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allllium · 1 month ago

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Just a Bit of Fun

[ Jack Abbot x Reader ]

~ Fluff, WC: 3749

~ Prequel: The Guy at The Bar

~ Mostly gender neutral but there is a section using female pronouns, pls let me know if you want another version with other pronouns

-------------- banner coming soon -------------

- Reader is keeping a big secret from Dana, accidentally.

Fortunately, the ER today has been pretty slow. Not that you'll say out loud but only a couple people are left out in chairs. You're struggling to get a snack out of the vending machine. Everyone knows this one is a money thief but it's the only one with your favorite snack.

While you're distracted, Dana uses it as an opportunity to talk to Robby about her newest issue within the ER. It's not a real issue at all, but no one dares to say it to her face.

"Call me old school, but I don't understand it." She says, just directly out of your earshot.

"Well-" He begins, but obviously Dana cuts him off quick.

"Don't you call me anything with the word old in it."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it." Robby chuckles. "I don't get it either but it's not any of our business." He knows exactly what she's talking about. It's the only thing he's heard from her in a couple days now.

"Of course it is. This is my ER, all of its my business." He doesn't contridict that it's her ER, but he can't stop his grin at her dramatics.

"Stop being a gossip." He lectures her as usual. Of course it's not her fault, she gets bored.

"Hey, you want to know too. Don't even deny it."

"Obviously I want to know but I'm not gonna sneak around behind their backs." That and he knows more than he'll let Dana see. She'll have his head on a silver platter if she finds out you told him before her.

"What are we gossiping about?" You whisper from behind them. Not meaning to sneak up on them but they were standing right in your path.

"You're just as bad as Dana." Robby rolls his eyes at you. He does that a lot.

"Don't be talking shit out in the open if you don't want me to be curious." You tell him in a lecturing tone. "That's on you, Buddy."

"We were not talking shit." He hates when you call him buddy, that's why you do it. Robby isn't usually one to talk shit but on a few occasions you've caught it happening.

"Uh huh, quick defense there." You smile at his dramatic huff. Once you get to him, he's not nearly as intimidating. Now you can poke fun at him all you want.

He doesn't grace with you a verbal response before giving up and walking away.

"He's no fun." Dana mutters under her breath. You look over in her direction, forgetting she was there for a moment. You should know better, she's always there.

"That's okay, we're fun enough for him too." You walk around the counter to sit down and take a breath for a moment, while you can.

"What are you doing here, kid? I barely ever see you in the daylight." She takes a seat in the chair next to you.

"Filling in for Collins. Robby asked me to while she's on vacation. Night shift will do without me for a bit." You fidget by moving back and forth in the chair. You and Collins have bonded a lot through the years. The nature of her vacation isn't a happy one.

"I don't know." She immediately disagrees. "Abbot might fall apart without you by his side."

You can see the mischievous smile forming.

"What's that supposed to mean?" You turn quickly to face her head on.

"You know what I mean, I never see one of you without the other."

"He's not here right now is he? Besides we work different days a lot."

"Not if it's up to the two of you." She shrugs with a laugh.

"We work well together." You deflect in disbelief. What is she getting at right now?

"I bet you'd be good at a lot of other things together too." She keeps her head down as she says it, you know she's struggling to get the words out through her laugh.

"Dana it is way too early in the morning for you to be saying stuff like that." You tell her in astonishment. "Have you no shame?"

It takes her a full moment to stop laughing at her own words. You get the urge to walk away but you know she'd chase you down.

"I'm just saying, you two would be good together."

"Dana. You can't be encouraging me to have sex with my boss."

"Why not? It's never hurt nobody."

"I am walking away from this conversation right now."

"C'mon, hon, just live a little." She calls after you.

You shake your head harshly as you walk away and her laugh echos through the hall.

You know neither you nor Jack have actually told anyone other than Robby that your together, but you didn't think she would still be this oblivious.

You can't explain why you played along instead of coming out with the truth. At this point, you might as well have fun with it.

The next day, Dana seems to be just as determined to get answers as the last. Your reactions to her teasing certainly didn't help.

"I don't see what the big deal is." You and Dana are sitting in the lounge, trying to eat lunch while there's not too much work to be done. Knock on wood this next couple days will follow a similar pattern. "We work together so what? You and Robby work together all the time and I'm not pushing you two into each other." She immediately gives you a look of disgust.

"Don't even try that, it's different and you know that. Robby and I don't look at each other the way you guys do."

"We don't look at each other like anything other than good coworkers." You tell her confidently, perhaps taking the joke too far. Honestly if she hasn't figured it out by now, that's on her.

"You are so full of shit."

"I think the older you get, the crazier you get too."

"Did you seriously just call me old and crazy in the same sentence?"

"Hey I just call it like I see it." You raise your hands in a joking defense.

"Abbot's a good looking guy, I know you see that." She wiggles her eyebrows at you.

"Well I'm not gonna deny that."

"So why not take the chance? It doesn't have to be anything serious."

"I like things how they are." You shrug and pay more attention to your food than necessary.

Whatever she's about to say next is cut off by McKay running in.

You're not paying attention to anything they're saying but Dana rushes out quickly and leaves McKay standing in the doorway. Robby probably needed her help with something.

"Are you fucking with her?" Mckay laughs as she looks at you curiously.

"So I'm guessing you know?"

"You guys are very obvious. Has she not gotten it yet?" You get up to throw away your lunch trash while she talks.

"Apparently not. I guess she figured I was single and Robby didn't tell her otherwise." You shrug and walk with McKay through the hall.

"Strange considering he's such a gossip."

"That's what I'm saying!"

"Oh that's a really pretty ring." You're standing by your locker when Dana appears. It's day three of her pushing for answers and one of those rare times where you get off on time.

"Huh." You look down and see the ring Dana is referring to. It's on a chain around your neck that must've come out while leaning over so much throughout the day. "Oh thanks, I didn't realize it was out." You quickly tuck it back into your shirt, before Dana asks too many questions.

"What kind of stone is that? It doesn't look like diamond." Of course she's gonna ask a lot of questions.

"Oh it's not, I can never remember the exact name of this one but I'm not a huge fan of diamonds." You explain while grabbing your other clothes out so you can get home as quick as possible.

"Why do you wear it on a necklace?" She asks in a knowing manner.

"Cause' knowing this place it would get lost or ruined otherwise. I'd do it with my other ones too but I wear a million of them." No lie in that statement.

"So why wear it instead of keeping it with the rest?"

"It's my favorite. I just like having it so close to me." Also not a lie.

"That makes sense, it is really pretty." She turns to pull stuff out of her own locker.

"Thanks. Uh, you have any plans after this?" You try to change the topic as casual as possible.

"Lots of sleep hopefully."

"I think that's all we can hope for at this point." You also want to go home and sleep. Especially because the house will be empty all night.

"Sleep well kid."

"See you bright and early." As soon as you're changed, you walk out and leave Dana to herself.

You give a quick goodbye to Robby, who of course hasn't even gotten close to finishing up yet. And then make your way outside when you're greeted with a familiar face.

"How was it today?" He asks from his position leaning against the wall.

"Not to bad. I think you should have okay night." You smile at him which shows off just how tired you are.

"I hope so."

"Well, I guess I'll see you in the morning." You say with a saddened tone.

"Goodnight Dr. Abbot." He pulls you in for a swift hug.

"Goodnight- or goodmorning, Dr. Abbot. Whatever it is to you right now."

"Go home and sleep, you need it."

"Sounds good to me." You pull away from him and both go your separate ways.

"I can't believe it." Dana exclaims just moments after you left. She immediately found Robby to talk to about what she just saw.

"What are you on about now?" He sighs as he always does when putting up with the gossips in the ER, especially Dana's.

"She was wearing an engagement ring, oh how did we miss this?" She seems personally offended by this piece of information.

Robby tries as hard as he can to hide his grin. He didn't miss anything, but again, Dana would have his head if she knew.

"That's why she's been so put off by the idea of going out with Abbot."

"Maybe she's just not interested in him. She wears a lot of rings that could pass as engagement rings. You probably just saw it wrong." He tries to offer a reasonable solution. One that doesn't make her even more invested in your romance life.

"No, it was different than the other ones. And she was wearing all day under her shirt. People don't do that with any old ring." She follows behind him as he walks around trying to finish off his work for the night.

"Why didn't you just ask her about it? She has no reason to lie." He comes to your defense.

"I did! Discreetly but the point still stood. She just said it was her favorite." She comes off even more exasperated than before.

"And you don't believe her because?"

"She is not good at coming up with excuses, I can always tell when she's trying to come up with something on the spot."

"Dana, please take this advice I'm about to give you seriously. Calm down a little bit. If she's hiding something it's for a good reason."

"What reason would be good enough to not tell me?"

"Ask her." He practically begs.

She gasps suddenly, "Maybe Abbot knows."

For the ten millionth time that day, Robby rolls his eyes.

"She knows." You resign as he walks in the door.

"Who knows what?" You hear him move around the living room as he puts everything down from the night.

"Dana. I don't know what she knows but it's something."

"Okay? And this is an issue because?" He walks into the kitchen to greet you as he talks.

"You're the one that insisted on hiding this." You lean into him as he puts his arms around your waist.

"At first. If you want to tell Dana go ahead."

"I can't! It would be weird now. It's been years at this point." He chuckles from behind you.

"I don't think it's a big deal."

"So says you. You work the night shift, you don't deal with Dana's craziness like I do."

"You'll be back on night shift soon enough."

"Oh honey, it's funny you think that'll stop her."

He let's go of you to grab something to eat.

"I know it won't. But I'm not the one dealing with it."

"Be nice to me, Jack. I'm struggling here." You're being totally dramatic about it but oh well at this point.

"How dare she care about your life outside of work." He says blankly as he focuses on finding food.

"You're not gonna find anything in there, we need to go shopping."

He shuts the cupboard and focuses more on you. "I think I'll bring you lunch later."

"Honey, you need to sleep longer than a couple hours."

He rolls his eyes, "No I don't."

You head to the living room to grab the rest of your stuff for your shift.

"You don't need to bring me lunch, I'll get something." He follows you into the room and sits down on the couch.

"It might help with your Dana issue."

"Shes gonna hurt me, isn't she? She's a lot stronger than she looks "

"Most likely."

"Good to see how concerned you are."

"I try my best." You laugh at his words and finish grabbing your stuff before pausing for a moment.

"Wait a minute, why are you here so early. You're shift isn't over yet?"

He glances up at you for a second before looking back at the TV.

"Did you clock out early so you wouldn't overlap with Dana coming in?"

"Of course not."

You burst out laughing. He gives you an unimpressed stare.

"Okay sweetie, whatever you say." It's hard to believe this is the most intimidating guy in the ER. "If she wants to get you, she will."

You let out an embarrassing yelp as Dana quickly grabs your arm and pulls you into the empty on call room.

"Was that really necessary?" You exclaim while she shuts the door behind you both.

"Yes, I want the truth." She crosses her arms over her chest and stares at you pointedly.

"Don't we all." You sigh dramatically.

"Seriously, kid. Who gave you that ring? I know it's an engagement ring. I looked it up." You roll your eyes at her. Of course she's still on this.

"I didn't know you knew how to do that." You mumble under your breath and throw your arms across your chest.

"Don't sass me or I'll tell everyone."

"Tell them what? You don't know anything." She squints her eyes as she thinks of what to say next.

"I'm going figure it out. We can do this the easy way or the hard way."

"Dana, I'm not scared of you."

"Yes you are."

"I spend every night working with Abbot. You are not on his level of intimidation." You shake your head with a smile at her reaction to this whole situation.

You're not entirely sure why this is something she's so determined to figure out but it fills your day with a tiny bit of entertainment.

"Just tell me." She demands, staring into your soul.

"Okay fine, I'm married alright. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Her face shows a mixture of confusion and happiness. Clearly she's glad to finally have a good answer.

"To who??"

"I have already given you more than enough." You brush her off and begin to leave the room she pulled you into.

"You're seriously not gonna tell me?

"I am seriously not gonna tell you."

"Wait, how long have you been hiding this?" She opens her mouth in shock.

"I haven't been hiding anything, you never asked. But it's been about three years now."

"You've only been here for two years. No wonder you've been so weird about Jack." She mutters to herself like she's finally putting the pieces together.

"Next time you won't assume I'm single will you?"

"No I will not." She laughs.

You walk off assuming that's the end of this particular conversation. You're not that lucky.

"So how does your husband feel about your relationship with Abbot?" She sounds very concerned. How the fuck is she not getting it right now?

"Well honestly he's not super fond of him." Why do you continue to make things harder for yourself. This would all be over if you didn't listen to Jack in the first place.

You know he was right to suggest it at first. Coming to work in a new place is hard enough without people knowing you're married to your new boss.

You really thought people would figure it out by now. But of course people never wanted to accuse either of you of anything, so they keep conversations quiet and didn't ask any questions loud enough for you to hear.

"I wonder why?" She asks sarcastically. She clearly sees something between you and Jack. What will it take for her to see what that something is?

"You are officially on my shit list!" Dana yells from down the hall.

"Oh yay." You whisper sarcastically. "What'd I do now?" You call back down to her.

"Someone is here to see you." She smiles scarily and pulls you by the arm for the second time today.

