of light that splays across the trunks of the trees instead of your companion. Flitting around, casting narrow shadows across the artificial rays, are various bugs and moths, the latter of which gradually migrate closer to you, seeking the source of the light. “Have you found them?” you question, upper arm starting to ache from being held up so long.

Jimin hums, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth as he lowers the binoculars, pointing high up into the branches. “There,” he declares quietly with an excited grin, “on the right side, they’re all up against the bark.”

You squint, trying to search for the red stripes, but you can’t find anything. “That middle tree?”

“Here,” letting the binoculars fall back around his torso, he steps up beside you, reaching across to lift the flashlight higher. “Just past that skinny branch there.”

Your breath catches in your throat. He’s close enough that you can feel his body heat radiating through his thin shirt. Close enough for you to hear the resonance of his focussed breath. Though he’s holding the flashlight, your fingers overlap slightly and you can feel the pressure of his thumb on your knuckles and his fingertips touching the side of your hand. “I-” you break off to swallow past the dryness in your throat, “I still don’t see them.”

Jimin lets out a laugh, barely more than breath. He tilts his head closer, so that your temples almost touch. Feeling the soft locks of his hair on your skin, your eyes widen and you suck in a breath unconsciously. With a hand on the flashlight still, he has to wrap the other around your shoulders, pointing in your line of sight. “Just focus,” he instructs gently. “Right side of the middle tree, see that tree frog? The brown one?”

You make a noise of agreement once you locate the slowly moving creature, higher up than you had been looking. “I see it.”

“Good.” Jimin’s warm tone of approval sends something rushing through you. In the moment of quiet, you become aware of the minute movement of Jimin’s thumb, rubbing against your knuckles. Your fingers tense on the metal of the flashlight, but Jimin doesn’t seem to notice, simply bring his other hand up higher, pointing further up the trunk. “They’re up here, see? Follow the tree up until you see the black patch. It looks like it’s moving. Can you see it?”

Your eyes widen. “I see it,” you breathe.

You feel rather than see the smile that puffs up his cheeks. “That’s them,” he says warmly, voice echoing in your air, quiet enough that it’s just for you. “Longwing erato. Must be at least fifty of them, all gathered up. You can even see some of the stripes when they shift around. Lift up your flashlight a bit, it won’t bother them, don’t worry.”

The two of you stay there, Jimin’s arms on either side of you, for an unreadable amount of time. With nothing but the warmth of his body and the vague drone of the various bugs and nocturnal critters to join you, it could be moments or it could be half an hour.

Either way, there reaches a point where a breeze in the air sends a shiver down your spine, and you think it might be time to go. Turning towards Jimin to let him know, you’re caught off-guard when he turns at the same time.

Your noses brush, and then you feel the silken touch of his lips on yours. Eye-to-eye, you stare at each other for a second that feels like eternity, before you finally come to your senses and jump back, inadvertently leaving him with the flashlight as you tear your hand away from his.

“I- Uh- Sorry, I-” Jimin seems unable to do anything but stammer, in a normal voice that seems harshly loud after the hush you’d been in.

“It’s okay,” you reply back, but your voice falls flat, just as unconvincing to you as it must be to him. “It was just an accident. Just a mistake.”

Cast in shadow as the beam of the flashlight points downwards, you can still see clear as day how his whole face changes at that, flinching like he’s been hit. Stumbling around with a stricken expression, he glances once at the flashlight in his hand, darts his eyes to you before looking over to the direction of forest you’d come from and finally back to the flashlight.

Your blood runs iron cold with dread. “Jiminie, don’t-”

Like something snaps, Jimin hesitates no longer, turning and dashing into the trees. You start after him for a few jogged steps, watching the frenzied beam shoot through the rainforest like a laser, getting smaller and smaller as the noise of his exit slowly fades away, leaving you marooned in a black ocean.

--

Those pastel pink ribbons are your saviours that night. It’s hard to pick them out when the shadows penetrate the rainforest so deeply. You squint before every step to watch out for animals or other living inhabitants that might be dangerous, and it’s probably nothing more than sheer luck that you manage to peek the slips of fabric on the branches regularly enough to lead you back to camp.

On the grounds themselves, you see lights on, not just the safety ones that illuminate the way to the toilets and kitchens, but also the warmer yellow tones that you recognise to be emanating from your hut itself. Jimin.

Even as you feel a tugging in your heart to go, you also find yourself unable to step closer. Jimin left you. He wouldn’t want you to approach him. Either you’d disgusted him or offended him or both, enough so that he literally ran from you, and the last thing you could handle right now was confrontation.

Instead, you inch around the outskirts, finding a familiar beaten path that leads to one of your favourite places on the island: an old, relatively abandoned lookout tower.

Tourists weren’t taken to this one, anymore, and all of your colleagues kept away too. A few months before you had begun working, they’d opened a new, sleeker, taller, safer lookout to compensate for the higher numbers of tourists they were getting. Sure, that one was great, and with a top made primarily of glass, it gave a gorgeous view.

But there was something… different about the older one that kept drawing you back. Perhaps it was the rustic feel; all dark woods, concrete and metal, fitted to one of the taller trunks for stability. It blended into the landscape. Over the years, as the trees had grown a bit taller, it no longer rose clean above the topiary, but nestled between branches, right in the midst of the foliage. It was a view you couldn’t get from above or below, and as you curl into the corner, back pressed against the ancient tree, you felt your blood pressure gradually decrease.

Unlike most places, you could be truly alone here. But never lonely. Quietly, you tuck your knees to your chest and watch as a margay cat slinks down a branch of a nearby tree, eyes glinting in the moonlight. This dense inside the topiary, it’s hard to make out much detail, but you can see the black leopard-like patches on its tan fur, the whiskers twitching as it sniffs your presence.

Shoulders hunched like it’s anticipating a loud noise, the wildcat appraises you, carefully winding around the trunk of a nearby tree to provide cover. Cute as it is, you wait until it leaps onto a further branch and disappears into the shadows before you lie down on your side and close your eyes.

--

Getting back to the camp takes a sizeable portion of your morning. Although the foliage had provided sufficient insulation, the nailed planks of the lookout turret were unforgiving, and you wake up the next morning with an unignorable twinge where your left shoulder meets your neck. Getting down the tight coiled staircase takes long enough; finding your way back to base while being unable to properly turn your head to look around you feels like an eternity.

It’s just as the ground below your feet evens out into well-trodden grass and you gingerly roll your shoulder for the nth time that you glance up to see the chaos that lies in front of you.

Countless tourists stand around, confused and gossiping, littered across the campground as your fellow employees rush and dart between them. Some of them are on bulky radio phones or walkie talkies, others packing what looks like expedition equipment.

But they only attract your attention for a moment. Like you’re magnetized, your eyes are immediately drawn to the two figures outside your hut. Standing with deep lines of concern on his tanned face is your boss, Angelo. Sat on the veranda beside him, wrapped in a blanket despite the early morning heat, is Jimin.

They haven’t seen you yet, no one has, and so you allow yourself a moment to silently observe them. Well. Observe him.

Jimin’s got his fists bundled up under his chin, pressing up his cheeks, yet he’s never looked more gaunt. His eyes are sunken and desolate, even as they glitter from deep wells of tears that redden his nose and soak patches in the blanket. Angelo’s hand is on his shoulder, offering him a tissue, muttering something, but Jimin simply stares ahead blankly, bottom lip trembling.

Jimin…

His head jerks up, eyes seeking you out, and you realize belatedly that you’d said his name aloud. But it doesn’t matter, because just the unfiltered relief on his face is enough to trigger your feet to move again, walking numbly towards him as your boss leaves him sitting there, rushing forward to greet you.

“Fucking hell, Y/n, you better have a damn good reason for terrifying the entire Lodge,” his rough colloquial Spanish rings out in a fevered hush, “we were just about to send search parties.”

You stand in shocked silence as he unhooks a walkie talkie from his waistband, quite literally calling off the horde of Cuyabeno employees gathering on the campsite. They, upon receiving the notice, glance over to you, showing varying degrees of relief and annoyance, and herd the guests back to their cabins.

“He’s been inconsolable all night, you know?”

Angelo’s voice whips your attention back, and you furrow your brows. “Huh?”

“Park Jimin,” your boss emphasizes with a scolding tone. “Bawling his eyes out, waking us all up at ass o’clock in the morning. Got half the team convinced you’d been eaten by a jaguar or something. Poor guy feels so guilty.”

“I was fine,” you defend, glancing past him at the sitting figure of the man in question, who looks so tiny perched on the edge of the veranda, red face poking out from the blanket.

“Well, how the fuck were we supposed to know that?”

Something snaps inside you, too wired up to hear the concern and relief that hides below Angelo’s façade of anger. You look away from Jimin, but stick a finger out to point at him while you glare at your boss. “He was the one that left me stranded! He was the one that ran away with the only flashlight we brought. He was the reason I spent the night sleeping in the rainforest. You tell me he’s feeling guilty? Well, he fucking should be.”

Behind Angelo, you see Jimin visibly flinch, stiffening and ducking his head so as to appear smaller. Though you had spoken in Spanish, your pointing and tone had probably left nothing to the imagination, and you lower your hand now, feeling a spike of regret.

The older Ecuadorian man just sighs, the fight leaving his body. “You could just talk, you know,” he offers up tiredly, “sort it out. Don’t let it fester. Maybe he just freaked out, saw a scary bug or something. You know how these city folk can get.” He purses his lips in consideration. “Then again, he is a bug scientist.”

“Lepidopterist,” you correct absentmindedly, eyes cast downward. “…I’m gonna go home, Angelo. Get ready for work. Sorry for worrying you,” you add, genuinely this time.

He lets you go without words, instead wrapping you into a fierce hug that lasts just long enough for your bones to begin to melt, anger slipping away.

With tired feet and a heavy heart, you make your way to the entrance of your hut, pausing in front of Jimin. Rather than jumping to greet you or apologise, he simply watches you balefully, eyes glossy with misery. You feel yourself break a little at the hurt in his gaze.

“I wanted to give you space,” you explain weakly. “I found a place to stay for the night. I didn’t think you’d worry so much.”

Jimin doesn’t reply, just sniffs and swallows and nods a little bit.

You let out a breathy noise, not quite light enough to be a laugh. “So… What time are we going butterfly-watching next?”

Brows furrowed strangely, he stays silent for so long you almost give up and walk past him. Eventually, though, his fists go lax and the thin blanket drops from around his shoulders, falling to the floor. He’s still in the t-shirt and shorts from last night. Somehow, this fact makes your eyes sting. “I think I’m just going to do it by myself from now on. Give you…space.”

For a moment, his lips wobble slightly, like he’s got something more to say, but then he just exhales with an air of finality, and focuses his gaze past you, to the distance.

Leaving him alone on the porch step hurts, but there’s nothing else for you to do.

--

In his defence, Jimin does exactly as he promises.

He gives you space.

Were it not for the closed door in the hallway and the weight in your heart, you could almost forget he was even there. Jimin doesn’t eat with you, instead sneaking out to take advantage of the thrice-daily buffets offered to guests. By the time you wake up in the morning and drink your ritual tea on the front porch, he’s come and gone. Occasionally you can hear him working, but not most days. In the evenings, you hear him pack his things and leave. You’re asleep before he returns.

You continue to go on tours, sticking to the ones far away from the butterfly meadow, but you can’t avoid butterflies themselves. They are, as Jimin pointed out earlier, abundant in this area, but you swear you didn’t notice them as much until these past few days. They flit around, drawing gasps and coos and camera clicks from your tour groups but leaving you with an uncomfortable twinge in your chest.

It’s an entire three weeks before you discover why he ran that fateful night.

Bad weather cancels a day of tours for you, and late into the morning you hear murmuring coming from Jimin’s room. You know you shouldn’t eavesdrop, but you can’t help the yearning you feel. The moment you consider tiptoeing up and pressing your ear to the door, it’s like your mind is made.

His voice is softer, sweeter, more playful than you’d ever heard directed at you, even before the strange falling-out. “…pretty, aren’t you? I know, I’ll take care of you, don’t worry. I’ll be gentle. Hm? Minnie’s here.”

Your stomach turns, and you rush away as quickly and silently as you came.

Of course. Of course a guy like him had a girlfriend. It’s not like he was obliged to tell you, and you shouldn’t have assumed he was single. Poor guy probably felt grossed out, probably thought you’d intentionally made a move. No wonder he freaked when you called him Jiminie too, if Minnie was her pet name for him or something.

It’s a relief when the next morning breaks out in sunshine. You don’t fancy being in that house longer than is strictly necessary.

--

“Can we talk?”

Jimin jumps when he opens the door to you waiting, blinking in shock. “I have to get going…” He’s somehow even paler than when he first came, probably from only ever leaving the house at night-time, and though his eyes are bright, they’re sunken.

You don’t move when he puts his head down and makes an attempt to step forward again. “Please, Jimin. I owe you an apology. Besides; there’s no reason for us to hide from each other and be miserable. Let’s just talk.”

He scratches at his collarbone past the neck of his t-shirt, which protrudes more than you swear it had when he arrived. “Yeah, okay. Come in, I guess.”

He raises a tired eyebrow at your sigh of unfiltered relief, simply ducking back into the safety of his room, hopping onto the single bed cross-legged.

You follow after. “Look, that night got out of hand, but I think I get now why you…” You trail off once you step fully into the room, mouth hanging open.

It’s messy like when he moved in, an organized and dedicated chaos, but there’s one key difference. Amongst the open textbooks, scribbled notes, and strewn stationery on his desk, one large object catches your eye.

An entire branch, dangling from rope taped to the ceiling. You couldn’t recognize the tree just by that alone, but after taking in the lush leaves and forked twigs, something inside you thinks it’s probably from that same tree, or at least the same type, that the longwing erato butterflies were on that night.

Of course, you wouldn’t need the branch itself to tell you that. What makes it clear as day is the ten-plus butterflies that flutter around the room, resting periodically on the branch itself.

Jimin ducks his neck, rubbing at his chest in self-comfort. “You wanted to talk?” he questions innocently.

You don’t let the joyous spike in your heart at him speaking to you distract from what’s in front of you. “I said no bugs in the house. Are you serious?”

“They’re not bugs,” he whines defensively. You stare in open-mouthed bewilderment as one, smaller than the rest but with thicker red bands on its wings, lands on the top of one of his pointer fingers, settling after a few moments. Jimin’s eyes warm, a smile tugging at his lips. “I didn’t want to bother you by coming and going all the time, so I just got them to come to me… I can take better care of them this way.”

With a conflicted frown, you push down your divided emotions on this statement in the hopes of pushing forth. “Anyway, I wanted to say that I get now why you freaked out. I overheard you talking with your girlfriend the other day and-” You blink, cutting yourself off. The words you’d heard muffled behind his bedroom door I’ll take care of you, don’t worry. “You… Do you have a girlfriend, Jimin? Or a boyfriend?”

Jimin’s so startled it disrupts the butterfly from its perch, but he barely notices, eyes comically wide in shock. “Wh- y- Are you propositioning me?”

You splutter, realizing belatedly how poorly your statement was phrased. “No, I, sorry, I just wanted to ask because I thought I overheard you one day talking to someone on the phone. And I thought perhaps that was the reason you took off that night, because you thought I was making moves on you when you were taken.” His expression is unreadable, eyes glazed in what might be contemplation or might be annoyance, but you forge on with a deep breath. “So, whether you have a partner or not, I wanted to apologize, because that night was an accident. I wasn’t like, trying to make out with you on a butterfly hunt. That’s… yeah, that’s all I wanted to say.” His eyes drop from you wordlessly, and your heart stutters in concern. “You can say something now. Please.”

His shoulders fall slack; you hadn’t noticed how tense he was. “Y/n…” He gives a bittersweet sigh, lip tugging into a reluctant smile. “Well, first of all, it was not a butterfly hunt. Secondly… I haven’t been fair to you. I should apologize too. Could you sit?”

He shuffles sideways on the bed, patting the rumpled sheets beside him. You hop on, and it’s not until an awkward silence threatens to descend that he finally speaks up again.

“Listen, I wanna be clear. I don’t have a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend or anything. I wasn’t talking on the phone that day. I’m sorry for running when we went out that night, I really am. And it wasn’t because of you that I freaked- well, it was because of you, but not in a bad way.” He lets out a pained breath, staring doggedly ahead at the smattering of butterflies roaming the hanging branch. Even as he avoids your gaze, he subtly turns his torso inwards towards you, the shyest olive branch. “The truth is, I freaked because I really like you. And I… This is gonna make me sound like an asshole, but I didn’t want to let myself get distracted. I have to put this research first. I figured if I just avoided you, I’d get over it, but-” He waves his hand in the air helplessly. “That hasn’t been working out so well,” he admits in a defeated voice. With a final sigh, he falls silent.

You stay quiet for a few more moments, letting his words process in your mind. He actually liked you? The discomforting tug in your chest eases as the thought, the ache of your heart soothing into a warm thrum. But he had to put his work first. Of course. “I get it,” you say finally.

Jimin perks up, finally looking over at you with vulnerable eyes. “You…do?”

You crack a light smile at his stammering of such a short sentence, but then a wider beam takes over. Even if he wanted to never even touch you for fear of getting ‘distracted’, this was enough. Just seeing his face, hearing the notes of his voice, his expression light up in hope; if nothing else, this was enough. “Yeah,” you reiterate with crinkled eyes, “I mean, let’s look at this rationally. You’ve been studying in uni for how long? Paying fees, buying textbooks, studying hard. And now you’re doing a thesis, which you had to uproot your life and fly out to another country for. I bet that was expensive, too. And on top of all that, it’s clear how much it all means to you. You just met me because I happened to be staying in the hut you’d booked. I don’t wanna get in your way, Jimin. This work makes you happy.”

“You-” Jimin cuts himself off, clearing his throat noisily, shaking his head at himself cutely. “Um, I really appreciate that. Now I feel silly I didn’t just tell you that three weeks ago. You know how hard it’s been sneaking showers at the crack of dawn? Those campsite bathrooms don’t even have mirrors. I’ve become an expert at shaving by memory.” He sends you a small smile then, small but genuine, and on his lap his fingers stretch out shyly, before falling back into a loose fist.

Not wanting to disrupt the cheery mood, you reach over to shove at his shoulder playfully. “Well then, how about instead of distracting you, I help you? I’ll be your official sidekick. Or assistant, whatever it’s called.”

“Is that so?” Jimin retorts with glimmering eyes. Like it’s sensed the warm ambience returning to the two of you, a lone butterfly has flown over, settling itself between waves of honey blonde, off-center so that Jimin has to strain his eyes over to make it out. “Hey, Molly,” he mumbles so softly his lips barely move, but, right beside him, you hear it.

“You name them?” you question in confusion, but he doesn’t get the chance to answer before it hits you. “Oh my god. You were talking to the butterflies, weren’t you?”

Jimin stiffens up defensively, but takes care to do it slowly enough that the black-and-red butterfly in his hair, Molly apparently, doesn’t get disturbed. “Makes things grow better,” he mutters through a pout, cheeks glowing an embarrassed pink. “And they have personalities too, you know? Just like dogs or cats.”

You observe the way he leans back away from you, braced like he’s expecting backlash or humiliation. Instead, you nod slowly. “So, what’s Molly’s personality?”

He goes stock still in surprise. “Molly?” After you nod again, he relaxes slowly, fiddling with his hands in his lap even as his face warms. “Molly’s a sweetheart,” he reveals tentatively. “She likes keeping me company more than the others, and when I need to take notes on her wing growth she sits so nicely.”

Your eyes widen in wonder. “Woah, that’s incredible,” you breathe.

He tilts his head to the side. Molly settles herself in deeper, batting her wings a couple times but staying there. It makes you quirk a smile even as Jimin sends you a look of confusion. “What’s incredible?”

“Jimin, these are wild creatures,” you elaborate, “I don’t think we’ve had any researchers stay here before, certainly none specifically for them, and you’ve only been here three weeks yet already they trust you. Do you have any idea how amazing that is?” Do you have any idea how amazing you are? You bite your tongue to stop the words.

He gives his head the smallest shake, wary of the resting butterfly on his head. “All I did was talk to them. Be gentle with them. Look-”

You gasp when suddenly warmth envelops your palm, Jimin softly interlocking your fingers. He stands slowly, then tugs at your hand for you to follow. You do so in an almost religious silence, the hush that speaks louder than words. His fingers, although short, fit with yours perfectly, and as the two of you make your way to the hanging branch he squeezes gently in reassurance.

Licking his lips to wet them, he turns you and holds your connected hands in the air. “If you’re calm and quiet, they’ll trust you too.”

Barely breathing, you nod and stare wide-eyed as he gradually moves your hands closer to the branch. Once the back of your knuckles brush a leaf, he pauses there. “Lift one finger up in the air,” he instructs softly, “like a landing post.” You do as he asks and wait for approval, but his eyes aren’t on you. Rather, they focus on the three butterflies that huddle on a nearby leaf, one of which looks all but asleep to you. “There’s Yoyomi, Kong, and Mickey,” he utters. “Kong is a drama queen, he acts like he hates affection, that’s why he’s gone so still, but one of the others might come over.”

The two of you wait with baited breath and clasped hands as the smaller one of the three alights, fluttering around before delicately landing on the pad of your finger. Your heart stops with the lightest pressure of its legs on your skin, barely more than a tickle.

“See?” Jimin whispers, eyes glittering. “That’s little Yoyomi. Say hi.”

Your finger threatens to falter. You feel stupid talking to a bug, but hasn’t Jimin proved that it’s making a difference? And besides, you can’t let him down after he’s chosen to be so vulnerable with you. You can’t say no to him. “Um. Hi, Yoyomi. You’re very beautiful.” With the warmth of Jimin’s hand on yours, you’re certain he can feel the way your pulse throbs in your wrist, heart racing as Yoyomi’s wings, red at the tip instead of down the middle, give a welcoming flutter.

“Very beautiful,” you hear Jimin repeat in the softest tone.

Your gaze lifts to him, where, instead of looking down at Yoyomi, his eyes are on you. You swallow the euphoria that rises in your chest. “I… I hope you’re not getting distracted,” you say awkwardly.

His lip twitches down. “Sorry.” He lets go of your hand suddenly, giving Yoyomi a fright and sending her off, landing back on the branch with Kong and Mickey. You lower your own arm, feeling the tip of your finger tingle strangely, missing that delicate weight. Missing his touch even more. “I’ll be good. I’ll focus on them.”

You smile reassuringly, past the regret that builds deep in your stomach. “We can have a clean slate, yeah? Like a butterfly kicks off its cocoon, we can get rid of the negative energy and go back to being friends. A fresh start.”

The tension leaves Jimin’s face, replaced by pursed lips as he suppresses a reluctant smile. “You really know nothing about butterflies, don’t you?”

You back up closer to the door, resting your head playfully on the doorframe. “I have a very neglectful teacher.”

He lets out a laugh then, tinkling and giggly, and you feel your heart soar. “Oh, is that so? Well, our first lesson is 9am sharp. And I will be taking attendance,” he adds with faux sternness.

You nod, playing along, feeling so light you could float. “I’ll be there.”

--

“Mm, I’d say 38 millimeters. No; put down 37 and a half.”

“Aye aye, captain,” you cheer, carefully noting down the measurements.

Jimin tuts, eyes remaining trained on the gently batting wings of Una, another one of the older butterflies. “I said not to call me that. Okay, and it looks like the stripe is the same as last week. Have you got it?”

You bite down on the inside of your lip. “I do, master.”

Jimin splutters. “Stop,” he whines petulantly, “look, you made me give Una a fright. Una, it’s okay, don’t g-” He breaks off with a sigh. “It’ll take ages for her to work up the courage to come back over now… Stop teasing me. We’ll have to move on to Molly for now, okay?” He glances up at you warningly, pink lips still pressed in a pout.

You force your eyes not to linger, instead lifting your chin in a decisive nod. “Yes, chef.”

This time you’re rewarded with a full beam, Jimin’s eyes crinkling so much they just about shut completely, delicate hands pressing down on his cheeks in an effort to suppress. “Stop it! You’re making fun of me!”

“Well, who else can I make fun of?” you point out innocently. “When I called Kong an old man you made me sleep on the couch.”

Jimin’s mouth falls to a small o of shock. “That was a joke. You were the one that actually did it.”

Shrugging non-committedly, you doodle squiggles in the margins of Jimin’s notebook. “I take my job very seriously,” you defend, raising your eyebrows. “Which, speaking of, I wanted to ask. Are you free tonight?”

Jimin blinks, ducking his head back like he’s got whiplash. “Are you asking me out on a date?” he questions incredulously.

You put the book down, locking eyes with him. “I’m asking you out on an expedition,” you correct.

“Do I get to know where this expedition is going?”

“Absolutely not.”

He doesn’t hesitate for a second, brown eyes warm. “Deal.”

--

“That doesn’t look safe,” Jimin frowns, tugging at the hem of his light cotton shirt as he eyes the looming contraption.

“But you promised,” you retort, already with a foot on the base. You’d taken him to one of your favorite places on the island, your lookout tower. Of course, the last time you were here hadn’t been so fun, but as the sun sinks lower in the sky, you know it’s time to rewrite some better memories.

“I never agreed to this,” he retorts. He sucks in a breath through his teeth when you grab onto his forearm, tugging him up with you. Luckily, the stability of the tower, at least down on ground level, seems to suffice for him, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders.

“You promised to expe…dish with me,” you stammer.

“Expedish?”

“You know, go on an expedition? Expedite? Ex- Expedo-”

“Okay,” he cuts you off, stepping up onto the first stair that led upwards. “I’ll do it. Just stop making up words.”

You follow behind him dutifully, willing your eyes not to fall down to where his shorts stretch taut over his ass and thighs, calves flexing with every step higher. You attempt to distract yourself, simultaneously cursing and praising the fact you didn’t go in front of him. “I could say real words instead,” you offer helpfully, “like…barbecue. Lawnmower. Effervescence.”

Jimin gasps softly, in a playfully high tone. “Baby’s first words!”

You frown pettily, stomping your feet down on the steps so he can hear your dissatisfaction, but you can’t deny the way your breath hitches when he calls you baby. Dammit. “Just climb,” you mutter bitterly, quietly reveling in the triumphant peal of his laughter.

When the two of you reach the top, he’s panting, and you have to admit that you’re short of breath too. His eyes widen prettily as he takes in the view, holding onto the wooden slats around the border of the lookout to keep him stable as he rises onto his tiptoes.

Last time, the sun was well and truly set, but now the leaves are glowing in molten golds and oranges, the sky a pastel blanket over the island. The topiary is awash with activity, that unique window where nocturnal creatures stir and the rest settle.

“It’s beautiful,” he breathes, and you’re inclined to agree, but it can’t match the beauty you see in him.

Straining to catch every last inch in sight, his body is stretched into a graceful curved line, enough that his shirt lifts to reveal a narrow strip of skin above his waistband. Much paler than the bronze caramel of his face and hands, it reminds you just how much sun he’s been getting these past few weeks now that he isn’t hiding himself away.

He looks much healthier, too, with the softness of his cheeks returned to full blush and eyes twinkling with wonder as he watches birds coast along the horizon line, monkeys navigate the trees with ease, and a few margay cats just like the ones you yourself had caught prowling that past night. He looks happy, and something warm unfurls in your chest at the thought that you’ve contributed to that joy.

You don’t process his eyes on you until he cracks a shy smile, raising a delicate brow. “Thinking hard or hardly thinking?” he teases softly.

“Just thinking,” you murmur, unwilling to part your gaze with him just yet. He doesn’t seem satisfied, tilting his head with imploring eyes. You relent, unable to deny him. “Cada vez que yo te veo y que te pienso siento que florezco.”

Jimin pouts cutely, falling back flat on his feet to stare you down fully. “Well, what does that mean?”

“It means you should learn Spanish,” you retort, ignoring the thudding beneath your ribs. “You do live in Ecuador, after all.”

“Only if you teach me,” he jokes lightly with a playful tip of his head. He takes a step closer, then, and his face changes, sobers up. “Thank you, Y/n. For taking me here, I mean.”

With the cramped space of the lookout, he’s now close enough that you can see each individual eyelash that curve delicately, the finest smile lines on his cheeks, the thinnest sheen of sweat on his temples. He’s close enough that you could easily reach out and k- “You’re welcome,” you blurt out, inhaling deep through your nose in the hopes of clearing your head. Instead, you just breathe in the delicate smell of orange blossoms that you’re beginning to associate with Jimin, perhaps something in his body wash or shampoo. Your eyes flutter around, unsure where is safe to land. His eyes, which bore so intensely into yours. Or his lips, which are pinker and plusher than usual as he nibbles softly at them. You stare stubbornly instead at the tip of his button nose, fingers curling at your sides with the effort to keep them to yourself

“It’s hard for you too, isn’t it?” he questions in the smallest voice, barely more than a velvet whisper.

Your eyes lift to him unsurely. “W-what? What’s hard for me too?”

His hand begins to lift up in the air in front of you, before it falters, and ultimately settles awkwardly on the railing. “Holding back,” he finally admits. “Not getting…distracted.”

Your breath catches in your throat. Distantly, you wonder what exactly he was reaching out to. “Impossible.”

Jimin’s head dips, eyes falling to the dusty wooden floor below you. “I’m sorry.”

A dissatisfied shiver runs down your spine. “I- you don’t have to apologise.”

He looks stricken. “No, I do, I just- I’m working it out. I’m thinking it through. I’m sorry.”

You fight your disappointed, struggling to maintain the cool composure of rationality that holds your tears at bay. “I understand,” you reassure, “this research is what means the most to you. You have to put it first.”

“That’s the problem, I don’t know if it’s-” He shudders then, a full-body tremble that’s only masked somewhat by the sudden step back he takes, almost tripping on an uneven plank. “I have to go,” he rushes out, one foot on the steps leading down before he freezes, forces himself to turn back to face you. “Are you… Are you ready to go? We can walk back together. If you want.”

You feel your knees go weak as you nod, biting on your bottom lip harshly to keep face. “I’m ready to go back if you are. I’m sorry, I thought taking you up here would be nice…”

His earnest look takes you off-guard. “I am so grateful, Y/n, it’s so beautiful up here. Thank you.”

A strange, detached feeling washes over you, like defeat, only softer. “You’re welcome,” you say again, though this time you don’t know if you mean it.

--

You let it go, for a while. Jimin’s happy, and that’s enough for you.

Slowly, you were getting better at recognising each of the regular visitors by the slightly different patches on their wings, or even simply how they behaved. It was a strange thing to get to know them like you would with a pet, realising they really did have unique personalities. And over time, you opened the rest of the doors of the hut, too, until it became commonplace to wake up from a flutter on your cheek, or to check for any resting butterflies on the couch before you sat down. It brought a sense of life to your abode that, in full honesty, you’d probably never truly felt before. But of course most of that led right back to Jimin.

Jimin, who no longer held himself back from chatting away softly to the butterflies like they were his friends. Jimin, who patiently explained the life cycle of the longwing erato for the nth time when you still got lost. Jimin, who did his best to stay professional but couldn’t hold back his warm smiles, gentle touches, and reassuring words. Jimin, who was overflowing with so much love for everything that you felt it grow within you too.

“Y/n?”

Jimin’s alarmed voice catches you off-guard from where you’d zoned out in the kitchen, milk warming to room temperature on the bench as you’d gotten too distracted to pour it into the bowl of waiting cereal. Cursing, you shove it back in the fridge and abandon your breakfast to rush down to the study.

He’s hunched over his desk, unaware of Molly nestled on his shoulder, as he focuses intensely on what’s in front of him.

“What’s going on?” you question, not wanting to approach the desk so suddenly just in case you startle him or whoever has his attention.

“Baby got his wing torn again. I think he’s been going to that patch of rosebushes behind the kitchen.”

You gasp, risking a couple steps forward silently. Your chest is taut with anxiety as you watch Jimin gently pin Baby onto a towel with an oval metal loop that keeps his wings still while allowing his small black body to move. He wriggles in the eye of the loop, but settles as a single pinkie finger strokes his wings with the lightest pressure. Baby, as his name suggests, is the youngest of your little ragtag bunch at only 8 days old. Jimin wasn’t sure, but he believed Molly might be the mother. Most of the females laid a few eggs every day, but only a few over the month and a half had actually chosen to come into the house. Baby, however, had shadowed Molly from the moment he’d first flown in.

“That’s the second time,” you murmur, rubbing at your shoulder in concern. “Will he be okay?”

Jimin hums, lips barely moving when he speaks in a soft register. “It’s a bigger tear than last time but it should be an easy fix. I just hope he learns this time. Can you get me the repair kit?”

You do as he says quickly but calmly so as not to disturb anyone. “Here. Do you need anything else?”

He doesn’t answer for a while, gnawing at his lip as he takes some contact adhesive and a small wooden dowel. “Um, no, but… Could you just stay?”

Your heart jumps in your chest; you curse that jolt of euphoria in a time like this. “Of course I can, Jiminie,” you reassure, pulling up a stool beside him and giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Of course I’ll stay.”

Later on, after Baby’s made a full recovery and Jimin has given him an extremely gentle scolding, the two of you decide to have a night in. Jimin exhausts the last of his Korean microwave meal supplies, you crack out a couple of old bottles of red wine you’d gotten for Christmas two years ago, and the two of you curl up on the couch in your pyjamas, talking about everything and nothing.

It’s shortly after midnight, once Jimin has long since jiggled the final drops of wine from the second bottle into his waiting mouth, and you’re feeling sleepy from carbs, that you ask him why he likes butterflies so much. For some reason, the thought had never really occurred to you in these past weeks.

“I mean,” you continue, voice loudened by the weak buzz of alcohol, “I get now that butterflies are super cool. But like, what made you even pay attention to them in the first place? It’s such a specific career.”

Jimin, who had significantly more of the wine than you, pats his own red cheeks in thought, smiling absentmindedly to push them out rounder. His eyes glaze over, but with how well he held his liquor, you think the faraway look is due to something else. “It’s silly,” he brushes off, tapping his pinkie fingers on the apples of his cheeks.

“Come on,” you whine, tipping your head to the side and widening your eyes pleadingly. “I bet it is just as cute as everything else about you.” Your brain screeches to a halt. Did you really just say that? Clearing your throat awkwardly, you reach for a half-empty glass of water, maybe his or maybe yours, and take a sip, willing your cheeks and ears to stop burning.

Jimin ducks his head with a flustered giggle, splaying his arms on the table to bury his face between dramatically. “Stop,” you hear him say, able to distinguish a pout in his voice even through the muffling. “It is silly. You’ll laugh at me.”

“I won’t ever laugh at you, Jiminie,” you say honestly, smile dropping. “I promise.”

With a deep sigh, he rises up again, locks of warm golden hair sticking up at odd angles like bedhead. Avoiding your gaze, he puckers his lips shyly, reddened where he’s nibbled at it. “It started back in primary school. My best friend loved butterflies, he wanted to be a lepidopterist even before we knew the word. Always talked about how beautiful they were and if he spent his life looking at beautiful things that he’d be happy forever.”

A thought occurs to you. “The one from that framed photo in your room?” you question.

Jimin looks up so fast he has to blink away the wobble of light-headedness that strikes him. “You’ve seen it?”

“The two little schoolboys, right?” you confirm. Once he nods, you grin, rushing to his room with the added aerodynamic rush that tipsiness gave you. The picture frame is on his little bedside table, and you gently carry it with you back to the lounge, dropping down heavily beside him on the floor instead of your perch on the couch. “So this is you and your friend?”

Jimin takes it with a fond, dopey smile. Both young, chubby kids are tan with crinkled eyes and black tufted hair, their matching uniforms and grins making them look thick as thieves. The shorter one with a perfectly round face made up primarily of his chipmunk cheeks and a button nose, clutches the straps of his backpack proudly. Jimin points at him. “That’s me,” he tells you, a chuckle in his voice, “I’m older than him yet he’s always been bigger than me. Unfair.” With a distant look, a quiet smile, Jimin brushes his thumb over the glass where the other boy stands, the cutest boxy smile revealing a set of pearly whites. “That’s Tae. I owe him everything.”