"Oh is my food here?" You're excited to finally eat and see Jack during the day. Although he's gonna get a very big earful about the importance of enough sleep, especially with a job as grueling as this.

"Yeah and you'll never believe who brought it to you." Sarcasm drips from her voice.

"The magic food fairy?" She's not impressed. You think it sums him up pretty well.

"Abbot. Dr. Jack Abbot. The man who worked all night and should be sleeping all day is instead here bringing you food. Why is that?"

"Do you need to sit for a minute? You seem a little worked up."

"I do not need to sit, I need to hear the explanation you two have been hiding from me." You accidentally let out a small chuckle at her antics. You don't know why this means so much to her.

"Why do you need an explanation for me to get my lunch?"

"First you hide your marriage-" You interrupt her quickly.

"I didn't hide anything."

"Then you admit your husband isn't real fond of Jack."

"Oh honey, you're getting so close." Will this be the moment she finally puts all the pieces together?

You look up to see Jack standing at the nurses station, smiling softly at you as you walk up. It's not big enough for most people to notice. Dana clearly, is not most people.

She stops walking, causing you to slightly bump into her back.

She turns around slowly to face you.

"Surprise?" You reveal, hoping she's finally figured out what's going on.

While she stands in her surprise, you walk over to your husband.

"I told you not to do this." You immediately reprimand him.

"Dana's glaring daggers at the back of your head." Is his simple response.

"Oh let her. She's having some big feelings and you don't get to change the subject that easily." You grab your food out of his hands.

"We haven't seen each other as much lately. Can't I do something nice?" He asks innocently.

"Don't act like you didn't want to see Dana's reaction." You place the food on the counter next to you so you can cross your arms over your chest. It's your power stance.

"What can I say? Karma for being a gossip."

You laugh aloud. "Says you! You listen to everything the nurses talk about and ask me about it later."

"That's not the same." You scoff at his denial.

"Uh huh, whatever you have to tell yourself sweetie." You smile widely at him. Suddenly feelings just how much you've missed him over these last couple days. "Go home and sleep. It's my last day on day shift for now."

"Good. Night shift goes a lot smoother when you're there."

"Aww are you saying you missed me?" You take a step closer to him and his awkwardness.

"No." What a motherfucker.

"Oh I see how it is." You feel Dana's presence come up beside you. "Get some good sleep so we can spend time together without you being such a grump."

"I am never a grump." He defends, his lip curling up just a smudge.

"Wow you're just full of jokes tonight, I see." He gives you a kiss on your head to hide his smile in your hair.

"Have a good shift." He tells you and gives a small nod to Dana before walking out the door.

"So? Figure it out yet?"

"How in the hell did I not know this?" She exclaims softly almost like she's saying it to herself.

"You never asked. No one did." You shrug with a chuckle.

"How long have you been together? He never mentioned anything." She plops down in a chair to continue the conversation.

"He's protective. He thought it would make things harder if people knew I was married to my new boss." You sit in chair next to her. You look around and see all the other doctors currently occupied.

"So as long as you've been here?" She chuckles quietly realizing all she missed over the years.

"Married for three years, together for six. We met at a bar when he was drinking in his sorrows." You remember the memory fondly. "I was gonna tell you when I realized you didn't know, but for some reason it didn't come out."

She laughs loudly at that. Loud enough that a patient to the left gave her a weird look.

"That makes sense. I'm just glad you're not having some weird affair with Jack."

"It's not an affair but it's definitely weird."

"Ha! Eat your lunch kid. I'm gonna hound you for details later." She stands up and gives you a pat on the shoulder.

"Wouldn't expect anything less."

~ low-key wanna write about how they met 🤔

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 1 year ago

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Quid Pro Quo | Michael Gavey x fem!reader

Summary: After being ditched by her friend at the Trinity College Christmas Party, she finds herself enthralled with learning the language of Michael Gavey | Word Count: 3.8k~ | Warnings below the cut!

Part Two: Carpe Diem Part Three: Veni, Vidi, Vici

warnings: virgin michael, semi-public sexual conduct, oral sex (m receiving), heavy petting

If she has to listen to Professor Wardon swoon over Ancient Greek and how it ‘drove him to pursue his dreams in extending his passion to other students’, she thinks she might actually fall asleep.

She's in a good spot to do so, nestled between two other students, the one on her right seemingly just as bored as her, and conveniently hidden behind a tall, lanky first year, who sits straight, with his head perfectly obscuring hers as he fixes his posture regularly.

Several times throughout, she's checked her watch, and yet the second hand never seems to move an inch.

Professor Wardon is just about to go on a lovesick spiel about Homeric Greek when the lecture concludes with a heaved sigh from every student as they sling their hefty bags over their shoulders.

“Remember I want 2,500 words on Les Liaisons dangereuses in my pigeon hole by next Thursday, before your Christmas parties!”

“Oh joy,” she sighs with a grin to the girl walking shoulder to shoulder beside her as they leave, feeling noticeably lighter knowing that that's their last lecture before Christmas break.

“Christ, you're telling me. I can't be arsed to even right my own name at the moment, nevermind read 18th century fucking French.”

She gives a snort in reply, “Merry Christmas to us, eh? Should do what the French do and have a revolution or something.”

“Yeah, eat our lecturers or something.”

“Alright, I wouldn't go that far.”

“Anyway, I'm off to T Library, see ya, have a good Christmas and don't do anything I wouldn't!”

She waves her off as her friend disappears, the cold air of the outside nipping at her skin that manages to sneak beneath her coat.

Oxford University is not what she imagined at all. She came here very much feeling like an outsider, like there'd been some sort of paperwork mistake and it was supposed to be someone else in her place.

The imposter syndrome seemed difficult to shift, but she'd at least managed to make a couple of friends since starting in September.

Languages had always found her well, and seemingly the only thing she managed to actually understand. People were inconsistent, cruel and fickle. Languages, though they shifted and changed, were firmly rooted in reason and understanding.

As sad as it sounded, conjugating verbs, vowel shifts and rare dialects were the one thing she found herself itching to discover more about. The idea that there was more to uncover seemed exciting and scary at the same time.

And Oxford University was the best place she could be to do that.

All that said, her eagerness to get involved with her studies had left her social life with much to be desired.

In the first two weeks of university alone, she'd gained one friend and lost a boyfriend. And while they were drifting apart anyway, it was still a relatively large blow to her self-esteem and her confidence to actually get out there, socialise and make the most of her first year of freedom.

The only friends she'd made were those on her course. Priya, who'd just abandoned her to stick her nose in books about the Great Vowel Shift, and Anya, who…to be honest, rarely left her room. Seeming more like a ghost than anything else.

It was a wonder she was still a student, with how often she missed classes.

What Anya does do best, is manage to somehow rise out of her pit to drag her to Christmas parties that aren't even run by their college.

Which is why she finds herself somehow at Trinity College campus, where she eyes several scantily clad women wearing revealing Santa costumes adorned with itchy tinsel.

Anya is the sort of girl who, well, every girl kind of wants to be. So much so she sort of wonders why she hangs around with her. She's pretty, fit and fucking clever. Her only downfall is her taste in men, so often being Oxford pretty boys.

So it is absolutely no surprise at all, when two jägerbombs in, Anya has somehow slipped into the arms of one aforementioned Oxford pretty boy, seeming in every way a clone of the previous, with the exception of the way he pairs his Ayia Nappa top with his low rise jeans and the only effort to conform to theme, is a pair of plastic reindeer antlers on his head bobbling side to side.

She grimaces as she watches them suck each other's faces off in a dark corner of the room, ‘Stay Another Day’ by East 17 blaring with a cheap crackle through the speakers as she makes her way through the bodies to somewhere quiet.

She sighs, nursing the rum and coke Anya had sloppily poured her in one hand as she closes the door behind her, shutting out the drunken squeals and cheers for the peace of a quiet common room.

It's still decorated, she notes, but empty. Maybe she could lurk here until Anya is done, if she ever will be.

The deep clack of a pool ball being sucked into a socket makes her jump, realising perhaps that she was not actually alone, as she'd previously thought.

The cool light hung above the battered pool table illuminates his deep red jumper, and the first thing she sees is the way he leans on one leg, standing straight as if he was imitating the rigid pool cue leant before him. The yellow lined detailing around the cuffs highlights his small wrists and big hands that stretch from it as he rubs blue chalk onto the tip.

Her eyes trail up the back of his neck, past the lazy waves of dark blonde hair, clearly due a trim at some point, and to his face, even from this angle able to see how his features sit. With a sharp nose and jawline, and black skinny glasses perched above his cheekbones.

She almost laughs at the way he's almost as tall as the light that illuminates the table, half-thinking that she might never have seen such a strange and yet interesting looking guy.

“Didn't fancy the party?” she finally says, alerting him to her presence.

She doesn't quite expect the way the light bounces off his sharp features, sinking his blue eyes in shadow as his head turns to her with an expression of boredom.

“Not particularly, no.”

His voice is lighter than she thought it would be and part of her wonders if he's putting it on. He presses his glasses further up his nose before assessing his next shot, stalking around the table.

“Why's that?”

This time, when he answers, he doesn't look at her. He simply leans down, and aims.

“Not. Fucking. Invited,” he replies bitterly, missing a yellow, “that's why.”

Her fingertips moisten against the glass as the ice begins to melt, but she pays it no mind.

“So you're lurking about in here instead.”

He plays with the cue in one hand, barely sparing a second glance, a bitter, quiet laugh escaping him.

He misses another red before he heaves a sigh, straightening to look at her again.

“You here alone as well?” he asks dispassionately.

She smiles lazily and shrugs.

“My mate is…a bit preoccupied, if you know what I mean,” she replies, taking an awkward sip of the now watered down drink, “like you, I don't really think these are my thing either.”

He seems to consider her statement for a moment.

“Why come then?”

She shrugs again, “trying to be sociable.”

“With those vapid cunts? Good luck getting any intelligent conversation out of them.”

She watches as he picks up the blue chalk again, applying more when he doesn't even need it in sort of a nervous gesture, his blue eyes averted and pretending to assess his next move.

There's something about him. How judgemental he is and how he forms his words. Perhaps she hadn't expected this sort of guy to be so outwardly honest with his opinions, and for the most part, she can't say she disagrees with the message, just the way in which he said it.

“Can I play?” She asks, leaning over to put her drink down.

“What are you reading?” He asks so suddenly, and out of context, that she does a double take.

She raises her eyebrows, smiling, “Does my answer depend on if I get to play or not?”

There's no answer from him. Shocker of the century.

“Modern Languages.”

“Fucking hell,” he groans.

She's a bit too happy and dizzy on rum to get defensive.

“Is that one of those subjects that sounds way less interesting than it actually ends up being?”

She gives a breathy laugh, “just like languages.”

He hums, as if the answer didn't impress him, “more of a science and numbers man myself, obviously.”

For a moment, it's lost on her why it's obvious.

He takes a sip of his, no doubt, stale beer, wetting his lips after, “Your name is?”

She narrows her eyes teasingly, smiling as she leans against the table, “quid pro quo.”

She enjoys the brief confusion on his face, before he realises what she's said.

“Okay, okay, Michael.”

She smiles, “See? You know what that meant. Who says you're not a languages man?”

It's the first time he seems to duck his head, hiding a blush she's barely able to see.

“I don’t think the Ancient Roman idea of fair exchange warrants the title of ‘languages man’.”

The blue chalk comes off on his hands as he fiddles nervously with it.

“So, am I bestowed the privilege of playing?”

He raises his head, and she can tell he's trying his damndest to not let a little beer-induced smile pass his lips.

“I suppose I could allow you to embarrass yourself in front of me for a bit, if you insist. We'll have to share a cue though.”

She doesn't have the heart to tell him her uncle was a pool player, and so by extension, has played pool for most of her upbringing. Rather, he finds out himself when she pots three yellows in a row.

It's either the alcohol or pity that kicks in when she misses the fourth, holding the cue for him to take.

“You being good at pool wasn't on my bingo card,” he mutters with some nervous teasing in his voice.

They go back and forth for a bit, missing some, potting some, with interspersed conversation between.

“Thought you might have been a Norman-no -mates, like me,” he says quietly as he watches her assess her next shot. Bending to aim.

“You're not far off,” she replies, “first fortnight I was down a boyfriend. Since then, I've only been up two friends and one of them is in the other room having ditched me for the shag of a lifetime.”

She doesn't see it until after she takes the shot, the way his eyes flit back to hers quickly as she rights herself to stand.

Was he checking me out?

As if he was lagging, he only laughs now at what she's said.

“What about you?” She asks, “no girls, or boys, on the scene?”

He blushes a lot when she asks that. And she can't help the fluttering in her chest she feels that someone might find her attractive.

“Can’t say there is.”

She stands close, passing the cue to him, electricity warming her fingertips as she grazes his.

“And why not?”

He scoffs bitterly, “have you seen me?” he mutters, wandering around the table, suddenly unable to shake the feeling of her gaze, “Not too many girls out there looking for the stereotypical nerdy math boy, really.”

“Hm,” she hums, “how unfortunate for them.”

He sinks a red, picking at his red jumper.

“Yeah, they're clearly missing out, huh?”