You look back and forth between him and the aged photograph, muffling a yawn that the late hour has triggered. “Are you guys still friends?”

Jimin sets the frame down, humming an affirmative. “He’s still back home.”

“Is he a lepidopterist too?”

A quick surprised glance to you to acknowledge you finally pronouncing his job title correctly, then he laughs warmly, shaking his head. “He’s an artist, can you believe it? Paints the most gorgeous things. Realistic ones, abstract ones, ones with only two or three colours. Has his own pseudonym and everything.” Jimin sends a grin to you, like an inside joke only you share. “He likes painting butterflies the most, though.”

“Do you miss him?” The moment the words are out of your mouth, you regret them. Jimin sobers up, and the moment is lost.

“Yeah,” he admits morosely. “But less than six weeks until I can go back home and see him again!”

Like instant karma, the realisation that he’ll be leaving shatters your good mood too. “Not long… Anyway, you do your research and go back and give it to your university? How does the thesis work?”

Jimin’s face sours with a bitter scoff. “Gah, it’s so confusing. There are so many stages, and reviews, and deadlines… I was a little late on sending in my first progress report, but it’ll be fine once I get the go-ahead. There’re meant to be every month, but I was a bit behind on typing all my notes up. There’s just so much to say, I don’t know how I can only mention some things and not others.”

You tip your head to the side, feeling the warm buzz of wine slip through your fingers, leaving you feeling heavy. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs, tucking his legs so that he can rest his head on his knees. “I don’t know, like… Why should I get to say what’s relevant and what’s not? I write everything down, as much as possible, but for my report I had to try and choose what to cut for the word limit. Why is Kong’s feeding habits more important than Ronnie’s extra red stripe on his right wing? Why should I tell my supervisor that 87% of the female butterflies I’ve studied oviposit an average of two eggs a day but I don’t have room to tell her the joy the whole kaleidoscope had when Sophie finally laid her first eggs after a whole three weeks?” He leans back so that his head tips onto the couch seat, eyes upwards but unseeing, turned down in despair. “I could write a whole book on every single one of them, but all my supervisors want is data and generalisations. They want rules they can put into biology books and quote marks, they don’t really care about the stories. Taehyungie would understand.”

“I understand,” you feel the inexplicable need to say. “You’re such a good person, Jiminie.” Feeling a sudden wave of exhaustion hit you belatedly, you groan, pushing yourself up laboriously from the floor. “Aaand I think it’s time for me to hit the hay. Tonight was fun. Don’t worry about the mess; I’ll clean up tomorrow.”

“Have you forgotten we share this hut with the wildlife now?” Jimin asks with a quirked brow, laughing melodically when you groan again. “Don’t worry, you go to bed. I’ll clean up. Goodnight, Y/n.”

You should feel bad, you should tell him you’ll stay and help, but your bed is positively screaming your name. “Thank you! And for what it’s worth,” you add, “you’re the best leopard optimist I’ve ever met, Park Jimin.”

Though you don’t know it then, the radiant beam you receive is the last smile of his you’ll see for a while.

--

Seeing Jimin angry for the first time is the original red flag that something's up.

Waking up later than usual, you stretch languidly and pad down the hallway, already thirsty for your routine cup of tea, but Jimin's form hunched over stiffly in the kitchen causes you pause.

"Morning," you chime, but he doesn't even react, lids low and jaw tense as he stares intensely out the window. "I can make you a drink if you'd like?"

"Forget it," he spits, and you flinch. Six weeks together and you'd never heard that venom in his voice before.

"Did...Did something happen, Jiminie? Was it me, or...?"

His chest heaves in a shuddering breath, eyelashes fluttering miserably, before that stern fire returns. "No," he answers shortly. "It's me. It's this fucking thesis."

Your eyes fly wide, and suddenly concern and confusion turn to genuine alarm. Since when did Jimin swear? "The thesis?" You rack your brain, straining to recall your conversation last night. "Oh! The report, right? Did they finally get back to you?"

He lets out what sounds like a sob, lifting a hand to block it, and your heart melts, pulling him in for a hug. You can feel the stuttered way his heart is racing, as well as the way his whole body trembles with contained emotion as you tuck your chin on his shoulder, rubbing his back.

"Tell me," you coo, "tell me what happened. I promise it'll be okay."

"It won't," he assures, and like the shifting of winds, his body stiffens ironlike again, and he detaches you from him, crossing his arms with a hateful scowl. "She fucking rejected it. Told me to start again. Square one."

You're so shocked you don't even acknowledge the hurt of him pushing you away. "Holy shit, what? Can they even do that?"

Jimin scoffs darkly. "It was my fault, anyway. Meddling. Interfering with the research."

"How?" You think on it for a moment with furrowed brows. "Wait, you mean like, letting them in the house?"

"I mean everything, Y/n," he growls, voice growing louder with every word. "Letting them into the house, feeding them, fixing Baby's wing. She even told me off for giving them names, said it 'blurred the lines of scientific neutrality.' Now I have to start my three months of research again, with a different study group, no interfering. Halfway done, and now I'm-" He breaks off with an exhausted sigh. "Whatever. It's done now. At least you get your wish again. No bugs in the house."

You feel your heart sink. "Jiminie, that's not-"

"Please," he cuts you off, determinedly avoiding your gaze. "I messed everything up by meddling. I- I don't want to do it again. Let's just be roommates. Just call me Jimin, please. I'm sorry."

Against your will, tears well up in your eyes, not for yourself but for him. The pain that was written across his face. "I am so sorry," you manage to make out in a thick voice. "I'm sorry that you're stuck here with me and not Taehyung."

Jimin recoils violently, already pushing off the counter and making his way out of the kitchen. "Don't you dare speak to me about Taehyung."

He leaves, and the greater part of you knows he's taken your heart with him, just a broken void inside.

--

After a week of Jimin focussing fully on his work, you still end each day crying yourself to exhaustion. After two weeks, you notice your pants are a little too loose, and recall you'd forgotten to feed yourself most days. After the first month, you're taken aside by Angelo and told that you'd been receiving worse and worse feedback forms for your group tours. The truth is, seeing the wildlife, particularly the butterflies, makes you feel ill. You tell him you're just feeling under the weather and he suggests you take it easy for a few days. Those 'few days' seem to drag forever, your boss never asking you to come back in, so you wallow in your bedroom like a depressed ghost, wishing you could fade away.

Because it isn't just that Jimin's pushed you away. He's not even avoiding you, quite often curling up on the couch to pore over a textbook or type up notes periodically onto his old, bulky laptop. You see him almost every day, but he never says a word to you, and what really hurts is that he's burning out just like you are.

He's not happy. With sunken bags under his hollow eyes, he moves around in a lifeless mope, complimentary meals at the shared dining hall and kitchen the only thing keeping the plumpness in his cheeks. It tears you up inside to see him so miserable in the job he loves, the hut filled with negative space, emptiness where there should be flitting butterflies in the air and on every surface.

You don't know what he did with them. You'd gone to work that day and returned to find that all evidence of the butterflies having been removed. No Molly settling in your hair, no Kong acting like a tough guy, no sight of sweet little Baby and his slightly wonky wing. All you knew was that now he religiously checked the windows every night and morning to ensure they were closed.

Whether he realised it or not, you missed them too.

"It's been over a month," you say to him awkwardly one night after he comes back from dinner.

He pauses in the entryway, one foot in the air with a hand ready to take off his boot. "Yeah?"

"I just- Um, I was wondering if your one-month report came back okay."

He sighs delicately, and gives you a nod, finishing removing his footwear. "She gave me the go-ahead to continue, if that's what you're asking. Although she wasn't too happy that I needed more funding for another month and a half on-site."

"Don't pay," you blurt without thinking.

"Huh?"

You stammer, collecting your thoughts. "I- I mean, you don't- you don't have to pay. For the room. I can talk to Angelo. I don't mind having you here."

He pauses with socked feet, staring at you strangely, before his eyes clear and he shakes his head. "I don't want to be indebted to you."

You shrug. "It's not a debt to be repaid," you prompt, "it might not even work, I'm just saying I could always ask Angel-"

"And I don't want you to ask," Jimin cuts in, walking with thudded stomps to the kitchen, taking a water bottle from the fridge. "Just leave it alone, okay? It's the university's money anyway. Besides, I've already-" He cuts himself off, taking a swig from the cooled water.

"You've already what?"

He huffs, twisting back on the cap and levelling you a glare that has no energy to it. "I've already asked Angelo if I can change rooms if a hut frees up. So don't bother."

You go silent, shock and hurt swirling noiselessly through your veins.

His face crumples, stricken at your reaction and he gives a sniff before looking up at you one last time, ready to head to his room. "Goodnight."

You don't even spare him a reply, looking back down at the opened page of a book you'd been blankly staring at before he'd come in.

In your peripheral vision, you watch him wait for a moment, before his shoulders sag and he leaves in silence.

You don't realise you're crying until a fat drop lands on the page, blooming as it sinks in.

--

Willing your heart to let go, to forget, you bury yourself back into your work, taking on as many tours as possible and spending time with the kitchen and cleaning staff otherwise. It works for a long time, welcome distractions that occupy your mind and body, and you almost manage to convince yourself that it all was some distant event in the past, or a strangely realistic dream, that Jimin was just another roommate here for a job.

That progress shatters in a heartbeat when you come home to a familiar butterfly battering itself against the glass of the window beside the front door.

You falter, watching it silently as it repeatedly flies at the glass, dull thuds of impact, flaps of wings as it wriggled over the unyielding surface. "...Baby?"

Like it hears your voice, the butterfly stills, wonky wing slowing to a regular waving as it rests on the windowsill, turning to observe you.

"What are you doing?" you murmur in confusion, even as your heart leaps, the euphoria of meeting an old friend unexpectedly. You'd just about forgotten how naturally it felt to speak to them, but it all came back to you now. "What's going on?"

Baby flies over to you, hovering in front of your eyes before fluttering away, back the way you'd came. Hesitantly, you follow, and this seems to be the right thing to do as Baby continues to take periodical flights forward, checking you're following every single time.

Like a trail of breadcrumbs, Baby leads you to the back of the shared kitchen, to the set of untamed rose bushes that grow beneath the window. Hurriedly, Baby flutters to a leaf quite low to the ground and, checking around for people watching, you hunker down on your knees in the uneven dirt in front of the bush. "Baby, you know not to play here, you could get... Oh god."

These roses are a pale yellow, so it takes you no time to spot the weakly fluttering form lying on its back in the soil. It's been over a month since you've seen her, but you recognise her red patches like she'd never left. "Molly! What are you doing in there you poor thing?"

You feel a tickle on your inner wrist, Baby crawling down into the loose cup of your hand. With rising dread, you begin to piece the puzzle together. Baby, who already had a history of getting caught in the rose bushes, probably went in and got stuck. Molly, who'd always kept Baby near, would've gone in in a heartbeat to get him. But, judging by the way her left wing had a long tear running down towards her body, leaving it in two limp, barely-connected pieces, she'd been the one to hurt herself on the thorns this time.

"M-Molly," you call weakly, heart thudding in your chest in fear, "I'm gonna get you out, okay? Baby, come sit on my shoulder, I need my hands free."

Rather than risking injuring her more than she already was, you dig your fingers into the lush soil, lifting up the section of dirt with her on top, using both hands. Thorns leave red lines across your knuckles and cut nicks in your forearms, but you ignore the pain, focussed on gently extracting Molly safely from the bush, Baby restless on your shoulder, immediately fluttering down to rest on the soil beside his mother.

Rushing home, you knock on the door with your foot, just about cracking the wood - or your toes - in your urgency.

Jimin answers eventually, throwing you a weird look when he first seems the heap of dirt in your hands, before noticing what's on it. "Wha- Baby? Molly? Y/n, I'm not meant to- Oh god, what happened to her?"

You sniff, no hands free to wipe your nose which threatens to run. "Baby was outside when I got home, he led me to her. She got torn up in the rosebush."

He sucks in a breath, leaning closer to inspect her damaged wing. "I- We can't- I can't...meddle," he stammers, eyes shiny with unshed tears.

You furrow your brows in disbelief. "But- Jimin, you aren't even studying the original group anymore, why does it matter?"

He falters, taking a step back into the house, eyes on the doorframe instead of you or the butterflies in your hands. "If I make an exception now, I know I'll just keep doing it, and I can't afford to ruin my research again. Can you just- just take them away, please?"

Your mouth drops open, salt bursting on your tongue as tears slip in from the corners of your lips. "But Jimin, this is Molly!"

He lets out a sob, lips trembling violently as he scrubs the tears from his face and eyes with the back of his hand. "It's just a butterfly," he answers hollowly, voice cracking on the last word.

"You don't believe that," you accuse.

Jimin squeezes his eyes shut, thick trails of tears dropping over his cheeks. "Just please go," he begs. Without a further word, he steps back, and the door shuts on you.

With no hands free to wipe your face, you sit on the porch with stinging eyes and snot on your upper lip, staring down at the two butterflies on the soil in your hands miserably.

"I'm so sorry," you make out with a raw voice, sniffing noisily. Baby bats his wings slowly in confusion, staring down at his mother, who grows weaker by the minute. How long had she lain there, unable to move, while Baby tried to get Jimin's attention? How much longer did she have? A new wave of sobs wracks your body, and you let it pull you under, feeling like this heartache is the least you deserve.

Though it takes hours, sun setting and shadows spreading over the grass of the campyard, you stay on that porch, trying to wipe your face on your shoulder so your tears and runny nose don't drip onto your friends. Your friends.

You couldn't save Molly, but you didn't want her or Baby to be alone.

She flutters her good wing for the last time shortly after midnight, judging by how high the moon is in the sky, an omniscient bystander tucked behind cloud.

Baby stays beside his mother for a while. Ten minutes, two hours, you don't know. Eventually, he crawls slowly over the dirt and onto your arm, like he doesn't have the energy to fly. With the lightest tickle of steps up your arm, he finally tucks himself in the hollow of your collarbone, a flutter of misery and solace. Your tears are silent now, but they never stop.

After an eternity, the door clicks open quietly. It's Jimin.

He stays quiet for a moment, eyes on you though you don't turn to look at him. "Is she gone?" he asks finally. You nod emotionlessly. "I'm sorry," he whispers into the pre-dawn air.

You swallow down the lump in your throat. "You lost the one you should've said sorry too hours ago."

He goes quiet at this. You almost expect him to turn around and go back inside with how long he goes without saying anything, but eventually he speaks up again. "I want to do something. I- It's too late now, but... I think the least I can do is give her a...proper burial."

You've been thinking about this yourself, for some time. Baby gives a curious flap of his wings. You sniff, tears finally drying up for now. "I know a place," you answer.

You walk in silence, leading the way.

At one point, Baby leaves your shoulder, flying back. You hear a solemn, "hey, buddy," followed by muffled sniffs and shaky breaths that sound like he's begun to cry. Wanting to give him some privacy, you don't turn around to check.

By the time you make it to the butterfly meadow, sun has broken over the horizon. Hot on your back, it casts long, thin shadows on the grass as you approach. "We're here," you say redundantly.

"I guess I'll- I'll dig a hole somewhere," he murmurs back, overtaking you.

Though he's grieving, you're surprised at his lack of reaction, until he steps in front of you and wipes his eyes clear of tears, hands slick with how much he's been crying. He could probably barely see to follow you. The moment he lowers his arm and looks up for a spot, he gasps quietly, eyes widening in awe.

A couple of days of rain recently had done the meadow well, and it's lush beneath your feet, a vibrant green that glints silver in the sunlight with morning dew. Sprinkled around are uncountable species of flowers, some recognisable like daisy patches and dandelions, the more colourful ones along the outskirts of the trees unfamiliar yet just as magical, pastel pinks and deep reds, pure whites and royal purples. But what's no doubt caught Jimin's eye, what he spins slowly around and strains his neck to see, are the darting kaleidoscopes of colour in the sky, at least a hundred butterflies all flitting around and basking in the unbroken sunlight.

"It's beautiful," Jimin breathes, "this is perfect, Y/n." He takes a deep breath, open mouth and lifted brows, trying to fight any further tears. There's a different glint in his eyes now. Not quite happiness, or content. Solace. Relief.

He picks a spot closer to the murky river, where the soil is damper and easier to lift. Once done, he helps you lay the heap of dirt, and Molly with it, into the shallow hole. Brushing off the dirt from your hands, you sit back on your knees, observing the way Jimin hesitates over the small pile of excavated soil beside the hole.

His hand hovers for a moment before he falters, looking up at you. Nestled in the honey blonde hair above his eyebrow is Baby, wings still. Like a cut directly into your heart, the thought strikes you that it's where Molly used to sit. "Should we...say something?" he asks tentatively.

Your heart melts. "I think that would be nice."

He swallows, nodding with distant eyes. "Um... Molly, you were the first butterfly that trusted me. Because of your friendliness, your family and friends grew to trust me too, and I'm so grateful that- I'm so-" Jimin's face crumples, and he buries it in his hands, voice muffled. "I'm so sorry that I betrayed your trust," he sobs, "I failed you and I failed Baby and I'm so so sorry."

Chest aching at the way Jimin looks so small curled up there in front of Molly's grave, you find yourself speaking too, to him just as much as Baby and Molly. "Molly, we were so lucky to know you. You brought light into both of our lives. I was truly happy in every moment spent with you, and now I know that you're in a better place, that you'll have eternal happiness. We'll try and keep positive and keep bright to honour you." Your eyes slip from Molly to the broken boy beside you. "And we'll take care of Baby for you. You did well, mama."

Jimin lets out a shaking sigh and nods, lifting his face up again. Even with red eyes and a running nose, he's beautiful. You take a breath and force yourself not to think about that now.

Silently, he fills in the dirt over Molly, covering her and leaving a patted-down patch of naked soil. There's a finality to it that leaves you short of breath, and the two of you sit wordlessly for a while, just watching the butterflies above flit around the sky, a gentle breeze flowing over your skin.

Once he's finished his quiet reflection, Jimin clears his throat, shifting so that his body faces you, although his gaze is still outward. "I'm not cut out for this," he says simply.

"The funeral?"

"No, I mean- everything. The thesis, the research. Scientific neutrality. I can't do it. It's too cruel."

You take the time to process this. "...What are you saying, Jimin?"

"Could you-" he starts in a strangled voice. His head ducks to look firmly at the ground, so all you can see is his mussed golden locks. "Could you go back to the way you said it before?"

"Huh?"

He fiddles with a blade of grass. "Jiminie," he whispers, and you hate the way your heart pangs when you hear it.

"Jiminie," you obey, "you don't mean you're going to give it up, right? Your thesis?"

He shrugs, head lifting reluctantly. "I can't do this for another two more months," he explains, "and I'm scared of what will happen when I have to- to leave."

You nod slowly. "Do you have to, though? Leave?"

Jimin nods, absentmindedly running a hand through his hair and letting out a wet chuckle when Baby, startled by the sudden shifting, flits over to you and rests petulantly on the crown of your head. He quickly sobers up, though. "Yeah. I have to go back, edit it, submit it, then defend it at my university. How am I meant to defend something I hate?"

"Could you..." You pause, catching up with your thoughts. "Could you change your thesis?"

Jimin lets out a sigh, plump lips turned down morosely. "And start from scratch again? Technically I could, sure, but I can't get past the scientific neutrality thing, Y/n."

An idea begins to bubble in the back of your mind, making you sit upright. "What if you didn't have to do either of those things?"

"What?"

"When you were taking care of the butterflies in the house, they were living longer, right? Because they were being fed and kept safe and given medical care." He shrugs, and you take it as an affirmative. "Then why couldn't you change your thesis to compare the longwing erato on its own versus it with your intervention? Your whole angle could be on like, conservation through human aid."

"I'd still have to start ove- Wait! This first month could serve as the 'before', and I can spend the next two months taking care of them to show the 'after.'" A smile stretches across his face, something you haven't seen in over a month, and it's positively healing. "Y/n, you're a genius! I would have to check with my supervisor, but... This could really work! And I wouldn't have to leave them alone anymore..."

Jimin's eyes dart to Baby, who's still comfy in your hair, then a change happens on his face, a realisation. "Y/n..." With bated breath, you lock your eyes with his, melting into the deep brown. "This- this whole situation has taught me something. That I'd rather make connections and prioritise feelings, even at the cost of what I'm supposed to do. I've lost someone very dear to me today, but the reality is, I lost her the moment I cleared all the butterflies out of the hut. And god, Y/n, I don't think I can bear to lose you too."

Your eyes widen, taken aback by the earnestness of his voice and the vulnerability in his face. "Jiminie..."

His eyes soften visibly at the way you call his name, his upper half leaning closer towards you, so that your faces are less than half a metre apart. Too far to touch, but close enough that you can make out every detail on his face, the way his eyebrows knit together and lift, the dark pink in your peripheral where he run his teeth over his bottom lip. "I've been so scared. So scared of the day I would have to leave you, that I'd tried to act like I didn't care, but I can't do it. If I have another two months here, I want to spend them at your side, not just under the same roof. I just... I have two questions. Firstly; what was it you said on the lookout tower that day? The Spanish sentence, I mean."

Feeling overwhelmed, your lips stretch into a fond smile when you recall it. "Cada vez que yo te veo y que te pienso, siento que florezco."

"That's it," he nods, "what does it mean?"

Somehow it feels less romantic in Korean, and you blush, having to fight to keep your eyes on him. "Every time I look at you or think about you I feel like I'm blooming."

A shy smile of wonder lights up his face. "You- even then, you liked me? I thought I was the only one then."

"You liked me too?" He nods sheepishly. "Since when?"

"The first time."

You give a confused head shake. "The first time what?"

"The first time I saw you," he reveals in a delicate voice.

Speechless, you just stare at him in shock for a moment, unsure how to respond. Finally, you clear your throat. "Wh-what's the second question?"

His voice drops to a lower register, honey like his hair. "Can I kiss you?"

Your breath catches. Instead of answering, you lean forward to close the distance, cupping his cheeks to guide his mouth to yours. Those lips, the ones you had spent hours fantasising about, felt like heaven against you, soft and warm and plush. Jimin goes still in surprise for a brief moment before he melts, the lightest vibration of a whimper tingling your lips. Belatedly, his hands lift to steady your hips and you sigh, tilting your head slightly to deepen the kiss.

You can feel his round cheeks warming beneath your fingers, his nose pressing against the apple of your cheekbone, and a tickle on your scalp where Baby flutters. But beyond that, beyond the silk of his lips and the beautiful gasps he lets out, there's a rising wave of euphoria inside you, and you can't help but smile into the kiss, overjoyed.

Not breaking for a second, you shuffle forward, slipping one hand into his hair, which is softer than cotton, longer than it was when you came without a hairdresser nearby to tidy it up. Winding locks around your fingers, you tug lightly from the nape of his neck to tip his head a little further back.

Jimin whines, one hand flying up to grip onto your wrist and you pull back in concern. He follows your lips, eyes staying lidded as he sucks in breaths through his mouth.

"Are you-" you stutter, "was that too much? I'm sorry."

He blinks at last and gives you a bleary look, sucking his swollen bottom lip into his mouth. "It's okay, it's just- Maybe not the right time and place."

You sit back, head clearing. "Right, yeah, that's fair."

Jimin's eyes drop to the ground with a coy, but still shy smile. "I would very much like to do that again. Preferably a lot."

You go to laugh, but grimace when you feel the dried tears on your cheeks. Yeah, definitely not the. right time or place. "Let's go home," you say softly, standing up off the ground. "I don't know about you, but I think it's about time we opened up our windows again. So Baby and the others can come back home too."

Jimin beams up and you and nods. "Let's go home," he echoes simply.

--

"Morning, Jiminie," you coo, tilting your head up onto the back of the couch so he can press a soft kiss on your forehead.

"Good morning, baby," he returns, smiling against your skin before straightening up again. "Not going out on the porch today?"

You let out a dry two-beat laugh. Outside, the campground is basically a mudslide, tropical rain beating down, pattering on the roof noisily. "Did you shut the windows?"

He collapses onto the couch beside you with a sigh, arms already winding around your middle to snuggle in close. "...almost all the way, yes." At your look of reproach, Jimin elaborates. "And I put towels on the floor under the window sills."

Unable to stay mad at him, especially not when he throws a leg over your lap and tucks in like a koala, you laugh begrudgingly. "I guess that's the best I'm gonna get, huh? Lazy day today? All my tours have been cancelled and I can't imagine you'll get much done out there either."

With a hum of agreement, Jimin lifts his head, resting it on your shoulder to look up at you. "That means it's just the two of us," he states coyly.

"Mm, and about thirty flying bugs. Romantic."

Jimin's brows tug down sharply as he glares at you, though without any real malice. "They are too romantic, and you know they aren't technically bugs. I put some sugar water on my desk for them, we can just ignore them."

You pretend to ponder for a moment, his face so close you have to pull back to fully see it. "Fine, but to be clear the butterflies stay out during sex."

He sits up, an unreadable expression dulling his eyes.

In response, you widen yours. "Wait... You don't seriously want the butterflies around while we're having sex, right? Is that some kind of lepidopterist thing? Because if so, I am not-"

"It's not that," he blurts hastily, "it's just..."

You let all playful humour drop from your voice, leaving only concern. "Whatever it is, you can tell me, Jiminie. I didn't mean to upset you."

He slips his arms back from around your torso. Before you can mourn the loss of his body heat, he latches onto your arm and cuddles into your side, covering his face with your shoulder. You can feel just how hot his cheeks are, and reach out with your other hand to tenderly card your fingers through his hair, hoping to calm him down.

"You'll laugh at me," he mumbles, lips moving against your bare skin. You tut softly, assuring him otherwise, but still it takes him a few moments to work up the courage. "I haven't...done it before."

"That's it?" you question softly. Jimin just lets out a miserable whine. "Jiminie, that's no biggie. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pressure you or anything. We can just take things slow."

He sits himself up a little, then, propping his cheek on your shoulder to look you in the eye. You suppress the twitch of your lip as you see the way it pushes his plush lips out and crinkles his eye with the displacement of the flesh of his cheek. "I want to though," he protests in a pout. "Because I like kissing so much, and I like you so much. I'm just...I don't know if I'm ready yet."

You hum in thought, cupping his free cheek fondly. "Is there a reason you haven't had sex before, or has the opportunity just never really come up?"

He shrugs cutely, leaning into your touch. "Well...Taehyungie-" He breaks off, fixing you with an imploring look. "You can't tell him I told you this."

Your lips stretch into a grin at the thought that he's expecting the two of you to meet one day. "I promise I won't."

With a resounding nod, Jimin continues. "Well, Taehyungie and I have always lived together since we moved out for university. He was always more confident than me, and so he- he slept with a bunch of people. Which is like, good for him, you know, I'm not judging at all, but... I don't know, from what he told me and what I...heard, it just sounded really aggressive and, um, intense. I don't think I can be like that. I don't know if it's really my thing. So I- I just never really did it."

You furrow your brows, processing his words. "Jiminie, sex doesn't have to be like that. Some people like it like that, others don't. It can be as gentle as you want, you know that, right?"

With a whine, he pulls away from you and buries his face in his hands. "God, this is so embarrassing," he moans miserably, "I'm sorry, I'm such a wuss."

"No, stop that," you chastise, softly linking your hands around his delicate wrists and pulling them away from his face, gazing into his puppy brown eyes intensely. "I'm serious, Jiminie, there's nothing wrong with not wanting that. Besides, we... stop me if this is too far, but we don't have to go all the way."

He blinks, lips moving silently before he collects his thoughts. "Do you- what do you mean?"

"Well, instead of going straight to sex, we could do other stuff instead. I could go down on you, if you want. Baby steps, you know? We don't have to rush."

His hands fall down the length of your arm, dropping to your free hand where he fiddles unconsciously with your fingers. "Baby steps?" he echoes.

You beam and nod. "Yeah. But only if you want to, only if you're ready." You carefully detach yourself from him, standing up off the couch. "Just think about it, and when you've made a decision you can-" You cut yourself off when your arm is tugged back by two small hands. "Jiminie?"

"I want it," he confesses decidedly, "I'm ready." His eyes turn soft, and the pressure of his fingers wrapped around your wrist and hand weaken. "Just gentle?"

Your heart melts in an instant and you can't help but stare down at him in wonder. "How are you so perfect?" you breathe, bending down to press a single kiss across his lips. "I'll be gentle, I promise." You go to leave again, but his grip doesn't falter, keeping you rooted. Bottom lip sticking out, Jimin looks up at you with rounded eyes. "Right now?" you ask in surprise. He nods, stutteringly. "Here?"

This causes him to pause. "Maybe...the bed?"

"Whose bed?"

More deliberation. "Y-your bed."

"My bed it is." You lead him, connected by the hands that still latch onto your arm. Your room, unfortunately, is a bit messy, not having expected the turn of events, and you hastily pull up the duvet and pat out the wrinkles, gesturing awkwardly for him to lie down.

Doing so, he hops up and wriggles so that his head is on the pillows, staring directly at the ceiling with startled eyes like a patient in a doctor's office. It would make you laugh if you weren't so worried about him feeling comfortable. "Jiminie," you coo softly, "if you aren't comfortable-"

"Maybe some kissing first," he blurts suddenly, lifting his head off the pillow to look at you, eyes rounded and pleading.

You beam, lying down on your side next to him. "I can't say no to that."

A smile stretches across his lips, which you soon cover with your own, leaning down to press a light kiss against them. He sighs, already relaxing further as his eyes flutter shut, sinking into the pillows.

Fingers splayed across his jaw, you litter countless pecks on his mouth, never more than a brush of pressure, until the bed shakes a little with him kicking out his feet. You pull back, replacing your smile with a look of innocence. "Is that too much, Jiminie?"

He pouts, snaking the arm closest to you around your torso so that you can slip closer. "Don't tease me," he whines, lip and brow crumpling to obtain your sympathy, but avoiding your gaze with red cheeks. "I jus' want you to take care of me."

"Of course I will, Jiminie, I'm sorry," you say with a rueful smile. "But do tell me if it gets too much, okay? I want you to be happy."

He nods, pushing his head back onto the pillow, slightly on an angle to face you. "I will, I promise." His fingers find yours, tentatively intertwining your hands together, eyes low. "Can you kiss me again?"

You answer not with words but with a kiss, a proper one this time, lips pressing intently but still tenderly against his. A relieved sigh leaves his mouth, but it's swallowed up between you, Jimin tightening his arm around you so that your bodies fall flush against each other, one of your legs between his. With closed eyes, the feeling of him against you is even more magical; all plush lips, desperately grasping fingers and trembling body.

Even without a hand free to touch his face - one hand holding his and the other propping you up - you can feel the warmth of his cheeks, an overwhelmed blush that he can't seem to control, and the way he's responding to you triggers a heat inside you too. You deepen the kiss, parting your lips enough to let your tongue run down the seam of his mouth, Jimin letting out a surprised gasp that grants you entry. Though it had been just over three weeks since you'd first kissed him, it had always stayed very light, you waiting for him to make a move. Now, though, you realise that he's probably been waiting for you this whole time.

"'s this okay?" you check in, murmured against his lips.

Jimin shakily takes a breath, nodding in tiny jerks so as not to break the contact. "Ye- keep going," he pleads in a whisper.

Every time your tongue meets his, or swipes over the inner, more sensitive skin of his lips, he gasps, fingers flexing around yours. When adjusting your position, your leg brushes against his crotch and he shudders. He's hard.

Carefully monitoring his reaction even as you continue to move your mouth sweetly against his, you shift your leg again, brushing against the front of his shorts, fabric taut over the crotch. A throaty, keening whine leaves his lips, his mouth going slack. When he speaks, the tiniest puff of air is all that comes out, but you hear him still. "Please."

You let your hand go slack, pulling it down, but Jimin holds on tighter, refusing to let go. With him unable to kiss you back, you press your lips to his cheek, down to his jawline, the sensitive skin just below his ear.

He wriggles beneath you, already overwhelmed with just that simple touch, but also tugs your entwined hands lower between his legs, shifting his hips with a needy whimper.

"You need to let go, Jiminie," you instruct softly, "let go of my hand so I can touch you."

Reluctantly, his fingers untangle from yours, instead gripping onto a handful of your duvet. You take this as a green light to go ahead, and fiddle with the button of his shorts, gently flicking your tongue and sucking gently at the soft point where his jaw meets his neck, a sign of what's to come.

Once you manage to undo his shorts you instruct him to take them off, sitting back to watch him restlessly shuffle out of them, legs lifting so he can grab the fabric while still lying down, folding them and placing them to his other side, close to the wall. After lying flat again, Jimin blinks owlishly at you, hand covering his crotch. You move it aside gently, back to the duvet, and he buries his flaming cheeks into the crook of your shoulder, toes wiggling in embarrassment.

He wears simple white cotton briefs, a narrow trail of near-translucent hair peeking out from above the waistband, legs twisting together self-consciously, though it only makes his straining erection more obvious. "You're gorgeous, Jiminie," you say honestly, "so perfect."

His legs go lax, though they don't shift apart, ankles crossed, though that's okay for now. Not wanting to spook him, you start slow, cupping him over his underwear, thumb locating his sensitive head easily due to the coin-sized wet patch of the fabric above it. His thighs tremble even at the light stimulation, and he shakily lifts his head, pouting and straining for another kiss.

Continuing your slow, shallow circles of your thumb over him to ease him into it, you capture his lips again, shifting the arm propping you up on the pillow so that your hand can cup his head, massaging his scalp and keeping him in place.

"Does it feel good, Jiminie?" you question when you part from him to take a breath.

His eyes stay shut, cherubic lashes fluttering as he sucks his swollen bottom lip into his mouth. "Feels really good," he confirms in a husky yet melodic voice. "Can I have some more?"

"Of course you can, my sweet prince," you allow warmly. Shifting your hand away from his crotch, you smooth your palm over his hipbone, and then up under his t-shirt to brush up his side, making him shiver. "Do you wanna take your shirt off too, or just your underwear?"

His mouth turns down slightly at being made to make a decision, as he blinks his eyes open blearily. "But you still have all your clothes on," he protests faintly.

"I can take my clothes off if it makes you feel comfortable," you offer easily, "it's up to you."

Jimin purses his lips to the side in thought. "Maybe...we both take our shirts off? I- I wanna see you too."

Clearly he hadn't thought it through too much, because his mouth drops open in upset shock when you detangle yourself from him to sit up, shucking your shirt off and helping him to lift off his.

"Am I keeping my shorts on?" you question, but he just shrugs cutely, looking up at you from below his lashes. You smile. "I'll leave them on then, this is about you. Jiminie, can I take your underwear off now?"

With a deep breath, he nods nervously, letting you slide them over his hips and down off his legs, leaving him bare to you. You can see the way his fingers tighten on the duvet, probably with the urge to cover himself again, but you're glad he doesn't

Resting back against his stomach, his cock drips clear fluid onto the tan skin, a glossy patch that you long to run your finger through. You're surprised at just how hard he is, the head a deeply flushed pink and a single vein running up the underside. He's thicker than most you've seen, if a little shorter, and there's a delicate curve to him that makes you long to have him inside you. Not today, though. For now, you simply lie back down beside him, bringing him into a kiss meant to distract.

Rather than going straight towards his dick, though it's probably aching for attention, you instead return your hand to his side, smoothing broad strokes over his overheating skin as your tongue and lips move against his slightly-parted mouth.

Sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and very lightly grazing your teeth, you simultaneously thumb at one of his dusky pink nipples, pulling a stuttered moan from his open mouth.

"I wan' you to touch me," Jimin makes out through gasped breaths, chest writhing as you continue to play with his sensitive peak.

"I am touching you," you retort simply.

"Down there!"