The bitter and self-deprecating tone of his voice makes her heart sink a bit. He's not a bad looking guy, she thinks. His style, glasses, hair, she would almost say look actually quite cute.

Maybe that's the thing he doesn't like.

“No interest? Or is maths the only one for you?”

He misses the next shot and sighs, holding the cue for her to take, “clearly, the only one I need.”

She steps close to retrieve, taking her time, looking up at him as she does. At this proximity, Michael sucks in a breath quietly, his lips, which she can't say she'd noticed until right this moment, parting and his Adam's apple bobbing as his eyes flit rapidly down her.

A warmth swirls in her gut at that.

She circles the table, “what about in the past?”

He leans against the other side, his hand on the cushion, long fingers splayed on the green fabric. She has to shake her head to break her own trance.

“Can’t say my love life has exactly been a roaring success, honestly.”

The way he says it.

She wouldn't be surprised if he was…

Oh.

“So what? You're focussed on your studies?”

She misses. Too set on the conversation rather than the game.

He gives a mirthless laugh, “Sure.”

She rounds the table, holding the cue for him to take, but when he reaches for it, she pulls back with a smirk.

“So we've established you're not one for languages,” she starts, and Michael furrows his brows in confusion, “have you ever really asked for what you want? Ever?”

He seems to miss what she's trying to say.

“Have you been with a girl?”

At that, his eyes widen slightly, a blush crawling up his neck to the tips of his ears, cheeks near matching his shirt.

She knows she has her answer.

“Well…I…no, I haven't…”

At chest height, she can see the way his breathing elevates.

“And, hypothetically, if a girl expressed interest. What would you say?”

His lips part for a good few seconds before he gives a reply, “I’d…I um…I guess it depends who…”

It's like he's afraid she'll make fun of him for it.

“What about, if it was me?” She asks, her voice lowering as she reaches out to pick some lint off his jumper, like it's the most normal thing in the world. His body goes all rigid as she does.

This isn't normal in his world.

Michael swallows thickly, “you're not taking the Mick out of me, are you?”

She shakes her head, “I just want you to feel comfortable asking for what you want.”

For someone who had so often thought about it, now when faced with the situation, he feels as if he doesn't know what to do or say.

She's still stood with the cue in one hand, close enough so that when she shifts her weight from foot to foot, her knee grazes his leg. It's interesting to watch him think so deeply about it. Convinced he's probably never thought of anything so much in his life.

“What if what I want is…you?”

The tension deepens like the tone and volume of his voice. And without effort, a smile finds its way to her face when she looks at his expression. He's frozen stiff, for once, not knowing what to say.

So nothing shocks her more when he grabs the pool cue as a means of pulling her to him, and he has to duck considerably to press his lips clumsily to hers. He's eager, that much is true, but it's clear he's inexperienced. But instead of causing discomfort, she thinks it's quite endearing.

The pool cue clangs to the floor as she braces her hands on his shoulders and chest, guiding his lips with her own in a slower, more careful movement. She feels the edge of the pool table bite into her lower back when he presses her against it, clearly excited, if the hardness that's flush to her stomach is anything to go by.

The hands she had been staring at not half an hour ago are bruising as they trace her waist and hips, with a grip tight enough to tell her exactly how much he's enjoying the experience.

For a moment, they're not in a common room alone, against a pool table, with ‘Cheetah-licious Christmas’ playing in the room over, the bass of which rumbles through the floor and into their chests.

The kiss lasts a long while, and she has a feeling he wants to savour it as if it's the last time he will ever be able to do it.

One of her hands snakes its way to the back of his head, fingers gripping at his hair to pull him closer as either of them tilt to aid more contact between them. And at the little amount of tugging, Michael whines into her mouth, prompting him to pull away.

He looks halfway between mortified and pleased, his glasses having skewed to one side with the eagerness of what they'd done. And she laughs a bit, reaching up to fix them, which seems to make the mortification fade somewhat from his face.

Michael looks down between them, where his obvious erection is pressed to her, and pulls away slightly with a scarlet blush.

“Shit - sorry-”

“It's fine,” she reassures, “no need to be embarrassed.”

The words alone would be enough, if her hand hadn't snaked between their bodies to brush her palm over him. And if it were possible, his flush spreads to his neck, words failing him once more.

Her eyes flicker up to his, their lips all kiss-bruised and swollen.

“If you don't want to-”

“No, no, I want to…” he says, immediately embarrassed about how quick it was.

She smiles, one hand palming him through his jeans and the other trailing up his chest, “Sit down.”

He backs up to sit on a nearby sofa, watching with a kind of adoration as she makes space between his legs, her eyes glimmering at him as she slowly undoes his belt.

“If at any time, you need to stop, tell me.”

He gives a nervous laugh, his stomach muscles tightening, wondering probably if this is really happening to him, “Not sure I will want to…”

She smiles reassuringly, watching as his lips part as she palms him through his boxers, trying to suppress how impressed she is with his size.

It's always the skinny white guys.

“Well, the offer's there.” She smirks, pulling him from his boxers, Michael gives a suffered breath, feeling her touch on him and also her breath so close. He almost feels dizzy. The thought of this happening in this situation, with a party going on next door, is dangerous and exciting in equal measure.

She knows he has very limited experience, so decides not to tease him too much.

Michael gasps softly as she licks at the base of him, drawing a wet line with her tongue along the vein underneath, all the way to the tip. She concentrates her efforts slightly on the sensitive spot there before closing her mouth over the head of his cock, sucking gently.

She feels the way his thighs tense, and the blue disappearing as he closes his eyes. His fists are tight beside him, knuckles white, like he doesn't know if he should touch her or not. All he knows right now is that this feeling is brand new, and the sensation is so much already.

She pulls herself from him to run her tongue over his length, one hand moving to his hand, to encourage him. His blue eyes crack open just a bit, to understand what she's trying to tell him.

And she fights the urge to smile as his longer fingers swipe across her temple into her hair, his touch tender, soft and unsure as he holds her by it.

Her lips wrap around him once more, pushing him further into her mouth, taking him steadily and slowly at first. Michael's hips move barely, chasing the friction that he's getting on his cock when she bobs her head on him and hollows her cheeks.

He watches with parted lips and warm cheeks, moving her hair away so he can watch himself disappear into her mouth over and over. Her hand massages the rest of him, giving him two unique sensations in one, something that earns her a deep, throaty moan.

When her eyes open to look at him, he thinks his heart stops in his chest for a split second. He closes his eyes, not able to bear the way she looks with his cock in her mouth if she looks right at him, feeling that if he did any longer he wouldn't last.

The sounds he emits don't stop there as she increases her pace on him, pressing her tongue to the underside of him and taking him deeper into her throat, humming around him at the heady scent of his skin.

It's only when she takes him as far as he will go, working hard to control her gag reflex that he gives the first genuine buck of his hips, tightening in her hair and a far-too-loud moan. If anyone in the next room were quiet and paying attention, they'd likely know exactly what was going on.

“Fuck-”

It only serves to spur her on as she pulls back, moving in a more steady, quick rhythm, that she is sure Michael is loving judging by the rate of his moans and the way he chokes out his words.

His stomach clenches and unclenches, his high creeping up on him as her mouth tightens around his length.

“Shit - you need to - I'm gonna -” he chokes, weakly tugging her hair in an effort to pull her mouth off him before he cums.

If she didn't have his cock in her mouth she'd smile.

Her hand squeezes the base of him, and Michael throws his head back slightly, a long shuddered and choked moan reverberating through his chest. She swears she feels his thighs shake as she stills, warm ropes of his cum taste musky at the back of her throat.

His loud moan is followed quickly by more softer ones as her throat contracts to swallow as much as she can, briefly increasing the tension and friction around his sensitive length.

When she pulls off him with a pleased sigh, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Michael sits up slightly, having to gather his breath.

“Fucking hell…”

She takes it as a compliment and rises to her feet, her hands smoothing her skirt back down.

And she squeaks in delight as Michael quickly tucks himself away, barely doing up his jeans buttons before backing her up to the pool table again, kissing her fervently.

“What about you…do I…” he starts when he breaks away, panting softly. She smiles at the notion but shakes her head. This experience was for him alone.

“Not right now, don't feel inclined to,” she reassured, her hands on his chest, feeling the way his heart is beating rapidly beneath it.

“Right now?” he asks with a quiet, unsure tone, “does that mean…there's gonna be a next time?”

His tone is careful, and yet, she is able to detect something like desire there. An excitement for more, without seeming too eager so that he's not let down if she says no. Something that makes it clear he is 100% on board.

She bites back a grin.

“Quid Pro Quo, Michael.”

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince @thetrueblackheart @tsujifreya @urmomsgirlfriend1 @valeskafics @virtualsweetsqueen @watercolorsky @fan-goddess

#michael gavey #michael gavey x reader #michael gavey x you #michael gavey x y/n #michael gavey x oc #michael gavey fanfic #michael gabey fanfiction #michael gavey fic #michael gavey smut #michael gavey x female reader #michael gabey x fem!reader #saltburn fanfiction #ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell characters #saltburn fic #michael gavey saltburn

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pomefioredove · 6 months ago

Note

hiya :D i hope you're well rested, well fed, and hydrated today (and if not this is your reminder!!)

may i please have a sugar cookie, #18, with whipped cream and chocolate chips? thank you <3

ANOTHER BANGER COMBO. lilia fans here's your dinner

order #18, sugar with whipped cream and chocolate chips

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ bored senseless

tropes: fake dating and royalty AU characters: lilia additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is not yuu, fae!reader, takes place during Malleus' childhood word count: 900

It was only supposed to be for one ball.

When the General of the Right, the Dragon's Hand, the keeper of the Prince himself sends for your word, you answer. When he invites you to attend the centurial ball with him, you say yes. When he whispers in your ear as you ascend the castle steps, his hand tight around your arm, you listen.

And if he tells you that he's been formally courting you for the past century, you nod your head and let him hold the door for you like a true suitor would.

There was, of course, a thousand and more questions to be had, but not there, not when you were already inside the castle's stone ballroom, arm-in-arm with Lilia.

You really just wished he would've disclosed this pertinent piece of information before the ball.

The questions you had, you now had to answer for others.

"How did you catch the crimson eye of the General himself?"

"Especially as a fae of such low nobility?"

"Especially when he's had no interest in courting for the past several hundred years?"

You were able to keep up with the ruse, but it wasn't easy nor fun, especially since Lilia seemed to prefer letting you do all the talking.

When it was over, he handed you a small box of silver and went off alone, without a word, leaving you at the gates of the castle.

How strange, you had thought, but in your years in the court of Briar Valley, you'd learned not to question strange things.

Besides, it was only one evening.

...Well, that's how it started, anyway.

The next invite was to a gala hosted by a Count the following year. Then there was one a few months after that, another after that, and, slowly, your name became known throughout the country, and always spoken right next to General Lilia's.

On a cold night, a dinner hosted by a member of the Senate, one you would have never even dreamed of being invited to if it were not for your suitor, something stranger happens.

"Another one," you sigh, leaning against the stone of the terrace you and Lilia had snuck off to. The night was chilly but clear, every star visible in the sky.

Lilia sits on the railing beside you. "Don't look so glum. I'm sure these events are just a fad. You know how the nobles like their trends,"

"They're just very long,"

"And very boring, I know," he sighs, rubbing his face. "And I hate to be away from the Prince, but times have changed. I can't just win a battle to stay in the Senate's good graces. I have to be..."

He gestures vaguely. "...Noble,"

You look up at him as he sits cross-legged on the stone railing. "Is that why we're..."

You can't say "lying about being engaged to the entire country", but you want to. He knows that.

"What? ...Oh, no," he says, waving you off as if you had said something silly and childish.

"I just didn't want to come to these things alone. I'd be bored senseless."

Your eyes widen with something like wrath.

"..."

He's looking at the party ahead, picking his nose. It takes him a moment to sense your glare.

"...What?"

"Are you unwell?" you suddenly snap. "For years we have been "engaged" in front of the people and the nobility and you say it's because you were bored? Do you know how many lies I've given? To my own family! And the stress of coming up with such nonsense on the spot, to people who could have me banished from court, or worse..."

Lilia stares back, wide-eyed at your sudden outburst. Then, he smiles.

"...How long have you been hiding that sharp tongue, hm?"

"That's all you have to say?"

"Goodness, no," he says, hopping down from the railing to stand in front of you, his hands folded behind his back.

He leans forward, invading your personal space, which he is ever so fond of doing. "Do you know why I chose you, out of everyone in the court?"

What kind of a question is that? You scoff.

"...No,"

Lilia smiles, and he takes a step closer. "Well, you're not as uptight as the rest of them, for one. Your family has always been a little... untraditional, we'll say. But it was also because of this,"

He flicks your forehead, almost playfully, and you blink.

"My face?"

He chuckles. "No, no, though that's certainly a bonus. I meant... before the lies and the sneaking about, the one thing I could remember about you from court, for as quiet and meek as you can be, was your imagination. You always have the most outlandish ideas, the most improbable thoughts. And yet, you speak them with such passion, when you're permitted..."

He pauses to smile.

"...Well, I knew you could come up with some lie about us, and it would be rather entertaining."

You stare back. Lilia has always had a way of surprising people, but this is...