Unable to deny riling up the responsive boy, you let the tips of your fingers run down the centre of his chest, right to the bottom of his torso, before skating to the side and skimming down his trembling thigh, gripping the muscled flesh. "Here?" Jimin whines out a no, and you raise your hand higher, pointer finger pressing at his hip bone. "Here?"

Breaking away from your mouth, Jimin wriggles his head in a shake, calling your name unhappily.

Taking mercy, you suddenly reach over and wrap your fingers around his shaft, thumb pressing down on his weeping slit. "Here?"

His back arches and he sucks in a moan, hand reaching over to grip your wrist as his eyes clench tightly shut. "Y-yes," he cries helplessly, curling sideways towards you, head shifting so that his fevered cheek presses against your other hand on the pillow.

"That's it," you coo, stroking up to collect some of the pooling wetness to use as lubricant, heart swelling at the beautiful sounds falling from his parted lips. "I'll take care of you, yeah?"

He nods his head shakily, already seeming so far gone after less than a minute, panting, writhing as you tighten your grip around him just enough to provide more pleasure. "Take care of Minnie," Jimin chants mindlessly, rocking his hips into your grip.

With a fond smile, you sit up, taking your hand off him so you can lower yourself between his legs, parting them with both hands even as he kicks them out in frustration. "Just be patient," you chastise, "I said I'd go down on you, didn't I?"

His breath catches and eyes open wide, marveling at the sight of you lying between his legs. "O-okay," he stammers, swallowing hard. "It'll feel good too?"

"It'll feel even better," you promise, gripping him gently, "just tell me if it's too much."

With bated breath and blown pupils, Jimin waits as you teasingly press kisses up his length, following the raised outline of the vein.

It seems like he's calmed down enough, so you lick a bold stripe up the path you'd set, Jimin's moaned sigh like music to your ears. His thighs are tensed up on your shoulders, and you can see the way his lower abdomen flexes, muscles shifting beneath golden skin.

"Relax, Minnie," you say, "you're okay." He does his best to let his muscles go lax, throwing an arm over his eyes, and you take the chance to put your tongue on him again, this time slowly dipping it into the slit at his tip where precum pools, a burst of tanginess that you can't say you mind. His mouth dangles loosely open, lips a dark pink like his tip with all the blood that's rushed to it. He's beautiful.

"Alright?" you check in, and he gives a shallow nod, tilting his hips up in the search for more stimulation. You continue simply laving your tongue over him for a few moments, getting him used to it, before angling him over your mouth and wrapping your lips around his head, sucking lightly.

With a strangled moan, his legs close like clams on either side of you, back arching clean off the bed. His fingers fisted taut in the duvet, he rocks his upper half side-to-side, other hand clutching at the corner of the pillow. Shocked, you lift yourself off of him, concerned it was too much, but this gets even more of a reaction, a high, needy keen ripping out of his throat as his hips jerk up, hiccuping out a, "ple-ease."

"Oh, Minnie," you coo softly, "did you like it? I didn't want to overwhelm you."

When his arm lowers from across his face, it reveals begging eyes bright with tears. "'S good," he whines, bottom lip trembling, "just got a fright."

Your lips stretch into a disbelieving smile. "A fright? Why; because I sucked?"

One of his hands stretches wide, fingers making grabby motions. You use the hand not currently on his dick to hold onto it and bring it to your mouth, pressing an apologetic kiss to the back of his hand.

Jimin swallows and shakes his head. "C-cause it was so w-warm." The way he hiccups through his words, out of his mind with need and still so sweet, has you melting. "You can do it again, though. I want it."

Acquiescing, still with a comforting grip on his hand, you lower your mouth again, this time going deeper so that the flat of your tongue drags against his underside. His fingers tense around yours, but his legs go lax, instead beginning to rock his hips in place, like his body doesn't know what to do with the pleasure.

The weight of him on your tongue is enough to have you drooling, making the slide even easier as you bob slowly, sucking steadily. On every upstroke, your tongue catches and flicks at the underside of his head, and he jerks each time, breath catching and exhaling in stuttered moans.

He sounds so beautiful above you that you feel your own core heating in need, clenching your thighs with the urge for stimulation. But this is about him, so you push the thought aside and pull up off Jimin's cock so you can focus your attention at his head, which so far seems far more sensitive than the shaft.

It only takes a few deft laps and shallow bobs before his whimpering and squirming beneath you, unable to stay still. His eyes have long since clenched shut, brows knitting with a wide open mouth as he's overcome with pleasure.

You use the hand that holds him steady to jerk off what's not in your mouth, and a low, guttural moan falls out of his mouth, tapering up into a squeak as he suddenly gets harder and spurts into your mouth, convulsing as you lap up all the cum that spills from his tip, swallowing as you go. It's more than you'd usually expect from oral, and you imagine that's a pairing of it being his first time, as well as the fact that he didn't see the type to masturbate often.

He curls up in on himself when the pleasure turns to sharp overstimulation, and you release him, his spent cock lying against his thigh, and you give him a few moments of rest to come down, holding tightly onto his hand and rubbing comfortingly at the outer side of his leg with the other, feeling how strongly he shivers beneath you.

Once he finally calms down, taking deeper breaths, you swing your legs over the bed and stand up, patting the back of his hand as an indication to let go. "You can use my bathroom if you want, Jiminie. Or just take a nap here. I should give you some time."

"Wait," Jimin protests in a low pout, laboriously propping himself up to a sitting position. "Kisses?"

You beam, leaning down to press a fond kiss across his silken lips. "Happy?"

Jimin nods with a blissed-out smile, and you swallow a chuckle at his ruffled honey locks and flushed cheeks. "So happy."

"I'm glad to hear it, my sweet prince," you coo, "but if you want more kisses, I better go brush my teeth."

--

The second report comes and goes, approved. More and more days are met with rain as the seasons change, and gradually Jimin becomes more comfortable with you, the two of you making the choice one day to push your two beds together after Jimin had rolled out of your bed one too many times from falling asleep cuddling. He promises he'll come to you when he's ready to take the next step, but as your final month counts down, a dark cloud begins to hover over the two of you. The fact that he'll have to go home soon. Too soon.

You hate that you've got a mental countdown blaring in your mind, but speaking to Jimin about it makes it real, and so you promise yourself later, always later that you'll bring it up, letting yourself make him tea and breathe his scent and feel his lips on yours in ignorant bliss just a bit more.

That works until you don't have any laters left. That works until you sit on his bed with a cup of lukewarm tea, watching him pack his bags. "Are you looking forward to going back?" you ask in a small voice.

Jimin, looking like a vision even in a ratty pink t-shirt and plain shorts, pauses with an armful of textbooks. "I'm... I'm excited to see Tae again," he answers with a nostalgic smile. "We've been chatting online a bunch lately. He's going to pick me up from the airport."

You have to bite down hard on your lip to prevent the sting of tears. "Does he know? About us?"

With indecision clear on his face, Jimin runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the strands that always seem to fall on his face, long overdue for a haircut. "I- To be honest, I don't really know what to say. I don't even know what to say to you."

"About what?"

"About us," he emphasises, dropping his textbooks with a thud on the floor and sitting on top of his first filled suitcase. "We never really had a conversation about it, you know? I know we should've, but... I don't really know where we go from here."

You nod, staring into the murky depths of your now-unappetising tea. "Well... We know you have to go back to Korea. To argue your thesis."

"Defend my thesis," he corrects softly, "but yes. Other than that, though, I still need to go over it with my supervisor, there are a few rounds of editing and finalising. It- it's not like a week back to finish off. I'll be there for a while. Probably a couple months at minimum."

"Minimum? I guess you'll stay there."

Jimin rests his elbows on his knees, head ducked and propped up in his hands. "I- I know what I want to do, but I'm scared to ask the question."

You frown. "The question?"

He looks up, takes a deep breath. "If I... If I wanted to come back, would you wait for me?"

"Come back?" you repeat, barely breathing.

Jimin's eyes glint; he's trying not to cry. "I didn't wanna speak too soon, but the more I think about it, I don't think I can just leave and never come back. I'm in love with you, Y/n. For a long time, now."

Your nose prickles violently, and you let out a shaky breath. "I love you too, Jiminie, so much. Of course I'll wait. As long as you promise you will come back to me."

Jimin nods, brushing back his hair again. "I've been thinking about that too."

You furrow your brows, putting the mug of tea onto his nightstand. "Coming back?"

"A promise," he clarifies. "To show that you're the one for me. That I wanna be with you." He takes a breath to steady himself. "I want to do it tonight, before I go. Have sex."

You sit upright, eyes widening. "Are you sure? Jimin, that's a big deal."

"Like I said, I've been thinking about it. I'm ready, and there's nobody I'd rather do it with than you. I trust you, and... and I love you."

"I love you too," you reply softly, and it feels even more right to say the second time, an unfurling of pure joy in your heart.

"Can we do it now?" he asks immediately, brows lifting to emphasise his pleading puppy eyes.

"Jiminie, you haven't even finished packing-"

"That doesn't matter," he interjects, "I can do that tomorrow morning, the shuttle comes at 10. I need you now, Y/n." He stands up only to crouch at the bedside beside you, grasping your hands. "Take care of Minnie again."

Your breath leaves your lungs in one defeated sigh. Like always, you can't say no to him, not that you even want to. "Okay, Minnie. Let's go to my room."

Though you've gone down on him a few times after his first, Jimin hadn't stopped being so sensitive, and so as you lazily make out (Jimin a little more rushed than you), you let your hand dip underneath his shirt, flicking at a nipple with a thumb you'd wet in your mouth moments earlier. Like clockwork, he trembles under your ministrations, this time hunched on top of you, straddling your lap and bending to meet your mouth.

He's gotten far more confident at kissing, and you're in heaven as he holds your face in both hands, licking into your mouth but whimpering from your touch all the while.

With his legs on either side of your hips, you can feel his hardness pressing down on you, already so eager, and you can't help but sigh blissfully when he rocks his hips unconsciously.

"Minnie," you make out between kisses, "too many clothes."

He tries valiantly to remove his shirt while remaining firmly joined at the lips, huffing when he has to sit up to pull it off. You quickly follow suit, but take the added step of removing your bra.

The first time he's seen your breasts, Jimin's mouth drops open, a look of awe glimmering in his eyes. You arch your back, wanting nothing more than for those sinful lips to wrap around your stiff peaks.

"You're so beautiful, my love," he gushes in wonder.

"You can touch," you whisper, though really it's code for please touch.

Chest heaving, he cups your breasts with gentle hands, thumbs skimming over the sensitive nipples like you'd done to him. The electricity of his slightly calloused fingertips on your skin is sent right to your core, and you let out a shaky breath, his hands rising and falling with it.

"Good?" he questions softly, and you nod, sighing out your confirmation. Jimin blinks down at you, wetting his lips. "Can I...?"

Without a second's hesitation, you nod, hoping he means what you think he means. You're proven right when he ducks his head, hot mouth latching onto your right nipple. The contact sends a bolt of arousal through you and you whimper as he immediately begins to suck, hard.

"Jimin," you make out in a strangled voice, taken aback by his sudden vigor. "Oh, god, it's so go-"

"Minnie," he interrupts, bringing his face up to your neck without lifting his mouth so that he leaves a wet trail ran behind him, "it's Minnie."

You laugh breathily, but your grin drops away to a shocked moan as he hungrily laps at your skin, sucking lovebites over your pulse point in a way that has you arching your neck, desperate for more. "Fuck, Minnie, where did this come from?"

"Wanna make you feel good," you hear in a muffled sigh, feeling the vibration on your skin. With a boldness you hadn't associated with him before, Jimin reaches between you and rolls your other nipple between his fingers, grasping at the flesh and tugging roughly.

Though it feels better than you'd like to admit, something's wrong, and you pull him away. "Wait, wait," you ease, struggling to detach both his hand and mouth from you. Once he realises you want him off you, he sits up with the confused look of a kicked puppy. "Do you not like it?"

His hands hang limply at his sides, and you interlock your fingers to reassure him. "Minnie, how come you're acting like this? You've never been this way before."

He blinks, a dimpled line between his brows where he furrows them. "Because we're having sex," he answers in an uncertain tone, "and I wanted to make you feel good. Is it not right?"

Belatedly, you recall a conversation you'd had about a month ago, about his friend's sexual habits. Poor Jimin really had internalised one man's preferences as the rule of thumb and taken it to heart. "Minnie," you say in a soft voice, and his face crumples, sending a spike of pain through your heart. "It's not wrong, it's just not...us, is it? Don't you want it to be gentle?"

Jimin sniffs, turning his head to the side, but not before you glance a tear tracking down his cheek. "I- Yeah, I like gentle. But Taehyungie-"

"Was Taehyung in love with the people he was having sex with?" you cut in to ask. "I don't want you to fuck me, Minnie, I want you to make love to me."

Sat on your lap, he looks so small, sniffling away. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright," you coo, "don't think about how anyone else does it. Let's just do what feels good for us. You wanna do that?"

Jimin nods with a rueful pout, quietly leaning down so that he was lying on your bare chest, face tucked into the crook of your neck.

"Oh, sweetie," you murmur into the waves of his honey-blonde hair, a hand coming down to rub over his back. "We'll have all the time in the world when you get back to try new things if you want. I just want to make this one special for you, yeah? What do you wanna do, Minnie? Do you want to be on top or do you want to lie down?"

He shifts, relaxing within your embrace. When he speaks, you have to strain to hear it. "I- I thought maybe both of us lying down. Under the covers so it's comfy." He lifts his head back to meet your eyes. "Can we still face each other?"

You brush back his hair with a fond smile, nodding. "Of course. Do you wanna finish getting undressed and we can both get under the covers, hm?"

Your duvet is the thinnest possible one you could find, but even so, it feels like a furnace when the two of you curl up, lying on your sides to face each other.

Jimin seems considerably more calm and content with his setup, giggling as you plant kisses all over his face.

"Happy?" you ask, just to be sure, and Jimin nods decisively, eyes bright no longer with tears but with warmth and love. "Ready?"

He nods again, humming in confirmation, so you run a hand over his shoulder, down his side and dipping over his crotch to take a hold of him, being able to better see his pleasured expressions as you stroke him to full hardness.

Having his face so close, though, is too much of a temptation, and so you lean forward to capture his lips again, deeper this time, hooking a leg over his hips.

One of his hands comes to rest on your hip, and he sighs beautifully into your mouth. "So happy," he mumbles, and your heart leaps as his lips form the words.

Reaching between your spread legs to gather some wetness - which is more abundant than you were expecting, though you've been aching for stimulation down there for a while - you use it to slick Jimin's cock up, preparing him for an easier entry.

His breathing stutters with a hitched moan, already starting to shiver. You smile at his responsiveness, before focussing on lining him up, head dipping just slightly into you.

You can tell the exact moment Jimin realises he's inside you by the way he goes stock still, holding his breath in anticipation. "Still okay?" you confirm, and he mumbles the affirmative.

Unable to keep kissing as you push your hips down on him, you simply pant into his mouth, moaning as he fills you out.

The elegant upwards curve of his cock means that it presses along your top wall, making your thighs jerk when his tip hits your g-spot. "You're so good inside me, Minnie," you praise against his lips, groaning throatily when you finally take all of him, "do I feel good?"

He bites his lip with a whimper, hand on your hip moving to grasp clumsily at your ass cheek, like he wants to make sure he stays buried inside. "It's so tight," he gasps, "I- oh god, it's amazing, I love you so much."

You giggle lightly at his odd choice of timing on the love confession, inadvertently clenching around him which makes Jimin let out a stuttered high keen, curling inwards and jerking his hips to thrust shallowly.

You hiss in a breath, not expecting him to move so soon, but the feeling of being full, of it being Jimin hitting those spots inside you, is too addictive to stay still for much longer.

You start rutting against him in a slow rock, so that he doesn't quite slip all the way out of you before you grind back down, and his hand tenses on the meat of your ass, mouth falling slack.

With no urge to pick up the pace, you simply let Jimin and you enjoy the sensations of being connected on such an intimate level, nosing his chin back so that you can lap tenderly at the skin of his neck, picking a sensitive spot just above his collarbone to softly suck a reminder, something he can take back to Korea with him.

The thought of him leaving makes your heart sink, and to fill the void you begin to pick up your pace, building a delicious heat low in your stomach that has you moaning every breath. "M-minnie, I'm getting close, can you cum with me?"

"Y-yeah, I wanna cum. With- With you," he pants with a full-body shudder, hand leaving your ass to slide up to your back, pressing between your shoulder blades to hold you to him, gasping prettily into the air until you lift your head away from his neck to join your lips again, kissing him like it's oxygen.

You take the chance to slip a hand down and rub at your aching clit, and the extra sensation has you bearing down on him, causing him to start meeting your thrusts halfway.

Like a chain reaction, the pleasure between the two of you skyrockets until you meet your edge, toes curling and rocking needily against him, wanting to feel him fall apart too.

He cums with a high shout, gripping desperately onto your shoulder as he rides the intense waves, ebbing as you throb rhythmically around him with the force of your orgasm.

The two of you pant, mouths connected but too blissed out to properly kiss, and slowly your hips still, bodies wracked with aftershocks for a few minutes of nothing but the sound of you catching your breath.

Surprisingly, it's Jimin that speaks up first, eyes at half-mast as he nuzzles his nose against yours. "Can we stay like this? Sleep like this?"

In his vulnerable eyes, you read the fear of reality, of the fact that he's really leaving tomorrow. You can't say no to Jimin, never have been able to, but neither do you want to.

Instead, you simply press one last, tired kiss across his swollen lips. "Goodnight, Jiminie. I love you."

An almost inaudible sigh of relief. "I love you too."

--

It’s a day off.

That doesn’t mean you sleep in, though. You don’t know of a single person on the reserve that has been able to stay unconscious past sunrise without medical intervention. The chirps and calls of birds, buzzing of insects and drone of cicadas begins the moment the sun rises, sometimes even earlier, and while the cover of towering canopies filters out most of the light in the dense rainforest, the lodge camp is on an open meadow, and so you can’t avoid the heat that quickly sets in.

You’re happy to be up early, though, because you're waiting for someone.

You always take this time of the morning to sit on the porch and drink a cup of tea, but today is different. You've already set up the spare room with a blow-up mattress, keeping the two single beds pushed together in your room. The fridge is stocked thanks to an antsy trip to Quito yesterday, and all night you were filled with restless energy.

Now, though, a sense of calm washes over you like deja vu. A contented warmth that blooms inside you when you finish your hot tea, eyes on the far end of the campground where you can see two figures chatting back and forth.

You stand, but you don't rush over, knowing they'll come to you. The short blonde, paler after returning from Korea, and at his side, a taller, dark-haired figure. Even though you've never met this second man, you recognise the boxy smile he wears as he glances around the campsite in wonder. The same smile that you'd first seen in a framed photo in Jimin's room.

A hand on his friend's back, Jimin points out your cabin, his eyes finding yours, crinkling shut with the radiant beam that stretches across his face.

Home.

[taetaesbaebaepsae]

Skinship (pjm)

Summary: Today has been a particularly bad day, and Jimin doesn’t know how to help, so he tries the only thing he knows.

a gifted commission for @xxowk​ from our mutual friend, I hope you enjoy!

Rating: General, pure fluff

Warnings: depictions of anxiety symptoms and an incoming anxiety attack, reader has negative thoughts

Word Count: 1368

You and Jimin have been friends for a couple of years, and it’s taken some time for you to get used to how affectionate he is, but after a while, you’d grown used to him taking your hand when you walk down the street or the way he bumps against your shoulder as you sit on the couch. 

He knows that you feel a little anxious about a lot of touching, and so he doesn’t push too much, especially on your bad days.

Today, however, is a particularly bad day. You’re nervous and fidgety on the couch, biting at your lip, and he doesn’t know how to help.

“I know it’s movie day, but do you think we could reschedule?” You ask, your tone low and shaky.

"Yeah. Yeah, of course."

You bite your lip, leg jiggling, but you don't ask him to go.

Jimin glances at you from the corner of his eye. "Can I...can I help?"

You shake your head, looking down at your hands clasped in your lap. "I don't know."

Jimin shifts so that he's facing you on the couch. "Y/n, can I try?"

You look up at him, meeting his eyes for the first time that day. 

"Please," you whisper, and it makes his heart flutter.

He reaches out slow, puts his arm around your shoulders and when you stiffen he stops, just leaves his arm over your shoulders for a moment, waiting.

"It's okay," he murmurs, watching your face or the side of it, what he can see. It makes his heart race a little, how cute you are, but he pushes it away, focuses on how your muscles finally loosen and then he pulls you closer, against his chest.

You stiffen again but he just holds you, quietly, trying to make his breath slow and even.

Your breath, which has been coming fast and short, is matching his as you finally rest your head against his chest.

That's how it starts, this thing you have with Jimin. One bad day and now twice a week you end up on the couch, listening to his heartbeat and sometimes he hums, a melody you don't know but it sounds comforting. Sometimes you watch television, the hum of it in the background making things seem easier. Most of the time, though, it's just his heartbeat, his breath, his murmured words of comfort.

After the third or fourth time, he starts rubbing your shoulder or trailing his fingers down your back, and that helps too, helps your mind from racing.

It isn't until the 10th time that you start to worry.

Jimin has always been such a good friend to you, always been so understanding when you were unable to go out because of your anxiety, staying home with you or making excuses for you so you didn't have to face that.

Now, you feel like he's not getting anything out of this friendship. He must be bored, sitting here with you for hours like this.

So on the 10th visit,  when your thoughts starts running in circles and your body starts to fidget and Jimin moves to pull you to him, you place a hand on his chest to stop him.

"Oh," he says softly and there's something like hurt on his face and fuck you've ruined everything like you always do and you put your face in your hands.

“No no no,” he says, voice still quiet and soft. “It’s okay, Y/n. I just want to help. I can...I can go, if that-”

“No,” you say, voice thick but tone emphatic. “No, please, don’t go.”

You don’t know how to say it, don’t know how you feel enough even to verbalize it.

Jimin draws in a slow breath through his nostrils. "Can I hold your hand?" His pinky touches yours, just lightly,  and you nod slowly, still fighting tears.

Jimin threads his fingers through yours, taking his time, watching as your shoulders stiffen and then finally relax.

"It's okay," he murmurs. "Let's watch that show you like." He shifts to get the remote and you tighten your grip on his hand.

"I'm not going anywhere, Y/n," he comforts you, and you relax again, melting into the couch.

You're still fidgeting, your leg bouncing, but you're not ripping the skin off your bottom lip like you had been, and your thoughts have softened to a dull roar in the back of your head.

This time, he doesn’t pull you into his arms but you slowly move there anyway, eventually resting your head on his chest like all the other times before. You end up dozing off there, and you wake up in the middle of the night, alone, a blanket draped over you.

Just like that, the roar is back, all the things you’d been able to keep at bay with Jimin holding you swirling through your brain again. 

You’re not good enough. You don’t deserve friends, especially ones as sweet and self sacrificing as Jimin. You aren’t enough aren’t enough aren’t enough.

It takes a week of you not responding to his texts for Jimin to crack. He missed you, both as a friend and as someone he could hold in his arms and forget about the world for a few hours with, and he doesn’t know what that means but he knows that it means something to him. He’d thought it meant something to you too.

“Y/n,” he says, louder than he’d meant to when he rings the doorbell and you don’t answer.

He knows you’re there, saw you post a selfie from your bedroom after getting home from work. He’d seen all over your social media and maybe it was because he was worried and maybe it was because he missed seeing your face but now, he isn’t going to leave without an answer. It seems to take you forever to open the door, and when you do,. He can tell right away that it’s one of your bad days.

Your lip looks swollen from you biting it, your hair messy from running your fingers through it.

“Y/n,” he says again, more softly this time. “Can I come in?”

You open the door without speaking, and he follows and closes it behind him.

“Did I do something wrong? Last time I was here?” Jimin asks, feeling nervous and fidgety himself. He wants to bite at the cuticle of his thumb but he stops himself.

You shake your head, still wordless.

Jimin just stands there for a moment. “You….you don’t want to see me anymore?”

You stay silent and his heart drops and he tells himself not to be hurt, tells himself he’s being too sensitive, but it doesn’t work.

“Why don’t you want to be my friend anymore?” 

“I don’t deserve you,” you say flatly, fiddling with the sleeves of your sweater.

“What? What do you mean-” Jimin takes a step toward you and then stops, takes a deep breath and sits next to you on the edge of the couch cushion instead.

“You have better things to do than to come over here and put up with me when I’m not feeling well,” you continue, not looking at him.

“I don’t have anything better to do. This is the best thing I do,” Jimin insists. He wants to cup your face in his hands, wants to make you look at him but he knows that’s too much so he just touches his pinky to yours again. “Y/n...I care about you. I like holding your hand...holding you. It makes me feel better, too.”

You startle just slightly but he doesn’t move his hand, waits.

You look up at him, and there’s this smile that breaks across your face that makes his heart do a backflip in his chest. 

“Really?”

“Really,” Jimin says firmly, and he means it.

You end up in your old position with your head on Jimin’s chest and him humming softly to you, and Jimin ignores how his heart beats faster when you cling to his shirt, how something like longing rushes through him when he has to leave you.

That’s for another time, when you’re ready.

[kingreywrites]

Kiss It Better?

@runningracingdancingchasing​​

Fandom: Tangled

Word Count: 3426

Prompt: “Kiss it better” kiss

Summary: "Kiss it better"... Rapunzel liked that idea, she decided. It might not be magic, not like her hair had been, but giving love and affection to comfort someone who was hurting was definitely its own form of healing.

Note: I haven’t posted anything in a while oops fdsghg Thank you Bex for the prompt!! I hope you’ll like this!! This is half fluff half hurt/comfort so everyone should be happy :’) 

Read on ao3

"Ouch," Eugene said quietly, startling Rapunzel out of her concentration as he sucked in a breath. 

They were in the library, their favourite place since they had been welcomed in the castle less than one month ago. They had a common passion for reading, though their tastes widely differed, and they both loved to spend quiet afternoons in each other's company, reading whatever story interested them that day. Today, Rapunzel had been learning a lot about the history of medicine, reading passionately an immense volume detailing the progress humanity made in this field - at least, until Eugene broke the silence. When she raised her head to look at him, she saw him pouting in the direction of one of his hands, more precisely towards his raised pinky. 

"Are you okay?" she asked worriedly, putting her book down and scooching over to be closer to him. 

"Yeah, I just got a papercut," Eugene grumbled. "These are the worst, such a tiny cut shouldn't have the right to sting that much." 

Gently, Rapunzel took his hand to inspect the wound. It really was nothing more than a little line on the tip of his finger. She never had to deal too much with papercuts; even if she did hurt herself during the day, she had always known that by the evening, she would sing to Gothel, and would heal every of her own ailments at the same occasion. But that wasn't an option anymore, of course. 

"You okay Sunshine?" Eugene said, interrupting her thoughts. She must have looked a little too intense - thinking about Gothel always did that to her. "You can always kiss it better if it's worrying you so much," he grinned. 

She frowned at him, his hand still in hers. "I'm pretty sure a kiss won't make it better. Actually, I don't recommend getting your wounds kissed at all, do you know the-" 

"Oh no, that's not- It's more of a… belief thing, I guess? I don't think a kiss can literally heal wounds, don't worry," Eugene explained awkwardly, and Rapunzel felt her cheeks darken at this. Of course Eugene wasn't seriously suggesting something like that. She should have known she was missing something - there was so much she still didn't know, so much she hadn't lived through, and she didn't feel like she would be able to catch up any time soon. Every place, every sentence seemed to hold a new concept she had never heard of before.

"Ah," she tried to chuckle, "of course." 

"Hey, it's okay," he smiled softly, his free hand gently pushing her short hair behind her ear. "It's something you do with kids mostly, to distract them from little hurts they might have. You're right though, you shouldn't kiss the wounds directly." 

She nodded emphatically, but kept herself from reciting all the exciting stuff she had learnt on medicine and bacterias today. She wanted Eugene to finish his explanation first. 

"Basically, a lot of kids cry after getting hurt because they got scared, not because they're still in pain. Applying a "magical" kiss distracts them, and that makes them stop crying most of the time. Well, if the kid isn't stubborn," Eugene muttered. He was definitely speaking from experience here. 

"It's not really magic then but it's... comfort?"

"Yeah exactly. It's both a distraction and a way to show a hurt kid affection, to make them feel better. I said it mostly as a joke," Eugene added.

Rapunzel hummed, mulling it over. This was… This was really nice, she decided. It might not be magic, not like her hair had been, but giving love and affection to comfort someone who was hurting was definitely its own form of healing.

Eugene's hand was still in hers, though she had lowered it on her lap during their little discussion. Slowly, she raised his hand again, smiling at the way he let her do it, and guided it to her lips. She put a soft kiss on the arch of his knuckles, eyes closed, thinking about all the love she felt for him. When she lowered his hand and opened her eyes, she saw the way Eugene looked at her, his cheeks bright red and his mouth half open.

"Have I done something wrong?" she asked worriedly. "Oh, maybe the kiss should be closer to the wound-"

"N- no, no," he stuttered out, "it was perfect, I..."

The red on his cheeks intensified and, with some amusement, Rapunzel understood that he was more moved than embarrassed.

"Are you feeling better?" she asked cheekily.

"Yep," he squeaked, "definitely."

"Good," she smiled, before taking the opportunity his distraction was offering to press her lips against his, drawing a soft noise from him. Her hands sneaked around his neck, and his own ended around her waist, any thought of papercuts - or reading, for that matter - forgotten.

------

Though Rapunzel knew the trip to the Dark Kingdom was dangerous, and that the future of her kingdom was at stake, she couldn’t help but think that life on the road was really exciting. She discovered so many new things each day! And, even if it always made Cass grumpy, stopping to explore was one of Rapunzel's favourite things to do. 

That was also why she treasured her dates with Eugene so much - not only did she love spending time with him without anyone else, but he also always made sure Rapunzel would be able to explore the most interesting places around. She sometimes worried he would grow bored of seeing her run everywhere, but he kept assuring her it wasn't the case - and going by the smile he always had when looking at her, she tended to trust him on this. 

Today was one of those great days. They were currently making their way into a really cool cave Rapunzel had spotted, and they had both gotten a little wet because it had been hidden away by a small waterfall - they sneaked behind it thanks to a narrow path leading to it. Eugene had grumbled about his hair, but he was cute when he did that, and he still followed her in despite the splashing water. 

"Uh, Sunshine," he called when she rushed inside. "Careful, it's probably slippe-" 

The last part of his warning was left unheard as Rapunzel slipped on the wet floor with a yelp, and fell heavily on her hands and knees. It stung. 

"I'm okay!" she exclaimed, grimacing as she got up again. Eugene was already next to her, and he gently took her arm to help her straighten up. "Ouch," she muttered when her knees contested said straightening up. 

"Come on, it's drier back there," Eugene noted, before guiding her further into the cave. 

She felt like she was walking like a penguin, trying to not bend her knees too much to avoid making it hurt more. The cave wasn't even that fun, or mysterious, she thought with a pout. Finally, Eugene helped her sit on a bigger rock, and kneeled before her extended legs. 

His eyes flickered up. "Can I...?" he asked, gesturing to her now dirty and slightly wet dress. 

"Of course," Rapunzel smiled - Eugene had seen way more of her body than just her knees, but she loved that he always made sure she was okay with whatever he was doing. 

Gently, Eugene rolled up the bottom of her skirt. He had to tug a little when he got to her knees, because it had stuck to her skin. Her skin probably broke in the fall, Rapunzel understood. 

"So? What's your pronostic, doc?" she joked as he inspected the wounds. 

"Your odds aren't good," Eugene declared dramatically, searching through his satchel, "but I think we can still save your legs." 

"Oh thank god," Rapunzel laughed, leaning forwards to see the scratches on her skin. One was a little deeper than the other, but it was nearly nothing. Eugene showed her the bandages he had packed triumphantly, and she laughed again. "Do you always carry that on you?" 

"Hey, I know my public! Although, it's not often that you're the one falling Sunshine." 

He took his cantine too, and poured water on the wounds, probably to get rid of the dirt and the pebbles. Rapunzel hummed quietly as he worked, mulling over what he said - he was right, she might be a little clumsy, but with her hair, rare were the occasions when she couldn't catch herself. 

There were worse situations to be in, though. The sunlight was filtered by the waterfall, illuminating the cave with a soft, dark blue colour. It was as if night had fallen in the middle of the day, and there were only the two of them in the entire universe. Eugene's slightly wet hair seemed even darker here, but his tongue popping out as he concentrated on her also made him look adorable. Rapunzel had come to explore this cave in search of adventure and mystery, but to have Eugene on his knees before her, taking care of her, loving her - that was perhaps the greatest treasure this cave could have ever possessed. 

"It's all good," he grinned, proud of himself. 

"Not exactly," she smiled. 

"Really? 

"Kiss it better?"

Eugene raised his head to observe for a few seconds. Without taking his eyes off her, he placed a soft and quick kiss on the top of her right knee, then on her left one, his skin warm against hers.

"And now?" he asked, putting his hands on the rock around her legs to get up and be closer to her. "Is it better?"

"I may need another kiss," she breathed, voice drowned by the rushing water and the feel of his lips against hers.

------

Rapunzel was thinking about these moments, right now. About the soft and careful kisses in the library, when their relationship was still so new, and they didn't quite know how to say I love you yet. About Eugene's tongue and his hands and his hips, all pressing against her during one of their rare moments of privacy on the road, cold drops of water falling on their heated skin. 

She was also thinking about the way Eugene's eyes smiled when he was happy; about the blush on his cheeks she knew exactly how to provoke, the laugh in his chest she could feel if he was close enough. She was thinking about it, because right now, Eugene didn't look happy at all, and she didn't like it when he wasn't. 

"Hey hey hey Rapunzel," he called her from above, sounding more scared than she had ever heard him, "stay with me please okay? Just- Just breathe, it's gonna be fine, I swear." 

Eugene always babbled a lot when he was freaking out. She found it adorable, really, but here, he seemed terrified, and she wanted to know what was wrong. Why was he- Why was he above her? No, wait, why was she laying on the ground? 

She tried to say… anything, really, but she felt something press harshly against her shoulder, and the intense pain that erupted from it took her breath away. For a second, she couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear anything beyond the fast beating of her heart, before the world slammed back into focus, too bright, too loud, too painful. The sun was shining right into her eyes, it felt, and everything was nauseatingly hot - especially her shoulder, pulsing with a pain she didn't understand. There were voices all around her, and she heard Eugene snap at someone to back off, and she- the weight came back on her shoulder, and she gasped, feeling too tired to do anything else. 

"I'm sorry Sunshine, I'm so sorry," Eugene said quickly, something breaking in his voice. "You're gonna be fine but I need to do this, okay? I'm sorry, I know it hurts." 

"S'okay," Rapunzel croaked with difficulty, her throat dry. Eugene looked about to cry, and she tried to move her other hand to cup his cheek, but only her fingers twitched. Huh. 

Eugene's eyes left her to look at something she couldn't see without moving and, to be honest, she didn't intend to move at all if no one forced her. She was so tired. She could feel her eyelids flickering, her vision starting to blur, but she didn't want to make Eugene even sadder by falling asleep on him. His frown was only cute when she knew he was playing it up. 

Her head hurt. She could feel a slick warmth spreading under her shoulder, and she wondered what happened to the trip in town she was sure to have planned for today. She loved talking with the Coronans directly, and Eugene always managed to accompany her as a "security detail", so she would never miss it for anything. She was exhausted, though. Maybe it could wait for tomorrow... 

"No no no no, Sunshine, Rapunzel, hey." Her right shoulder -the one that didn't hurt- was shaken roughly, and she had to blink open the eyes she hadn't even realised she had closed. "Yes, look at me, you need to keep your eyes open until the doctor arrives, can you do that for me Sweetheart?" 