He smirks at the look of shock on your face, taking a moment to not-so-subtly check you out, for lack of a better term, and he takes your hand in his.

Then, he says the magic words, the ones you'd been dying to hear for every event since you started this whole ruse.

"Shall we get out of here?"

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #lilia vanrouge x reader

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darlingdaisyfarm · 7 months ago

Text

takin’ what’s not yours (ford x reader x stan)

chapter 1 | chapter 2

tags: pre portal, hurt/comfort, angst, Stan & Ford needs a hug, reader too, emotional manipulation, everyone needs therapy but that’s not happening, mystery trio dynamics if you squint, hidden pairing, bill cipher influence

author note: guys i swear this was supposed to be a shameless porn threesome fic, but then Ford and Stan showed up with a whole suitcase of unresolved issues im so sorry

“You’re gonna change the world, Ford.”

“Only if you’re there to see it.”

***

Backsmore University. What a fucking place.

It wasn’t just the old brick buildings or the ivy creeping up the sides. Not really. It was the people. The crazy mix of the smartest, weirdest people you could imagine. You were one of them, no doubt. An absolute nerd with a lab coat on 90% of the time, a mess of papers and equations in your backpack and a head full of ideas and knowledge. But unlike Ford, you weren’t shy about showing it. You thrived in it, honestly. Lectures? Boring as hell, but the energy in the halls? The potential of every single person you met? Yeah, you were there for it.

One of these was Ford Filbrick Pines.

The ultimate BMU enigma, the textbook definition of nerdy. For some reason, his persona always made you think he was hiding some secret genius-level insanity behind his weirdly serious face.

You’d laugh about it with your friends, the way he avoided talking to anyone. Classic “genius who’s too good for people” type.

He was everywhere, and yet, nowhere at all. Seriously, you could walk through the student lounge, see him hunched over a pile of research papers in the corner and just know you were witnessing something profound. He didn’t get what you were about at first.

You were funny, obnoxious even, always the first to crack a joke or make a ridiculous observation in class. Meanwhile Ford would just stare at you with those big eyes like he was trying to figure out if you were some kind of social experiment.

But then you started talking, typical nerds topics. About quantum physics, mathematics, about the mysteries of the universe, about everything. He’d scoff at how crazy your ideas were but then, just a second later, he'd be scribbling down some insane theory of his own that he wouldn’t even tell anyone else about. And you’d get it. You both would sit in the library, trading theories and arguing about the tiniest details of space-time.

You were the loud one, in Ford’s opinion, the one who could hold a conversation about quantum theory and drag Ford to a campus party all in the same breath. He’d grumble the whole way, saying it was a waste of time, rolling his eyes at your insistence that he needed a little break. He’d follow you through those sticky, badly lit student lounges, watching you laugh with people he’d probably never even look at twice.

These late nights when you’d drag him out to stargaze, pointing out constellations, half-naming stars you didn’t know, laughing when he’d shake his head, muttering about inaccurate astronomy. But he always went along with it, always ended up laying beside you on the grass, looking up at a sky he could never quite make sense of but was desperate to understand.

The graduation day. You clearly remember that one.

The sun was so bright you could barely keep your eyes open and everything felt like a dream. You had your cap crooked on your head (you were probably running late, as usual), your tassel swinging as you walked across the field, your friends beside you, shouting and celebrating like you were all in the fucking “after party of the year.” But then you turned and your eyes saw Ford, who was clutching that damn diploma like it was a golden ticket. He looked different somehow, like he’d finally unlocked a new version of himself.

The Stanford Pines himself, recipient of Backsmore’s largest grant for his “eccentric” research, standing with his square academic cap, although it was comically slipping off his head. He looked out of place, like a scientist among a sea of partying students who could barely remember their names half the time.

So, you did what any good friend would do— you adjusted his cap for him, (plus you wanted an excuse to touch him), made some dumb joke about how he’d better not screw it up. He’d roll his eyes, but you knew he liked it. He needed it.

“Hey,” you grinned, “looking pretty fancy for someone who spends all their time talking to aliens or whatever.”

Ford smirked. “I’ve already got a date with a space-time continuum. But you can join if you want.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile didn’t leave.

***

Outside, the world has turned into a kind of cold, quiet hell. Snow falls in thick slow flakes, burying everything in a suffocating blanket of white. And Stan stands there, jacket pulled tight against his chest, staring up at the looming silhouette of his brother's house.

It's freezing, but Stan hardly feels the cold. Not really.

It’s quiet here, but it’s not peaceful. Silence feels heavy, like it’s watching him.

His thoughts are pulled back to a time that feels both recent and impossibly distant.

Ten years. Ten goddamn years. It’s been a decade since he's seen Ford’s face. Well, of course he doesn't expect Ford to look like something completely different, they’re twins after all. But at least now Stan knows what Ford would look like with a mullet.

Stanford was always the smart one, the golden kid, with big brains and hands that tinkered with mysteries beyond Stan’s understanding. And now. . . after all these years of silence, Ford finally decides he needs him. It’s a postcard, a single damn postcard, that drags Stan out of the muck and dumps him back here in this town, holding secrets and god knows what kind of twisted shit his brother’s got himself mixed up in.

After everything Ford did, after leaving, after barely even thinking to check in after all these years, Stan knows he shouldn't feel this way. But here he is. Waiting. Hoping. Hoping against hope, as if somehow, that tall figure would come striding down the snowy path, arms filled with books and that same serious look on his face. That same one he had as a kid when something big was on his mind.

Stan shakes his head, letting out a breath that forms a small cloud in the icy air.

“Ten years, and you drag me here for what, Stanford?” he thinks.

Stan takes a deep breath, the cold seeps right down to his bones, but it’s not the winter’s chill that makes him shiver. His heart pounds as he stares at the weathered door in front of him, trying to shake off the surge of memories of the two of them, inseparable, back when they thought the world couldn’t touch them. But that was more than a lifetime ago.

He mutters to himself, “you haven’t seen your brother in over ten years. It’s okay. He’s family. . . He won’t bite.” or at least Stan hopes so and then he knocks, half-heartedly, already bracing himself.

The door swings open with a sudden jolt. Before Stan can even greet him, Ford’s voice booms through the biting air. "WHO IS IT?! Have you come to steal my eyes?!” his trembling hands grip a crossbow, pointed directly at Stan, and the first thing Stan notices are his brother’s eyes — wide and paranoid.

Stan looks at Ford, steps back a little, blinks, then blinks again. He tries to mask the pang of hurt as he lets out a shaky laugh, “Well, I can always count on you for a warm welcome.”

Ford lowers the weapon slightly, narrowing his eyes suspiciously and then, as if finally recognizing the person standing before him, he blurts, “Stanley, did anyone follow you? Anyone at all?”

“Eh, hello to you too, pal.” Stan grumbles, but to his surprise, Ford grabs him by the clothes, yanking him roughly inside before he can even process it. "Ah!" he exclaims, stumbling forward, before the door slams shut behind them.

Ford, still skittish, shines a flashlight in Stan’s eyes, his fingers trembling as he holds it, blinding his brother. “What is this?!” Stan shoves the flashlight away.

Deep down, though, he tries to mask the pang that Ford’s mistrust strikes in him. What happened between you two? Mom would be so upset about their relationship. They used to share everything, trust each other without question, without even a word. Now here they are, stumbling through a reunion that feels like walking on broken glass.

"Sorry,” Stanford answers quickly, studying Stan’s face as if looking for lies hidden in his eyes. “I just had to make sure you weren’t. . . It’s nothing. Come in, come in.”

Stan follows him, the warmth he thought he’d feel upon seeing his brother slowly cooling into something he doesn’t want to admit that feels like disappointment. He watches Ford flit around the room, casting paranoid glances, clutching onto a battered old journal like it’s the only thing holding him together.

The shack is cluttered, papers scattered on the floor, strange devices cluttering the tables, books piled high. Wow, Stan thinks, the whole place screams my brother has been here alone too long.

It makes Stan's chest tighten.

“Uh, you gonna explain what’s going on here? you’re acting like mom after her tenth cup of coffee.” he is trying to defuse the atmosphere somehow, to make contact, but inside, his heart aches. He missed Ford; he missed him like hell. And to finally be here, standing right next to him, only to find him. . . like this. Seriously? It’s almost too much to bear.

Ford, ignoring the gentle jab, clutches the journal tighter. “Listen, there isn’t much time. I’ve made huge mistakes and I don’t know who I can trust anymore.” he doesn’t meet Stan’s eyes as he glances at a skeleton in the corner, twisting its head away from him.

Stan’s heart drops. This is bad, worse than he thought.

He steps forward, placing a hand on Ford’s shoulder, a touch he hopes can somehow bridge the miles and years between them. “Hey, easy there. Let’s talk this through, okay?”

But Ford pulls back, a strange, paranoid look in his eyes. His fingers trace the spine of the journal as he glances at Stan. “I have something to show you. Something you won’t believe.”

Stan's brow furrows, his curiosity piqued despite himself. What could it be? Some kind of super scientific bullshit that opens doors to parallel worlds? A time machine? A wormhole? Black hole made at home?

He looks at Ford, how the man hasn’t aged a day physically, but the exhaustion, the fear, the isolation, it all is painted on his brother’s face. It’s painful to see. It’s heartbreaking to think how Ford might have been living in this place, alone with nothing but his thoughts, trapped in his own world of mistakes and fears.

Stan manages a weak grin, masking his own fear for brothers sanity in his heart. "Look, I’ve been around the world, okay? Whatever it is, I’ll understand."

That twist in your chest, that awful, prickling feeling that something’s wrong.

You’re curled up at your kitchen table, sipping your tea with that kind of numbness you get when you’ve been overthinking too much. You told yourself to back off. He needed space. He needed time.

But when Stan’s eyes scan the giant, hulking portal machine in front of him, he can’t hide the bewilderment as he adds, “There’s nothing about this I understand.”

Ford’s hand wrapped tight protective around his journal. It’s the only one left, his last remaining key to understanding, to protecting everything he’s worked for.

But now Stan stands across from him and his face clearly shows something what can be called betrayal.

Ford’s been distant. Secretive, even. The last time you two spoke, it was tense, full of anger and words you didn’t mean. It shouldn’t matter, you tell yourself, but the thought of him out there, alone, is like a weight pressing down on your chest.

Ford tries to explain as if Stan would understand. “It's a trans-universal gateway, a punched hole through a weak spot in our dimension. I created it to unlock the mysteries of the universe. But it could just as easily be harnessed for terrible destruction. That's why I shut it down and hid my journals, which explain how to operate it. There's only one journal left. . . and you are the only person I can trust to take it.” he steps forward, holding the journal out to Stan, eyes pleading. “I have something to ask of you: remember our plans to sail around the world on a boat?” Stan’s face shines with smile until he hears next shit his brother say. “Take this book, get on a boat, and sail as far away as ya can! To the edge of the Earth! Bury it where no one can find it!”

I should’ve just stayed, I shouldn’t have left.

Your fingers curl around the warm mug, but sadly the heat doing nothing to soothe the anxiety creeping up your throat.

You set it down on the counter, trying to shake off the feeling. It’s just the storm, it’s just you being overdramatic. It doesn’t mean anything.

But the knot in your stomach refuses to untangle.

Something’s wrong.

“That’s it? You finally show your face after ten fucking years and all you’ve got to say is ‘get away’?”

Ford's hand drops and disappointment flashes across his face. “Stanley, you don't understand what I'm up against! What I've been through!”

“Oh, yeah?” Stan can't contain his emotions. How dare he?! “You don’t understand what I’ve been through! Three different prisons, Stanford! I’ve chewed my way out of a goddamn car trunk! Meanwhile, where have you been? Living it up in your fancy house in the woods! Selfishly hoarding your college money, because you only care about yourself!”

With a sigh, you stand up, setting the mug down on the table as your dog, a sweet, eager little spaniel, looks up at you with wide, curious eyes.

Ford's temper snaps because he can't believe what the fuck his brother is talking about. “I’m selfish? I’m selfish, Stanley? You ruined my shot at a real life! At my dream school! And here I am, giving you a chance to do something meaningful and you still can’t get it through your head!”

You glance over at your dog, a scruffy, affectionate spaniel with big brown eyes who’s been staring at you from the corner of the room.

Stan raises his eyebrows. “Yeah? You want this fucking book gone?” he yanks a lighter from his pocket, the flame flaring up as he flicks it. “Fine. I’ll get rid of it right fucking now.” he holds the journal over the flame, daring Ford to make a move.

You can’t shake this feeling, this urge to go find Ford, even if it means dragging yourself out into the goddamn blizzard.

“I’ll be back soon, girl,” you murmur, pulling on your coat. You don’t know what you’re looking for, don’t even know what you’re hoping to find. But you have to see him. You have to know

Ford’s eyes widen, panic flashing across his face. “No!” he lunges for it, reaching out, but Stan yanks it back. “You don’t understand!” Ford shouts, desperation pouring through him.

But Stan takes a step back, holding the journal dangerously close to the flame. “You want me to take it? Well, then, I’ll decide what to do with it.”

“My research!” they jerk the book back and forth, playing a fucked up game of tug of war, their yells echoing through the lab as they struggle over it.

You can’t shake the feeling, it’s like something’s dragging you forward, pulling you toward him, toward the unknown.