She tried to hum, but she wasn't sure he heard her. All around them, other people were moving, talking too loudly and too quickly for her to follow. She was... She was lying in the street? Eugene gently pushed aside her hair, but his usually white Captain glove had specks of red on it. Did he- no, she was the one who got hurt, she was pretty sure of that. Her shoulder hurt. But she couldn't- she didn't remember what happened.

"Eugene-" she gasped, feeling like she couldn't breathe right.

"I'm here, I'm right here Sunshine." He plastered the most unconvincing smile on his face, but she could see tears building up in his eyes. "I'm not leaving you I promise."

"I…" she tried, brain scrambling to find anything that could make Eugene look happier. 

She hated it when he was sad. She hated it when she was the reason for his sadness, because if there was one person she never wanted to upset, it was Eugene. But as long as she was hurt, she also knew he wouldn't be able to cheer up. 

"May- Maybe kiss it better?" she whispered hoarsely, blinking against the stars in her vision.

Eugene laughed tearfully. Her mission was somewhat accomplished, she thought with a small smile.

For a brief moment, she thought he wouldn't do it; then he leant over her gently, the sun illuminating his hair as his lips found hers with a tentative softness. Comfort. She remembered that this was the goal, to offer love and affection, to help overcome the pain. And, although this pain was still there, Rapunzel wanted to believe it was working, because she felt infinitely better when he kissed her. The kiss tasted salty. Eugene was crying, or maybe it was her, she wasn't sure. All too quickly, he ended it, leaving a piece of his heart with her.

She smiled, or at least tried to. "All better now," she intended to say, but her own words were lost to her when her vision tunnelled. Eugene cried out for her, and she wished so badly she could answer him, but her consciousness was playing a dirty fight, and she didn't even remember losing it.

------

Rapunzel woke up to whispers. The world was far less confusing, in this instant; there was no bright light, no burning pain, no loud voices - nothing but the quiet of the night… and these whispers. At first, she thought they were prayers, low and intense requests to be listened to. However, as she concentrated, through the mist covering her mind - as she listened, she understood that they were apologies. 

She understood that it was Eugene, holding her right hand in both of his, softly asking for her forgiveness, voice so quiet it felt like he didn't want to be heard. 

Despite the exhaustion, Rapunzel opened her eyes, feeling how heavy they still were. She breathed in deeply, and her shoulder twinged, but the pain was dull compared to earlier. She glanced to her right, and saw Eugene hunched over, looking at her hands as he muttered strings of apologies. He wasn't in his Captain uniform - just his regular clothes, and he looked... He looked small. Tired, too, even though she couldn't see his face. 

"This shouldn't have happened," he breathed, squeezing her hand tighter. "I should- I should have protected you better. I'm sorry," he repeated again. 

There were a lot of things she wanted to say. She wanted to tell him that no one could predict these kinds of things, and that no matter the protection, someone who wanted her dead could always find a way to harm her. She wanted to tell him that she loved how he trusted her, she loved that he never tried to coddle her like other people in her life did, and she knew that, despite how scared he was right now, he would never do anything to impair her freedom. She wanted to tell him that this was a good thing. She wanted to tell him that she loved him. 

"Hey," she said instead, her voice so hoarse she sounded like a grandma. Eh, she did her best. 

Eugene's head snapped up, and his eyes widened visibly when they met hers. A myriad of emotions played on his face, the guilt and the joy and the fear all mixing together for an instant, until a bright and disbelieving smile broke on his face. 

"Rapunzel," he breathed out, biting his lips as he held her hand tighter and leant to be closer to her. "I- Hi," he laughed, though it looked like a sob. "You're okay." 

She grinned as best as she could, revelling in the way he immediately cupped her cheek, like he always did. 

"Love you," she murmured, and it was all it took for his emotions to get the better of Eugene. His face contorted as he fought it, but it was too late; he lowered his face on her bed when the first tear fell, shaking slightly. 

"I thought- I- I'm so sorry, Sunshine," he said, chest heaving as he looked at her again. His face was a mess. There were dark circles under his eyes, a flow of tears staining his cheeks, and, most of all, he still seemed terrified that she might close her eyes again, not wake up this time. 

Eugene wasn't supposed to look like this. Eugene should be smiling, because she never wanted him to suffer from anything. But he was hurting right now, and if she couldn't make everything right again, she could at least make it better. 

She could bring him comfort. 

Rapunzel breathed, and used all her energy to raise herself slightly on her right arm. She didn't go far, but Eugene immediately came to support her, and before he could try to put her back on the bed, she raised the arm that was supporting her quickly, and latched it around his neck. 

He didn't let her fall. She had known he wouldn't. 

But now that she was close enough, she crossed the remaining space between them, and gently kissed the top of his cheek, feeling the salty taste of his tears on her lips. His eyes fluttered closed, and she felt his arms hug her tenderly, as if he was afraid she would disappear. 

"Are you kissing my tears better?" he asked quietly, holding her tightly. 

"Is it... Is it working?" she said, feeling now tired as she rested her head on his shoulder, feeling safe and sound in his arms. 

"Yes." His breath tickled the skin of her neck. Gently, he helped her lie down again, and she was too exhausted to say anything. "It's definitely working," he whispered. 

His hand was playing with strands of her hair, soothing her as she was already half-asleep. She smiled, because she could already see that this was true, that he was feeling better now just from her kiss. And she would kiss him over and over and over again if he wanted, because she loved being able to sooth his hurts just by being there for him, just like he could sooth hers by being there for her. 

She would do it after sleeping, though. For that night, she rested, because she knew she'd have the opportunity to love him tomorrow too, and that she'd do it for as long as it was possible.

[parcy-anda]

I adore the idea of Ruv & Sarv together both platonically and romantically,  and that goes double for Whitty & Carol, but I’m also a piece-of-trash multi-shipper with a strong lean towards fluff.

Heads up: no ideas are my own — the inspiration came from  this. >v<; I just wanted to shake off some dust and enjoy what I thought was a sweet concept.

My silly rambles are below the cut if you’re interested, but I’m super awkward and will go hide now.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

I was a bit conflicted about posting art of these two, as from what I’ve read, drama following the mods ruined these guys+ for their respective creators but I keep up on some tags out of curiosity, and seeing the post linked above made me want to try something that condensed most of their ideas. I'm a sucker for anything soft and wholesome.

While I did visual research for the characters, dinghies and an intentional + aesthetically-appropriate design for Ruv based on a few species of cold-water [comb] jellies, I had no idea/was-too-stubborn-to-further-research how to draw [jellyfish] sirens or how to handle the lighting effects for a pic like this — and it shows.

Finally: GEEBUS, I don’t know if this is even worth sharing, but as prep, I did sketch a rough concept of siren!Ruv based on visual research. I have no idea if I’ll try to polish this concept, as while Jellies are often inherently frilly, it seems painfully out-of-place for him. @v@

Update: I wrote a silly ficlet to follow up this pic. I’ll hide it here, rather than put it on display in a fresh post. =v=; Apologies for address-repetition, rambling, and the obliviousness trope but if anyone actually likes it, sweetness.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Whitty kept his eyes on the stars, of which there was no shortage out here. Beyond the light, passing swells, he'd heard the gentle splashing against the boat, and felt something slippery and mitten-like wrap around his shoe. His foot twitched, but he didn't pull away. He knew who it was; after, all, they'd agreed to meet here... in this general area. The open ocean provided few landmarks, but they'd settled on a few miles northeast of the dock Whitty always started from.

It was still really, really strange. He was getting better about trusting the siren, but jellyfish are jellyfish, and he was in no hurry to be stung, accidentally or otherwise. Without moving, he chanced a glimpse to the other end of the boat — Ruv was looking down at something. The sentient bomb heard a gravelly shift — oh... more "treasures".

Lately, the gelatinous merman had been in the odd habit of bringing stones and coral fragments with him, and this time, he'd brought a bucketful. Whitty stifled a hissing chuckle at what he could now tell was bright green plastic. Ruv must have taken some child's beach toy from somewhere. The only thing he didn't really get was why.

Ruv wasn't much of a talker, and was stone-faced as they came. All the bomb-man could tell was that the siren seemed to bring these things for him... and the slight glow of his bioluminescence flared every time Whitty looked at him or said so much as a word. And today, he was ALIGHT. Whitty tensed as he felt Ruv squeeze his shoe tighter... was this in his head, or did the siren look nervous?

Carefully, Ruv lifted the bucket out of the water completely, over the edge and placed it squarely on the floor of the dinghy by Whitty's outstretched leg... and stared. At Whitty. In the glowing, ember-y eyes. Inky drops of "sweat" seeped through the sphere of his head and dripped back down to the fuse... an anxious laugh tumbled between his teeth set in a forced smile.

"Thanks, man." He finally managed to say, glancing briefly at the bucket before looking back at Ruv, who hadn't moved, save for the lightest lapping  against the underside of the boat, to keep his balance and place. Whitty usually didn't mind the stargazing, but then, it had never been this quiet or... intensely awkward. You're making it weird, man. Whitty thought to himself worriedly, but gave it a few seconds.

Things did not get better. Silent as before, Ruv's behaviour drastically shifted once more. The glow faded, he sank out of Whitty's view, and the grip on his shoe loosened before disappearing completely. Just slightly alarmed, Whitty planted most of his weight in the middle of the small boat, before stretching his neck to look out over the edge — the siren was still there, face half-submerged and, by the angle of the lone, now-barely luminous eye, not quite facing the boat. With just a crescent moon to light the seascape, Whitty was relieved to see anything... if the glow had wholly vanished, he would have been impossible to distinguish from the water.

"... what did I do, now?" Whitty sighed, trying not to sound too annoyed. He was certainly intrigued by the merman, he wouldn't keep coming back to visit otherwise. They could probably be really good friends if Ruv would actually communicate. But he didn't. He always kept Whitty wondering, and the bomb hated that. He hated not knowing what to expect.

When Ruv stayed silent and with his back to the dinghy, Whitty huffed quietly and turned his attention to the bucket. It was quite the assortment, this time. Some where rough, some smooth, some glossy, some blue, some... very, very round. He picked up that oddball, and his eyes widened as he realized what it was. It was a pearl, a black one, and a pretty good size.

"Okay, w-why? Why do you keep bringing me stuff like this?" He sputtered, holding up the pearl and bucket. He'd tried asking questions before, but seldom got normal or satisfactory answers. He hoped this time would be different.

He got a reaction, at least: he caught the eye angling slightly back toward him, and a flicker of light returning. He could have sworn he saw the mouth twitch, though mostly into a frown. When Ruv's hands weighed delicately on the top of the stern, Whitty sat back in an effort to keep the boat level. Taking in what body language he could, Whitty saw now, just how tired Ruv appeared to be, as if it was all he could do to keep his one eye open. With a sense of urgency, Whitty dragged himself back to reality, gesturing emphatically as he asked again: "Why? What's this for? Use your words, man."

Immediately, Ruv's eye narrowed and his slight frown deepened, prompting a small flinch from the bomb. Whitty was fully expecting to be stung, and braced himself for it, eyes closed. He nearly jumped out of his skin when instead, he heard a THUD against the dinghy's edge. Then again, and again. Opening his eyes, he saw Ruv repeatedly, quite deliberately, throwing his forehead into the side of the boat. Apparently, he was frustrated, too.

Whitty was about to tell the siren to cut it out when it suddenly stopped. Ruv's head was now set still against the stern, shoulders rising, then falling in a quiet sigh, before he rested his chin on the rim between his hands. The face Whitty took for 'tired' before now simply looked defeated. The bomb-headed young man refrained from saying anything, realizing words were only flustering the merman, but he knew Ruv could talk. They'd talked before... mostly Ruv just said he wasn't going to sting Whitty, but still, Ruv had spoken. There was no point in acting like he couldn't.

So lost was he in his thoughts, he'd hardly noticed himself nearing the boat's edge. For a moment, he thought he'd leaned in on his own, as if to listen closely for an answer, but... no. The movement had been completely subconscious. Oh, f- this isn't some legit-siren shit Ruv's pulling, right? Probably not, hopefully not. I mean, I'm definitely in control of my thoughts. He was snapped out of those thoughts by another sigh from Ruv, even though he had yet to say a word.

Silently, Ruv took the pearl and held it up between his and Whitty's faces — he should get that, right? Looking around it, Whitty's face proved puzzled still. Agitated, Ruv snatched a piece of volcanic glass he'd found from the bucket, placing it over Whitty's hand and wrapping his own over both, before expectantly looking back up to his land-dwelling friend's face. That nervous smile was back, and Whitty had to laugh off the awkwardness while he searched for the words.

"Aha...ha... this stuff looks... kind of like me?" He asked more than said, glancing a few times between the contents of the bucket and Ruv — there were a number of articles reminiscent of his clothing and skin's colors, not to mention textures. Whitty's heart spasmed violently at the way Ruv's face quite literally lit up. Reluctantly, he spun his free hand in a wheeling motion, continuing, "... which means...?" The glow flickered, but remained and Whitty thought he saw Ruv's eye twitch. The bomb grimaced before trying to intuit the meaning behind this, "Yes, please! Spell it out!" It was weird as hell, but he needed to know what it meant, and it was high time Ruv just gave him a straight answer.

Mista-BIG MISTAKE. — was the only coherent thought Whitty managed, as for a moment, all his senses could register was a splash and icy water enveloping him face-first. He'd been hauled from the boat and into the dark, frigid ocean. On instinct, he struggled, panicked against the feeling of cold seeping into him, and he gasped the second he felt air on his face. He took a second to process what was happening now:

He was breathing, his head was back above water... he was... not being strangled, even though it felt terrifyingly similar. Ruv was thoroughly wrapped around him, his face pressed into the bomb's neck and... nuzzling? It made Whitty squirm at first, it really was a bit of a disturbing sensation, but then suddenly, he stiffened and warmed all over as a blush spilled across his face and the realization dawned on him. If the siren hadn't been keeping him afloat, he'd have sunk for lack of movement. He was frozen in an entirely different sense now.

[gorgeousgalatea]

For the fanfiction writer asks: 2, 5, 12, 33, 40, and 47. And as for the title - "The Finer Things (Are Finite Things)."

2) What fandoms do you write for and do you have a particular favourite if you write for more than one?

“Write” is a strong word right now unfortunately. RWBY remains my most prolific fandom at least; despite my tenuous relationship with canon I haven’t had anything seize my plotbunny interest to the same degree, although I have scattered wips for The Magnus Archives, Genshin Impact, Witch Hat Atelier, Resident Evil, Arcane, and Thor: the Dark World. Pluuuus some dusty old posted wips for Avatar the Last Airbender and Katekyo Hitman Reborn I still feel guilty about never finishing. But yeah, RWBY’s still the top dog right now.

5) If you had to choose a favourite out of all of your multi chaptered stories, which would it be and why?

On average my more recent (...for a given value of ‘recent’) multi-chaptered fics are all ideas I got heavily invested in and prooobably have yet to finish, so favorites are hard. I guess I would go with Ten Things About the Vongola Family by dint that I can pretend it’s finished. Although it technically isn’t and is also a list fic rather than an ongoing narrative...Apology Not Included is actually finished, let’s say that. Even though two chapters is probably also cheating.

12) Who is your favourite character to write for? Why?

If I’ve written their POV it probably means they’re a favorite XD Qrow has sass for days and I love writing quips, Raven has the kind of morally reprehensible self justification that is my jam, Ozpin and Salem are opposite sides of some really juicy immortality studies...I’m a huge fan of snark, moral ambiguity and angst, really.

Although shoutout to Rokudo Mukuro from Katekyo Hitman Reborn several fandoms back who happened to be a body hopping, conniving, morally bankrupt illusionist whose abilities stemmed from several lifetimes of reincarnation contained in an eye that may have been implanted in him by the abusive cadre of mad scientists he wiped out in revenge, who after a stint as an antagonist became an ally by necessity while having maybe three standards and showing absolutely no remorse whatsoever and goddamn if that isn’t a ridiculous number of my favorite things all rolled into a single character.

33) What’s the biggest compliment you’ve gotten?

There’s been so many super sweet ones, I can’t choose! The one I get the biggest buzz from are the ones that say my characterization is on point, because that’s what I really strive for, but it also gives me the warm fuzzies when people pull their favorite quotes or engage with the narrative because that really gives me the sense that my writing managed to resonate with them emotionally. Compliments, man. They’re great.

40) Do people know you write fanfiction?

I don’t hide it but I don’t volunteer the information either. And chances are anyone who has to ask is not someone I would feel comfortable having read most of my fic lol

47) Here’s a fic title - insert a made up title. What would this story be about?

The Finer Things (Are Finite Things)

Hmm, I’d say this sounds like an Ozpin identity study? The give-and-take in identity between immortal and incarnation, and the value of a singular lifetime--knowing that things are capable of ending when he has a mission and an enemy that refuse to. And to toss some shipping into it, how Qrow’s Semblance emphatically draws attention to the finite in a way Ozpin is uniquely qualified to appreciate...and as I write this I realize that this is less a specific story idea and more just the shipping dynamic I work with, oops I hope that is okay @_@

[welllpthisishappening]

On This Night and in This Light (1/3)

Emma Swan knows she's pretty good at what she does.

Helping the magically afflicted and affected find jobs in this realm isn't the most glamorous thing in the world, and, sure, there's a lot of paperwork, but she figures she's helping people and that's the important thing. It's structured. Calm, even.

Until. It's always until.

Killian Jones shows up with his stupid smirk and his tendency to lean against the door frame in Emma's office and his distinct lack of magic. Or knowledge of what they're really doing at Mills Personnel. Everything kind of goes off the rails after that.

----

Rating: Teen, but I’m me, so kissing is guaranteed Word Count: About 6.5K this chapter AN: About a week ago @shireness-says​​ sent me this post, about a job agency that specifically helped people with supernatural abilities or supernatural problems find a job. I believe my exact response was “Don’t do this to me” and then Devon probably laughed or something and over the course of the last three days I wrote about 19-thousand words. Nonsense is guaranteed, as is the kissing, hopefully some banter and a bunch of magic. The next two chapters probably Tuesday and Thursday of next week? 

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll ||

----

“So, that’s basically it. The guy was cursed, super greedy and—” “—Babe c’mon, that’s my dad.”

The guy shrugs. 

Which Emma figures is pretty fair, all things considered. Although she also can’t remember his name, so maybe she’s a quasi-villain in this story. She’s fairly certain it’s in the paperwork. The guy’s name, not her potential villain status. 

In her defense, that one lightbulb above her head is very distracting. Flickering on and off, she’s going to have to tell Graham about it, which will probably somehow alert Regina and Emma isn’t sure she’s capable of dealing with Regina right now. It’s been a very long morning. 

At— she glances at the tiny string of numbers in the bottom corner of her computer monitor, nine twenty-six in the morning. 

“Jeez,” Emma mumbles, drawing the attention of both of the people sitting in front of her. Not very often that a pair comes in. She supposes that’s nice. 

In an overwhelmingly, romantic kind of way. 

God, maybe she’s bitter. 

She’s totally bitter. Thinking anything else is ridiculous. 

And if Emma doesn’t get some coffee soon, she’s going to fall asleep at her desk and inevitably offend this nameless, albeit nice-looking guy who until recently was spending his days as a solid-gold statue in front of an antiques store on Broome Street. 

“Not—not you guys,” Emma says quickly, and the girlfriend’s eyes widen. Her name is Abigail. Emma’s, like, forty-six percent positive. 

“You know he didn’t mean it,” maybe-Abigail says. “It was...well, Freddie was very heroic about it. Protecting my dad and—he was head of security at the building. Kids thought it’d be funny to try and break in, but Freddie was—” “—Courageous?” “Very. The kids wanted my dad’s gift, but Freddie wouldn’t let them near him. Of course that made sure he was close to my dad and he...well, he got touched by accident and....”

Humming noncommittally, Emma lets the rest of the details float into the back of her mind. She doesn’t particularly want to hear this story. Most of them are the same, anyway. Heroic deeds beget undeserved rewards, and there’s always some sort of deus ex machina fix that’s inevitably magical, and she figures that’s part of the deal at this place, but that bitterness of hers runs far deeper than she’s willing to admit. “And you didn’t want to go back to work at the cursed dad’s office?” Freddie shakes his head. “Not really all that interested in security anymore. Ya get frozen for three years and it kinda loses its shine, y’know?” “Makes sense,” Emma replies, and she hates to admit it takes her that long to realize what he just said. Maybe she should have read the paperwork closer. She didn’t have time. “Wait, wait did you say three years?” “And, uh, like fourteen days. That’s right, right babe?” Abigail smiles. That must be the answer. “We’re just looking for a fresh start. My dad is—well, maybe greedy is the right word. He doesn’t view this as a curse, it's...I called it a gift before, didn't I?” Emma nods, trying desperately to ignore the state of that light bulb. “Nothing we do is going to change his mind. He’s going to keep it, and he tries to be careful, but—one wrong move and there’s a golden something right in front of you. We don’t want to risk it again. That’s why we came here. It’s supposed to be the best placement service in the city.”

Biting back the immediate retort of it’s the only placement service like this in the city, Emma plasters what she can only hope is an encouraging smile on her face. The lightbulb stops flickering. 

It dies. Completely. 

She hopes that’s not a sign. 

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” she stammers, before turning back to her keyboard and a monitor with time that must be going backwards. “So, three years removed from any interaction with society and that’s—” Her smile is making her cheek muscles ache. “What kind of skills do you have, Mr. Greyston? Any specific interests or ideas about what you want to do?”

Freddie does not have any ideas. Or interests. Or concerns besides Abigail, it seems. Who is not just his girlfriend, but his fiancée, and a rather vocal wealth of both ideas and interests, none of which fit any of the potential jobs Emma spends the next forty-seven minutes finding. 

Something is wrong with each and every one. Wrong location. Too far a commute. Weird hours. Requires a uniform and—“Have you seen the width of Freddie’s shoulders? There’s no way he’d be able to wear a mass-produced jacket like that.”

Emma hasn’t been paying much attention to the width of Freddie’s shoulders, honestly. 

She’s far more preoccupied with the pain blooming behind her left eye and, somehow, at the base of her skull and she’s a few seconds away from turning both Freddie and Abigail into frogs when she hears footsteps approaching her half-open office door and he actually has the gall to cross his feet at the ankle when he leans against the frame. 

“What about personal training?”

Both Abigail and Freddie freeze. One of them tilts their head. Presumably in thought. Emma can’t be bothered figuring out which one. 

Not with her fingers hovering over her keys, the pop of her lips as they fall open sounding far louder than it should and the stranger leaning against her door frame smiles at her. 

Smirks, really. One side of mouth tugs up, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled halfway up his forearms. It’s offensive, that’s what it is. 

As is the overall shade of blue in his eyes. 

“Can I help you?” Emma asks. Demands, honestly. One word comes out sharper than the last, drawing a soft chuckle from the questionably good-looking stranger and that’s—

No. No compliments. Just insults. Of the sharp-tongued variety. 

Most curses require a sharp tongue, in Emma’s experience. And she suddenly finds herself fantasizing about the several different ways she could curse this self-assured bastard to the other side of the office. 

“I think, love,” he says, leaning forward like that’s allowed, “I might be able to help you. Couldn’t help but overhear—” “—Because you were eavesdropping?” “Inevitable when your voice carries the way it does.”

Her mouth is already hanging open, so Emma can only imagine what she looks like when it feels as if her eyes are also intent on falling out of her face. Not great, if the increased smirk'ness of the smirk is any indication. 

Smirk'ness is not a word. 

“Personal training could be kind of cool,” Freddie muses with interest. Abigail beams. Emma comes up with twenty-nine different curse possibilities. “Don’t you need something for that, though? Like a certificate or something?” Blue-eyed bastard, fuckface chuckles again. “You do, in fact. ‘Fraid you can’t simply approach strangers and start training them. But the requirements aren’t hard to complete and there’s always a fairly high demand for trainers. People want to get in shape, y’know?” Suggesting that there’s no way this guy with his stupid sleeves could know the exact tone Freddie had used to a voice very similar question not even an hour earlier is as stupid as his sleeves, but Emma cannot rationalize any of this and she should have known he was out there. 

Lurking in the hallway, as it were. 

There’s always some sort of—signal. A smell. A flicker of familiarity that ripples up her spine and latches to the back of her brain and she assumes the migraine that now seems pretty inevitable is not that. It’s just painful. 

Nothing else. She didn’t feel anything. She should have felt something, unless—

“No,” she gasps, and she’s got to get a handle on her audible reactions. “I, uh—I mean, no, no, that’s a great idea, actually. What do you think Mr. Greyston?”

Freddie narrows his eyes. “I...I just said it sounded cool.” “He did,” the wanker with that one piece of wayward hair hanging across his forehead says, “I heard it. Didn’t you hear it?” Nodding emphatically, Abigail is far too quickly swayed by all of this. “I did and that’s—Emma, why didn’t you think of that before?” Anger curls low in Emma’s gut. Rises in the back of her throat and threatens to scorch every inch of her tongue, like that’s something an emotion is capable of. Fisting her hands under her desk, the edges of her nails leave crescent-moon shaped cuts on her palm, but she doesn’t have another outlet for the energy running through her. 

Especially if she’s right. 

She’s seventy-two percent positive she’s right. Which is better than how she felt about Abigail’s name, and she was totally right about that, so. 

Math, or whatever. 

“Didn’t even cross my mind,” Emma admits through clenched teeth. “But thankfully we’re a collaborative effort here at Mills Personnel, and it’s always good to get multiple opinions, including some from our newest—” Swallowing her tongue isn’t the most embarrassing thing Emma can do in a moment like this, but it’s starting to feel somewhere in the top five and if this guy doesn’t stop staring at her like that she’s going to scream. 

Or self combust with magic. 

Her magic appears to be running on overdrive. 

“Killian Jones,” he says, answering a question she hadn’t actually gotten around to asking. “It’s my first day,”

“Is it just?” His answering hum isn’t as sarcastic as Emma’s was. She supposes that’s another failure of hers today. Her brain’s already started making a list. “Did you know they have an espresso machine in the break room?” “I work here,” Emma answers. 

“As I can see. Just—” “—Trying to tell me about espresso?” The other side of his mouth moves. That suggests Emma is staring at his mouth, which she might be, honestly. When she isn’t wholly preoccupied with his eyes or that one strand of hair, and she can’t believe that one strand of hair exists, but she’s also a witch and Freddie was made of gold and she never did ask how they managed to fix that. 

Emma’s starting to wonder if she actually sucks at her job. 

“Make conversation,” Killian says. “And maybe help a little bit. That’s the gig, isn’t it?” None of the muscles in Emma’s neck are particularly interested in nodding, but her hair moves so that must mean she accomplishes at least some sort of movement and the two pairs of eyes sitting in wholly uncomfortable chairs opposite her are watching the scene with open interest. “Alright,” she says brusquely, certain Killian’s eyes get brighter, “Mr. Greyston, let’s start working on a plan for getting your certification and then we can set up some contacts with area gyms.”

She’s not sure when Killian leaves, exactly. 

Only that he doesn’t try closing the door behind him and when Emma walks into the breakroom thirty-one minutes later, there’s a post-it with ridiculously swirly handwriting clinging to the espresso machine. Try this one, it says. 

And that doesn’t really make sense. It’s an espresso machine, there aren’t a ton of different options. Emma’s almost charmed all the same. 

It wasn’t True Love’s Kiss. 

Frederik Greyston wasn’t released from his gilded prison by the most sweepingly romantic bit of magic in the world. It was water from Nostos, which Emma knows is expensive and hard to come by, but knowing the little she does about Abigail’s father, it makes sense and she’s disappointed all the same. 

Six years working at Mills Personnel and still not a single person has been saved by the power of True Love’s supposed Kiss. 

She’s starting to think it doesn’t even exist. 

Honestly, the whole thing is Mary Margaret’s fault. 

She’s the one who got Emma the job after all, and maybe that’s more a commentary on Emma’s disinterest in joining the traditional workforce or being a functioning member of society, but she’s also quick to argue that society hasn’t really done much for her lately. Not a ton of professional options for someone with a record and the tendency to glow every now and then. 

So, Emma had agreed to the interview. 

On a Thursday at two in the afternoon, at the office tucked into the bottom floor of a building on 62nd Street, with etched letters on the door. 

Mills Personnel, it said. 

And still does, really. Not much has changed since Emma first walked into Regina’s office, least of all the lettering on her door, but she’d like to believe she’s maybe a bit more confident than she was that time and—

“Regina, is this a joke?” Emma asks, not able to sit in one of the chairs. Pacing seems entirely more reasonable, even as the muscles in her calves start to ache. “Because it can’t—none of this makes any sense.” “Why not?” “Repeating myself is redundant.” Making a noise Emma can only assume is an agreement, Regina doesn’t bother looking up from the paperwork in her hands. Another client. Another problem. Something else Killian Jones can probably solve. 

Nearly a week after the incident in Emma’s office, the new guy is apparently some kind of job placement wunderkind, able to match any person with their dream position while also boasting a wealth of contacts across the city. Yelp reviews have appeared in droves — sent to Emma nearly every morning because apparently Ruby has some sort of sick sense of humor, and only a few of them mention Killian’s rolled-up sleeves. 

That’s insane. 

Emma can’t imagine not mentioning his rolled-up sleeves.

Maybe she’s part of the problem, actually. Just like—with society, as a whole. 

“You want to repeat yourself, don’t you?” Regina asks knowingly, drawing a strangled sound out of Emma that nearly makes her trip mid-pace. One should not affect the other. And yet. Everything seems to be falling apart in rather quick succession, the kind of worry that’s already taken root in the center of her and wrapped its way around every single one of her ribs, and she’s got no idea how many ribs she’s currently in possession, but she figures it’s got to be a lot. 

Based almost entirely on the constant tightness in her chest. 

“How are you not freaking out about this?” Regina shrugs. “Nothing’s going to happen. People love him.” “People think he’s got a good-looking face.” “You think that and—” Sputtering on her own inevitably witty retort, if only she could get it out, Emma can’t do much more than dramatically exhale as soon as Regina does lift her eyes. Leveling her with that same look she’d used during Emma’s initial interview, like she’s got all the answers in the world and will be willing to share them. 

Eventually. At her leisure. 

“He doesn't have magic,” Emma hisses, feeling as if she’s lost her last tether to reality. No one else is worried about this. Ruby has at least eighty-four opinions on Killian’s face. David’s not totally swayed, but thinks the guy’s at least doing a good job so far. Mary Margaret wants to invite him to game night next week. 

To play goddamn Settlers of Catan. Like they’re normal people. And not witches, or some other unnecessarily gendered description of magic-users. 

“He—he,” Emma continues, and now her hands have joined the fray. Waving them around her head only makes her feel more insane. “How can you think that he’ll be able to place people in jobs when he doesn’t know why they really need jobs?” Her voice cracking on the question can’t help her cause much. 

But Emma needs this to stay the same. She needs consistency and maybe not comfort, but comfort-adjacent and the fucking Settlers of Catan. At some point, she’s going to win that dumb game, she’s positive. 

And Killian Jones poses a very real threat to all of those alliterative sentiments. 

Because Mills Personnel is not a normal job placement organization. Emma’s not even sure it’s an organization, technically. Maybe an LLC.

She’s not a lawyer.  

The point is, it caters to—a slightly different sort of clientele. The kind that’s been affected by magic. Whether that’s because they’re in possession of it, or have been cursed by it, or are only spending some time in this realm while hiding from a revenge-prone dragon in their homeland, who also happened to be their mother, and need a job while they wait it out. 

That last one has always been Emma’s personal favorite. Lily spent three years working for an appraiser on Park Avenue. 

She was really good at it. 

And Emma is good at this. At helping. At providing people with their own plan, and their own possibilities and she has got to get off this alliterative kick because—

“Hey,” Regina mutters, nodding towards Emma’s hands. Both of which are dangerously close to phosphorescent “Reign it in for me, huh?” “Seriously, how can you be so calm about this?”

“He needed a job.” “What? How did you even find him?” Squeezing one eye shut, Regina clicks her tongue thoughtfully and it’s almost enough to make her seem like a normal person. Instead of a person who can regularly summon fireballs from her palms. “Friend of Robin’s. I think you met him last solstice party, but—that’s not the important part. Anyway, we worked with Scarlet once. Or David did, helped him get a job in Brooklyn after he’d been stoned in Wonderland.” “I’m sorry, stoned in Wonderland?” “Mmhm, literally. Anyway, his girlfriend’s known Killian for years and he just moved to New York and one thing led to another and here we are.” “Here we are,” Emma echoes. “The repeating thing isn’t just redundant, it’s obnoxious,” Regina sighs, finally moving the papers. It’s not a victory for Emma. Not when it only ensures Regina can also lean back in her chair, cross her arms over her chest and tilt her head at that very specific angle that practically radiates judgment. “He just needs some money for a couple of months. He’ll be out of here before anyone will have a chance to enlighten him on what he’s actually doing.” “Giving jobs to magical people.” “Not all of them are magical,” Regina argues, “some of them have just been impacted by magical forces.” “Yuh huh. And how exactly are we hiding all of these magical forces from Killian Jones, totally mortal human being?” The head tilt’s at nearly forty-five degrees now. “You are mortal, you know that right? It’s important that you know that.”

“I know that,” Emma snaps, flickers of light falling from her fingertips for good measure. “I just—when you hired me, you made it very clear that the line between magic and the rest of the world was tenuous at best. We just...we exist and hope no one burns us at the stake, but now you’re totally cool with some inherently normal guy being here. Everything we do is going to freak him out.” “It hasn’t already. And so long as you stop sparking at regular intervals, I think you’ll be fine.” “I’m not worried about me.”

Widening her eyes, Regina's judgment reaches across the questionably originate mahogany desk, hangs in the air for all of fourteen seconds and then smacks Emma squarely across the face. In a magical sort of way that makes her skin tingle. 

“Not cool,” she mumbles, but Regina doesn’t do much more than sneer. “Alright, fine, fine, you think this is a totally great idea—” “—I didn’t say it was great. I said it wasn’t going to be as bad as you thought it was going to be, and we’re doing some old customers a favor.” “Sounds suspiciously like nepotism.” “Or good business.”

Emma rolls her eyes. She’s getting another migraine. “Tell all your friends about Mills Personnel, the only option for the magical and magic-damaged to ensure they can keep paying their rent.” “Not as catchy as I’d like, but I accept that it’s a work in progress.”

“Yeah, yeah, something like that.” Having never sat down, it’s easy for Emma to make a quick and relatively drama-free exit from Regina’s office, swinging open the door and marching into the hallway and—

“Ah, fuck,” she grunts, slamming into something far too solid to be anything except another human being. Who smells suspiciously like laundry detergent and salt water. 

“Swan.”

She blinks. Once. Twice. Tries to remember that she is in fact mortal, and that requires a consistent stream of oxygen in her lungs. But breathing is something of a challenge now, and he’s smirking at her when she finally lifts her head. “What are you doing?” “Walking,” Killian answers easily, but there’s a hint of laughter clinging to the word that manages to frustrate Emma and do the exact opposite all at once. “Do you have somewhere especially important to go?” “No, no, that’s—why do you say that?” “Seems you’re in something of a rush.” “Or you take up way too much of the hallway.” Full-blown laughter is at least twenty-thousand times better than the clinging variety or whatever sound Emma’s managed to imagine he makes in the last week or so. She hasn’t imagined it that much. She’s a God awful liar, actually. 

“That might be true,” Killian admits, taking a step back, and there’s a pile of papers resting on his hip. A pen barely stays behind his ear, that same wayward strand of hair taking up residence across his forehead and the rolled-up sleeves of this shirt appear to have some sort of floral pattern on them. 

“What are—” Emma swallows. Licks her lips, Tries not to spend too long thinking about the undeniable way Killian’s eyes fall to her lips. “Where are you going?” “Back to my office. Woman in there who claims her only talent is singing, but she’s not too keen on performing. Says she doesn’t want to draw a spotlight. So, trying to come up with some other options for her.” Mind racing, Emma tries to figure out what the woman actually is or who she’s hiding from, but explaining any of that is impossible and she’s admittedly having some trouble forming sentences when Killian keeps doing that thing with his face. Having one. 