It’s late and the woods are fucking silent, which is weird for Gravity Falls. You’ve been running for what feels like hours, your chest burning, your mind tangled in a mess of thoughts you can’t quite shake. Every goddamn thing with Ford lately has been a disaster, hasn’t it? One fight after another, with him shutting down, disappearing into his head like he’s always been known to do.

The last words you shared with him are still fresh in your mind, “this is it, okay?! I can’t do this anymore.” he didn’t even fight back, just. . . stared at you like you were the problem. Maybe you were the problem, you don’t know, but damn it, you cared. You couldn’t just pretend like everything was fine when it clearly wasn’t. That’s why you’re out here, because you’re not about to let him get swallowed up by whatever the hell is going on in that messed-up head of his.

And now, here you are, halfway to his place with nothing but your gut telling you that whatever was going down at Ford’s place was way worse than you thought.

When you enter, you hear the kind of noise— angry, violent, something breaking and you know Ford’s involved, you just know it. You don’t care if you two haven’t spoken in days, if things between you and him are a mess of unsaid things and frustrated silences. He’s been acting so off, and now, hearing the absolute mayhem erupting inside, you’re terrified.

The sounds are loud, shouting voices, furniture crashing, angry grunts. Your heart fucking stops as you push the door open so fast it slams against the wall. You’re not thinking, not caring that maybe you shouldn’t be here, but it’s too late to stop now.

At first, you think you've completely lost your mind, because you're seeing two Ford Pines. And then you think, either you're the one who's gone crazy, or Ford has, because he's literally fighting with himself.

But as you take a breath, both Fords turn to look at you, and that’s when it hits you: this isn’t just some bizarre mirror trick. There’s Ford and then there’s someone who looks a whole lot like him, but is definitely, absolutely not him.

“What the fuck is going on?” your voice rings out much louder than you meant, but you don’t care. Your heart is pounding way too hard and your feet are planted, legs shaking with adrenaline and worry. You’ve seen Ford in a mess of emotions, but never like this. Not this bad.

The second the door slams open, both of them freeze, but it’s the mulleted guy who speaks first. “So you got yourself a chick now, huh? Thought you were too busy playing goddamn Einstein to bother with things like that.” his angry eyes narrow at you, and you’re not sure if it’s anger or. . . jealousy? Frustration? You don’t have time to decode it.

This guy have absolutely the same features, same nose, same intense, serious brow, but his whole look is just rougher, like he’d been living a life Ford would never survive.

And your blood boils.

“No, fuck that,” you snap, glaring at mullet-man. “You don’t talk about me like that.” then you glance at Ford. “Ford, why the fuck didn’t you tell me about—”

but you get interrupted by Ford’s clone, Ford’s twin, whatever. “Name’s Stan. Stanley Pines. The brother of this genius. Bet he’s never even mentioned me, huh?”

Your stomach churns at the words. Fuck that, no way. This isn’t about you, this is about Ford.

“What the fuck is wrong with you two?” now you are shivering not only from the winter cold, but also from the absolute chaos of what is happening. You turn to Ford, eyes desperate, desperate to know, to understand, to find answers. “What’s going on? Where have you been? I couldn’t get ahold of you. You just. . . left. And I—” you stop yourself, biting your lip. This isn’t the time to scream at him for all the unanswered questions, for all the shit that’s been left hanging. Not yet.

Ford doesn’t seem to get it. His eyes flick between you and Stan like he’s trying to piece it together, but nothing adds up. "I don’t— what are you doing here? We— we said goodbye," his voice is strained, like he’s trying to convince himself.

“No, Ford. You said goodbye! You fucking disappeared! I don’t even know why, and I— fuck, just explain yourself, okay?” you can’t keep the desperation out of your voice anymore.

Stan is watching with his arms crossed over his chest, and he still doesn't look too pleased, but it's not just anger. Although you don't have time to deal with his point of view. You need answers. You need Ford to talk.

Ford opens his mouth to say something, but then the anger, the frustration, all of it just snaps. "I didn’t want you involved in this. . . anyone involved. This, this thing with the portal, you wouldn’t understand—"

You don’t even let him finish. “Stop. Just stop, yeah? You don’t get to just disappear like that, Ford. I don’t care about the journal or the goddamn portal anymore. I care about you. Why the hell are you so fucking determined to push everyone away?”

Ford tries to get himself together, though he looks like he’s been caught with every secret he’s ever buried. “This— this doesn’t concern you, alright? Just— just leave, go, this is between me and him.”

Stan scoffs. “Oh, yeah, classy, Sixer. Let’s bring her in just to shove her right back out, huh? Really hitting your all-time high here.”

“Shut up,” his brother snaps.

But Stan’s just as stubborn, glaring right back. “No, I don’t think I will. Not when you’ve dragged some poor girl into this whole shitshow. Real nice, by the way, real nice! Does she even know what you’ve been up to, huh? All the crap you’re into?”

“I said shut up, Stanley. I shouldn’t have called you— God, I regret calling you! You’re just here to make things worse, like always.”

The words land harder than you thought they would. It's not like you didn’t know Ford could be an asshole, but hearing him say that directly to his brother hits a nerve, like a punch to the gut.

You see Stan’s face change, his mouth drops open, his eyes so wide, like he’s been slapped across the face. He looks like he’s been gutted. It takes his breath away, because he didn't expect to hear this ten years later, and it's obvious that Ford's words hit him too deeply.

However, your own heart drop to your stomach too. Fuck. You didn’t know what was worse — the fact that they were tearing into each other or the fact that Ford could say something like that to his own brother. It’s too much, even for you. You want to scream at Ford, demand that he stop, that this isn’t helping anyone, but you’re paralyzed.

But Stan’s hurt turns into something else and he spits back, “You think I wanted this, Ford?! You think I wanted to be the fuck-up brother?! You’re the one who dragged me into this whole goddamn mess now. You asked me to come! You! So don’t go acting all high and mighty like I’m the one screwing your life up right now!”

And then, in that moment, everything goes to hell.

Before you know it, they’re back at each other’s throats. Ford lunges forward, grabbing the journal, but Stan’s not letting go, the damn thing passed back and forth between them like it’s a live wire, all anger and resentment boiled down to this one book as each of them trying to get a hand on it.

You rush forward, hands outstretched to push them apart, anything to stop this from going too far, but in the heat of it all, Ford jerks back, elbow flying and you feel it land in your ribs, knocking the wind right out of you and it really fucking hurts. The pain shocks you so hard you gasp.

Ford’s eyes snap to you instantly, widening in horror. “Oh my god— I’m s-so sorry! are you alri—“ he reaches toward you, himself can’t believe he just did that to you, but he barely gets a word out before Stan’s fist slams into his jaw.

This time, Stan hits so hard, putting all his resentment into the punch that Ford stumbles dangerously close to the portal, which is buzzing. You watch in absolute horror as his body goes too close, the fucking thing flickering and humming like a beast about to devour him whole and for a heart-stopping second, Ford looks like he’s going to fall right in.

You’re out of your mind in an instant as you scramble to your feet, adrenaline spiking, crazy fear in your eyes. Without thinking, you reach out, grabbing Ford’s arm, pulling him back, using every ounce of strength you have to pull him back. “Ford, no! Get back!”

Stan’s standing there, frozen for a second, scared himself by how far he had come. His chest rises and falls in heavy breaths and his face is fucking pale as he stares at his brother’s body half in portal, but the guilt is written all over Stan’s face. His bruised hand is still raised, like he wants to hit Ford again, but it’s shaking. Did he. . . did he just. . ? God, he didn’t mean—

“You!” you scream, still tugging Ford away from the edge, but the portal’s pulling like a magnet and you’re fighting with everything you have. “Help me, now!”

Snapped out of his daze, Stanley rushes over, grabbing Ford. You tug harder, your muscles screaming as Ford’s body gives a last push toward the rift, but finally, finally, together, you both heave him back, dragging him away from the portal and out of that damn pull. His feet hit solid ground and you both just collapse.

You’re gasping for breath, hands still fisted in Ford’s coat, both of you holding on like if you let go, he’ll slip right back toward that nightmare.

Ford’s breathing heavily, disoriented, his hands gripping your arms in fear.

Stan’s still looking at Ford, his face torn up because he doesn’t know whether to say sorry, to yell or to just walk the fuck out to not ruin something else. There’s realisation in his eyes and, for the first time, Stanley is seeing what his anger’s capable of. That punch could’ve been the end of everything.

“Brother. . .” Stan’s voice trembles. “I didn’t mean to—”

You don’t let him finish. “No, you didn’t mean to. None of you meant to,” you snap, but it’s not anger in your tone, it’s damn fear, panic, it’s this deep fucking worry. You turn to Ford. “But this shit needs to stop, okay? Right now. Please.”

The silence between you, Ford and Stan stretches out as if it’s some aftermath of a bomb going off. Ford’s still on the floor, breathing hard and it’s not the near-death experience that’s fucking him up, but the bitter realisation of what could have really happened if that damn portal had taken him in.

“So that’s it, huh? After ten goddamn years, this is how you treat me? Almost shove me into a portal like it’s nothing?”

Stan opens his mouth, but Ford isn’t letting him get a word in, he’s too riled up now, all that anger and pride churning in him, boiling over. “Do you even understand what could’ve happened? What you almost did? You haven’t changed one bit, Stanley. I should’ve known better. Should’ve known you’d just fuck everything up, again. Just like you did back then.” Ford’s voice sounds colder than the winter outside. “Remember the science fair, Stan? You destroyed my experiment because you were too fucking selfish to think about anyone but yourself. I could’ve had everything. You took that from me, my chance at West Coast Tech, my chance at anything and then you have the nerve to make me the villain?”

It hits Stan harder than any punch ever could. Stan doesn’t even blink, his whole body stiff, shoulders slump.

His mouth opens like he wants to fight back, but there’s no fight left in him, the words are stuck in his throat. He doesn’t say shit, trying to process everything at once. But there’s nothing to process. Ford’s right.

“Yeah, I get it,” Stan mutters, holding back tears. “I’m a fucking failure. I know that, Sixer. Always have been. I’m sorry.”

But then he does the one thing you didn’t think he would. He turns around, slow, defeated, too fucking tired to argue and fight anymore.

And just like that, he starts walking away. But deep inside Stanley is crying like a child, expecting Ford to stop him. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t say a word, but he wishes Ford would care, at least once.

You’re fucking shocked, feeling helpless rage and anger, heart pounding with confusion and disbelief. You thought. . . well, you don’t even know what you thought! That they’d hug it out? Have some big, tearful reunion? Not really! But this mess of accusations and bitterness and old scars is so fucked up. Completely and utterly fucked up.

Ford stands there, all silent, watching Stan’s back as he walks away, not moving an inch. The pride, the stubbornness, the wall he’s built around himself. Oh god, that guy is so fucking smart he doesn’t know how to feel anymore.

You look back at Ford, at his rigid stance, he won’t even move, won’t even try to call Stan back. You can’t believe it and something snaps in you, something fierce and hot because you’re done with all this bullshit.

“You’re not even gonna ask him to stay? Fuck, what is wrong with you both?”

Ford’s face tightens, but he doesn’t respond, doesn’t even flinch. And it drives you insane, watching him cling to that pride, that goddamn logic of his that’s somehow more important than his own damn family. No fucking way is this ending like this. Not after everything you’ve just seen, not with Ford standing there like a goddamn statue, too proud or too blind or too stupid to do anything but let his brother walk out.

You storm past Ford, ignoring his surprised look as you push past him, practically running after Stan. “wait!” you shout. But Stan doesn’t stop, doesn’t even glance over his shoulder.

“Stan!”

“What?” he snaps at you.

You step closer. “You’re not leaving,” you say, staring him down like it’s a challenge.

He lets out a dry, humourless laugh, shaking his head. “Trust me, sweetheart, it’s better if I do. I don’t belong here.” he jerks his thumb back in Ford’s direction. “Pretty clear I’m not welcome.”

“Bullshit,” you respond, what makes Stanley raise an eyebrow, looking a little surprised at your bluntness. “I don’t care if he’s too proud to say it, but you’re his brother— I mean, you think this is how family’s supposed to be? You think he doesn’t want you here?”

“Look, kid, you don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. Me ‘n’ Ford? We’re a lost cause. Always been. Ain’t no point in tryin' to fix it now.”

“Oh, come on! So you fuck up, he fucks up— you’re both disasters. That doesn’t mean you just give up. I don’t care if it’s been years or what the hell happened between you two. You don’t just fuckin’ quit on family. That’s not how this works.”

Stan’s mouth twitches and he looks like he’s gonna bite back with something snarky, but he doesn’t. He just lets out this tired sigh, rubbing his hand over his face. “I don’t wanna hurt him more than I already have. I always mess things up. I’ll just make it worse. So what’s the point?”

You take a deep breath, trying to rein in the frustration pounding through you. “The point is, you’re his brother! And if you don’t stay, if you don’t try to work this out, you’ll both regret it. You can’t just leave him to deal with this shit alone.”

Stanley opens his mouth, ready to throw out another excuse, but you cut him off.