“Any suggestions?” he asks, and there’s no sarcasm. No joke. Just blatant interest and possibly some veiled hope, which is not a word Emma’s all that familiar with. 

That’s more Mary Margaret’s schtick, and at least this is passably cyclical. Somehow this has to be Mary Margaret’s fault too. 

“What about working for a promoter or something?” Emma ventures. “You know—backstage sort of stuff. Keep her in the industry, let her work with other talent, but none of that pesky spotlight. Probably plenty of people looking for an assistant or something.”

Stunned surprise could be very insulting, as far as expression-based responses go. Luckily for Killian and his face, it’s a pretty fantastic look. Particularly when it’s directed at Emma. And mixed in with something that feels suspiciously like awe.

She’s not especially concerned with the adjectives. All she knows is it makes her magic roar in her ears, threatening to knock her knees together. 

“Wow,” he mutters, “that’s genius.” “Happens from time to time.” “More often if breakroom information is anything to go by.”

On second thought, embarrassed regret is her new unexpected favorite. Color dots Killian’s cheeks, a red tinge to the tip of his ears and it really says far more about him than Emma’s powers of observation that it’s only now she realizes he’s missing his left hand. 

“I, uh—” Killian stutters, and Emma can’t help the stretch of her smile, “well it’s not that I’m gossiping about you per se, just...making conversation.” “And I’m a hot topic of conversation?” “No, no, you’re just—” His inability to finish sentences is also oddly endearing, the muscles in his throat moving as he swallows back what Emma can only hope would be a slightly twisted compliment. Regarding her and the word hot. “Well, I appreciate the help. Sometimes it feels like it’s impossible to get a straight answer out of these people. None of them know what they want to do.” Cold sweeps over Emma, in the form of crushing realization and a return to a reality with starkly-lit hallways. He doesn’t know. Can’t know. About this place, or what it really does, and Regina’s surprisingly cavalier attitude aside, non-magic users finding themselves in the entirely magical world never ends well. 

Someone always gets hurt. 

“Yeah, no problem,” Emma says as she takes her own step back, and that shouldn’t be as difficult as it is. “If—I mean if you ever get another hard one or…” 

Her face is on fire, she’s sure. Spontaneous combustion would be a small miracle, giving her a legitimate out of this conversation and the latest expression that’s now standing several feet away from her. Self-satisfied, that’s the word. 

Or phrase, as the case may be. 

“If you need some more ideas,” she clarifies, “I’m around. You helped me with that Greyston case, after all.” It’s not a cease fire or metaphorical hatchet buried under Regina’s questionable taste in carpet, but it’s something and if this is going to happen, then Emma reasons she might as well try and keep it all in check. Helping Killian helps everyone, really. 

She’ll repeat that on mental loop for several hours if necessary. 

Right after she stops obsessing over the precise way he leans forward, ducks into her eye line and says, “thanks, Swan.”

It isn’t until she’s managed to plug her phone in, exhaustion creeping up her spine and fluttering behind half-closed eyelids that Emma realizes she never once told Killian her name. 

When she was twelve years old, she lit up. Like, her whole body. Light hung from the ends of her hair and circled her right wrist, wrapped its way up her arms and settled on either one of her shoulders until it was difficult for anyone to spend too long looking at Emma. 

None of it was on purpose. 

Magic’s always been something almost instinctual, at least for Emma, and the yelling from the living room of the latest foster home she’d only recently been shipped to had been grating on her ears long enough that she didn’t know what else to do. She reacted. Power rippled off her in perfect cadence with her frustration, and she hadn’t known all those words when she was twelve, but she’d known exactly how everyone would respond and Emma was not disappointed. 

At least not like that. 

Standing halfway down the steps, she’d glowed. Bright and determined, like being strong enough would protect the rest of the kids in that house, and that was never really Emma’s job, but she always felt like she could do something more, or should do something else and—

They’d sent her back the next day. 

Something about a bad fit and just not right and that second thing could have been the sub-headline of Emma’s entire life. 

Just not right. 

Nothing about her was right. Her magic was often untempered and prone to outbursts, flashes that Emma couldn’t always control and inevitably led to lingering glances and confused stares that rather quickly morphed into fear when they looked too long. 

Sometimes people pretend they’re not totally freaked out. Sometimes they tell her that she’s ok, every lie settling under her skin like it’s something she should believe in, and it’s been awhile since Emma’s allowed something like that to happen, but she imagines there’s a cliché about scars and the way they don’t always disappear and—

That’s not important. 

History is just that and Emma’s not one to make the same mistake twice. Or at least make it more than twice, and she might be intrigued by Killian Jones, with his smirk and his stupid sleeves, but she doesn’t entirely trust him yet. 

She can’t imagine that changing any time soon. 

She nearly runs into whoever is opening the Mills Personnel front door at five-oh-four on a Friday evening. 

It’s a habit Emma would like to break sooner rather than later, this trend of not looking where she’s going — although, if she’s being honest it’s also because she’s distracted, and has been since the game night announcement, and the phone in her pocket hasn't stopped buzzing for the last hour, the most recent texts regarding pre-game night plottings and alliances for Settlers of Catan or whatever else they decide to play. 

She has respond to Mary Margaret soon. 

Presumably after she apologizes to the woman she very nearly plowed over, and it’s almost the end of business, but this woman doesn’t look like she operates on traditional schedules and—

“Sorry, sorry,” Emma says, backing up quickly. Partially because of good manners. And the rest because of the look on the woman’s face. 

Furious. A little threatening. Decidedly magical. 

“I’m looking for Ms. Mills.” “Right, yeah, of course. She’s, uh—” Emma’s phone buzzes again, and she knows it’s another message about games. What she can figure out is why that particular thought leaves her feeling frozen and a little threatened and the woman’s eyes narrow at the first shift of Emma’s magic. “Still in her office, I think. I can let her know you’re here, if…” The woman doesn’t nod. Doesn’t move, really. And all Emma wants is to sprint out of that office and maybe to her couch, but she can’t seem to move any of her limbs and the clack of Regina’s heels is strangely hypnotic. 

“Zelena. What are you doing here?” Rolling her shoulders back, the woman Emma assumes is Zelena only looks passably annoyed at being addressed by her first name. “We have some things to talk about.”

“That so?” “Several, I’d say. You have a few minutes?” It doesn’t sound like an actual request, hackles that are more likely part of Ruby’s genetic makeup than Emma’s rising as Zelena breezes by her. Glancing over her shoulder, she notices a muscle in Regina’s temple jumping.

“You want me to stick around?” Regina shakes her head. “No, I’ll be fine.”

“Ok, but—” “—Go, Emma,” Regina finishes, and there’s no mistaking the command in those words. She nods once, not running into anyone else on her way out and hoping the sense of dread currently twisting itself around one of her kidneys is only those pessimistic tendencies of hers, instead of the warning she’s worried it actually is. 

The problem is, she likes him. 

Like, as a human being. Mortal or otherwise. No other reason. Nothing to do with his hair or his eyes or that dim, but still visible scar on his left cheek. 

She just—

They might be friends. Emma hopes they’re friends. 

Over the next two weeks she comes to realize that Killian is not only very good at his job — the siren who was certain her only talent was singing in dimly lit clubs and inevitably luring grown men to their doom, but wanted to turn over a new leaf, without telling him any of that, of course, sent a gift basket to thank him for all the help — but he’s funny, and more than capable of working the espresso machine so it doesn’t produce its usual bitter swill, and, Emma realizes, one Wednesday afternoon, a little lonely. 

“Trying to find somewhere to live in this city is impossible,” he announces, slumped in one of the breakroom chairs with a stack of files splayed in front of him. “Like a needle in a haystack.” “Try finding somewhere with laundry on site,” Emma grins, “and then talk to me.” “Sounds like a palace, and that’s far too mythical for me to believe a place like that exists.”

Stomach flying into her mouth, Emma bites the side of her tongue so she doesn’t do something stupid like list all the clients of hers who, at one point, lived in a vaguely mythical palace. She can think of at least a dozen off the top of her head. “No palatial experience wherever you are now? Where are you now, actually?” “Scarlet’s couch.” “Ah, so decidedly non-palatial, then.” Killian grins. “Not as such, no. Although if you could not mention that to him, that would be great. Bastard won’t ever say it, but I've vastly overstayed my welcome and I’m pretty positive he and Belle spend their nights plotting ways to kick me to the curb.” “Metaphorical or…” “Absolutely literally,” he says, and that smile is nearly blinding in a way that isn’t quite like Emma’s magic, but feels as powerful. “You didn’t hear it from me, but I’m pretty positive they want to have a family soon.” “You think I gossip about Will Scarlet way more than I do.”

His ears do that thing again. That blushing thing, that apparently only Killian’s ears are capable of, but it’s also entirely possible that Emma is just far more aware of Killian’s ears than anyone else’s. She’s also perfectly aware what a psychopath she sounds like. 

“Did I apologize for that?”

“For?” “Not necessarily gossiping,” Killian says, “because it wasn’t entirely that, but—getting information on you, I guess.”

Tensing, Emma’s jaw clenches hard enough that she’s briefly worried about what it will do to her teeth. And it takes her a few moments to school her features — more than enough time for Killian’s eyebrows to lift, and the ends of his mouth to tilt down, but she’s almost confident she doesn’t look like she’s totally freaking out when she opens her mouth. 

“What did you find out?” Ah, so not freaking out was a total lie, then. 

Killian’s lips twist as he stares at her, like he’s considering the exact tone of her voice and how to properly proceed from there. Leaning forward, his hand inches towards hers and for one genuinely blissful second Emma is certain he’s going to cover her fingers with his. He doesn’t. He pulls away at the last moment, clearing his throat and sitting up straighter and that’s fine. It’s fine, everything is fine and great and—

“You’re very popular here,” he replies, “good track record of even better work, which is why If we’re also keeping track of required apologies, I should mention I’m sorry for butting in on the Greyston case. Was an absolute dick of a move.” “Would you use of in that situation?” “I mean, I just did so—” “—You were kind of a dick,” Emma agrees, “but that was mostly because you were showing off and it totally worked.”

His eyebrows get higher. Pointier. It’s absolutely absurd. “That so?” “Don’t sound so amazed, you know it did. Freddie the former—” She’s about to say statute. The word sits on the tip of Emma’s tongue, waiting to be said because if she was talking to anyone else she’d be able to say it, but she’s not talking to anyone else and doesn’t really want to and she can’t imagine it’s very comfortable sleeping on someone’s couch for the better part of a month. “Former security guard,” Emma exhales, “is reportedly doing really well at the new gig. Ruby said she saw a bunch of social media posts advertising his recently-certified personal trainer services.” “An ambitious start for Freddie.” “Eh, you know how it is when you get psyched about something. Full-speed ahead and all that.”

“I believe that is the appropriate cliché, yes. So what do you think?”

“About?”

“Accepting my apology for being something of a dick, and because Ruby is the absolute worst gossip in this office who told me in no uncertain terms that she thought our prospective children would be very attractive.”

Emma’s not drinking anything, so the choking sound she makes at that bit of information is not really correct for the situation, but she can’t stop herself. Laughter bubbles out of her, mixing with something that isn’t quite stunned surprise, but might be a hint of put-upon frustration and the overall width of Killian’s smile is in the realm of overwhelming. 

“How did you end up here?” Emma asks, and she’ll blame the state of her teeth on her inability to censor her own questions. 

His smile falters. For just a moment, before it’s back and a little less legitimate than it was a moment earlier. “Worked with Belle at the Central Library in Boston. For years, actually. And you know how it is when you meet someone who...well, they’ll go to bat for you?” “Another good cliché. And yeah, I do.” “It was like that for us. She’s—it’s pedantic to suggest she’s my best friend, but that’s what it is and what it’s been and we’ve always helped each other. So, couple months ago when they cut staff, she told me to come to New York.” “She was already in New York?”

Killian nods. “Has been for a while, ever since she met Will.” “And how did she meet Will?”

If he’s put-off by her twenty question approach, Killian doesn’t show it. He just keeps leaning into her space, like there are magnets involved or several other words and feelings Emma’s wholly incapable of dealing with right now. “Strictly happenstance as far as I know. She was in New York for a library conference—” “—They have those?” “Mmhm, whole bunch of nerds losing their minds over recently stocked books and stories that fascist governments said we should burn.” “Do those normally go together?” “More often than you’d think,” Killian laughs. “Anyway, Will was working at the bar he owns now and—” “—He owns it?”

“If you keep interrupting, I’m never going to get to the interesting part of the story, love.”

Goosebumps explode on her skin. Her heart threatens to explode out of her chest. Magic rushes from the top of her hairs to the toes of sneakers that are now emitting a faint gleam, and maybe Emma should trim her nails. 

So as not to keep cutting up her palm. 

“Took him some time to save up the money to buy the bar,” Killian continues, “but if you know Scarlet, you’ll know he’s something of a stubborn asshole. Which also circles us right back around to the romance of the story. Suffice it to say, there were conversations, requests for phone numbers, a refusal to let time or distance damper their connection and—” He clicks his tongue. “—Two years ago, I gave a very impassioned speech regarding the power of love at a wedding that made several people cry.“

“You included?”

He winks at her. Not very well, but it’s the thought that counts or something and Emma’s starting to have several thoughts about Killian.

None of which are going to make it any easier to keep her magic a secret. 

And part of her isn’t even sure she wants to. The other part of her wants to stretch across this wobbly table, some of which is deceptively sticky, grab the front of Killian’s floral-printed shirt and kiss him until neither one of them think about anything except how fantastic they are at kissing. One another, specifically. 

So, really, she’s absolutely and monumentally fucked.

[dreamerinsilico]

Thanks to The Good Place s4 having made its way to Netflix, and me having Feelings, I’m going to take a bit to publicly chew on them now. 

TL;DR: same as basically every take I’ve seen, it was a great finale that handled each of the characters in a way that made sense and also I cried through most of the last episode.  But also I have vaguely cranky philosophical ruminations about it that don’t make me appreciate the show any less, but definitely want to yap about it.

(Details under the cut, because spoilers and also this may get long.  Also apparently it’s going to involve some spoilers for The Old Guard.  And maybe a few minor NBC Hannibal references.)

So, first I want to reiterate: the way the show ended, given everything else the show had done, made sense and was emotionally satisfying to me.  I loved it.

In a bigger-picture sense, though... I’d really like to see more media that interfaces with the concept of immortality without concluding that death is the only way to give the human (or humanoid) existence meaning.  Where we end up in the finale of The Good Place makes sense, in that it’s already been established that there’s an afterlife that doesn’t really have any inherent meaning beyond individual souls’ experiences of it and their relationships with one another.  And it’s not hard to imagine that a lot of the small dramas and conflicts that provide variation to even very peaceful lives would be invalidated without any kind of pressure from those material needs.  Given the foundations of the show, Our Heroes’ decision about how to change The Good Place for the better is... the only reasonable conclusion.  

And, you know, I don’t blame the show for not being The piece of media I’m hoping for to just come out and say outright, “you know, actually fuck this whole death thing.  Not a fan.  Don’t need it.  Let’s get rid of it.”  That’s not what this show was ever even remotely trying to be about.  It’s about coping with the reality of the human experience in the 20th/21st century, which includes death.  (Even with my transhumanist leanings, as a bioengineer and also someone who ardently pays attention to other fields, I will not even hint at denying that this is going to be a mandatory part of our reality for quite a while yet.)

The conclusion the show draws that I very much do agree with (regardless of one’s stance on death) is that we require some form of tension to inject meaning.  When I picture myself in the Final Form of the Good Place, I think most of my energy and desire would be focused on (I guess like a combo of Chidi and Tahani) asking questions of people there, and making peace with relationships that had somehow been left hanging.  There’s a finite amount of each of those.  I’d run out eventually.  My scientific passion would have a hard time finding an outlet, because the laws of physics don’t apply and I can’t interface with living people who could still make use of my expertise and stubborn propensity to problem-solve.  I’d like to think my creative leanings would still matter, but I’m not positive to what degree they would in that environment.  (It’s worth a chuckle to me now that when they offhandedly noted that Shakespeare’s thousands of posthumous plays weren’t anywhere near as good as the ones he wrote on Earth, I was initially indignant.  But with further thought it makes sense that the longer one is removed from that tension I referenced previously, the harder it would be to make meaningful art.  Or to even have that art be appreciated by the audience, since, on the audience side, successful art plucks against the tension of the strings the audience itself carries.  And when your audience is restricted to people in paradise who have already at-least-mostly self-actualized....)

Something about the finale that I’m still chewing over how I feel about was the very last scene.  The implication of some form of reincarnation.  (If that wasn’t supposed to be the takeaway from that... well, please tell me, but I *think* I remember some kind of rewards card reference with Eleanor and Michael from an earlier season?)  The incurable romantic part of me appreciates the concept of reincarnation on principle, so that’s one thing.  It’s also entirely in keeping with Chidi’s metaphor about a wave returning to the ocean - that wave is gone; it’ll never be there again, but the stuff of it is still there and ready to take form again.  But the part of me that very much sympathizes with Simone and, while not being a neurologist, is very concerned with Theory of Mind... reincarnation doesn’t do much for that part.  If I die, and my metaphysical essence eventually shows up in a different human who has no connection via memory to their past lives... well, that’s very aesthetically pleasing, I guess, but the point to me is, the information was still lost.  When I died, my subjective experiences, memories, and capacity to act upon the world as Dae the Irascible Multi-Academic was lost, because my reincarnation doesn’t have access to that (much as I did not have access to my previous selves’s experiences).  

Anyway, speaking of incurable romantics, let’s talk about The Old Guard!  When I was previously starting to complain about no media that interacts with immortality as a concept avoiding the canard of “death gives life meaning,” I stopped myself.  Because you know what, The Old Guard didn’t fucking go there, and I’m proud of everyone who worked on it for that.  Booker thinks death is the answer because he has lost hope.  But the person he appeals to, the person he thinks he’s doing a favor, is Andy.  Who has lived millennia more than he has, lost the implied-love-of-her-life, and still has the will to keep going.  Her questioning of that is intrinsic to the storyline, but at NO POINT does she ever indicate she wants to die.  And Nile’s appearance reinvigorates her, even as she knows she now actually has an expiration date.  (And the expiration date is not what invigorates her.  It is Nile and the attendant situation reminding her of why they do what they do.)  I ultimately really like The Old Guard’s take on immortality, because it gives us a spectrum of reactions to it.  Nile, generally freaked-out and not happy about any of this but trying to do best by the people she loves.  Booker, jaded and wanting to end it all.  Andy, pretty jaded but when push comes to shove wants to keep fucking trying, and doesn’t just step back and abdicate responsibility when it’s clear she isn’t going to be around much longer.  Joe and Nicky, not necessarily always happy with their circumstances, but taking strength from their relationships, not just with each other, but with the group as a whole.  (I have a whole essay brewing, which may or may not eventually see the light, about their romantic connection being important but kind of only a part of their overall attitude about the group and how that is intensely important.) 

And because apparently I’m just going to keep tacking on essay-stubs to this one post, when I thought about how to start this, I also thought about how Hannibal Lecter (in NBC Hannibal) says, “The thought that my life could end at any moment frees me to fully appreciate the beauty and art and horror of everything this world has to offer.”  And I’m just kind of marinating in that (hah) for the moment because it represents a hedonism that The Good Place, in aggregate, rejects.  But you can’t really compare those two stances, because of course, Hannibal Lecter is a human, subject to human standards of beauty and horror.  I shouldn’t go off on a big tangent about this here, because the point of NBC Hannibal is emphatically not about immortality or mortality, but I felt it worth mentioning because a) hyperfixation and b) it’s an interesting thread in the wider discussion I’m interested in, that I like placing in context.

Anyway if you’ve bothered to read all of this, thank you profusely.  I have a lot of feelings about The Good Place which mostly boil down to “I loved it,” but I can’t help but poke at the whole death thing.  That’s kind of a sore spot for me in media.

[meditatemoremedicateless]

Gold Can Stay: The First Of Many (epilogue)

Art by @nerdylazorz​

Summary: Max, Chloe, and Rachel reach the end of their journey in LA, but their lives together are just beginning.

In tribute to @raycats and @loveisstrange-vn.

Part 8 of 8 Read the full story on Ao3 or ff.net.

My first time seeing L.A. is . . . not impressive.

We arrive about half an hour before rush hour, but even so, there is traffic into and throughout the city. We drive by an untold number of small businesses and chains until the whole city sort of blurs together. It was like this for me in Seattle too, at first, but without a place to get settled, the feeling never quite fades. The plan is to sleep parked near the beach somewhere tonight, so the three of us agree to eat something and make our way to Santa Monica Pier.

The Pier has all sorts of stuff - a small amusement park and an arcade, for starters - but we don't have much time before closing. Around sunset, Rachel grabs my hand and waves at Chloe, dragging me along swiftly to the Ferris Wheel.

It is sunset by the time the ride starts, and Rachel wastes no time taking my hand and resting her head against my shoulder.

"Tired?"

She nods, nuzzling me. "All this driving's got me wiped. If there's one thing Arcadia Bay's got up on LA it's got to be the time spent cooking in a pickup truck waiting for the car ahead of you to move ten feet."

I let go of her hand so I can wrap my arm around her instead.

"Yeah, you're right. That's the only thing Arcadia Bay's got going for it."

"Yep," Rachel replies, nodding even more emphatically. "Only thing."

I stroke her hair and she leans on me even more, like a cat pressing against my leg.

I ask her, "So, what's it like being back in LA? Is your strength returning? Do you like Fallout Boy again?"

"1) Yes and 2) I never stopped."

She sits up straight, though still so close to me I can keep my arm around her. We're at the height of the wheel and her face turns wistful.

She says, "It's like . . . watching a movie trailer. Being back here on an adventure is more fun than it will really be when I move here, I know that. It's going to be really hard, even with a job to get me started. But all the same, I can't help but be excited to return. To be back home."

Even though I've never lived in L.A., I know what she means. Home is waiting for us here - both the new and different, and the intimately familiar. It's the future.

"I can't wait for a holiday to come and visit you," I say, squeezing her shoulder.

Rachel laughs, warm and sweet. "I haven't even left yet!" she giggles, waving it off. After a beat, though, she says, "By the way, I'm going to get a queen-sized bed, so when you do visit, we can sleep together comfortably. I'm looking forward to more motel-style comfort instead of fighting you for my covers."

I dodge the taunt with an, "Aww, you're sweet," and kiss her cheek. She turns to me for another kiss, long and gentle, and her giggling softens to silence.

A minute later, our foreheads resting together, I say softly, "Be my girlfriend." I had planned to ask, and ask all cute like 'Can I be your girlfriend,' but in the moment I just want to have her, to know that she's choosing me like I'm choosing her.

"Okay," she whispers back, and the instant I see her crack a smile, I kiss her again.

The kissing continues for a long time, my self-consciousness gradually fading away to press kisses to her neck and collarbone. Once we finally pull away to take a breather, I feel the need to blurt out, "Just so, um, you know - I've always wanted to have sex on a Ferris wheel. Not this one specifically, but, um -"

My sentence quickly mutates into meaningless mumbling as Rachel's hand slides from my knee along the inside of my thigh. That draws out a smirk on her face, and she leans close to me like she's going to start kissing my neck. I'm steeling myself against turning into just a puddle of a person when she whispers, strangely husky, "Oh yeah?" right against my ear.

I'm still racing to figure out how to deal with very suddenly wanting to have sex on this Ferris Wheel when the ride stops with us half-way down. The ride is over. It's time to get off go.

Rachel kisses my cheek and leans back as if we were just casually avoiding the ride. "I'll have to bring you back here sometime then, huh?"

I don't think I manage a coherent response before it's time to get off the ride.

We spend most of the next day at a tattoo parlor. Even though I promised Rachel that this is what I wanted to do to celebrate, I hadn't been all that into tattoos until I moved back to Arcadia Bay. Plus, it hasn't even been a month since it became legal for me to get a tattoo!

Despite all of that, I'm the first one to decide on a design I like. I'd been sketching out different deer over the past week, but after I do a few tweaks, I show it to the artist and she assures me it'll be easy enough to do.

I barely bleed, which I take to be a good sign, even if it hurts like hell. I get a small doe on my right shoulder blade, looking up at three stars in the sky. If Chloe and Rachel get why I added the stars, at least they don't say anything about it. Even I think it's a little cheesy.

Chloe's much faster about making up a design than Rachel, and she's in right after me. She shows three designs to the artist, but after mulling it over (and being egged on by Rachel), she decides to get all three design on her forearm - a raven, a blue jay, and a butterfly. She insists she has a good reason for each of them but refuses to explain to anyone 'who isn't her wife' so Rachel and I are just left googling them to get an idea.

Typical of Chloe, the designs are interwoven and complex, so she only gets the outline done, but even that takes long enough that Rachel is finally able to get an idea of what she wants.

Rachel had a bunch of different designs to start with, but once things got narrowed down to animal themes, she started getting creative. She didn't show us the final design (that she pulled off the internet) and insisted we'd just have to find out once it was taking shape.

I don't know why, but I kind of assumed Rachel would be stoic when getting her tattoo - the dragon wrapped around her calf was so large, I figured she must just be immune to the needle. But as it turns out, she's actually a baby about it. A few minutes after they start work on her shoulder, though, she asks me to sit next to her and hold her hand so she'll stay still. She practically crushes my hand over the next hour, but I can't say I mind being relied on for something like this. For a first date as girlfriends . . . it's pretty nice.

Chloe and I take guesses every few minutes at what the design is as soon as we see it has a wing, but since we both wouldn't stop guessing 'Sphinx' we totally missed the griffin until the head was complete.

We emerge that evening from the parlor looking like we got the shit beat out of us and with so little money I need to text my Mom to make sure we'll have food on the trip back to Arcadia Bay, but it's worth it.

I run into Victoria for the first time the day after we arrive home in the shower room before classes start. She spits toothpaste out in the sink and wipes her mouth the second she sees me, and I brace myself for whatever stinging witticism she has ready for me.

She just says, "You burn really bad, Caulfield."

That's . . . fair. I shrug. "I wasn't really born with the sun in mind, I guess."

I'm not really used to seeing her this early, before all the makeup and styled hair. She looks gaunt, but softer. Almost approachable. Almost.

"How was your trip?"

I smile as best I can this early in the morning, scratching the back of my head. I should have brought my bracelets so I'd have something to fidget with during a conversation.

"It was a great time, I think. I got a lot of really great photos and, I mean, it was my first time in California for anything but a stop in LAX. It's beautiful down there."

She shrugs. "If you like the semi-desert, I guess." If it's meant to be cutting, she doesn't put the usual amount of work into making it sound harsh. So much of her usual spite looks drained away - that, or I'm just really off-guard seeing her without makeup.

I'm waiting to go into the shower and she's waiting to leave, but neither of us actually moves to end the conversation. Instead, we stand there in awkward silence for a moment.

Finally, she says, "I actually . . . saw some of what you posted on Instagram. They were, in fact, great shots. Even the candid ones," she rolls her eyes on the word 'candid', but I think she just means 'pictures of Rachel.'

"Thanks," I reply, smile coming a little easier this time. "Have you heard back about your submission to that gallery?"

"Not yet," she says, shaking her head. Then, settling her stare on me, "But don't get too comfortable. Even if I don't make this one, there will be another. I'm going to come out on top once all is said and done this year."

Even if she's trying to be intimidating, the whole thing feels a little too shonen for me to be cowed. "We'll see about that," I reply.

Satisfaction coats her face, and she finally grabs her shower caddy and goes to leave. Just as she reaches the door, she gives a little back-handed wave and says, "Mazel tov, by the way," and is gone before I can say anything back.

There are many firsts on Tuesday, December 24, when Rachel and I sneak off before a Christmas party with her dad and buddies from his band. It's a crisp, cold afternoon, sunset already fast approaching before it's even hit 5pm, and I hope I'll at least have a few minutes of light for photos by the time we reach the light house.

Rachel pauses when we reach the top of the path, and she drops my hand as I pull away.

"How . . . how did that get here?" She asks, pointing at the lighthouse door where my guitar case sits.

"Trickery," I offer, and she follows me cautiously.

"I thought we were here to take photos," Rachel says, eyes narrows with suspicion, arms crossed over her body. She takes a seat on one of the rocks surrounding the fire pit, and I sit across from her, pulling my guitar from the case.

"Oh, we are. I just didn't say what of."

"What of, then?" Rachel asks, even more suspicious now.

"You. But I have something for you first."

"What is it?" she asks, edging into playful hostility. "Some sort of . . . romantic trick? A sneak attack? 'Hey there Delilah?'"

"Close, and don't think I didn't consider playing that song. But no. I, uh. I wrote something for you."

Rachel's face drops into sudden horror. "You didn't."

"I did."

"Max," she whines, "that's way too good of a gift. I'll - I don't know, cry or something."

"Babe," I begin. It works like a charm, leaving her doe-eyed, if still grumpy. "Please let me play my song for you."

She pouts, pulling her legs up close to her torso so she can rest her hands and head on her knees. "Fine."

She looks nervous, and it makes me want to kiss her, but I can't give in yet. Rachel's so beautiful and sweet that it's hard to ignore, but at the very least, I can channel my frustration at not touching her this very instant into playing.

I strum the keys and tune the guitar one last time, and then begin.

Ashes to the ground Fall the wrong way round World upside down I know I know

Home a distant time Smoke ore clearer skies Everybody lies I know I know

In every way you do More than I could say you knew And life is so strange it's true But so are you

She sits eerily still, eyes trained on me. There's no smile or anything like I expected, but soon she buries her face into her legs with her eyes closed. I don't know what to make of that, but I keep playing.

I will play the game I will take the blame I will break the same I know I know

In every way you do More than I could say you knew And life is so strange it's true But so are you

Ashes to the ground Fall the wrong way round I will let you down I know I know

In every pause you knew Take my breath away, you do And life is so strange it's true But so are you

It's not until the song is over that I can finally hear what I was missing. Softly, softly Rachel cries, and as soon as I hear it, I drop the guitar along the side of a rock. She looks up as I approach, wiping the tears off her face.

"Baby - baby what's wrong? Are you okay?"

Rachel looks up at me, taking a few seconds while she struggles for words. After a second, she forfeits even that, and reaches up, cupping my face with her hands, pulling me down into a kiss.

"I - I told you I'd cry, dammit." She sniffles as we rest our heads together.

A feeling of awe fills my chest, warm and radiant. Not as energetic as electricity, but just as intense. Something new.

"I love you," she whispers.

It's the first time. And not for a second do I doubt it.

It's the first time, and I'm shaking. The cold wind from the light house makes a good excuse, but just the process of peeling off my clothes in front of her is what really makes me tremble. I haven't been topless in front of someone since I was a child, and the feeling of Rachel's hands on my sides are something totally new. She strokes my back while we kiss until the shivering stops, although it comes back in bursts every time she finds a sensitive spot on my skin with her hands or mouth.

That feeling of wonder refuses to leave, and I'm enveloped in it. I've never had what I'd call a 'religious experience,' but if I were to imagine a feeling of holiness, it would be this.

I don't know how many times I say 'I love you,' but it's too many to count.

The weeks after Rachel leaves are the loneliest I've had since I moved to Seattle, and Chloe is right there with me. We try to keep up our regular hang-outs, and when that fails, we try reverting to old habits. After about an hour of doodling on scraps of paper (and Chloe's bedroom floor) with songs autoplaying from her computer, a familiar track comes on. She sighs seconds into the song and rolls onto her back, and I follow suit a moment after.

"Rachel's alarm?"

She nods, "Yeah," patting at her vest pocket for a second. "God that makes me want a cigarette."

"Out?" I ask, reaching up towards the ceiling. The bracelet Rachel made for me isn't as brilliant in the dark of Chloe's room, but it's still pretty.

Rachel lifts her hand up as well. She's wearing a blue and white bracelet I feel like I haven't seen in a long time, or like I've only seen it in old photographs.

"I'm trying to quit, actually."

"Oh, for real?" I roll on my side, and Chloe drops her hand back onto her chest.

"Yeah. I mean, that stuff will kill ya, you know."

I place my hand on top of hers, more than a little happy and very lonely. "Proud of you."

Chloe doesn't respond; all she does is close her eyes and smile, waiting for the song to finish playing.

Anon asked: if youre cis why are you talking about trans issues on the internet. these arent about you. stop being a transphobe and shut the fuck up.

Every part of that makes my blood boil, and I'm not entirely sure why. I just know to the core of my being that they're wrong, even though I've expressed similar sentiments before. I don't particularly care what cis people have to say about trans issues online. But I've thought about this so much, I know it's not just something I made up on the spot. Is that what's really pissing me off, or is it . . .

noirangel: look, I get that you have good intentions behind being mean to me on Tumblr, but I'm going to need you to stop. I provided sources where I could, and drew from the experiences of trans people I know, including myself, wherever I couldn't. I'm not shutting up because these are my real, lived experiences, as well as those of people around me, and I don't appreciate this shit in my ask box just because you want me to be quiet. Please fuck off.

Holy shit. I said it. I really said it.

I'm not sure what to do next. I just typed it out online - can I just leave it like that? Does saying it one time make it true? How do I really know I'm trans?

This deteriorates quickly while I rapidly refresh my blog, waiting to see if there's any reaction to what I said. The first response I get is just a like, but even that feels like a breath of fresh air. The first person to see this, at least, didn't reject me. That's something. But there's someone I'm a little more concerned about than random people on the internet.

Max: hey hon, i've got kind of a weird question. Max: do you think you would still be interested in me even if I weren't a girl?

I expect a lengthy pause, maybe lots of suspicious questions.

Instead, Rachel responds after about thirty seconds with:

Rachel: yeah babe lol Rachel: ur hot and i love you Rachel: why?

God. God, I love her.

Max: haha I was just wondering. Max: I love you too ^^

I drop my phone onto my chest and let out a sigh of relief. That's not quite coming out just yet, but the security for one day is all I need right now.

Our first fight wasn't something I expected at all - I hadn't even realized at first we were having it. It clicked right around,

Me: Do you seriously think I'm cheating on you? Chloe and I are your best friends Rachel, we wouldn't just choose to blow everything up just because you're living away.

Rachel: I know, and I'm not saying that. And it's not like I think you would have chose to do anything, but things happen, you know? Maybe just one time when she was drunk or - or something.

Me: But we seriously didn't.

Rachel: I - o-okay. Fine. If you say so.

Me: Rachel.

Rachel: What, Max?

Me: Look, I get where you're coming from, but I'm seriously capable of making choices around these things. I don't just fall into romantic or sexual situations by pure accident - it doesn't really work for me that way. And if I thought something were going to happen between me and Chloe, I'd talk to you about it. Because I seriously, really wouldn't want to blow up our relationship because my relationship with Chloe has been changing.

Rachel: Has it?

Me: What?

Rachel: . . . been changing.

Me: Oh my god! No! Because I made conscious decisions against it. Please trust me.

Rachel:

Rachel: . . . you're right

Me: Hon, are you crying?

Rachel: Um . . . yeah, sorry, a little. It just, um.

Rachel: Sorry. I just realized none of this shit is about you, exactly. I'm expecting a lot of my own mistakes out of you and that's - that's not fair.

Me: What do you mean?

Rachel: I don't think I've ever been very . . . uh . . . forthcoming with you about what my and Chloe's relationship was like before you came back to Arcadia Bay.

Rachel: We, um . . . so. We were dating, I guess. We never made it super clear, but it was definitely a romantic thing.

Rachel: I loved her.

Me: I know.

Rachel: Did Chloe tell you?

Me: No. Do you remember that night in the motel in San Francisco, right before we started dating?

Rachel: No? Wait, yeah. Shit. Did you hear us talking?

Me: Yep.

Rachel: Well, fuck.

Rachel: Well, yeah. We were together. But we weren't very good at it. I know Chloe blames herself a lot for how it all fell apart, but if we're being honest, I think I was sabotaging it from the start. Chloe loved me so much and it really scared me - like I wasn't worthy of it or I'd mess it all up. Or something. So I made . . . sure of it. And I cheated on her. A lot. And I'd tell myself it was accidental, or that we weren't officially together so it didn't really count, and, just, stupid stuff like that.

Me: That's . . . pretty messed up, sweetie. But I think I get it.

Rachel: Yeah . . . you remember Frank?

Me:  Your ex?

Rachel: Yeah. I started seeing him while Chloe and I were still together. She never actually figured out who I was with, but once she realized I'd cheated on her, she blew up. And things were a total mess for a while, until I stopped seeing Frank and put things back together. And that's . . . right around when you moved back. And . . . we just never really talked out everything that happened.

Me: That . . . makes my first year back make a lot more sense.

Rachel: Yeah.

Me: And to be clear, I think you really messed up.

Rachel: I know.

Me: But I know Chloe doesn't hate you for it, and I don't hate you for it. But I know she's confused and hurt, still. She loves you.

Rachel: I know.

Me: I love you, too.

Rachel: I love you, too, hon. And . . . I. I miss you.

Me: I miss you, too.

Rachel: I miss Chloe too. Not just right now but . . . these past two years. Ever since you came back, it's felt like she's had eyes only for you, and I've been stupid jealous. It made being friends with you complicated, in the beginning. For a lot of reasons.

Me: I can definitely understand that. I'm not mad. We found our own rhythm - eventually.

Rachel: Ha! Just in time, too.

Rachel: Please don't tell Chloe that I miss her. I want to work things out, but it's still too . . .

Rachel: I'm still not ready.

Me: I won't say anything, I swear.

Rachel: You swear?

Me: I swear! I just said so.

Rachel: Okay. I love you. I'm sorry I dragged you down into all of my feelings like this. You're not me.

Me: I love you too. And you're not who you used to be either, Rachel.

Me: Let's . . . in the future, when something like this comes up, let's just talk, okay? I know things between the three of us are complicated, but I think we can make it work. I super believe in us.

Rachel: We're star-crossed, huh?

Me: Totally, actually bound by celestial forces.

Rachel: Even if we weren't, I'd still choose you, you know.

Me: You sap. I love you.

Rachel: I love you, too.

Our graduation is out on the football field across from the main school buildings, with about 100 chairs set out for students and faculty while families sit on the bleachers. It's uncomfortably hot, and most of the students are actively shading themselves with their mortarboard if they think they can get away from it.

Principal Wells clears his throat and says, "And now, we'll be hearing from our Salutatorian, Kate Marsh."

Kate graduates as our Salutatorian thanks to her taking 1 less AP class than Warren, and her speech is the one I'm really interested in hearing. Not that Warren's wasn't good exactly, it's just that he had me look it over a half-dozen times because "you're good at English" even though I scraped by the minimum GPA for college acceptance. Kate has been guarding the content of her speech carefully for months, but knowing her, she probably outlined its entire structure and theme months ahead of time before submitting a totally different speech a few weeks ago.

Kate walks slowly up to the podium, although she and the other students giving speeches are seated only a few paces back from it. She takes a few seconds to look at the paper with her speech, looks up at the audience, takes a deep breath, and smiles.

"I'd first like to say thank you - thank you to Blackwell Academy's staff and faculty, for the exceptional education and facilities you provided to us as students; thank you to my classmates for making this school the most challenging and rewarding year of my life; thank you to my family for supporting me this year and every year until now; and thank you to my friends for making Blackwell my home away from home.

I would like to speak frankly about my high school career. When I say it was challenging and rewarding, I do not mean that just intellectually, or, as those of you who have been through high school might say, socially. I've suffered from depression for many years, most acutely since I entered high school. It wasn't that I was bullied or had exceptional struggles in my life; my brain just ticks a little differently than others. When I came to Blackwell Academy, I lost the familiar things that kept me standing, and even with the excellent instruction available to me here, I couldn't imagine getting through this school year. I guess you could say it was a dark time for me.

But there was light here, and it reached me. My teachers were a light - they treated me with kindness and dignity, and helped me continue my work even when there were days I couldn't make it out of bed. My friends were a light - they stood by me, listened to me, supported me, and loved me. My faith, which had never connected closely with my school life before I came here, was a light I shared with many people, some of whom had the same background as me, but most did not. All of these lights showed me the way forward, even when it was slow and stumbling."

Kate pauses, as her voice is shaking too much to speak coherently. She takes two deep breaths, and continues.

"The kindness I was shown as a student at Blackwell was the most meaningful thing I found here. It gave me hope. Hope not necessarily that I would get better - I do not know if I will ever simply 'get better' from depression - but hope in kindness's power to shine a light, to cast out the dark. To make the world better, even on the smallest scale.

I cannot guarantee that this is what we all found here - our senior years were nothing if not messy, complicated, and different. But I know that this light is precious, and that I will take it with me from this place. It will continue to guide me forward, and I hope that I can be a light for others through kindness and compassion. I want to help make a world where there is always a light there - that if you reach out, there will be happiness waiting for you. I won't be alone for trying. I know that, at least. And a few other things, as I did manage to do pretty OK in school by the end."

Victoria is sitting two seats down from me, and I think she's the only person who doesn't laugh at that. She's made-up, flawless, and sad. We never really became close, and right now, I regret that. I think it's easy to regret the things you did or could have done at the end of the year.

I wonder what Victoria regrets.

"This really has been the most rewarding year of my life, but I think the best one is still to come. Thank you."

Kate bows her head for a moment at the audience as the class and families erupt into applause, then walks away from the podium.

It's some time still until we all throw our hats in the air to conclude the ceremony, but no sooner has mine gone flying than I'm out of the row of chairs and running straight towards her.

"KATE!"

"MAX!"

She holds her arms open and just sinks the impact as I barrel into her, doing my best to crush her with a hug. Luckily for us both, my upper body strength is pretty pathetic.

"You're amazing!"

"No, you're amazing!" she yells right back even though we're 0 inches apart. "And thank you!"

"NO, THANK YOU! That was such a good speech and-"

She shakes her head. "No, come on, weren't you listening?" She drops her hands from around me and takes my hands. "Thank you. Seriously. I love you."

I beam, and squeeze her hands. "Am I your light?"

"Yeah," she answers without hesitation, and I blush.

"Oh, shit, um, I was teasing you, I thought you would say something witty and now I'm, uh-"

She's pleased, wiggling a little bit at my discomfort. "C'mon, say you love me back; I'm like, super anxious right now."

"I love you. You're the best." It feels so good to say that, but I'm doing my best to not fall in love with her at such an inopportune moment.

"Second best, but I think that's probably good enough," she says, pulling me back into a hug. "Stay in touch, okay? No getting so distracted with LA you forget about me."

"I could never, Kate Marsh."

It's some months later that I come home from class to find Chloe sitting on the couch at our new apartment, watching How It's Made with the volume about as low as it can go while still being audible.

"Hey Chloe," I greet her, dumping my backpack near the door.

She turns and waves, only mouthing a 'hello.' Curious, I walk over to find Rachel asleep on the couch with her head in Chloe's lap, curled up so she can fit.

"Oh, there's my beautiful girl," I croon, crouching down in front of them and stroking Rachel's hair. She stirs at the touch, but does not wake up.

"She fell asleep like an hour ago; I've been too scared to move her, like a cat," Chloe whispers.

"I understand."

A minute passes while I pet Rachel and Chloe idly strokes her arm with her thumb, and even though I'm exhausted from the day, I feel light.

"I'm so fucking happy." I sit cross-legged in front of the couch, no intentions of stopping what I'm doing anytime soon.

"Good day at class?"

I shake my head. "Mediocre day. But my life is . . . well. I kind of love it."

Chloe doesn't say anything, only closes her eyes and smiles. For a second, I think I see Rachel smiling, too, but she only nuzzles my hand before falling back asleep.

Art by @cahlart​

[tysonrunningfox]

Ripped: Part 21

Ao3

We’re back to the lemon system on this hellsite, right?  We’re using the citrus scale?  Back to my youth?  Alright.  

00000

“So I’m in the hospital lobby here to visit Snotlout, but I realize I don’t know how to explain to him that I know I was kind of dick to him with Eretson.” Ruffnut launches right into the crux of her problem and Astrid knows she doesn’t have much of a choice but to take a seat and deal with it. That is, if she wants Ruffnut to stop calling, which she does, so she blocks off the receiving speaker with her hand.

“Sorry, this might be a minute.” This is the furthest from murder she’s ever been alone with Hiccup, in private, behind a closed and thankfully locked door, and she wants it uninterrupted.

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

“And I didn’t realize I was even being a dick around Eretson, because I didn’t know that Snotlout even actually liked me, I thought we were just hooking up, but now he got shot and almost died and I don’t know if I have to pretend that I knew he liked me or that I like him, and it’s not that I don’t, I just didn’t know that was a thing he was expecting.”

“Uh-huh,” Astrid smiles apologetically at Hiccup when she catches him looking at her, barefoot and tired, eyes bright and shoulders on edge. It’s worse when she knows how soft his hair is and how he sounds mumbling half her name on the cusp of a dream.

“And am I just more of a bitch if I go apologize right now but I don’t actually like him when he’s not almost dying? Not that I care if I’m a bitch, he really should have talked to me if he didn’t want me hitting on other guys in front of him, not that I gave him much time to talk, and not that I was even really hitting on Eretson.”

“Mmmh,” Astrid nods, rolling her eyes conspiratorially at Hiccup and then frowning when he freezes, looking her up and down in soft, panicked way she’s not familiar with. She cocks her head to ask what’s wrong and his eyes linger on her socks for a second before he jumps to his feet.

“I was just intimidating the authority figure, it’s the Thorston trick—“

“I’m going to go take that shower really quick, ok? Cool, see you in a minute!” Hiccup announces before darting off into what she assumes is the bathroom and shutting the door behind him.

“—like what was I going to do when a detective with boa constrictors for arms started talking like I was a murder suspect? Go to jail? Not without a fight—“

The shower turns on with a creak of old pipes and Astrid swallows hard, eyes going wide as she stares at the door. It has a lock, but Hiccup didn’t lock it, but why would he? He knows she’s not the Grimborn killer, except she doubts that’s what’s on his mind right now.

He has no reason to lock the door, but he has no reason to leave it unlocked either, unless he was serious earlier about her joining him. She thought he was too upset to be serious about anything, but after the last couple months maybe they’ve had no choice to be serious while also upset.

“—and yeah, Snotlout is great, he’s got the chest and the dimples, both sets! But he didn’t even ask me if we were serious before getting shot—“

If Hiccup was serious about her joining him, how would that even work? With the missing foot, she means. On a bed, it wouldn’t be a problem but standing—

“—and I’m really worried about him, actually, because I feel like he’s yours and Tuff’s friend now too and I know you two like each other more than you like me—“

Ruffnut’s voice brings back a now months old relic of the concept of murder alley sex and the way Astrid blurted it out to him at Gruff’s, and he blushed and huffed and talked about draftiness with that awkward chin tilt that makes her laugh even when it shouldn’t. Even when nothing should be funny. And he put up curtains in her apartment, the apartment she doesn’t want to go back to because it feels like a signature on a contract she didn’t read. When he kissed her that time, he didn’t want to go back to the bedroom because of his horrible day, and she finds herself ranking surviving but wounded cousins against a disembodied foot being mailed to his apartment.    

This apartment. The surprisingly homey apartment she didn’t expect, with traces of Hiccup on every wall and in every time worn line of the couch.

“Astrid? You there?” Ruffnut pauses her monologue long enough to check for an audience.

“Yeah, I’m here.” She clears her throat.

“You stopped humming at regular intervals.”

“Hiccup’s in the shower,” Astrid says, a little high pitched, and she curls her knees more tightly to her chest.

“Ok, so tell me how to not be a dick to a guy who just got shot quickly and I’ll let you get back to your…afternoon delight.”

Astrid checks the time and frowns because Ruffnut is right, it’s barely after four. Even after all that walking around, the sun is still high outside the wide window on the front of Hiccup’s apartment, the light making her feel vulnerable and safe at the same time.

“Can’t you just be nice?”

“Not that quickly,” Ruffnut snorts, “I don’t—I’ve never been nice to him.”

“He really liked that time you thought he was a stripper.” Astrid tries then frowns, thinking of Hiccup’s panicked face, “Except he’s not supposed to get his blood pressure up—“

“Then what the fuck am I doing here?” She sounds a little desperate, a little raw, and Astrid sighs, rubbing her temple and wondering whether it’s wrong to feel so comfortable on Hiccup’s couch.

“You’re trying to do the right thing.”

“Yeah, no, I don’t really do that.”

“Well, you’re trying to and I’m proud of you, so just…get up, go upstairs.”

“That’s not telling me what to say so that I’m not an asshole.” Ruffnut must be following direction anyway because Astrid hears the elevator door ding.

“Just say what you feel when you see him. I bitched about the Patriots, we had a nice talk.” Her heart twists thinking about how worried Snotlout was about Hiccup, and the way that Hiccup snored on her lap, eyes squinting with dreams she wondered if she should try and keep away.

“What I feel? What I feel is awkward to be in a hospital when I don’t even have a boyfriend and no one ever considers that’s on purpose—oh my God.”

The shower cuts off and old pipes drain with a gurgle in the bathroom wall.

She took too long and missed yet another chance.

No, he was probably just taking the shower he was excited enough for to be roused from his dedicated post at Snotlout’s bedside. She hopes he feels better, if better is even possible for him right now. She swallows back against the selfish disappointment rising in her throat and focuses on finishing this conversation.

“Grisly’s in his room,” Ruffnut whispers, “I’m going in.”

“No!” Astrid sits up straight, all of Hiccup’s theories rushing back into her head. That’s not worth the risk, no matter how small, “just—“

“Hey, rough night at work?” Ruffnut says, her voice a couple of feet from the phone. There’s a rustle and an uncomfortable undertone to an inarticulate voice. “Hey, you can stay, no reason to run—”

“Ruff!” Snotlout’s voice is relieved enough that Astrid doesn’t feel guilty hanging up when the bathroom door opens.

Hiccup emerges in a cloud of steam, one crutch under his left arm, a white towel tied around his waist. Low on his waist. Low enough that she can see the shadow of his hipbones in the half sunlit room and the start of a chestnut trail of hair down from his navel. His right hand holds the towel up as he takes a one-legged step forward, but it really doesn’t do anything but draw her attention downwards with a freckled arm and long fingers.

“Everything ok?” He asks, frowning, hair slicked back from his forehead and making his eyes look greener and his brows darker.

She nods, “yeah, it’s…fine. Everything’s fine.” Her eyes snag on the ripple in his lean muscled shoulder when he moves the crutch forward. His chest clenches as he stabilizes himself, the whole of his stomach tensing and guiding her eyes to the V of his hips, cut off by the towel.

His mouth twitches, suddenly serious and hopeful, and she swallows hard.

“Sorry about that,” he gestures at the bathroom with his chin, the sharp line of his jaw free of most of his hospital stubble. She must have not heard the trimmer over the running water.

“It’s fine, it took longer to get Ruffnut off the phone than I thought,” she laughs, cheeks heating up when Hiccup smiles, a private sheepish smile, “she’s visiting Snotlout, apparently, so that’s…unusually nice of her.”

“I realized some things,” he starts, taking a couple steps with his crutch that make her want to take him somewhere safe. Somewhere he won’t need the towel. “You’re right about Grimborn, or—can I show you something?”

“Sure,” she bites her lip, trying to focus on his face but being distracted by water dripping off of his hair and down his side, catching on the barely visible line of his rib and gleaming.

“Could you get the door?” He points at a closed door next to the couch with his elbow, looking almost apologetically at the hand currently occupied by holding his towel up, like he’s embarrassed he doesn’t have three arms. She jumps up before she can tell him it’s fine with her if he frees up a hand.

“Yeah, sure, no problem.” She takes a deep breath facing the door, trying to force her heartbeat to slow down as Hiccup follows, the uneven sound of crutch and bare foot familiar in a way it shouldn’t be.

The old door swings open to reveal an office with a haphazardly dusted hardwood desk and two walls lined entirely with bookshelves. All but one is filled with books, most of them old, and the last has a stack of file boxes coated in a thick layer of dust. The wood around the window frame is chipped, like for the last century someone has been pushing the leather office chair back against it a little too emphatically, excited by some discovery or angry with a dead end.

“My dad’s office,” Hiccup explains, shoulder bumping against hers as he walks around her and through the door, toes sinking into the thick rug under the desk. The end of his left leg is barely visible under the edge of the towel, a clinical scar along the end of a smooth, rounded limb, and she’s as curious about it as the wiry flex of his shoulders, for entirely different reasons.

Mostly, she wonders how he’s naked and she’s the one feeling this vulnerable.

“Your dad’s?” She walks up to the bookshelf and starts looking through titles. There are six copies of the Admiral Haddock book he loaned her, all different editions. The next shelf is full of books about the history of Berk and the surrounding area, most of them old, some of them with what look like Norse subtitles on the bindings.

There’s a row of what look like magazines, but she pulls one out to see a program from a Viggo Grimborn themed musical put on by a Berkian theater company in the mid-eighties. Flipping through it, there are snippets of the songs and an advertisement from a local casket maker promising their product will ‘keep all your bits together, no matter what’.

She snorts, “this looks more like your office.”

“That’s the thing,” he laughs, low in his throat and closer than she thought he was, and the program bumps against his chest when she jumps and turns to face him. He doesn’t step back though, leaning his armpit on the crutch to take another book off of the shelf and show it to her. It’s some kind of journal, written in sloping, careful cursive and she trades him, flipping through it. “That was my great-great—some number of greats, I don’t know, grandpa, he was pretty annoyed at the Grimborn thing getting so much publicity.” He takes it back, gently setting a bookmark and putting it carefully back in its place on the shelf.

A few surprisingly graceful hops sideways let him lean back against the desk with his crutch beside him and she follows, standing in front of him and trying to read his expression. She’s used to his face being loud, unreserved, but now he’s thinking too hard, in his own way as much as hers.

A line of goosebumps highlights the sharp line of his collar bone and Astrid wants to touch him the way she touched that journal, reverent but with the intent to discover it. He doesn’t stop her when she tries, inhaling sharply and looking at her with serious, suddenly dilated eyes as she presses her hand to his hastening heartbeat.

“Last person I thought I’d ever take after,” he laughs, sharp but unburdened, compared to earlier. “I just kept thinking about what you said about me not being a Grimborn-ologist, and—well, if it’s not about Grimborn, what is it about?”

“Hiccup,” she’s not sure what she’s asking for, or if it’s a question, but he sets his jaw and nods purposefully at her.

“Let me get there, ok?” He looks at her like he’s falling but he’s just determined enough to get his feet underneath him and jump. “Just—if it’s not about Grimborn, it’s about what everything else is about.” He waves at the bookshelves and she lets her hand slide down and around his side, every nerve on edge when he grins at her, “I’m not good with change. Even the city changing feels like it’s betraying—but I can’t stop it. You’re right, this is my office now, full of my things and I made it that way while I was trying to keep it the same.” He tucks her hair behind her ear with warm fingertips, cold knuckles brushing along her jaw and she shivers, “and the thing is, I thought I was happy in my holding pattern, and then I met you and…and I want you on my couch, irritated with your best friend and I want you looking at my books like you respect what they’re made out of and—”

“I don’t think I’ve told you this,” she grabs his wrist to stop his fingers from tracing the side of her neck, too much and not nearly enough, “but it drives me crazy when you take these big, long detours without telling me where we’re going.”

He laughs and leans in, kissing her too gently for the way she responds, fisting her hand in his damp hair when he catches himself on the desk. It must be his crutch that clatters to the floor, because his towel is still annoyingly in place as he deepens the kiss. His hands curl in her shirt at her waist, pulling her against him with easy confidence that’s too casual for how it makes her heart race.

“Maybe that’s what I’m going for,” he mutters against her cheek, and the curl of heat in her stomach borders on painful. He doesn’t give her time to be embarrassed about the borderline desperate moan his words drag out of her, smiling into her skin as he kisses her neck, enjoying the detour entirely too much.

“I can see that.” Her frustration makes him chuckle, the ghost of his teeth across her pulse.

“It’s not intentional—not that I mind driving you crazy,” he mumbles a little breathless, “I just wanted, no, needed to talk to you—“

She cuts him off with another kiss, dragging her hand down his chest and feeling his stomach muscles twitch when she lingers there, thwarted by a wad of wet towel. His hand cups her face, fingers so gentle in her hair that she snaps, yanking the side of his towel to get it out of her way. It doesn’t work like she hopes, damp fabric catching on the desk with a creak of old wood.

“Hey,” Hiccup laughs, hand on her shoulder to stabilize himself as he hops sideways slightly, the towel dipping on his hips but stubbornly covering him.

“Is that not where we’re going?” She pauses, fingers clammy against his stomach until he blushes, eyebrows raised.

“Yes, definitely,” he looks down between them and swallows hard, “of course. I’m not in a hurry, though,” his voice dips to a husky whisper and he’s tender again, brushing her hair behind her ear.

She snaps, kissing down the side of his neck and biting the offensively sharp line of his collarbone as she purposefully undoes the knot in his towel. He gasps when her lips trail down his chest, his hands braced on her shoulders as she anchors her thumbs in the divots above his hipbones. She drops to her knees on the plush rug under the desk and Hiccup groans, leaning back against it with a sudden force that makes it creak again.

“Astrid,” he shudders when she wraps one hand around the base of him, smiling to herself against his hip. For how hilarious he found her frustration a minute ago, at least part of him seems to agree with the sentiment, throbbing and almost scalding against her palm when she strokes. She kisses across his thigh, teasing, and he shudders, fingertips digging into her shoulders for balance. “You don’t have to—“

“No,” she looks up at him, hand that’s not wrapped around his length reaching around to grab his ass, “I really do.”

“Oh God,” he moans, but he relaxes too, one of his hands letting go of her shoulder and gripping the desk as he exhales a deep, shaky breath.

Hiccup has a way of surprising her. Constantly, infuriatingly. Sweetly and comfortingly. But when she kisses the tip of him almost chastely before taking him unceremoniously into her mouth, she’s surely holding her own on that front.

He swears under his breath, hips twitching forward when she starts to move and she braces one hand against his hip to hold him still. She understands his impulse to make this last after the months of buildup, but she can’t say that she agrees, not when she needs him to understand her urgency. Not when he’s groaning and trying to restrain himself from flexing forward, his stomach twitching as his hand fumbles in her hair.

She pulls back to breathe, kissing along the length of him and pumping slowly with her hand, twisting her wrist and nuzzling his hip. He smells like soap and unmistakably like Hiccup, all hospital anxiety thankfully washed away in the shower. When she flicks her tongue against the underside of his head he bites his lip and groans, the desk creaking again.

“Ok?” She sucks for another teasing second, reveling in revenge for his comments about driving her crazy when he twitches, hips bumping off of the desk.

“Not going to last,” he huffs, brushing her hair back from her temple, still reverent and sending a warm thrill down her spine as she nods and takes him back into her mouth, moving with purpose now. “Fuck, Astrid…”

She murmurs comfortingly around him, free hand stroking his thigh as she drags him over the edge. He moans, overwhelmed and nasal, his knee bobbling even as she stands up and wraps her arms around his waist.

“I….” He sighs, resting his forehead against hers, eyes closed and breathing hard, and she kisses the tip of his nose, “You…”

“I was in a hurry.”

“Something like that,” he laughs, sliding his hand to her hip and pivoting, urging for her to sit on the edge of the desk. He keeps his balance with a hand on her knee but moves it upwards, slowly, thumb tracing the seam on her inner thigh as he kisses under her ear. “I just kept waiting for the right time, for some magical time where nothing could mess this up, but that’s the thing. I’m always going to worry about messing this up,” he pulls back and tucks her hair behind her ear, thumb swiping over her cheek. His eyes are black, ringed with the tiniest sliver of emerald, and she thinks this is the most serious she’s ever seen him outside of a hospital.

Too serious entirely, considering how much tension he just released.

“Hey,” she puts a comforting hand on his cheek while the other traces down to his ass and squeezes, “the only way you’re going to mess this up is if you don’t stop talking, right now.”

He narrows his eyes, corner of his lips twitching as he glances down at his own chest and the towel piled around his foot. “So, I should go get dressed now, right?”

Apparently, even after all this time, she underestimated his ability to joke while taking things seriously.

“Absolutely not,” she squeezes and any comment about Ruffnut getting there first dies in her throat when he hooks a hand under her knee and tugs her close enough to demonstrate the height of the desk.

“Then I think you’re behind here,” his hand slides under her shirt, fingers tracing the line of her bra against her chest. She gasps, knees tight around his hips as she tries to get her shirt off without allowing any more space between them. He hisses in her ear, fumbling then succeeding with her bra clasp when his hips twitch forward against her. “Zipper,” he groans, face pressed into her shoulder as his fingers tweak a pebbled nipple.

“Sure,” she kisses his temple, inhaling the smell of his shampoo as she inches her shirt up. He can get her zipper, that would be helpful.  

“Hnnn, no, I mean grinding into your zipper is—“

“Oh, sorry,” she lets go, rushing to unbutton her pants. The zipper sticks and she swears, hands shaking when Hiccup shoves her shirt up to her neck and ducks down to kiss across her chest, fingers too warm on the sides of her ribs. “Hiccup…”

“Just a second.” He pushes her to lay flat on the desk, swirling his tongue around her nipple when she arches away from the cold wood. When her hands slide down his back he grinds forward again and flinches, forehead on her sternum. “Zipper, fuck.”

“Then let me get them off—“

“Not used to head starts,” he kisses down her stomach, hands tugging at her zipper for a second before he gets it loose. “There,” he pulls her pants down and tugs her underwear with them, dropping them vaguely to the side.

She’s barely on her elbows when he’s kissing her again, only pausing to help her get her shirt over her head. She fumbles her bra off, finally as naked as he is as he leans over her, half-hard length of him pressed against her inner thigh. And for once, his tendency to take his time is appreciated as his fingers trace over every inch of her, like she’s a primary source document he spent months hunting down.

He pauses to catalogue new and important information, taking mental notes for future tours. He notes the way she gasps when his thumb brushes over the ticklish spot on her knee, he lingers over the details when her hands tangle in his hair as he nuzzles the sensitive curve under her breast. And when he finally touches her, long fingers dipping carefully between her legs, she can feel him planning a route meant to maximize suspense.

“At least part of you is in a hurry now,” she sits up, one arm around his neck as the other reaches between them to grasp his length.

“I’m fine,” he grins but moves anyway, finger slipping into her as his thumb searches outside, rubbing when he finds her clit, “still recuperating, really.” He kisses her neck, adding another finger and moving his wrist intentionally.

It’s good, but it’s not enough, not when more is in her hand, throbbing in her grip like it’s teasing her. Not when she’s thought of this for so long and so far, reality has built on her expectation and her blood is buzzing under her skin.

“I know it’s not the archives,” he nibbles at her earlobe, voice husky as his hips twitch forward into her grip, his hand moving faster, “and it’s severely lacking Berk Enquirers…” His fingers curl and the tension in her core builds, starting to culminate. “But it’s not an insignificant collection.”

“Are you trying to turn me on by talking about the Berk Enquirer?” Her laugh turns into a moan when he presses harder on her clit, his teeth barely grazing her shoulder.

“Is it working?” He chuckles, raspy and heated before kissing her, distracted and sloppy, nipping her lip when she strokes him a little faster.

“Condom?” She gasps, forehead against his. Then she remembers his leg and continues, “I’ll get it—”

“No,” he moves away from her all at once, leaving her throbbing and propping herself up on the desk with one arm as he holds onto the corner of it to lean down and get his crutch, “don’t move, you on the desk like that,” he takes two limping steps to the bookshelf and reaches into a cigar box to pull out a foil square, “really embodying a lot of fantasies I hadn’t quite put together yet.”

“You keep your condoms in your dad’s office?” She teases when he hands it to her to open, propping his crutch against the chair like he’s anticipating the desk moving.

“My office, remember?” He rests his hand on her thigh and resumes rubbing her clit, not enough to get her there, just enough for her hands to shake and she swears, fumbling with the condom. “Need help?” He kisses her before she can answer.

The wrapper finally accepts defeat and she rolls the rubber circle onto him, lining him up in the same motion.   The hand on her thigh slides downwards, hooking her knee over his hip and holding it there as he pushes forward with a drag that makes her toes curl.

She moans, legs around his waist as he braces one hand on her hip and the other on the desk just behind her, holding her there as he finds his rhythm. More firm than fast, as intentional as his lips are when they find the sensitive spot on her neck that he catalogued earlier. Her heels dig into his ass when he finds the right angle, nudging her towards the edge with every jolt of his hips against hers.

“Astrid,” he groans her name, hand on her hip sliding up her side to cup her breast, thumb swiping over her nipple, and his pace falters when she bucks against him, “you’re so, I—fuck…” He swears under his breath when she reaches between them, hand working where they’re joined, chasing the cresting wave of molten pleasure blooming in her chest.

She cries out when she gets there, fingernails digging into his shoulder as her back arches. He kisses her, swallowing the sound and running a soothing hand up her back, even as his thrusts quicken, rougher around the edges. The desk is creaking in time and Astrid moans, the continued sensation almost too much while feeling comes back to her toes.

“Ok?” Hiccup checks in, lips hot against the side of her neck, hand between her shoulder blades holding her close even as he starts to lose rhythm, muscles in his back twitching when she slides her hands down to his ass.

“Better than ok,” she assures him, kissing his sweat slick shoulder and squeezing his waist with her knees.

He thrusts one last time with a deep, drawn out groan, holding her tight to him while his hips twitch twice, the throbbing inside of her peaking then dulling with a slow, glowing warmth.

“That was,” he lifts his head and apparently finishing his thought isn’t as important as kissing her, his hand tangling in her hair as he pulls out slowly before stumbling, barely catching the corner of the desk, “sorry—”

“Sorry?” She winces, tugging his hand free of her hair and rubbing her scalp, “that’s not how I’d describe it.”

“Me either,” he reaches for his crutch and tucks it back under his arm, “considering it was so great I apparently forgot that my foot wasn’t just numb.” He laughs, joking about things that shouldn’t be funny with that infectious ease that makes it ok to laugh. “As great as that was, I think cuddling on a desk would be pretty uncomfortable.”

“And I’ve got to clean up,” she stands up, knees a little less than solid and butt sore from perching on the edge of the desk.

“Right, sure, you uh, know where the bathroom is since,” he gestures at the towel on the ground, “so I’ll meet you in my room? It’s the one that the NFL store didn’t vomit all over.”

“And you’ll be there.” She blushes and feels stupid for blushing while standing naked in front of someone she just had sex with, but Hiccup blushes too, smiling and nodding at her.

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

He doesn’t bother with the towel to get to his room, so Astrid risks going to the bathroom naked, assuming he knows more about the probability of peeping Toms than she does. After cleaning up and borrowing a dab of toothpaste on her finger, she skirts the wall to the only open door she hasn’t been through and sees Hiccup on one side of a queen-sized bed, crutch propped beside him.

“You’re freezing,” he curls up around her as soon as she slides under the covers, rubbing his too warm palm on her side until she tugs his arm around her, sinking gratefully into the mattress.

“I’m fine,” she understates, smiling to herself when he kisses the back of her ear, knees tucked behind hers, “curious though.”

“Yeah?” He cups her breast without real intent, snuggling closer and peppering kisses along her shoulders.

“What exact fantasies did I invoke by sitting on a desk naked?” She rolls onto her back to see his reaction, laughing at the color high in his cheeks as he runs a hand back through impossibly rumpled sex hair.

“I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” he tries, arm over her waist as he hides his embarrassment in the crook of her neck, “and it was the only thing that I didn’t mean to say that slipped out, so I think I should get a pass.”

“Hmm,” she pretends to think about it for a second, “I disagree.”

“I saw that coming,” he sighs, rolling back onto his side to look at her, oblique afternoon light from the window highlighting freckles across his temple. “It wasn’t just the desk, ok? It was the whole thing with the office and the way you touch books and—”

“The way I touch books? Is that why you can’t control yourself when you visit me at work?” She blushes when his smile widens, gap tooth more adorable than it should be when her center is still half throbbing. “What?”

“It’s you who can’t control yourself.”

“That’s not true,” she sputters, “I seem to remember a certain incident with Encyclopedias was your fault—”

“Because of my sexy chin grab, I know, I’ll take credit for that one,” he strokes her jaw with a feather light fingertip and she glares at him. “You know those less well-adjusted Grimborn-ologists I told you about? Some of them get a little…revved up talking about murder, and it always creeped me out, but if it’s not about Grimborn, then it’s not weird for me to be really charmed by the way you get handsy around old books.”

“I do not,” her face heats up and he only smiles wider.

“You do,” he teases, kissing the corner of her frown and laughing when it doesn’t budge, “or now you do, now that you’ve decided you like me. Before you still got so passionate, it was just—”

“Fury at the guy stalking my apartment?” She rolls her eyes, feeling vulnerable and attached and safe in a way that should scare her, just how following near strangers down dark alleys should have scared her. It didn’t then, and it doesn’t now. “How does that all lead to a fantasy of having sex on your desk?”

“Well,” he kisses her shoulder, hand sliding down to her hip, coaxing her to roll to face him, “there’s no Fishlegs to interrupt us.”

[i-am-a-closet-fanfic-fiend]

Queer Eye for the Cap Guy - Part 1

A/N: Hello lovelies! I lied. I 10000% lied. I said I’d write it completely and then post it, but I finished this bit and I couldn’t wait to share it. Hope you don’t mind. ;) This bit is him meeting the fab five and the initial appraisal, so it’s kind of long and everyone is in it. Moving forward the chapters will be one member or one field trip let’s say. More like the set up of the show. I hope you enjoy. Happy Friday! 

Summary: On the eve of Steve retiring, Bucky, Sam and Nat nominate him for queer eye. What can the Fab Five do for our favorite captain? A lot. 

Rating: K+ 

Word Count: 2169

“I thought we didn’t have any new recruits this week, Nat,” Steve grumbled as he followed her to the conference room, still in sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt from training.

“Hill’s assistant made a mistake with the schedule. She said they were coming next week, but the memo said today.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

“I’ve got to meet with Fury. It won’t take long there’s only five of them,” Natasha insisted as she opened the door.

The fab five were seated in the conference room with official looking packets in front of them. Steve hid his surprise at the sight of them. They weren’t the typical SHIELD agent makeup. Quirking an eyebrow at Nat, she simply shrugged.

“Good morning, recruits.”

“Good morning,” they chorused back.

“Welcome to SHIELD. Congratulations on making it through the first round of training. Do you have any questions before we get started?”

Jonathan raised his hand.

“Yes?”

“Would you say that your life could use some more fabulousness in it?”

“Excuse me?”

When he processed what was going on he started to about-face, but Nat was blocking his path.

“You promised,” she reminded him.

Gritting his teeth, he turned back around and faced the fab five forcing a smile onto his face.

They were all on their feet, moving towards him. He had to remind himself they weren’t the enemy.

“Hello, handsome,” Bobby greeted him with a hug.

It felt foreign. Steve really only was physically affectionate with Bucky.

“You seem overwhelmed,” Karamo chuckled as Steve shoved his hands in his pockets. “Are you overwhelmed?”

“No, I’m fine. I just… I’m fine,” he ground out.

“We’ll get you used to hugs by the end of the week, henny. Don’t you worry,” Jonathan assured him, before turning to Nat. “Hello, beautiful. I love your hair color. So vibrant.”

“Thank you, it’s nice to meet you. Are you going to take care of him?” She asked as she watched Tan and Antoni embraced him.