“Look, Stan,” you change the intonation to softer one, “I don’t know the whole story here. I don’t know what went down between you two and I’m sure as hell not saying it doesn’t hurt like hell. But this whole thing you guys are doing? Pushing each other away? It’s not gonna make anything better.“

“Fine, fine. But don’t expect me to be the hero, alright? I ain’t got no magic words to fix this shit.” Stan sighs and looks down like he’s too damn tired for this conversation.

When you and Stan make your way back inside, you see Ford still there with his back to you.

Stanley huffs out a laugh, trying to shake off the tension. “So, Sixer, when’d ya start collectin’ all this junk? don’t tell me you got a whole damn museum in here.”

Suddenly, Ford huffs a dry laugh that sounds a little bitter coming from someone like him. “Wouldn’t expect you to get it. Takes more than a few brain cells to appreciate real science.”

Stan’s smile falters, well, it was pretty rude, but he thinks he deserved it. You and Stan share a look, but before you can say anything, Stan just shrugs it off, letting out a forced chuckle, his voice trying to stay light. “Ha, yeah, same ol’ Ford. Ya always had a way with words, didn’t ya?”

There is only silence in response, but when you come a little closer, you finally take in the sight of Ford holding a goddamn crossbow.

Wait, what?

Your eyes go wide and the first thing that hits you is the cold sweat creeping up your spine.

Stan and you freeze. Confusion mixing with a little fear as you both look at Ford, What the hell is going on with him? Since when does Ford carry a crossbow around like it’s no big deal?

Stan raises an eyebrow, trying to lighten the mood with a joke, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes. “Hey, bro, you planning on hunting something tonight or just ready to, I dunno, take out some deer in the backyard?”

#gravity falls x reader #x reader #gravity falls #gravity falls x you #gravity falls smut #ford pines x reader #stanford pines #ford pines smut #stan pines smut #stan pines x reader #stan pines x you #ford pines x you #stanford pines x you #stanford pines x reader #stanley pines x you #stanley pines #gravity falls fanfic #mullet stan x reader

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shinysobi · 2 months ago

Text

sleepless in busan

he's been running his whole life, and hadn't realized how tired he was.

what do you think about nostalgia?

a/n: dedicated to the wonderful people at svthub, and also to my favourite people: @gyubakeries (for tolerating all my yapping) @mylovesstuffs for beta'ing this at record speeds. also jina @facethesunflower bc shes a sweetheart and i love her genre: angst, fluff, mentions of alcohol and smoking w.c: dont even ask (12k)

hope you enjoy this, and do let me know your thoughts!

listen to the playlist

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 back to masterlist

Verse two—gukbap.

On most days, I enter the office a full hour before everyone else, a habit picked up over time as other career pursuits took up more and more of my time. Even if I can’t do overtime work, I should at least finish the work assigned to me, so that I do not make trouble for everyone else.

This morning, I get settled in, have a single cup of coffee, and I’m starting on the leftovers from the week before, when Kim, from the design department, walks in, evidently hoping to find someone else instead of me, “Editor, could you just look at the draft we sent in last night? There was supposed to be a correction that Kim needed to get to, but he didn’t really do it in time.”

“I’ll take a look,” I wave, and he slinks away, probably to talk more shit about the editing department. There are people coming in—the editor-in-chief, who spares no one a single glance as he makes a beeline straight for his office, the assistant editor who’s got way too much on their agenda, and the other people in the department, who don’t bother to care about me, in a way that’s actually impressive.

The day is slow, and I get through my tasks with frightening efficiency. By the time they call me in for an after-lunch meeting, I’m done. It’s easy, given that I don’t pay attention to my colleagues gossiping behind my back. Even at the meeting, I’m seated in a chair far away from the screen, hoping that no one calls on me to talk about my work.

The Chief, a man who rarely says anything apart from his own piece, walks in five minutes after the meeting is supposed to begin, smiling to himself as though he’s received some great piece of news that he cannot wait to share with the rest of us. There are others too—Haneul, Choi, everyone who’s already made up their minds about me as soon as I stepped foot into the Busan office from Seoul.

“Alright, we’re running late,” he says, clapping his hands to get our attention, “let’s start with the agenda for the week, shall we?”

The meeting is boring, and we take turns to talk about our designated work for the week, nothing more, nothing less. I manage to say about three sentences before mumbling a thanks and sinking back into my seat. Just ten more minutes, and you can go back.

Just as we’re about to get up, the chief waves a hand, saying, “this part of the meeting is to honour a very special person in our department, who’s managed to get recognised by a prestigious awards foundation.”

My stomach sinks. Please, god, no. already I can feel the stares at my back, people whispering is that why she took so many days off in those months? And talk about being selfish. She didn’t even tell us. I close my eyes. Maybe, just maybe, this is a fever dream. I’ll open my eyes, and I’ll be back home, in the flat with a view of the sea, sipping my morning coffee, listening to that voicemail from Seungkwan. A do-over, just like I’d begged for.

“Right here,” The Chief points at me, and the room bursts out into polite, disinterested clapping, “the assistant editor, who managed to get the Daesan award, despite juggling her full workload at the same time.”

I groan internally, polite smile plastered on my face. “Thank you, sir, although I would like to thank my colleagues, who did their best to manage parts of my workload when I was off sick the previous month.”

“They were glad to do so, my girl, glad to do so!” he booms, smiling beatifically, as though he didn’t shatter the only semblance of peace I had in my work life. Fuck. Now everyone thinks I was off having fun in Seoul while they were picking up after me. “If there’s a genius like you in the department, there are people who have to make do with being second best.”

Great. Now he’s officially put the nail in the coffin of my work life. I grimace in response, and he barrels on, ignoring it, “which is why, the board of directors has taken the initiative to start our own imprint, one that will deal with fiction exclusively.”

More polite applause at this announcement, although no one really seems happy at the prospect of being saddled with more work, and the Chief amends his statement, “Of course, the work will not exactly begin until next year, giving us all ample time to prepare ourselves for a new challenge! How about it, guys?”

This time, the applause is far more enthusiastic. People shuffle out of the office as fast as they can, eager to get back to their routine work. I get up from my seat to follow suit, but the Chief stops, calling out, “Assistant Editor.”

I pause, turning back to him, “Yes, sir?”

He doesn’t waste any time getting to the point, “The board would like to use your work as the first title to be released from the new imprint.”

I squint my eyes, “Sir, we publish manuals for human resources.”

He waves a hand, dismissing all my valid concerns, “never mind about that. Just—make sure you send in a manuscript as the first title going to print.”

I repeat myself, slower this time, “Sir, we print human resource manuals. These people have no idea how to edit fiction.”

“That’s immaterial,” he waves, “why didn’t you publish with us in the first go?”

“I sent it in, actually. Through the in-house programme. Someone rejected it because it was fiction.”

He sighs, which usually means someone is getting fired, “Never mind that. How long is your contract with your publisher?”

“Five years, sir. Per usual.”

“And will you be amenable to changing companies once the five years are up?”

I stare at him, “Sir, I don’t think I can tell you that right now, given that I’ll have to talk to the company currently in charge of my publication to make a decision like this.”

The chief spends about six seconds in thought, and claps his hands, laughing, “Of course, of course—no reason why you should not prioritise one over the other.”

“After it lapses, shift your titles to the new imprint. We’re counting on you, yeah?” He’s gone, without even giving me the opportunity to say unless you pay me more than them, no. I walk out of the meeting room and back to my own station, pulling up a manual to start working on in order to kill time before I can take my leave. There’s no question of me moving my manuscripts from Seungkwan’s company to mine, unless Seungkwan is included in that package; if he moves companies, I would say yes in a heartbeat. Seungkwan is more than my editor—he knows exactly how to change my rambling sentences into coherent phrases that cut deep, and he bats for me when no one else does, has been doing so since the release of the first title. To change companies and contracts without considering him would be disloyal on my part.

There are people talking beside me. I sigh loudly, and they immediately shut up, in an impressive display of herd behaviour. Gossiping about me again, I suppose.

Are you going to say nothing, a voice tells me, someone that sounds suspiciously like my sister, needling, insistent, they’re going to badmouth you and you’re going to say nothing? Just sit there and take it like an idiot?

They’re not worth it, I reason, if they were, I would have made it known I didn’t like it. It's not important. If they get happiness from talking shit about me, they’re welcome to. No one is going to tell them anything.

You’re just going to let them walk all over you, just like that?

I shake my head, trying to distract myself. What can we have for dinner tonight? Or do you want the same meal—instant rice and a stew put together in five minutes?

Or, we could go to the diner from yesterday.

I sigh loudly, enough for the gossiping in the next cubicle to stop, running my hands over my face. Running away from the diner last night was a poor choice on my part, but when exactly have I made good choices? Worst thing about the whole fiasco was that I still owed him the money for the meal. God. Would it be okay to just drop off the money in an envelope, stashing it in front of the door? He probably has security cameras all over the front stoop. Either way, I still wanted to go back there, just for the good food; the best I had had since moving to Busan. With those skills, it was strange why no one had said anything about it in the office, especially when they all exchanged restaurant locations every week on cue.

The clock strikes five, and the Chief, ever so punctual, stands up, making his way out of the office. One by one, the people in the office also make their way out, smiling and laughing amongst themselves. Planning dinners, or something like that. I’m seated at my desk, watching people pass me by, going their own way. I still have my leftover work to get to.

The edits on human resources training manuals take a lot more time than people might think. I spend about three hours, sifting through egregious spelling mistakes that would have us recalling three hundred copies of a very expensive manual once it was sent to a company. Despite the small workforce, there were a lot of important orders coming through here, and as the Assistant Editor, it falls on me to make sure that the others are doing a good enough job. What happens after that, should be none of my business.

“Who the hell writes these manuals?” I mutter, correcting the thirteenth typo. “Don’t write words that sound similar to curses if you don’t know the proper spelling.”

The clock chimes nine, and just like that, I’ve spent about three hours working on minute edits that make no sense for any experienced editor to leave, unless of course, they’re doing it on purpose. There are two other assistant editors in the office, both of whom get to leave on time, while I am stuck here with work that should have been done by editors before me.

No. Don’t shove your responsibility onto other people. You were the one with the extended leave a few weeks ago.

I sigh, going back to my work. Perhaps it’s going to be a long night. The work is more important than you are, right now. If you do this well, your Chief might let up on getting you into the new imprint.

It’s late, when the work gets over. After the entire office has cleared out, I leave, taking my usual way across the beach. It’s already late enough for my stomach to protest, and I take the long way, walking as slowly as I can. This is the only time I have for myself, to unwind after the long day I’ve had.

Make sure to transfer the contract from your current publishing house to ours. That was a threat. A direct threat, and if I had anywhere else to go, I would have submitted my resignation. But I don’t, and so I must deal with everything—the Chief’s veiled threats, my coworkers’ disdain, the long hours that leave me with nothing but tiredness—all because I left the house, and therefore, I must survive.

My phone rings loudly, and I pick it up without even checking the caller ID. Only one person calls me right before midnight, “Yes, Mom?”

“Were you in the office?” my mother asks, “I called you before, and you didn’t pick up, so I figured you were still busy with work.”

“Yes, recruitment season is coming up, so we’re busy with writing new manuals for incoming hires,” I sigh, “never mind, I don’t want to talk about my job right now. What’s up?”

“Just wanted to see how you were doing,” my mother replies, “looks to me you’re doing fine.”

“Yes, yes, I’m so busy I can barely think of anything else,” I laugh—genuine enough that she doesn’t get the message, “why else would I be back so late?”

“At least you’re being safe, right?” she asks, worried, “you live so far away, I can’t even send you side dishes to eat.”

“Hah,” I exhale, looking at the waves crashing on the shore, “you know, Mom, you can hear the waves from here.”

“The waves?” She sounds worried. “Are you alright? You know, I’ve read what happens to the lighthouse keepers.”

“Oh my god, Mom. I’m not going to go insane like a lighthouse keeper,” I laugh, “I’ll not be going insane just because lighthouse keepers did. I live in the second largest city, not an abandoned island.”

“It sounds like an abandoned island to me,” she grumbles, “your dad worries himself every day about how you are doing.”

“Mom,” I smile, “I’ll be back home for New Years’ Eve. Could you save the interrogation until then?”

“Really?” her voice is so happy, it makes me feel slightly awkward, “I’m glad to hear that. Your sister is coming home too, with her children. Although it isn’t that much news, since they live about ten minutes away from us.”

“Still, it’s good to have one of your children be near you, right?” I laugh, and she laughs too. For a single moment, I can pretend that everything is all right in the world, that the stress of the day does not exist. “Give the phone to Dad. I haven’t heard him in a long time.”

A small shuffling noise, and my father is on the other side, gruff and stoic, “are you eating well?”

“Just had the best seafood stew at a diner yesterday,” I grin, “thinking of going back there tomorrow.”

“Seafood stew?” my father muses for a minute, “I hope they used mussels. Mussels in seafood stew is always my favourite. People don’t use mussels anymore, since they’re a bit of work.”

“They used mussels, actually,” I say, and he laughs, “it was a good place to eat, dad. Next time you come here, I’ll take you out to eat dinner.”

“Make sure they have good gukbap,” he says, serious all of a sudden, “a restaurant is never good if their gukbap is not.”

“I’ll remember that, Dad,” I laugh, before cutting the call. If their gukbap is bad, the restaurant is useless. Gukbap was easy—rice soup, made in a thousand different ways, all different, all unique to the restaurant that makes them. Easy to fuck up, if you didn’t know the exact measurements of what went into making a good soup. Clean, nothing overpowering. I remember my mother making it for me on rainy days, trying to soothe a child who would fall sick so easily it was a task to make her hold on to life.

My mother once told me I used to get so sick, so often, they thought I wouldn’t make it past my first year. Perhaps that was why they always took care of me, even in my teenage years, when all I wanted was freedom.

—

The diner is empty again tonight, devoid of customers. The owner sits at a table, writing down something in his notebook. He stands up when I walk in, all smiles, “did you forget the way here?” he asks, “it’s been almost a week since you came back.”

“Yeah, realised I was craving something,” I grin. “Do you serve gukbap here?”

“We do,” he nods, “is that all you need? I’ll be closing soon, so tell me what you want before I clean the kitchen.”

“Just that,” I take a seat at the bar—the same place where I sat the first time. “Is it always this empty, or did I just come too late?”

“The day has been a bit slow,” he explains, going back into the kitchen, “gukbap, right? It’ll be done in a minute. I don’t have pork, so you’ll have to make do, though.”

He disappears from sight, and I busy myself with my phone, looking through my notifications. It’s not as if there are a lot, but I keep seeing things pop up on my social media feed, things that I should have cut out of my life entirely. It’s not always that my failure to do anything gets me; I’ve been this way since I was a child, apparently.

You used to bottle it all up inside of you, and tell us nothing.

Perhaps that was why I ran away to Busan—a city populated enough for me to hide, and yet calm enough for me to float along it, adrift at sea, nothing more to think about, than a constant reminder of why I failed, how I failed. Is this how most people live?

The owner sets a plate in front of me, steaming rice soup with an abalone garnishing, expensive enough for me to raise my eyebrows at it, and he simply smiles in response, “Imagine waiting for someone to come by, and they ask you to make rice soup for them. It’s a request you can’t ignore, right?”

“You said you were all out of pork,” I shake my head, “and you’re serving me abalone.”

“I was out of pork, not abalone,” he smiles, taking a seat next to me. “Why did it take you so long to come back?”

“You sound like you were waiting for me.”

“I was, actually.”

I stare at him, still smiling, and for a moment, I wonder if there are hidden cameras around the diner, with people waiting for me to make a slip, popping out of their hidden corners, “Are you kidding?”

“Not at all,” He pours himself a glass of alcohol, “you remind me of myself.”

“Ah, like an old man,” I joke, looking back at the soup. “How old are you?”

“Not as old as you think.”

I shake my head, still laughing, before taking a sip of the soup, fragrant and flavourful, with the abalone providing a slight difference from the usual pork I’m used to, unlike any other place I’ve tried this at. My father was right when he said a restaurant is never good if their gukbap is not.

“They use this as comfort food here,” he explains, watching me eat, “I remember sneaking out to eat this every week when I was a trainee.”

“You were a trainee?” I look him over, and sure enough, he does look like he could be a celebrity—his features are perfect, sloping nose unusual enough for me to have taken notice the first time I walked in here, skin pale enough not to tan even under the heat of the direct rays, “you should have been a celebrity, then. Why are you working at a diner in the middle of the beach?”

“I was a celebrity, actually,” he admits. “Now I run a diner.”

“Celebrity to diner owner.” I smile, “that’s a strange path to take.”

“A good one, too,” he mutters, “it’s a pretty good job, this one.”

“A celebrity, a diner owner, and a phenomenal cook,” I count them off, “what else are you hiding?”

“What are you thinking?” he replies instead. “Since you asked me what I’m hiding, I think I should ask you what you think of it.”

“The trainee?” I chuckle, “what were you a trainee for?”

“A boy group,” He laughs, “fell through at the last minute, though.”

“Ah, is that why I never saw you online? I used to be a big K-pop fan, you know. Followed all the groups when they released new music.”

“You must know Hoshi, then?”

“Hoshi?” I pause, “He used to release really good music, but I didn’t really listen that closely. My friends do like his music a lot, though.”

He nods, and I resist the urge to run away, my friends like his music. It’s not a lie—they do like his music, have liked him since he came out with his debut single—it’s me who has been dropped from the list. If he asks about my friends, I’m not sure I could even say a single word.

“Soonyoung—I mean, Hoshi, he’s from my label,” the man explains, looking sheepish, “I mean, I used to be a trainee there.”

“Ah.” I finish the rest of my meal in silence.

“No payment, not for you.” He smiles, “I still didn’t get your name, though.”

“Do I really have to?”

He says nothing, merely grins, and waves me goodbye. On my way back from the diner, I light a cigarette as usual.

He’d looked less tired than before, less lonely, too. Did he finally have someone to talk to? He’d looked happier—serving me rice soup while I waited.

I pick up my phone to call Seungkwan, who picks up within two rings.

“Ah, noona—” he begins, and I cut him off, “Seungkwan, can I send you my pitch right now?”

“Right now?” There’s a scramble on the line. Then he’s back, “yes, tell me.”

I take a deep breath, “I go to a diner every day.”

“Huh?” Seungkwan is sceptical, as always, “what do you mean you go to a diner every day?”

“I want to write about the diner, Seungkwan,” I explain. “I don’t know—it’s just that even though I haven’t been that many times, every time I go, I come back thinking about my life differently.”

“Noona, you always think about your life. That’s why you’re the one writing, not me.”

“No—just trust me on this one, okay?” I’m begging at this point, but Seungkwan needs to be convinced, “it’s a good start, right?”

“Send me a chapter, and I’ll think about it,” he mutters.

“So, you’ll do it?”

“Just send me a page! God, you’re so annoying,” he huffs. “Okay, fine! I’ll do it! Just send the damn chapter before next week ends or you’ll be dealing with someone else.”

“I love you, Seungkwan.”

“Love you too.”

“Ah,” I mutter as I reach the apartment entrance. “He’s always like that, right?”

Seungkwan has always been like that, unwillingly affectionate, yet he manages to be my only cheerleader, at times. From the first day he picked up my manuscript and called me out of the blue, to our first meeting, where he said bluntly to my face, “you look sad”, and even now. He says he won’t do it, but he will. Seungkwan will move mountains for the people he loves. That’s just how he is.

My phone buzzes as I walk into my flat, with a singular message, I’m counting on you for this one, noona. Don’t fuck this up for us, please.

I smile. As if.

—

Jihoon is not particularly given to nostalgia. He hates it, has hated the feeling since he stepped out of the plane at Charles de Gaulle and felt an intense longing for the semi-basement with melon-green walls that had defined his trainee life, the boardrooms where he negotiated for his artistic freedom to an inch of his life, and even the dorms, where he lived alongside a bunch of other teenage boys, all just as clueless as him.

Until that point, nostalgia was a common feeling, the longing of a time that seemed better in retrospect, but Jihoon hated how he felt about his trainee years, and later on, his producing career. He’d thought his life had ended when the HR development team had called their group of ten boys into the melon room and announced that they were no longer moving forward with the boy group. Wonwoo had cried, as Jihoon remembers. Wonwoo had cried, Seungcheol looked furious, Minghao and Jeonghan had tried to bargain. And Jihoon—Jihoon remembers sitting down on the floor, staring blankly into the distance. He had to get up off the floor; he had to do something.

He didn’t; all he did was sit on the floor, thinking, what do I do next?

The dorm was cleared out the next week.

To this day, he hates the word, nostalgia. They’re emotions he’d rather have left behind, in the melon-coloured room which took away so much of his youth. He doesn’t hate that part of himself, just wishes he could have done it a little bit differently. He’s been running his whole life, and has never realised how tired he was. And now—all that remains of that time, are memories that he’d once thought of as commonplace.

They’d called him back from Busan three months after he’d gone back home, and Jihoon still cannot forget the hope in his heart that maybe they’d rethought the decision, that maybe he still had a shot at becoming a singer. He’d dedicated his teenage years to that dream, going to practise in Seoul when all his peers were chasing a different dream, a more attainable one, perhaps. And there was Soonyoung too, who’d joined only a month before, who didn’t really realise why they were all moving out. None of them deserved that. They’d all given up their youths, negotiated over and over with people who didn’t care about their well-being.

No one would fault you for giving it another shot, his father had told him when he was stepping out of his home, if you want to give up on this dream, that is okay, too. Remember you can always come back here.

The company had said nothing about bringing back the debut team. Instead, they’d sat him down in a room entirely different from the practice rooms and told him that they were willing to bring him on as a composer to help with Soonyoung’s debut. You’ve got to bring in a lawyer and a parent to negotiate the terms, they had said, you’re still a minor, even if you turn eighteen in a month. We can’t make a contract with a minor without a legal guardian present. Jihoon really hadn’t heard any of the words they had said, instead focusing on a single word. Soonyoung. The boy who had come in a month before the company had sent them all packing, was who they had brought back in as a soloist, apparently. For them, he was good enough, not Jihoon or the group of boys who had spent years on their craft. He’d wanted to ask them, why didn’t you bring back the debut team? We said we’d do all the producing, we said we’d help with logistics. We said we’d do all of it, so why aren’t you calling us back? Why just him?

In the end, he had accepted the terms laid out in front of him, had his father make the trip from Busan to Seoul with a lawyer to look over the contract before he signed it. Once they made sure his work was going to be owned by the company and no one else, Jihoon moved back to Busan, working on Soonyoung’s debut song in the middle of catching up with his high school assignments.

They all said he was a genius, and he was, because who else would get into a Seoul university a year after he stopped being a full-time trainee? Soonyoung debuted, and Jihoon’s name was first on the list of production credits: Woozi. He’d chosen the name before they had approached him the second time, making shit up with Seungcheol and Jeonghan on a random weeknight. They’d picked out names for each other, too—Seungcheol wanted to be called S. Coups, whatever that meant, and Jeonghan, looking at their atrocious choices, stuck with his own. “I refuse to be part of this madness,” he had said, but Jihoon wanted to keep the name Woozi. Our Jihoon, the producers and the HR development team used to call him. He wanted the name to be a tribute to the people who worked hard to make their debut possible.

Woozi debuted alongside Hoshi, and they never looked back. Jeonghan and Seungcheol both went into business administration, circling back to the same company that cut them off. Wonwoo moved courses, went into game development, and refused to look at the industry ever again. And Minghao—

Minghao had left for China the week after they sent them off, and they had all come to see him off at the airport. His eyes were dry, and Jihoon saw no sign of distress in his eyes. Minghao had moved on already.

“Don’t blame yourself too much, Minghao,” he had said, in an attempt to soothe the hurt he was going through, but Jihoon doubted they even heard any of it.

Minghao swore he’d never return to Korea. Two years later, he arrived for an exchange semester, and never seemed to leave. Xu Minghao, fashion designer. They’d all moved on in their own ways, chose to soothe themselves by doing things they never wanted to do. Seungcheol, Jeonghan, and he were basically torturing themselves, working in the same company that turned them out onto the streets. Wonwoo left the industry, running as fast as he could, in the opposite direction. Minghao, who was always a man of few words, made his own path, doing something that they never really thought he would do, but he’s come back to the country he hates.

Wonwoo had once, on one of their dinners, pointed an accusatory finger at the three of them, “Why the fuck did you go back to that company? If it was anywhere else, I would have understood. Hell, I would have supported you three! But back to the same place that threw us out onto the streets?”

“Wonwoo, you’re drunk,” Seungcheol had said, mildly. “Let’s have this conversation another time.”

“No, we need to have it right now,” Wonwoo was headstrong on the best of his days, but drunk, he was stubborn to a fault, and Jihoon just stared at the man in front of him, still burdened by the experiences of his adolescence, “why the hell did you go back to the company we left?”

“They had their reasons, Wonwoo,” Minghao replies, nursing his drink, “I’m sure the decision wasn’t easy.”

“Then they shouldn’t have taken that decision,” Wonwoo mutters, slumping down against Seungcheol, “remember when they didn’t even tell us why they were disbanding the debut group?”

“They debuted Hoshi a year later,” Minghao replies, tone a shade darker, “how the hell did you manage that, hyung?”

“Huh?” Jihoon realises a bit later that the words are directed towards him, and he sits straight up, “what do you mean about that?”

“How the hell did you manage to write songs that he performed?”

“What?” Seungcheol sits up straight, looking at Minghao, “what do you mean by that?”

“I’m asking how you managed to write those songs for Hoshi, knowing the company debuted him instead of you. Instead of us.”

“Oh.” Jihoon knows he should say something, that the wounds in them run deep, even after years have passed and they have all moved on, but he really cannot. What is there to say that he hasn’t talked about? Should he tell them how he never wanted to sit in any of those meetings, where they would discuss Soonyoung’s debut single, because a little voice in his head would not shut up about the unfairness of the whole system? They were supposed to debut as a team. But they didn’t, and the company turned to Soonyoung instead, placing their dreams on the shoulders of a person who didn’t even understand the meaning of it all. Anything he said, would not hold water, not in front of the people who were hurt, whose eyes carried so much sadness. Wonwoo refused to watch anything Hoshi released, even if Jihoon was the one behind the songs. Minghao—Minghao was looking at him with such profuse betrayal in his eyes, that he knows, none of his empty words would comfort them. None at all.