“Absolutely,” he promised.

After she greeted all of them, she excused herself to go “meet with Fury”. Steve gave it a fifty fifty shot that she’d been lying.

“Good luck,” she tossed over her shoulder with a smile.

“Thanks, Nat.”

“I was talking to them. Behave, Steve.”

He glared at her as she flounced out of the room.

“So, can we see your apartment?”

They could see the moment he admitted defeat to himself.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Come on.”

Steve answered their questions in as few words as possible as he led them to the residence floors.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everyone but Bobby scattered the moment they got into the apartment. Steve watched the interior designer warily as he surveyed the room.  

“So I’m not seeing a lot of you in here. I’d assume it’s because you’re moving, but all the shelves are filled just not with anything personal,” Bobby assessed. “How long have you lived here?”

“On and off for eight years.”

Bobby made a face as he cocked his head and Steve was quick to explain himself.

“I don’t spend that much time here. I’m usually on missions and such,” he shrugged.

“Do you think it’s fair to say that you’ve never considered this home?”

“No, I think of this as home base. You know. This is where I always come back to.”

“So there’s a difference between home and home base. I know you’re moving because you’re retiring, so your new place will be somewhere you spend a lot of time. What do you want to see?”

“I’m not really sure,” Steve admitted frowning, he’d never given it any thought.

“That’s okay,” Bobby assured him. “We can sort that out. We’re going to make your new house a home.”

Home.

Steve softened at the thought.

“Thank you.”

“Steve, are these your drawings?” Karamo asked as he inspected a beautiful pencil sketch of the Brooklyn Bridge he’d found on Steve’s desk.

“Yeah. I like to sketch. It calms me.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you only do pencil sketches or do you like other mediums as well?’

“Pencil is my go to. But I also really like pastels and watercolors, but I don’t do them as much. It’s not exactly intimidating to go into battle with pink smudges all over your uniform.”

“I can see how that would ruin the image.”  

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So you like chocolate…” Antoni commented when Steve finds him in the kitchen going through the pantry, holding a dozen different types of chocolate.

“Yeah,” he admitted, scratching at the back of his neck. “It’s a bit of an indulgence.”

“Do you bake?”

“I will with y/n. But not really on my own. I tried to make chocolate mousse for her birthday once and well…” he trailed off pointing to a spot on the wall that looked like a water mark.

“Too high of a setting on the mixer?” Antoni guessed.

“Yeah. I let her take the lead after that,” Steve shrugged.

Antoni chuckled slightly.

“Noted. What’s your favorite food?”

“I love lasagna.”

“Lasagna is soo good. Do you make your own?”

“If by make my own you mean putting a frozen one in the oven instead of the microwave then yeah.”

“Do you cook at all?” Antoni almost whined.

“I really only know how to boil stuff if I’m honest. Most of the time it’s take out or frozen meals. I just need the calories.”

The food expert looked scandalized.

“Okay, so we’re going to change that. I want you to enjoy the food that you’re eating. And I want to show that the time you spend making it can also be enjoyable. And I want you to do it without ruining your kitchen,” he added with a cheeky grin.  

“Fair enough,” Steve agreed.  

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Steven, do you own a razor?” Jonathan called from the bathroom, followed by the familiar clattering of metal. “I wasn’t playing with the shield.”

Steve actually chuckled and cracked a smile at the outburst.

“It’s in there somewhere. I just haven’t used in a while.”

He followed more clanging and banging of various products on the floor into the bathroom where Jonathan was desperately trying to find this razor.

“Well, hello. Let’s chat. Walk me through a morning in the life of Steve Rogers.”

“I get up. I get dressed. I go for a run. I come back and train. Shower. And then do paperwork or I go on a mission.”

“And do you take time for like a grooming moment for yourself?” Jonathan asked.

“I just don’t really see a need. I don’t think the people trying to kill me care much about whether my beard is trimmed.”

“Right, of course,” Jonathan agreed, nodding emphatically, “But there are people in your life who aren’t trying to kill you who I think care if your beard is trimmed. Are you open to changing your look?”

“Yeah, I mean I’m not attached to this beard or haircut, so… whatever.”

Steve shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to be imposing enough that they might give up while simultaneously looking like he wanted to melt into the floor. When he heard someone approaching he was glad for the distraction.

“Can I ask why the only clothes you seem to own are workout clothes that look like they could fit me? And button up shirts and khakis that are two sizes too large?” Tan asked as he emerged from the bedroom with arms full of clothes.

“I- that was the style,” Steve tried to defend.

“Do you like this style?”

“It’s functional,” Steve stated firmly.

“So is your uniform, but I don’t want to see you in it all the time.”

“I do,” Jonathan interrupted, and Steve blushed to the tips of his ears.

“They’re comfortable,” he mumbled.

“There are nicer clothes that can still be comfortable.”

“I’m not sure I believe that,” he argued reflexively.  

“I will prove it to you,” Tan promised with a good-natured smile.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After a little while, they headed to the new apartment Steve was moving into. Technically it wasn’t an apartment. Technically, it was an old car warehouse in Brooklyn that Tony had bought and gifted to him after they buried the hatchet. Steve had insisted that it was too much, but Tony had adamantly argued that he deserved a place of his own. He also made the valid point that while Steve may have been retiring, the bad guys certainly weren’t and securing a building with other tenants would prove tricky.

Steve had conceded, and he had to admit he was in love with the place. It was four stories high and just a little taller than all the buildings surrounding it, and it was pretty close to where he and Bucky grew up – just a few streets over in fact.

He’d been working on it in his free time, and he’d managed to clean it up. But he still hadn’t done any decorating.

“This is gorgeous,” Bobby gushed as they walked in.  

“Oh my god, all of the natural light.”

“So this whole place is yours?”

“Yep. I’m not really sure what to do with this much space.”

“I’ve got more than a few ideas. But let’s see the rest of the building.”

The second floor was technically an oversized balcony that stretched across half the room and down one side with a wrought iron railing.

The third and fourth floors both were unfurnished but had a homier feeling. The large windows stood out against the aged brick.

“Do we have access to the roof?”

“Yeah. We can go up there?”

“Oh my god; this view is beautiful.”

“I love it up here.”

“This is my favorite spot so far.”

“I can tell. It’s the only place with furniture,” Bobby laughed as he gestured to the folding chair tucked against the ventilation system.

Steve shrugged but smiled.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So I know you have a big retirement party at the end of the week, courtesy of Tony Stark,” Antoni began as he leaned against the railing on the second floor.  

“Yeah,” Steve affirmed with an affectionate but long-suffering expression.

“You seem so excited,” Antoni snarked.

“Big parties aren’t my thing.”

“I had a sneaking suspicion. Which is why I was thinking it might be nice for you to have a nice little intimate dinner party on Saturday. You can show off your new place and your new cooking skills.”

“That sounds nice, but I think you’re overestimating my ability to pick up new skills.”

“I doubt that. Trust me, you will be completely ready.”

“Alright. But if half the avengers end up in med bay I’m giving you their number.”

“Fair deal.”

He stuck his hand out for a shake.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

While the others continued roaming the apartment, Karamo pulled Steve aside.

“Come sit with me for a minute.”

Steve hesitated for a moment before sitting on a couple of stacked crates.

“So what’s going through your mind right now? Other than please get these men out of my apartment as soon as possible.”

Steve felt guilt shoot through him.

“No, no. You guys are great. This is just, a lot.”

“The move, the retiring? Five gay guys turning your apartment inside out?”

“All of it. But I think the retiring is what throws me off the most. I’ve always been the get ready to fight the next enemy type. And right now my next enemy is I don’t know boredom?”

“There doesn’t have to be an enemy you know. You’ve spent so much of your life fighting, it’s time to live your life.”

“Yeah, whatever that means,” the super soldier scoffed.  

“What does that mean to you?” Karamo pressed. “What are you envisioning for this next stage of your life?”

“I honestly have no idea. This has been my life since I came out of the ice. I don’t know what to do with myself. I mean I’m sure I’ll figure it out, but I don’t want my friends to worry about me in the meantime.”

“Do you think they will?”

“They nominated me for this, didn’t they?”  

“None of them said they we were worried about you. Do you know what they all said?”

Steve made a face.

“No idea.”  

“That you deserved this. What are you hoping to get out of this week?”

Steve was quiet for a moment. He felt exposed, which made him nervous, but he decided to be honest.  

“I want to find a future, because for a long time I didn’t see one.”

“That’s good. That’s important. We can help you do that. Boys, come in here for a sec.”

Bobby, Antoni, Tan, and Jonathan appeared crowding in on either side of the two of them. Bobby plopped into Karamo’s lap while Tan cuddled into Antoni’s side, and Antoni laid his head on Jonathan’s shoulder.

“Okay, I’ve got a good idea of what I need to do over the next couple of days. How about you fellas?”

“I’m good.”

The others nodded in agreement.

“Are you ready, Steve?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Alright, let’s get started.”

A/N: The Fab five certainly have their work cut out for them. But our Captain is totally worth it! I hope you’re all enjoying. Much more to come. Hopefully very soon! Have a great weekend! <3 

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[scyllua]

While chap.203 hasn't stirred that much of a reaction in the Japanese fandom as the previous chapter did, it prompted many fans to emulate Sugimoto's art style. Nothing of this comes as a particular surprise, as the chapter serves as sort of a recap of the events from vol.14 (the Abashiri Prison assault)... and because Sugimoto's drawing talent would be on par with his sniping skills.

The highlights of this chapter have to do with the confirmation of the Russian sniper's identity and goals and the hint at Noda pursuing the plotline regarding the Partisans. It was rather obvious who that Russian sniper was from the very moment he (re)appeared in the manga, but given this is Golden Kamuy and the weird things that have already transpired in the plot made me think it's a very crazy Meiji era the one they are living in, I'd rather wait for the author's clear confirmation on ANY matter before taking anything for granted. Let us not forget that, for starters, I think most of us had already assumed our Russian sniper pretty dead. We can always speculate, however, and this chapter leaves enough room to reflect on a certain other sniper (this one, Japanese and now one-eyed) and how soon (or not) he could make it back to the plot.

I should work on my summaries so they aren't that long. In the meantime and to everyone who had the patience to read my previous chapter post: thank you very much and fear not, for I have no random movie comments to make here! There should be some fan comments, of course, and the usual warnings about mistakes and mistranslations apply as well. Onto the fun of two amateur artists sharing their Ogata fanarts then!

In short, as no further shots are made, Tsukishima believes Sugimoto got to the sniper and Asirpa runs off to meet him. Meanwhile, Sugimoto and the sniper -now confirmed to be Vasily- overcome the language barrier by using the latter's hand-drawn pictures to explain to each other the circumstances in which they crossed paths/met Ogata. Upon the arrival of the rest of the group and after Asirpa recognizes Vasily as probably one of the men who ambushed them in the frontier, Tsukishima explains to him Kiroranke is already dead and they don't know about the current whereabouts of Ogata, their only purpose in Karafuto being finding Asirpa and going back with her. As a rather annoyed Shiraishi complains to Vasily for shooting him, it's revealed he can't speak because of the shot wounds he sustained. As Sugimoto's group resumes their journey, Vasily keeps following them on horseback from a distance. They deduce he's now keen on meeting Ogata again and engaging in another snipers' duel, and that he's sticking around convinced the wildcat will eventually come after them. Questioned by Asirpa, Sugimoto says as long as they're still looking for the Ainu gold, there's always the possibility of Ogata coming back; as per his motivations, Sugimoto adds it might be that Ogata is simply messing with them as opposed to being after an actual goal. In their way back, the group visits Svetlana's parents to hand them a letter she wrote; even though Sugimoto would rather search for Sofia and find out the truth, he understands their primary purpose in Karafuto has been fulfilled already. The chapter ends with Sofia meeting Gansoku and Svetlana in a port city in Russian territory. After exchanging a few hits, Sofia invites Gansoku to come with her, but he turns down the offering, stating he'll travel west with Svetlana. Sofia then states she'll go to Hokkaidou in pursue of their hope... and revenge.

Ever wondered why streets are always so conveniently empty whenever there's a chasing or a shooting going on? I have, even if my question is probably answered in the same question already (because... they're so conveniently empty: easier to describe, draw or animate, and with a minimum of casualties, as well!) In any case, and even though our group seemed to be the only bystanders at the time the shooting began, there's now the usual traffic and activity you'd expect in a town street. In fact, a man in a sled is just walking down the street when, alerted by Koito and Tsukishima not to come that way or otherwise risk being shot, he good-naturally asked what the soldiers are doing. Tsukishima comments it seems as though Sugimoto has already done his magic, ie. he did what he's best at (hint: it isn't sniping or drawing, as we'll see in this chapter), and Asirpa runs off to meet him.

Here follows some good 4 pages of Sugimoto and Vasily proving the language barrier isn't an hindrance when it comes to relatively difficult tasks, such as explaining the events from vol.14 up to that point or how both of them have survived being shot in the head by the same sniper. It turns out Vasily has made enough drawings of Ogata to start his own Pixiv account -putting aside the fact that he's one century ago from that website being created-; actually, Vasily could begin posting full illustration logs, as he even took the care and time to draw the wildcat sporting different expressions, including one smiling. I'm suspecting he might have more study sketches of Ogata in the fiction than author Noda in the real world. This would pose a question for me: just how well could he see Ogata during their snipers' duel? In the extended passage as it was compiled in vol.17, they do spend many hours watching and studying each other... but let us not forget that Ogata's face was obscured in such a way, Vasily couldn't tell for sure where it was him or not. Well, following last chapter's caption at the end, I'm just going to assume here Vasily has nothing short of a photographic memory, sharpened to perfection through his sniping skills, and that he could commit to memory the features of a man he only seemed to have caught fleeting glimpses of partly because the wildcat is unforgettable. Being shot can arise that kind of reaction in people, after all. Going back to the chapter, and given the amount of Ogata portraits he has, Sugimoto asks him whether he's been requested to find him -bounty hunter-style, we may speculate-, but then Vasily uses some of his many (MANY) drawings to explain he went into a showdown with Ogata... and lost. This chapter's title could be translated as "portrait" (似顔絵, nigaoe), though its exact meaning would be more in the lines of a "drawn sketch/picture of a face". Why, yes, a portrait indeed, only that the term in Japanese suggests it isn't as precise as a taken photograph, but a close enough depiction.

I'm always making jokes and complaining about the cast in this manga being so prone to trust in others no matter what terms they might have been on in the past, but I have to admit that being able not to hold grudges, apart from preventing bitterness and anxiety in addition to other negative feelings, also helps greatly when it comes to pace the story forward. Remember how Sugimoto was about to kill Vasily in the best of Friday the 13th traditions (only that less bloody I might presume, given this is still a seinen manga and not a R-rated story), all of this happening in the previous chapter, 7 days ago in real time, 2 pages prior in the manga, like 10 seconds previously in the story's timeline? Well, let's put aside all that negativity for the sake of a couple of souls bonded by the same sniper (different bullet obviously, same rifle and all) sharing an artistic moment.

In addition to their fanboying over Ogata -for the wrong reasons, though, as they'd be both after the wildcat to settle some scores-, Sugimoto and Vasily manage to summarize the manga from vol.14 up to that point, using their respective drawings to explain to each other the events. "Explaining to each other" wouldn't be a wrong statement in this case because they do appear to be understanding the other quite well through the drawings, some gesturing, and the usefulness of somatic language, even though Vasily doesn't seem to know Japanese (as he's puzzled at Sugimoto's questions). When he produces drawings of Kiroranke, Shiraishi and Asirpa, Sugimoto explains to him the latter two aren't related to the Partisans: the bad guy here, no doubt about it, is Ogata, as he emphatically conveys by hitting his portrait with his fist. Now in quite the roll because Vasily is assimilating the ideas very fast (as he also hits Ogata's portrait), Sugimoto then explains he was also shot by the wildcat... and reveals his artistic sense might be on par with his sniping skills. ...and while I'll keep joking about his awful aiming until the day he finally manages to shoot anything down -as opposed to pummel or pierce it with his rifle or affixed bayonet-, I won't make much fun of his artistic capabilities because, I'm afraid, he might draw better than I. As I state in my blog's sidebar, I color manga panels partly because I can't draw a straight... or crooked... line for the love of it.

Sugimoto explains Ogata was in cahoots with Kiroranke -and as well as the readers, he doesn't how for how long-, shot him in the head in Abashiri Prison and then ran away taking Asirpa with him. Unlike their previous exchange, I can deduce Vasily didn't get a single word of any of it, as he mistakes Sugimoto's drawing of himself for a spider. And I must confess it took me some time to realize Sugimoto drew himself being shot: those tendril-like things sticking out of his head -that Vasily takes for a spider's legs, it seems- are meant to show the bullet's trajectory when impacting him. A parenthesis here: Let's just check Sugimoto's drawing of Ogata running away on horseback. I don't pretend to make fun of it, but I still find quite the noteworthy detail that he draws Ogata with an arrow sticking out of his right eye, and not sparing even the lock of hair that frames his face. Or at least, I'm assuming that's a lock of hair on Ogata's head. The caption Sugimoto writes in katakana reads, "Ogata escaped". That scene, may I add, has been a fan favorite -mine included- and a source of inspiration for many works in the Japanese fandom. Some speculative fanworks have to do with the circumstances Ogata runs away, and thus some fans have posed quite the questions, ranging from where he got that horse, to whether it didn't hurt too much to ride it in such conditions as, you might remember, he was wearing a hospital gown only and had no underwear to speak of. If you take a closer look at the panel, however, you'll notice Ogata is carrying a sack when he's riding away, implying he managed to gather his belongings and probably a couple more things for the road, and thus wouldn't be dying on us due to exposure or some painful horse riding to wherever it was he ran away .

Back to our amateur artists (because I'm assuming Vasily's main occupation revolves about being a sniper... with an eidetic memory for faces and some outstanding artistic talent as bonus) and resuming his recapping of the latter half of the manga and unabated by the debatable poor reception his drawing skills might be getting, Sugimoto explains Asirpa involuntarily shot an arrow that hit Ogata in the eye. Here comes a short passage -it's a single panel, in fact- that killed my Japanese pretty dead, so I wouldn't risk a translation of it... though I think, it seems to me, I could grasp that blah blah etc. etc., Sugimoto further and quite lively states Ogata's death would have "stained" Asirpa -meaning, would have dirtied her hands-, and thus he saved the wildcat because he'd do anything in his power to keep everything surrounding her pure for her sake. The actual word in Japanese he uses is 綺麗 (kirei), which you might know as meaning "cute" and "pretty", but it can also be understood in the sense of "clean", "pure" or "neat." Given Sugimoto literally uses 汚い (kitanai), "dirty", "unclean" or "foul" (used as a verb in this case) to describe how Ogata's death would have impacted Asirpa, I'm going with "pure" in my previous sentence. ...I'm aware my explanation of Sugimoto's statement makes it sound as though he's belittling saving Ogata, but I can reassure you that his lines are way more poetic and moving: it's just that my Japanese -and my English, come to that- is just that lacking, sorry about this! The scene is more moving because Asirpa arrives at the precise moment to hear Sugimoto's words, but he doesn't notice her.

The rest of the group arrives and cuts off Sugimoto and Vasily's artistically driven moment of plot exposition, though. And now, please allow me to state that God bless Tsukishima for being himself, acting as the sane man every story needs, accompanying the group in this journey, and knowing Russian, not in that particular order: I'm 100% convinced this manga wouldn't progress half as smoothly as it does weren't he around. And Tsurumi and Koito wouldn't be probably around either if he didn't have that presence of mind and swiftness of action, specifically when projectiles and explosions are involved. After Asirpa says she thinks Vasily was part of the group of men that ambushed them in the frontier, Tsukishima explains to him Kiroranke is already dead and Ogata ran away, his whereabouts unknown to them. Their only purpose in Karafuto was to find Asirpa and go back with her, he adds, and they have nothing to do with the Czar's assassination by the Partisans. Vasily says nothing in the metaphorical sense, as he keeps quiet and seems to accept the explanation. Now, and I've already written above, I've always complained about the GK cast for being this trusty and, let's say, think nothing of the repeated risk of a headshot by accepting in their ranks a traitorous character who left their previous party after shooting a couple people in the head, but I have to admit yet again the characters being this quick to understand, accept and come to terms with practically anything and everything does help move forward the plot. Very much so.

I wrote Vasily said nothing in the metaphorical sense because it's revealed -just as we were speculating- he can't speak due to the shot wounds he sustained during his duel with Ogata. Once outside, Shiraishi complains to him about shooting him; when our Escape King snaps whether he doesn't have anything to say or it's just that Russians don't know how to apologize (he literally asks whether there are no words for apologizing in Russian), Vasily shows him his face, prompting a reaction in Shiraishi that might make readers grateful we aren't shown the state of his lower face. Sugimoto comments at that moment he might not be able to speak due to those wounds. I was also wondering whether Vasily knew or at the very least could grasp a little Japanese. It seems to me he might not after all, as there are some panels throughout the chapter that show him with an interrogation mark -indicating he isn't understanding- when Sugimoto was talking to him. In the above panels as well, Tsukishima seems to be translating Shiraishi's complaints for him.

Just before the group resumes their journey, Shiraishi tells Vasily -in not so kind words- to go back to Russia, but he's shown to keep following them from a distance. Shiraishi ponders whether he doesn't believe Kiroranke is already dead, but Asirpa points out he used the back of Kiro's wanted poster to make some of his drawings, leading her to conclude he isn't interested in the latter anymore. As discussed by the our main protagonist trio, it seems Vasily is sticking to them under the belief they'll eventually cross paths with Ogata; as Sugimoto puts it, given he's still alive, he considers their snipers' duel to be not finished (I suppose a more poetic way to put it would be, "as long as he draws breath, he can keep fighting"). The immortal also thinks there's always the possibility of Ogata coming after them because of the Ainu gold, prompting Asirpa to wonder if that's actually his goal: let us not forget he showed quite the intent to kill her (chap.187) and thus, eliminate the one person who holds the key to solving the tattoo puzzle. A somewhat serious and pensive Sugimoto comments it might be that Ogata... is simply messing or toying around with them. Cue a full-page panel depicting a lynx (in Japanese, an ooyamaneko) crossing the path in the snowy forest. (I should point out I'm assuming it's a lynx because of its ears, making it very similar to the one shown in chap.169, vol.17.)

A not-so-random fan comment here: I always refer to Sugimoto as not being the sharpest knife in the drawer. Actually, I'd say he's the kind to smash the drawer against a wall and use the sharpest fragments of it to cut open whatever it is he might need cut, even if I'm compelled yet again to admit his approach, while not the most strategically planned, tends to work. But he also seems to be quite understanding of others in addition to his natural kindness, and it comes as not much of a surprise then that he could be the person with the better grasp at Ogata's personality. Or the only person who might have any grasp on it at all, in any case. I must say my opinion of Ogata's character pretty much coincides with that of Sugimoto as he stated it in chap.196 and now in this chapter: specifically, that Ogata doesn't have a particular motivation to act as he does (apart from being driven by the most negative and dangerous of his traits, of course). I think his character isn't meant to have any specific motivations or goals other than being chaotic for the sake of it; however, as Noda has given a background to every single recurrent and relevant character in the manga and spares no revelations for some of them no matter how far into the plot we might be (the most recent flashback regarding Koito's past should be an example), I can't discard the possibility of the author having in store some plot twist or equal revelation about Ogata.

Given Sofia is the only one who knows the truth now (I'm assuming here Sugimoto thinks Ogata might have sided with Kiroranke for a reason that lies with the Partisans' intentions), our immortal comments he'd liked to look for her. He's aware, though, that Tsukishima and Koito's mission was to find Asirpa and get back with her to Hokkaido, whereas Tanigaki joined in the entourage for the sake of the girl as well and thus, they should have no reason to pursue other ends at the time. They still stop by the lighthouse to hand Svetlana's letter to her parents, and just as the manga implies they won't be going after more subplots, Asirpa points out Sofia was planning to reunite with her comrades in the continent and then go back to Japan: she wouldn't just run away to Europe after everything that just happened.

Right in cue, Sofia meets Gansoku and Svetlana in a port town in Russia. Just as Gansoku seemed to be involved in yet another cathartic moment pummeling around men who can't put a dent on him, he's challenged by Sofia but refuses, stating he only fights other men. He's quick to change his mind and declare the world does have many surprises in store ("The world is so wide!") after Sofia not only punches him, but manages to get in quite the equal grounds with him. This yet again poses another question for me: given Gansoku is one of the toughest men in this story -in the strictest physical sense at the very least: we can't forget everything Nikaidou has gone through the manga, after all-, how come Sofia can beat him so badly? The obvious answer would be that Sofia happens to be just that tough -or the toughest woman of the Meiji era-, but since this is a Shueisha and a Jump-published manga, I also want to believe she might be using Haki to hit that hard. Just as Nami in One Piece, her blows manage to harm a man's heart and soul.

Before their fight can further escalate (but after Sofia has pulled off the almost obligatory Rip Open my Shirt scene, only that she isn't exactly wearing a shirt and the scene isn't that common when female characters are involved because of censorship), Svetlana intervenes and stops them, saying it'll be quite the problem for her if Sofia kills her bodyguard. Implying here she was at least sure of what the outcome of the fight would have been. The three of them have a talk then and Sofia invites Gansoku to join her, but he turns down the offer and explains both he and Svetlana intend to make their way to the west, to the cities where a larger population means a larger possibility to find stronger people (to beat the **** out of them in more cathartic instances, I'm presuming). As Svetlana asks Sofia where she's planning to go now, she replies that she's going to Hokkaido... for their hope and revenge.

I should note I'm not including any more panels of Sofia in this chapter because I'm assuming Tumblr would flag this entry otherwise. I was never told why they put my blog "under review" when I barely had any posts on it, so my best guess has to with an entry I wrote explaining about the terrorist groups that operated in my country. I made that post partly because to poke some fun at Sugimoto's wielding a hammer and a sickle in chap.145 (vol.15), and how that would have been merited a ban for this manga were some conservative Congressmen in my country to see the panels (the largest terrorist group operating in my country originally followed the Communist ideology). Well, as Sofia begins exchanging blows with Gansoku, she uncovers her torso and her breasts remain visible for the rest of the chapter, even when she's speaking with him and Svetlana in the freezing Russian landscape. Her breasts are so big, they cover part of the chapter's title in the last page... making me suspect Tumblr could flag this entry just because her nipples are equally big.

Some (more) fan comments on this chapter: The story is unfolding as I'd anticipated in a very broad way, as it seems Vasily will stick around with the group for at least some more chapters. While none has proposed an alliance, I don't think any will have any inconvenience cooperating with each other as long as their goals align: even if it's true Sugimoto's group isn't that elated at the possibility of meeting Ogata again, they're obviously expecting to cross paths with him in the future, and extra help is always welcomed. Specially if things come to a sniper against another sniper, I'd say: the manga is hinting at another confrontation between Vasily and Ogata. After all, Noda is a noteworthy narrator and all of his plot elements turn out to be relevant (even those related to food and cultural traditions which could have been seen at first as more trivia-informative to the reader than important to the plot), so I don't think he brought Vasily back to the story for no reason. Or just to show off Vasily's artistic talent, in any case, * ahem *. The plot would still have to take shape, but it seems to me all elements are aligning so that Noda can solve several pending subplots: Vasily's reappearance can tie up with the plot regarding the remaining member of the Partisans trio, Sofia, and also provides the proper scenario for Ogata to make it back to the story. It'd be a viable, solid and swift way to focus in the current open subplots before focusing on the main premise of the Ainu gold in Hokkaido.

I'd just speculate then about how soon the subplots would meet a resolution. I'm wondering whether we'll see the rest of this arc taking place in Karafuto, as Sugimoto's group has already made their way back to its southern region, whereas Sofia is in Russian soil, but making her way to Hokkaido. If Vasily doesn't have any trouble with following them to Hokkaido -given he's already in Japanese soil-, then I see no reason as to why the action might not unfold in the island that is the main stage of this manga, but I'm thinking this arc could wrap up while the group is still in Karafuto. We'd need to see at least one more chapter to see how things progress from this point on; unless Noda suddenly feels like jumping back to Hokkaido and showing us what Hijikata has been up to since vol.18 and whether Tsurumi reunited with his men already, with the arc “introduction“ over and the situation laid out to both the cast and the readers, chap.204 should serve as the starting point for the resolution of the current subplots.

My last fan comment of the entry has to do with Vasily. While I'm happy to see him back in the plot and sticking to the protagonist cast for the time being (and hoping he stays in the plot and with the cast for at least the remainder of this volume), his personality as shown in the current events has caught my attention. I wouldn't say he's that different or plain out-of-character in comparison to his first appearance in vol.17, but it's also true he now acts carefree enough as to join Sugimoto in a fanart-sharing moment, and is more emotional as opposed to his cool-headed demeanor during the ambush in the frontier. And adding to his minor hairstyle change, he also looks more youthful now, even if the only we get to see of his face are his eyes. We'd need to see more of him in upcoming chapters to have a better grasp at his character... but if you'd ask me, I'd say Noda has made some changes to his personality, or rather, is shaping his character in a different, though not drastic, way. Why? Well, it seems to me Vasily would fit our protagonist cast and all the weird things bound to happen in this convulsed Meiji era just fine and even better now; in comparison, the group he first appeared as part of acted colder, more focused and serious. Until we see more of him, I'm just going to assume Noda decided to give his character another direction because Tsukishima was plenty of a sane, serious man for the group. Any more sane men in the same group at the same time and I might begin doubting what happened to this manga.

[islareeveswriting]

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INSTAS

No one knows you like a best friend.

Of course Molly knew that was true, and it was the reason she knew Jimmy was her best friend. Apart from how much they had in common, how well their personalities fitted together, and how much fun they managed to have together even when they didn’t feel like having fun, Jimmy seemed to know Molly like the back of his hand, and vice versa. When there was something Molly wanted to talk to someone about, it was Jimmy she went to no matter what it was. There was nothing to hide behind when it came to Jimmy, nothing to be shy of. Jimmy didn’t judge, ever. Molly hoped Jimmy felt the same about her, and she was fairly certain he did based on the sort of things he’d come to her about in the past, and based on how open and honest he was with her.

It was the reason that once Molly had closed the door behind Harry at two am on a Monday morning, post-date, honest conversation, and cuddle, Molly went straight to Jimmy. It was the reason Molly didn’t knock on Jimmy’s door, just pushed it open slowly, to find him awake, glasses on, sat up in his bed, reading. It was the reason she wasn’t surprised he was up reading at two am on a Monday morning. And it was the reason Jimmy didn’t even have to ask if it was a bad date, he just had to see her to know, all he had to ask was whether or not she wanted to talk about it pre or post hug.

Molly hadn’t asked Harry to stay that night, and Harry didn’t hint that he wanted to. It seemed to be an unspoken agreement that they would both go to their own beds after the night they’d had. Perhaps it would have been better to have crawled into Molly’s bed together and let sleep heal what was left to fix, but that would only have been ignoring how they both liked to be alone with their heads sometimes, and that was something neither of them could run from. They’d talk the next day, they agreed that much, as Harry stepped out into the night and to the taxi waiting to take him home. There was no tension or uneasiness between them when Harry left, nothing particularly unsaid, it felt resolved. But that didn’t mean it felt like the best thing to do was to spend the night together. It felt like the best way to draw a line under the whole thing, was for Harry to go his own home, get in his own bed, and arrange to see each other after a good night’s sleep.

The thing was, Molly knew she was in the wrong. She’d kept what she’d kept from Harry simply because she expected a bad reaction, but the reaction she got was worse than she’d anticipated, and she knew that came down to the fact she’d chosen not tell him. If she’d just explained calmly what had happened, it would have been different, and sure maybe Harry would have been a little annoyed, but they might have ended up in the same bed at the end of the night. Jimmy didn’t need to tell her that, but he did. It wasn’t exactly an excuse for how Harry had acted, but at the same time Molly found she couldn’t blame him. Molly knew she was to blame, and it felt to her they were both as bad as one another, asking for transparency, but each keeping up a frosted window.

Post hug under his sheets Jimmy told Molly to stop getting into her head about things, let it go with the flow, let it happen. It was the same old thing, Molly overthinking and Jimmy coaxing her gently out of her mind and into the moment. Overthinking what had happened with Ryan had led to keeping it from Harry. Overthinking what had happened with Harry surely couldn’t be a good thing either. It was done, and she had to let it pass and stop going back to it, looking over the words and reading between them for things that weren’t there. Jimmy could see her doing it as she nibbled her bottom lip and scratched at the index finger of her left hand with the opposite one. Jimmy tried to keep her from it, the same way she tried to keep him from impulsive decisions that weren’t at all thought through.

Until Jimmy, Molly had always been a girls girl, always finding the company of other women easier. Perhaps it was because she’d spent most of her early life surrounded mostly by girls, her sister, her cousins, most of her friends. There were very few boys in her life until high school, and even then it was thanks to her relationship with Ryan more than anything. It wasn’t necessary purposeful, it was just the way life fell for Molly. But she couldn’t be more thankful her and Jimmy and stumbled into each others life, because she was sure she didn’t know what she’d do without them, despite the friendship she found in Lauren and Natalie a like. They were both good friends, but they weren’t the same as Jimmy, and that was something Molly often felt a little guilty for, especially when Lauren suggested things like girls night so they could chat about Molly’s date, nearly a week after she’d crawled into Jimmy’s bed and chatted for hours with him about it.

“You two have got to go out tonight,” Lauren started, waving her marmite coated knife between Jimmy and Ben who were sat at the dining table, one eating, one working on notes they hadn’t taken in their recent lecture but managed to nab from the girl they sat next to as they left the hall. Ben looked up from the notepad he was bent over with a creased forehead.

“Why?” Jimmy groaned after swallowing the mouthful of cereal he’d stolen from Molly’s cupboard. The bowls in front of them were identical, little hoops covered in honey and drowning in milk. Jimmy was yet to do a food shop and of course Molly couldn’t say no to letting him have some of the branded cereal she’d treated herself to.

“Cause Molly had a date last week, and me and Nat-”

“Nat and I,” Ben chimed in from the notes he’d turned his attention back to, scrawling over the squared paper emphatically.

“Nat and I,” Lauren corrected with an eye roll, “still haven’t heard all about it,” Lauren grinned, turning her eyes to Molly and picking up her small plate of toast, freshly buttered and covered in marmite, and heading for the table with the rest of them.

“There’s really nothing to tell,” Molly tried not to grumble, keeping her voice neutral as she spoke, and quickly shoved another spoon of cereal into her mouth.

“Oh come off it Mol, your first proper date with Harry, there’s gotta be something to tell,” Lauren snickered eyening Natalie who had obviously started to pay some attention from where she was reclined on the sofa, tying her laces ready to leave for her first lecture of the week.

“Not entirely,” Molly did grumble that time, and Lauren seemed to get the hint with that, clearing her throat before starting again.

“Look, we haven’t had a girly night in ages, if there’s nothing to tell fine, but at least let us use it as an excuse to get them out of the house so we can have it to ourselves for a while,” Lauren bartered, her half eaten slice of toast lingering in her hands, one last bite finishing it off, chewing as she waited for Molly’s response.

“Fine,” Molly sighed, dropping her spoon down and falling back against the chair she was in. There was a gleeful smile on Lauren’s face as she finished up her marmite on toast, but Molly wasn’t feeling as excited as she normally might for girls night. It wasn’t necessarily that she didn’t want to tell Lauren and Natalie how the date had gone, she just didn’t see the point of going through it all over again, just for further confirmation that she was fully in the wrong, and Harry had every right to go off at her the way he had. Just to be told all over again to chill out, take her time, let him take his time, if there were things he was keeping back there was surely a reason and he’d tell her in his own time. Molly knew Jimmy’s advice was right, it so often was, and she didn’t want to seem like she felt entitled to every part of Harry if there were parts he didn’t want to give her. But no part of her could describe how in the dark she often felt when they spoke about themselves, and that was only because she found herself doing all the talking while Harry did all the listening.

“If you don’t want to tell them you don’t have to,” Jimmy whispered, leaning closer to Molly. She fell back into the room with a thud, only noticing Lauren had left the table when Jimmy woke her back up from her head. Molly turned her head a little to look at him, and she nodded with a soft smile. She knew that. But she also knew she’d find herself telling them nonetheless.

“There’s footie on in The Crown tonight,” Natalie piped up, grabbing her rucksack from the chair as she stood and slinging it on her shoulders all in one movement. “If you want something to do,” Natalie shrugged, her cheeks pinking a little as three pairs of eyes moved to her, all just slightly narrowed.

“How on earth do you know what The Crown are showing?” Ben asked. The Crown was far from close, and it was a proper locals pub, not the sort of place any uni student made themselves known in, unless of course they were making themselves known to a local. It didn’t take Molly long for it to click, and a knowing smile walked onto her face just as Natalie’s eyes crossed to her.

“Finally text you then?” Molly teased with a wink. Natalie’s cheeks only reddened more and she made a beeline for the door. “Don’t think I’m the only one under the scope tonight now Nat,” Molly called after her with a smirk on her own face.

It had been weeks since Molly had passed Natalie’s number onto Niall. He’d been slightly tipsy at the rugby social and obviously managed to pluck up the courage to ask at last. Molly checked with Natalie that it was ok and within minutes Niall was saving Natalie’s number in his phone. For a while it had seemed like nothing had come of it, Niall seemingly shrinking back to his shy ways and Natalie being left disappointed. Neither Molly nor Natalie bought it up, Natalie would talk about it if she wanted or ask Molly about it, but she never did, so Molly let it slide, assuming Natalie was doing the same. Obviously Molly had been wrong, and perhaps Niall hadn’t been quite as shy as he’d have others believe.

“Who’s text her?” Ben asked quickly once they heard the front door open and close. Molly just tapped the side of her nose and shook her head, collecting up her bowl and heading for the dishwasher. There was a heap of work on her desk to get through before the boys left, possibly for The Crown, more likely for the Wetherspoons that was a little closer to home and much more suited to the sort of budget they had for a few drinks and a couple of games of pool.

Back in her room, Molly glanced around the place. It had been a busy week of finishing up designs, and her room was a mess for it. The toile’s she’d made had all passed, and been approved with rapturous praise from her lecturer, and the final pieces were stitches from being finished. All that had to happen was for Harry to get into them she could double check everything was exactly as she saw it in her head. After that she’d complete the final alterations and they could take the photos so she could put the finishing touches to her portfolio, that, so far, she was proud of. Possibly the most proud she’d been of a project.

There was something about it that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It felt like she’d worked a lot harder to achieve the results she had, and it showed already, before the pieces were even completed. But simultaneously it felt like the whole thing had come together a lot easier. Normally by the final stage of a project, Molly was feeling tired, ready for it to be over so she could move onto something else, relax for a minute, but with her current project, she found herself not wanting it to end. The clothes she’d fashioned were some of her favourites, and the complete suit might have even been at the top of the pile of all the things she’d ever made. Molly couldn’t wait to see them on the model, on Harry, and that was only a day away.

Admittedly Molly was a little nervous. And not just because it would be the first time Harry would see the finished designs. It would also be the first time they’d actually seen each other since their ‘date’, though that didn’t exactly feel like the right word anymore. It wasn’t intentional by any means. Both of them had been busy, Molly with finishing up her project, Harry with work on a job out of town that included an hour commute morning and evening. They spoke everyday and it felt normal, natural. It actually felt quite nice, and like even though they were both on the verge of pulling their hair out with how much they had to do, they were making time for one another and taking a moment to find the calm they both revelled in, in one another. It wasn’t as if they were pretending their argument had never happened, but by the same token they weren’t letting it drag them down.

Still Molly was nervous, in a similar way to how she felt ahead of their date. An excited anticipation she was taking deep breaths every so often to deal with. If she wasn’t so busy, and her mind so often occupied with other things, she knew she’d be a mess. But as she glanced over the suit jacket hanging on the mannequin in the corner of her room, knowing in twenty four hours Harry would be wearing it, it was hard to ignore the bubbling fizz of nearly anxiety in her tummy.

Instead of dwelling on it, knowing there was no point, no matter how much her mind tried to tug her back to thinking about seeing Harry tomorrow, and showing him her creations, Molly set about tidying up her room a bit. There was half an essay on her laptop that needed finishing before Monday, and she wanted to take some photos of the suit on her mannequin before tomorrow so her portfolio was as up to date as possible. Mentally she made a list of what she wanted to do before her ‘girly night’ later, and focused on that, as she tidied up the papers and piles of fabric around the place, rather than the tickle in her limbs.

In her occupied state, Molly lost track of time, and it didn’t feel like any time at all had passed when Jimmy popped his head around her bedroom door to say goodbye and wish her a nice evening, though looking at the clock, and glancing out the window to the setting sun, Molly realised it was late in the day. She was in the swing of editing a couple of photos for her her portfolio when Lauren waltzed into her room, cosy pyjamas and fluffy socks on, hair pinned back and make up removed, minutes after Molly had heard the front door close behind the boys.

“I’m gonna order the pizzas, gonna get into your best pyjamas and bring your duvet?” Lauren asked gleefully, leaning onto Molly’s desk. Molly was still heavily concentrated on her images, eyes squinted through her glasses at the finer details of the photos.

“Yeah,” Molly croaked, clicking away on the track pad. “Just give me two seconds,” She said distractedly, not even glancing up at Lauren. “Let me print these and I’ll be with you,” Molly bargained and Lauren seemed to accept it, heading out of Molly’s room in the same high spirits she’d come in on.

Once the printer had whirred to life and was busy printing out the images Molly had taken and edited, just slightly, of her pieces, pre-final stitching, Molly got up out of her seat and stretched her limbs. There was a pair of clean pyjamas on the shelf in her wardrobe which she grabbed and threw onto the roughly made bed before beginning to take off the comfy clothes she’d stayed in all day. Honestly she’d have rather showered again before pulling on clean clothes, not that she was exactly dirty, it wasn’t like she’d exactly done a lot since her morning shower, but stepping away from the screen for the first time in hours, Molly felt groggy in a way that only a steaming shower could fix. As it was Molly just sighed and pulled her pyjama top on.

“Mol.” Molly turned to Natalie’s quiet voice, creeping around her door. “Can I ask a favour?” Natalie asked, stepping into the room and quietly closing the door.

“Sure,” Molly smiled, grabbing her pyjama bottoms before taking a seat in the space they’d left, pulling them up her legs and glancing up at Natalie still with a smile on her face. Natalie had her fingers held in one another, toying with them and staring down at them as she stood on the edge of Molly’s room. The way Natalie was holding herself wiped the smile off Molly’s face and made her sit up a little straighter. “What’s up?” Molly asked, a tone of concern swallowing her voice.

“Can you not say anything about Niall?” Natalie started, her words rushing out of her. “I don’t mind you knowing, but I don’t want everyone knowing, well we don’t,” Natalie explained quickly, eyes finding Molly at last.

“Of course, I won’t say anything, it’s fine,” Molly nodded, offering what she hoped was a comforting and reassuring smile.

“We’ve only been on a couple of dates and stuff, and we really like one another, but y’know what it’s like when everyone knows,” Natalie offered stepping closer, and although she didn’t want everyone knowing, Molly felt like maybe there was a part of Natalie that wanted to talk about something.

“Sure, I get it, take it slow,” Molly nodded, pulling her legs up crossed and staring up at Natalie. “But you like him?” Molly asked knowingly.

“A lot,” Natalie laughed.

“That’s cute,” Molly grinned getting to her feet and adjusting her clothes a little. “But I won’t tell a soul, it’s between you, me and the walls,” Molly promised.

“Thanks Mol.” Natalie seemed more relaxed now as Molly found her softest jumper to pull on as well as the pyjamas she was wearing. “Niall mentioned yours and Harry’s date didn’t go exactly as planned though,” Natalie started up again and there was a shyness back in her tone as she did so, clearly not sure if she was being presumptuous.

“Niall knows?” Molly asked, snapping up, a little stunned.

“I guess Harry spoke to him about it,” Natalie offered with a shrug like it was no big deal. And normally it wouldn’t be. Of course Harry had spoken to his best friend about relationship issues. But this was Harry, and Harry wasn’t the opening up about his problems type. Harry was an enigma, so much so that Molly couldn’t even confidently assume Niall was even who he classed as his closest friend. “I was just gonna say, we know what Lauren’s like, if you don’t want to go into the details don’t feel pressured to,” Natalie offered with a lopsided sort of smile-like twitch.

“Thanks Nat, to be honest, think I could do with the advise at this point though,” Molly mused with a sigh. Molly wasn’t entirely sure what to think. It wasn’t that she had a problem with the idea of Harry opening up to Niall about their argument, Molly had gone to Jimmy about it, and she wasn’t a hypocrite. But their argument had been about the fact Harry didn’t seem to want to open up about how he was feeling about things, and she couldn’t help but feel a little hurt that maybe she was the only he was like that with.

“Are you two coming or what?” Lauren’s loud call snapped Natalie and Molly to attention, and they both just offered each other a soft smile before heading out of Molly’s room, Molly with a thick blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a cape. “That’s not your duvet,” Lauren pointed out from where she was already sat on the floor, sat on her thick downy duvet.

“I changed the covers yesterday Loz, I really don’t want it all over the floor,” Molly told Lauren, draping her blanket out next to her and taking a seat. “Ben was eating chilli sensations in here earlier, and I’m not sure he actually ate all of them.” Lauren grimaced at the floor with that information, but was quickly distracted by Natalie dragging her duvet into the living room to join the others. It was how they’d always done girls night, even before they were living together. Only before they’d cramped into one of their dorm rooms, squeezed onto a single bed and tried to pretend they couldn’t hear all the goings on of the rest of the flat through the thin walls. Nowadays it was a slightly more sophisticated affair, so long as they could get rid of the boys they shared their house with. It was only fair, they gave up the living room weekly for Fifa tournaments and the like.

The three of them made themselves comfortable around one another and the coffee table where there were three glasses of wine and a big bowl of cheesy Doritos - the collective favourite. Chat bubbled up and it began to feel like they were catching up after some time apart. In reality they were just busy working towards deadlines and trying not to get bogged down with too much work. Molly couldn’t remember when she’d had a proper chat that wasn’t fleeting over a tea being made, or a quick dinner being stuffed down at the table for some screen free time. It was the time of year, it was always the same, so it felt nice to completely switch off from university for a little while and have some social time.

The only thing that took them out of their conversations filled with giggles more than anything serious, was the doorbell. Lauren hopped up to fetch it, returning with two large boxes of pizza and a tub of ice cream which she squeezed into their small freezer. They each shuffled closer to their side of the coffee table and began to delve into it. Conversation continued between mouthfuls, none of them missing an opportunity to talk about anything that took their fancy.

“So are you gonna tell us about the date or…?” Lauren asked once she’d finished a mouthful of pizza. It had been lingering around them. Lauren had made it perfectly clear she wanted to ask the question around the breakfast table, and it had been the elephant in the room ever since they’d sat down with their blankets and duvets, and Molly had been nervously waiting for it to come up. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to tell Lauren and Natalie what had happened exactly, and it wasn’t that she’d lied when she’d told Natalie she could do with advice, it was just she didn’t really know what to say, and she knew how what she could say sounded.

“The date was good,” Molly started, taking another bite of her pizza. It wasn’t a lie by any stretch of the imagination, from the moment Harry had picked her up, until she went to the bathroom had been amazing, wonderful, everything a good date should be. It was just after that felt like hell, in the moment, and later whenever Molly remembered how they’d talked to one another and the words they’d let themselves say.

“So what wasn’t?” Lauren asked with a hint of a laugh. One of those awkward, expectant laughs that came with darting eyes around the room.

“We argued,” Molly sighed, dusting her hands free of pizza crumbs and putting the unfinished slice back on the lid of the box they were sharing as a plate. There was no getting away from it, nowhere to run and hide, so Molly decided to just hold her hands up and come clean, pray the advice she got was what she actually needed to hear rather than what she wanted to hear, that it did sound like Harry was keeping something back, rather than that she was being daft, that she should trust her gut instinct, because her heart wasn’t always right. It had failed her before, and it could do the same again.

“Why?” Lauren asked. Molly explained what had happened, how it had happened, how she’d decided not to tell Harry about Ryan coming back, how he’d seen the text from Ryan that Molly had never replied, how she’d broken her promise to get into a taxi. And that’s where she left it. At least for the time being. “So he didn’t take it well then?” Lauren went on with a sigh, sinking a little and pouting her bottom lip.

“No, not at all,” Molly admitted, licking her lips and dropping her gaze. “It’s my fault, I know that I’m not stupid, I should have told him about it all.”

“You’re not wrong,” Lauren laughed, Molly flicking her eyes up to her. “What? I’m not gonna stick up for you just because you’re my friend, I did tell you to tell him, of course he’s pissed off, I’d be pissed off, you’d be pissed off if it was the other way round,” Lauren pointed out, and all Molly could find she could do was nod. She knew it was true, how she’d felt seeing him sat next to another woman after Christmas illustrated that just fine. There was no way Molly could pretend she wouldn’t be upset if she found out Harry had taken his ex home, and particularly if he’d tried to hide it from her. It didn’t exactly look good.

“So I take it you didn’t spend the night together?” Natalie piped up, leaning forward on the table next to Molly and twisting her neck to look at her ginger friend.

“No,” Molly told Natalie quietly, “He came here for a bit, and we talked, but he left,” Molly explained.

“How did the talking go?” Lauren asked. They were all talking softly, not like they were keeping their voices down in case anyone overheard them, more as if they were being gentle, tiptoeing around panels of shattered glass. Molly kind of hated it, she hated feeling like she was being wrapped in cotton wool. People had always done it, taken a look at her pale skin and freckled cheeks, her blue eyes and red hair, her small stature and delicate nature, and treated her like a china doll. It was part of why she liked work so much. There she was just one of the girls, and no one treated her any different, no one told her to be careful, or tried to do things for her, or got in the way of her just doing her job.

“Fine,” Molly shrugged.

“Molly what’s up?” Natalie asked, and Molly could hear the frown in her tone. Molly just shook her head, brushing it off. “Molly, come on, what’s going on?” Natalie asked again, so Molly swallowed and chewed the inside of her lip harder than the silence that pushed through them and chewed at her resilience not to say anything, to keep it inside, between her and her head. But she couldn’t, and she didn’t really want to anyway.

“There is just something, I don’t know what it is, and I don’t know why, but there is something that is telling me there is far more to him than he will ever let on, and there is something he is keeping from me,” Molly admitted, and the words spilled from her like water from a tumbled glass, all at once and too fast for anyone to do anything about it.

“Like what?” Lauren asked.

“I really have no idea, literally, and I don’t even know why I feel like it, cause when I’m with him I’m happy, for the most part,” Molly added, because obviously, clearly, there had been time when neither of them were happy, and Lauren nodded understanding. “He makes me feel good, we have fun, we get on really well, like I can’t figure it out, at all, but my head is telling me to be careful and I don’t know why, it’s driving me mad,” Molly finished with a deep sigh and a little growl of frustration. Part of her had hoped getting it out in the open would make it clearer, but it seemed to make no difference at all.

“Since when do you listen to your head over your heart?” Natalie laughed from beside her.

“Because last time I didn’t listen to my head I ended up feeling guilty for ending a relationship that I knew was already dead,” Molly pointed out. “This is different anyway, this isn’t a head or heart thing, this is just gut instinct,” Molly explained.

“Has it been there since the beginning?” Natalie questioned.

“Not really, I noticed it first when we were at my parents, there was just something I felt like he was avoiding, and then ever since I seem to be noticing it more,” Molly admitted a little downheartedly. “I don’t want to feel like this cause I really like him and enjoy being with him and I know I’m proper falling for him, but what if-”

“No, stop, don’t do that,” Lauren cut in sharply. “There is no point asking what if, because what if what? He’s still this person you really like being with, he’s still Harry, whatever it is, if it even is anything, it’s not going to change that,” Lauren all but promised. “If he makes you happy, if you feel good being with him, that’s all that matters, unless that changes, you don’t need to worry about it.” Molly took a quietly deep breath, taking in Lauren’s words and letting them sink in, letting them get to work on her doubts and fears. “Either that, or you ask him, straight up, what he’s hiding from you,” Lauren told her and Molly felt a fear inside her spark off.

Honestly, there was no part of her that wanted to ask Harry for the truth. She was scared of it, and the rooms around them always continued to fill with conversations they should have been, but never were, having. It wasn’t Harry’s fault. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t really anyone’s fault, it was just the way it was. It felt like the more Molly got know Harry, the more she saw the recesses of his mind, heart and soul, the more distanced she felt from him. The more she got to know him, the more she began to realise she was so far from him, the more she had to open up to the fact that he was a boy afraid of who he was, afraid of being a monster, wondering if everyone else was afraid of that too. Constantly looking at Molly and wondering if she had those same capabilities and always realising she didn’t. But of course she did, everyone had that part inside of them, those dark parts they could never fill with light, everyone, somewhere deep down. He was strong, but more than that he was determined to always look strong, adamant he couldn’t, wouldn’t, show weakness. Always holding himself like he was a secret, and the guardian of it all at once.

How she was ever meant to ask someone that wrapped up in themselves, in their own heads, in their own fight to not look weak, for a truth she could see he was scared of owning up to, Molly didn’t know. And so she just nodded at Lauren, and pretended like she really thought it was as simple as that.

The three of them finished the pizza’s and moved onto the ice cream without really even thinking. As Natalie was serving the tub into three bowls, Molly and Lauren perused Netflix for a move to stick on until the boys got home. They’d done their gossiping, chatting and laughing, and they were ready to snuggle into the duvets and blankets with some proper comfort food and lose themselves in an easygoing movie they’d seen a hundred times and didn’t really have to think about.

Normally that would have been a good thing. In Molly’s current mindset though it was terrible. Angus, Thongs and Perfect Snogging played, and Molly was too lost in her own head to even laugh when Georgia waddled along the seafront dressed as an Olive. Lauren didn’t seem to notice, but every now and again Natalie would give Molly a little nudge and a friendly smile, pulling her back into the room for a few seconds.

Continuously, Molly found herself falling into her mind, tripping and stumbling over the obstacles cluttering it up, keeping her from the film, and the time with her friends. It wasn’t even the fact that she practically new the movie word for word, it wouldn’t matter if she was watching it for the first time. Molly was so entangled in her thoughts, that it was almost a certainty nothing would have been able to keep her away from them. Any concentration available to her was stolen by going over the same thoughts again, and again, as if she might ever come to a different outcome. She never did.

There was no getting away from the fact that the more she let Harry into herself, the more locked out of him she felt. She doubted it was intentional, it didn’t feel like he was purposefully putting up defences. In fact it felt almost subliminal, like he didn’t really know he was doing it until Molly pointed it out to him, like it was built into him, learned the same way as treading water when it got too deep, or being cautious of fire. However, when Molly did point it out, he seemed to run from it harder, like the fire got hotter or the ocean deeper. When she asked for him to come closer, he took a step back, and Molly didn’t know how to get over that, because the only thing she wanted was for him to keep coming closer, and she didn’t know if his retreat was as intrinsic as the initial reaction.

It was a buzz from Molly’s phone that woke her back up to the room, and the movie. They were over half way through, and Molly wasn’t really sure how that had happened, or how she’d managed to get so lost in her head for so long.

“Phone’s are banned from girls night,” Lauren grumbled from beside Molly, but Molly ignored her reaching into the pocket of her hoodie for the phone.

“I’d like to remind you that last girls night, you sat there for the whole of Mean Girls texting your flavour of the week,” Natalie piped up, snarkily. Lauren just huffed, but Molly wasn’t really paying attention to the interaction, more invested in the screen, trying to pick her heart back up from her stomach, and get rid of the lump in her throat that had appeared almost before she’d even got to the end of the message.

Hey you, hope you’re having a good night with the girls? I’m really sorry but somethings come up and I can’t do tomorrow. I’ll call you first thing tomorrow and sort something out. Really sorry x

The little love heart emoji Harry put before the kiss, and the sad face, didn’t make it feel any better. Nothing made it feel any better. Nothing made being let down at the last minute by someone Molly cared about so much, and by someone who she found herself wanting to spend all her free time with, feel ok. It felt shit. It felt like she wanted to cry, and she chewed angrily at her bottom lip to stop it from wobbling. It might have been ok if hadn’t felt like he’d been avoiding her all day. If he hadn’t cut off her call, telling her he was busy and would call back later, if he’d replied to even one of Molly’s texts about plans for the following day, of if she could call him when she was in bed because they were having a girly night. He’d obviously seen them, he’d referenced them, but hadn’t bothered to reply. And consequently it felt like he’d known for a little longer than just under twelve hours before they were meant to see one another. And consequently it felt like he’d just changed his mind about the whole thing. And consequently Molly felt like she’d been put back in the dark corner she’d wondered if she might be beginning to find her way out of.

“What’s up?” Lauren asked, breaking Molly’s vicious circle of thoughts that tended to make her feel like she was drowning. They were overwhelmingly oppressive, and there seemed to be no escape. One thing ran right into the other, and Harry’s text only made that worse. She’d run out of contemplating how to tell him how she was feeling, into wondering how she was meant to get close to someone who appeared to be shutting her out every time she got nearer.

“Harry,” Molly smiled, pressing her phone to life again as the back light ran out of time and the screen went dark, eyes scanning over the words. There was a question mark, does he actually want a reply? Molly wondered. What does he expect me to say? Molly didn’t know what to say, because she didn’t know how to feel. She didn’t know if she was overreacting. But it felt the same as when they’d come back from her parents and he’d cut her out. It felt like getting to the last hurdle, only to find it was a ten metre brick wall and Molly had no way to get over it.

“What’s he saying?” Lauren giggled nudging her elbow, obviously expecting Molly to tell her something sweet, something cute, Harry looking for Molly’s attention after an evening without it. It was immediately clear though that, that was not the case, when Molly huffed an attempt at a laugh, curling her lips too falsely and blinking quickly as she bit her jaw together tightly. “Mol?” Lauren asked again.

“Cancelling our plans for tomorrow,” Molly grumbled locking her phone, and, almost literally, throwing it across the room. It landed just shy of her feet knocking against the floor with the force of her throw.

“Aren’t you meant to be going over your designs tomorrow?” Natalie asked from the other side of Molly, everyone now as distracted from the film as Molly had been before the text came in.

“Meant to be doing the final fitting,” Molly corrected, leaning her head back on the sofa and staring up at the dark ceiling. The film was still playing, but it didn’t do much for the light. The room was dark, and Molly was glad for that, because there were the beginnings of tears pricking her eyes and she’d rather no one saw that.

“That’s not ok,” Natalie pointed out sternly.

“Nat!” Lauren scalded.

“Well it’s not, just cause she’s seeing him doesn’t make it ok to cancel those sort of plans last minute, it’s not like it’s just coffee and cake is it?” Natalie pointed out, and Molly knew she was right, but only because of previous experience she wasn’t sure it made much difference. Harry cancelling any plans seemed to hold a deeper gravity than it might with anyone else. He wasn’t one to cancel, and normally he seemed as eager to spend time with Molly as she was him. He’d offered to pay her wages to keep her home with him rather than her go to work, she knew he liked spending time with her. So when he suddenly cancelled out of the blue and out of character, Molly felt confident in assuming he was having doubts, getting in his head again. And that made her feel sick. But instead of voicing that, she just sighed and shook her head.

“It isn’t fair, but what am I meant to do? He’s said something’s come up and he’ll call tomorrow to sort something out,” Molly informed them, staring at her phone, begging it to go off again, begging another text from Harry to say he’d gotten it wrong, managed to work something out so Molly could still turn up at his flat with the clothes for him, and have him try them on all afternoon before they ordered take out and sat on his couch with a movie and popcorn.

“You should go round there,” Lauren piped up, and Molly’s head spun fast enough to move air.

“What?” Natalie chuckled from behind Molly, clearly a little in disbelief at Lauren’s idea.

“You should go round there, just pay a visit,” Lauren shrugged like it was the most obvious suggestion. Based on the huff that came from Natalie, and the stunned silence from Molly, neither of them agreed. “You can look at me like that all you like, but if something big enough has come up, he won’t just be sat at home will he?”

“I don’t know, he hasn’t said what it is,” Molly pointed out, a little shrilly. “He said he’s going to be busy, so whether that’s at home or elsewhere, it means he can’t do what we were meant to be doing, so that’s it,” Molly told Lauren drawing a line under it with a swipe of her hand.

“Well I’d go round there and see what he’s up to,” Lauren shrugged, turning back to the movie that was in its final throes.

“Good for you, I wouldn’t,” Molly retaliated, staring into the side of Lauren’s face. “He’s told me he’s busy, and he’s told me he’s going to call, no it’s not ideal, but I trust he wouldn’t cancel without good reason,” Molly said, almost trying to convince herself as much as she was Lauren or Natalie.

“Really? Do you?” Lauren smirked, looking to Molly out of the side of her eyes. Molly didn’t say anything just pursed her lips, and stared back at Lauren as she twisted her head to Molly. “I didn’t think so either,” Lauren chuckled darkly.

“You’re being a bitch,” Molly grumbled.

“Sorry, but you’re making excuses for him, again, just like you did when you got back from your parents and he ignored you for like a week,” Lauren pointed out and Molly sat back a little, not quite expecting that to be fired at her, at least not by Lauren, not quite sure how Lauren even knew. “Yes, Jimmy tells me things when he’s worried about you, and he’s worried you’re being walked over again, only this time you’re so blinded by how pretty and nice he is that you won’t admit it,” Lauren snarked. “You would never have let Ryan get away with this, you argued for like an hour with him when he cancelled a week before he was coming down just for a regular visit and a night out, which he ended up coming down for anyway, this guy ghosts you for a week, cancels your final fitting, and yet you still smile sweetly and tell us it’s not a big deal, what’s different?” Lauren quizzed.

“You don’t know anything about him Lauren,” Molly hissed moving to stand up.

“Sounds like you don’t either,” Lauren grumbled sitting further back against the sofa. “Maybe if you just faced up to it, go round there and ask him what the fucks going on, you wouldn’t be sat here on girls night losing your mind about it one second, and then excusing him for it the next,” Lauren told Molly as she got to her feet.

“I’ll tell you what Loz, when you manage to hold onto a guy long enough to know anything apart from his name and and how good he is in bed you can give me advice, until then I’ll pass,” Molly sneered down at Lauren from her new height advantage.

“Mol-”

“No it’s ok,” Lauren interjected with a sickly sweet voice, stopping Natalie from mediating the conversation at all. “If Molly thinks holding down a shoddy four year relationship, and managing to pick up a guy two weeks later who ghosts her every time she gets close to him gives her the upper hand, let her believe it, but she can find someone else to pick up the pieces when it turns to shit again,” Lauren smiled up at Molly sarcastically.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, but taking me out for drinks isn’t picking up the pieces,” Molly hit back as Lauren got to her feet. There was an audible sigh from Natalie as she got to her feet to join them, hands on her hips, standing back a little. “I thought you’d have realised that after how many times we’ve had to do it for you,” Molly continued.

“You’re being out of ord-”

“You’re slagging off a guy you know nothing about,” Molly cut in before Lauren could finish.

“And you’re taking it personally,” Lauren laughed sarcastically.

“Because I care about him Loz, for all his faults and the stupid things he sometimes does, I care about him, and I don’t want to see him hurt,” Molly admitted her voice quieting with each admission. “He’s been through a lot of shit and he doesn’t need me being clingy and unreasonable,” Molly told Lauren.

“It’s not unreasonable to expect someone not to cancel plans the night before, and it’s not unreasonable to ask someone what’s going on when you’ve got feelings like you have, and when he’s saying he feels like he does, and personally I don’t think it’s unreasonable to turn up at his flat tomorrow and see what’s going on, he’s turned up here enough times unannounced,” Lauren told Molly, both of them quieter, Natalie sunk back further, falling into the chair as the both pulled themselves back from the knives they’d been throwing. “Maybe that’s just me, and maybe we’d both hate to admit but we’re more similar than we realise, it’s why we argue so hard,” Lauren smirked, making Molly chuckle. “No one wants to see you hurt Mol, it’s your decision, but you can’t keep making excuses for him out loud when in your head it’s not the same.”

“I’m just terrified,” Molly sighed, realising that perhaps it wasn’t only Lauren she had more in common with than she first anticipated.

I have absolutely no idea how I feel about this one, but hopefully you guys will have an idea so let me know if you do 😂😂😂

I hope you enjoy it nonetheless and can’t wait to hear some of your thoughts and theories. Have a great weekend. Love u  <3

[joemuggs]

Occupy the Dancefloor 2012

Been talking about politics in dance music a lot lately. Obviously the Bassiani protests in Tbilisi and Berlin have thrown it into relief, but there’s a lot of other vigorous discourse going on, both to do with the current age and in looking back 30 years to the “Summer of Love”. In thinking about it, I dug out this piece I wrote for Mixmag at the end of 2011, published in Jan 2012. I present it now without comment, except to say it’s pretty fascinating how much has changed in some ways and how little in others.

“The atmosphere was electric! I'd never felt such a concentrated positive energy before. People from every walk of life and background were united...”

It's the sort of quote you've probably seen in interviews with DJs a hundred times before, but this time we're not talking about the summer of '89 or any other hoary acid house reminiscence. This is Optimo's JD Twitch recounting his visit to the Occupy Wall Street encampment last summer.

2011 was a hell of a year by any standards, with conspiracies, scandals and crises at every turn. The Arab Spring and war in Libya, riots across the UK, Greece and Spain, Europe edging ever closer to economic collapse, the hackgate scandals, public services being cut to ribbons by a government of comically posh pantomime villains... it seemed sometimes we've had a decade's worth of news all in one go, and it shows no sign that things are going to calm down any time soon. Quite the opposite, in fact – by the time this issue hits the shops, we're fully ready for a couple of small nuclear wars to have broken out and the Euro to have been replaced as currency by peanut M&Ms.

But what's all this got to do with Mixmag? Ravers generally go their own merry way, right? Switch the news off, pull the curtains tighter to blank out the dawn, turn up the music and crack on – leave the politics to Bono? Well, yes and no. The Occupy movement, which sprung up in cities across the western world to demand accountability from institutions in response to the banking crisis that underpins much of the chaos in the world today, has not had much vocal support from the clubbing world – until more recently.

In December Massive Attack's 3D curated a show with Thom Yorke and Tim Goldsworthy (ex LCD Soundsystem), and has been putting up online a series of mix sets by the likes of Horsemeat disco, all in support of the Occupy movement. And a glance at occupymusicians.com shows a small but steadily increasing number of dance DJs and producers among the indie bands and experimentalists standing up and being counted. So is clubland developing a social conscience?

Maybe it's just that we're remembering that dance is not a bubble separated off from the world after all. Professor John Street, author of the new book Music and Politics, points out that “from the 1920s when US sheriffs would issue decrees about how couples could dance together, to rock'n'roll and the scandal of how teenagers reacted tot he music, and on through rave, the powers that be have been as exercised by the performance of dance in crowds as they ever have by the lyrics of songs.” That is to say, the simple self expression of dancing can be as much of a political act as any protest song, and indeed can have more effect.

Trance deity Paul Van Dyk, himself no stranger to political activity, is clear too that losing it on the dancefloor doesn't mean losing touch with wider realities; perhaps unsurprisingly for someone who grew up in oppressive Communist East Germany, he believes the freedoms we enjoy should be trumpeted from the rooftops. “People, artists, movements can be hedonistic and free spirited,” he says, “but also speak out and make a statement of the fact that this is a more tolerant and respectful group than many others in society.”

The author Tim Lawrence, who has closely studied the roots of modern dance culture going back to the start of the disco era, concurs. “I just don't accept that going out clubbing is self-absorbed,” he insists. “Sitting at home and looking in the mirror is self-absorbed. Going out with friends and engagement in a physical activity that only works if everyone participates and contributes is an act of socialising and community. If we stay at home and watch TV all the time we're saying one thing about the kind of society we want to be part of. If we go out dancing, we're saying another thing. Dancing is political.”

Matt Black of Ninja Tune founders Coldcut goes further, but sounds a note of caution. “Yes, people commune and collaborate through dance events,” he agrees, “and often they share an interest in making the world better, in social justice – but as with everything that gives people pleasure that culture is very easily hijacked by those who want to make a quick buck. Cocaine becomes involved, egos become involved, and very quickly you lose touch with the constructive spirit that was so inspiring in the first place.”

“But,” he continues, “that's maybe part of the natural cycle of things. The punk of today becomes the suit of tomorrow, the spirit of rebellion wears off somewhat. That's not necessarily a bad thing, though: I think there are probably a lot of people in ordinary jobs now who still carry the inspiration of acid house and rave with them, and when they see something like the Occupy movement, they think 'yes, that's something I understand and can get behind' because they know that feeling of being part of something bigger.”

It's not just old ravers carrying the inspiration of the past forward though. Many in the dubstep generation are aware of the power of dance music's communality, its deep roots, and the potential this has for social action. Loefah, as co-founder of Brixton's DMZ night is one of the most important figures in the growth of dubstep and all that's followed. His diverse Swamp 81 label is named after the police operation that sparked the original Brixton riots 30 years ago – but he stops short of making direct political statements, instead preferring to use the networks of art and music to deliver coded messages, not preaching but drawing people in and allowing them to make their own conclusions.

“When I was a teenager,” says Loefah, “pirate radio and white labels were everything, and as you got more and more into it, you began to understand the culture. Then when I went to the jungle raves, you'd become a part of this community, meeting the people you'd heard shout outs to on the radio, and you get something from it that's impossible to explain unless you're there but it's powerful and it's not controlled by any authorities. It might sound elitist, but it's not: anyone could be a part of it, but you have to make the effort to find out and understand it.”

Ben UFO, DJ and founder of the Hessle Audio label, is emphatic that the communities created in this way post jungle, garage, dubstep and grime are politically important. “Dance music in London especially,” he says, “has always provided a space for people from all sorts of different class backgrounds, different races, genders and identities to come together for a common purpose and communicate with each other - this is quite radical in itself, and I think it's easy to forget that. A good example of this is the multitude of conversations facilitated by music in the aftermath of the riots this summer, with my whole Twitter timeline dominated by the riots as they were happening and afterwards. Likewise a radio station like Rinse FM preserving and archiving a record of music made, presented and distributed by young, predominantly working class kids is a hugely significant thing in its own right.”

So club music IS political, even when it's not trying to be. But are we on the verge of it becoming more so, of ravers voicing resistance to entrenched power alongside the Occupy protesters? Don't count on it – after all, the instinct to close the curtains and chop out another line is still strong. US journalist, music business expert and Occupy LA campaigner Giovanna Trimble sadly points out that dance acts who may pay lip-service to anti-establishment views are slower when it comes to turning out for protests or organising benefits. “I have not seen any support from electronic dance music acts,” she says, “especially the ones who identify themselves as political beings.”

The opportunities are there, though. Trimble still holds out hope: “I feel that of all genres, EDM has the most space for activism as the demographic is far more open-minded and less 'corrupted' by corporations.” And veteran German house singer Billie Ray Martin sums up exactly why getting bodies out on the street is powerful just as “the mass feeling of possibility and power that the height of house in '88 and onwards” had produced for her. “We've lived in a time of virtual socialising,” she says, “and it's all very fake. it's easy to click 'like' on a post that says 'do you want to personally go out and change the world?' and then move on the latest video on there and not even ever think about why you clicked 'like'. I wish we would go out on the streets and shout it out – and that's where Occupy comes in. I hope it gains the kind of power it deserves. I'm there all the way. 'Like'!”