Looking back at the time passed, Jihoon knew Soonyoung was suffering too, even if it never seemed like that to them. They only saw the carefully curated music stages and high-quality music videos, because it’s easier for an outsider to look in; he’d come across Soonyoung on days where the other would be holed up in the studio, not talking to anyone, focused on making everything perfect—even right up to the day before the song's release. They were jealous, they were hurting, but the experience that Hoshi was going through, that was something they could not understand.

He's still sitting in front of his work computer, when the call from Jeonghan comes through, “Did you just send in a track for a R&B song?”

“I did,” Jihoon has the sense to sound a little ashamed, “it was a bout of inspiration. I’ll change it if it’s not what you guys want.”

“Doesn’t matter, it’s the most original piece of work I’ve seen you put out in a couple years,” Jeonghan’s tone is flippant, but he still sounds stressed, “I already spoke to the PDs, the concept hasn’t been decided yet. Hoshi might be releasing an indie album, or a R&B album.”

“The concept hasn’t been decided yet? Why the hell were you telling me to submit a track?”

“I need proof of life to convince them to put you on the team, Jihoon,” Jeonghan’s voice is strained, “how long do you think the people will wait around for you to show up with something other than what has been in your drafts since before you ran off?”

“That’s a bit disappointing, you know. I’m hurt.”

“You literally ran off to Paris when I was in the middle of renegotiating your contract. You can afford to take a little bit of heat.”

“That’s harsher, but it’s the truth.”

“I’m wondering,” Jeonghan says, after a beat, “what the hell gave you this much inspiration, sitting in fucking Busan, of all places. Did you have a vision or something?”

Jihoon laughs and laughs, because Jeonghan, even in his sarcasm, has hit the nail on the head; he had seen a vision. A vision of a woman in plain clothes, who carried herself as though she had a lot of weight on her shoulders. “Something like that,” he replies, “maybe I got inspiration from the waves.”

“That’s why your restaurant is smack in front of the beach,” Jeonghan laughs, “I’ll be in touch with you, and for god’s sake, call Minghao. He’s going crazy.”

“What happened to Minghao?” Jihoon’s seen Minghao crazy exactly once—when he was so angry he cursed at the staff in Chinese, throwing out all the angst of his teenage self, “what happened to him?”

“Hoshi wants to dress in his clothes for the comeback. Minghao is against it to the extent that he actually turned down every request from us to feature his clothing, and threatened me with a cease-and-desist.”

“Can you do that?” Jihoon isn’t really surprised, per se, they were all people who held grudges, deep in their hearts, and at some point, it would have had to boil over. It’s only fair it’s happening now, and not thirty years down the line.

“He says he will. A legal notice to stop us from displaying any of his work in a music video or on any of his appearances. Just talk to him once. Holding onto a grudge for eleven years seems a little bit overkill, I’m going to be honest.”

“Fine, I’ll talk to him once.” Jihoon has no intention of talking to Minghao, because no matter what he says, Minghao will not change his mind once he has made it up, and he’s always been firm on this one account, “no promises.”

He sighs, and leans back into his chair. Nostalgia. Ah. It’s a word he really fucking hates.

But there was her, and she was in his mind, again, a reminder of who he was, the kind of person he had been, for the longest time. She wasn’t just someone who reminded him of the time that had passed him by, Jihoon knew her. They were the same, in fact, he still thinks they are.

His phone rings again, but this time, it’s his mother, instead of Minghao, or Jeonghan. “Hello?”

“Weren’t you supposed to come for dinner tonight?”

“Ah,” he’s looking straight at the clock on the wall, “I’m still stuck at the diner.”

“Liar.” His mom isn’t really one to mince her words, “you’re probably stressing out over your drafts right now, aren’t you?”

“How the hell did you know that?”

“I know a lot of things,” his mother sounds like she’s having fun with all of it, instead of yelling at him like she usually does, “imagine being your mom and not knowing that you smoke cigarettes, even when you’ve told everyone that you quit.”

“Mom!” he does not know how the hell she got that piece of information, but she has it, and now, he’s the one who’s in trouble, “what do you mean?”

“It’s not as if your father quit smoking either,” she says casually, “I know when someone is hiding things from me.”

Jihoon sighs, “Have you ever given police work a serious thought? You’d have become the Commissioner of Police at this rate.”

“It’s probably because I had to raise you as a child.” She replies, “come to dinner in an hour, okay? Your father has been looking forward to this for an entire week.”

Jihoon sighs, but gets up from his chair nevertheless, and slips on a jacket instead of his hoodie. His mother, who knows everything about him, was apparently too forgetful to remind her own son about the weather.

The chill settles into the air as he steps out of the car and walks into the apartment complex where his parents live, because of course they moved out of the house where they had lived all their lives, because Jihoon wanted to move to Seoul and they had no money. It’s almost uncomfortable, looking at his parents, and being reminded of why the hell they had to spend all that money, an investment that resulted in nothing but a shameful return to Busan. And they had not allowed him to give the money back.

“I’m home,” he calls out, stepping over the threshold, “why the hell did I have to come back here when I just saw you guys two days ago? Traffic was insane.”

“Your dad is sulking,” his mother greets him with a kiss on the cheek, “he lost at chess this afternoon.”

“Oh, shit,” he mutters, walking to the balcony, where his father is sitting, polishing scholar stones, “fancy a game of chess?”

“I’ve quit the game,” his father moans, and if Jihoon tilts his head far enough, he thinks he can see tears in the corner of his eyes, “don’t even mention chess in front of me anymore. I hate the game.”

“I—you used to play it for hours, dad, what happened?”

His father, full-on sniffling now, sits straight up, “that man there! Bloody Mr Kim, does he think he’s slick? I saw him cheating, I know he moved his bishop right after I turned around to wave to your mother. Why else would I lose to him when I haven’t lost a single match this past two weeks?”

Jihoon looks to his mother, who shrugs, handle this on your own. “Are you sure he swapped out the bishop’s position?”

“Yes, and I’m never going back there again,” his father announces, “he can keep his chess skills to himself.”

“Really? You mean that?” Jihoon laughs, “you said that two weeks ago too.”

“I did?” he looks up, “that doesn’t sound real to me.”

“It is, unfortunately.” Jihoon sighs, “you keep saying that you’ll quit chess, but you’re gonna go back to the park a few days later.”

“I won’t, not this time,” he grouses, “just you wait, and if I go back to the park, make sure to call me an idiot.”

Jihoon says nothing, just shakes his head, because his father will go back to the park as soon as the craving hits, because he’s never once spent more than a day not playing chess. Not to mention he’s actually great friends with Mr Kim, even if all he says is how much he hates him.

Dinner is lots of rice, and a random stew his mother put together in less than an hour, and the three of them huddle around a cooker, because his mother does not believe in the importance of letting stews cool down before making him and his father consume it. At least his father had the proper sense to put aside Jihoon’s part of the soup to let it cool down before he drank it.

After dinner the three of them clear out the table, crowding around the television, where there is a rerun of a random drama going on, and Jihoon casually pecks on a bunch of almonds. His father swipes a few of them.

“Is this Hoshi’s appearance on that variety show?” His father is pointing to the channel, where he’s changed it to Yoo Jae-Seok and Jo Se-Ho laughing on either side of Hoshi, “when did he make that appearance?”

“He shot for it a few weeks ago,” Jihoon offers an explanation, “he’s not really into giving a lot of interviews, but he really wanted to do this one in particular. He did have a lot of fun on this shoot.”

“Soonyoung seems interesting,” his mother pipes up, “why doesn’t he come by more often?”

“Because he’s too busy with a hundred different schedules, mom,” Jihoon mutters, “he has other things to do instead of coming to my house to just hang out with my parents.”

“Your other friends do.” His mother grumbles, “don’t see how he can’t, just because he’s an idol doesn’t mean he gets to ignore his friend’s parents.”

Jihoon says nothing. The last time Seungcheol came down to Busan, he’d had an argument with Jihoon, screaming and shouting at each other on the beach, fighting like they were teenagers again, this time in a parking lot instead of a basement. Seungcheol had been pissed off with Jihoon for leaving, and Jihoon had been angry with him for not understanding. They’d yelled in the beginning, and suddenly Jihoon found himself throwing punches. The fight had lasted for several minutes, and the end found them both crying their eyes out.

“How could you do this to us?” Seungcheol had said, grasping onto Jihoon’s shirt, “did you know how worried we all were? Dropping off the face of the earth with no explanation?”

“And why the hell do you care so much, Seungcheol?” Jihoon had been angry at that moment, “is it because I refused to renew the contract? Is that why?”

Seungcheol swung before Jihoon could move out of the way, screaming, “is that what you think of me? That little?”

His mother snorts, “Is Seungcheol going to get married or what? He told me was seeing someone.”

“He was seeing a therapist, last I checked,” Jihoon murmurs, “I doubt he’s got any interest in marrying right now.”

And he was right. Seungcheol had always been a little bit hot-headed, a little bit of a loudmouth. He was the one who fought with the HR team when they were disbanded, throwing one of the most impressive tantrums Jihoon had ever seen for a seventeen-year-old. To be on the receiving end of that anger was certainly an experience. He’d been seeing a therapist for it, although he still insisted that it really wasn’t such a big deal, that he was doing fine without it. Jihoon knew a bit better. Seungcheol, beneath all that bravado and bluster, was scared; just as scared as he was at that moment in time, maybe he never managed to get out of it. God knows they were all serving sentences in time, frozen in the memories of that one moment. Seungcheol and Jihoon never really managed to get out of that mindset. Seungcheol still got angry, Jihoon still deflected.

“At least he’s seeing someone,” his mother snipes, “who are you seeing, apart from your customers?”

Jihoon stills. His hesitation is plain, and his mother pounces on it like shark tasting blood, “you’ve met someone. Who was it?”

“None of your concern,” he mutters, busying himself with chewing, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“He’s met someone nice, then,” his father laughs, “Jihoon has always been one of those people who don’t like to talk a lot about their love lives.”

“I don’t have one.”

“But you met someone,” his mother leans in, eyes glinting, “go on, who was it? Did you get her name, at least?”

“No, I did not. And she’s just a customer, it’s that she feels a lot like me.”

“Oh, it’s bad,” his father tuts, and Jihoon makes a face. I should have never even tried to lift his spirits, “he likes her a lot.”

“I don’t!”

And he does not. He’s not even interested in her romantically; he just wants to know her a little bit better. He wants her to feel a bit more comfortable, at least be a bit more comfortable with him. He wants to be the one she opens up to, because—ah fuck, he’s interested, isn’t he?

After dinner, he goes out for a smoke with his father, who refuses to smoke, but still does, taking a cigarette from the box from Jihoon, “your mother hates this, you know.”

“She still tolerates it, because you don’t have a drinking habit.” Jihoon laughs, “she hates drinking.”

“Your mother is an angel, you know that, right?” His father smiles, puffing out rings of smoke, “she’s always been empathetic, even when she didn’t really have to be.”

“She’s the one who kept at it, telling me to go to Paris when I told her I was not feeling great.”

“Both of us wanted to tell you that, you know.” His father sighs, “you used to come back home after months at a time, dark circles underneath your eyes, and we lay awake thinking what the hell was Seoul putting you through. Even during your trainee days, you never came home stressed out and tired.”

“I was going through a lot, it seems,” Jihoon murmurs, “at least I got to get out of it. I don’t think it's been that easy for anyone else.”

“I know.”

His father continues, “I know the others—Seungcheol, Jeonghan, Wonwoo, Minghao—they’re all suffering. Minghao still refuses to acknowledge the company, and Wonwoo doesn’t even put on music when he watches television. You’ve all been stuck in your personal brand of hell, ever since that day. It’s difficult, trying to move on from an experience that shaped your whole life. Hell, even your careers were impacted by this.”

Jihoon says nothing. He really thought he was hiding it well, but apparently in front of his parents, he has been able to have exactly zero secrets.

“You think I didn’t know why you three went to work in the same company? Jeonghan and Seungcheol didn’t even have to do all that, they had other places they could go to. But they went there, and chose to work with some of the very people who disbanded the project.”

“The Seventeen Project.” Jihoon interrupts, “It was The Seventeen Project.”

“And they treated ten of you boys like it was nothing. That will leave an impact, even if you’ve all moved on with your lives.”

Jihoon nods. His father is right about all that. They’re still stuck in that room, that fucking melon-green walls closing in on all of them, even in adulthood. They grew, moved out of their homes and into university, they moved on but really, had they?

“Don’t think too much about it,” his father says, when Jihoon opens the door to his car, hands full of leftovers, “just remember that it’ll be worth it in the end.”

It’ll be worth it in the end. Hah. Jihoon wants to laugh, but instead, he just nods, seatbelt clicking into place as he makes his way down the narrow street. It’s a five-minute walk from his restaurant, but his parents’ house is in the middle of a neighbourhood full of residential buildings, which means the street leading up to the house is triple-parked. Extricating any kind of vehicle is a task, and he’s trying his best to get his car out of the mess, when he sees her. This is the third time he’s seeing her, and it’s the same feeling as the first time—the same heady rush of excitement, the same feeling of déjà vu. For a moment, he’s transposed to the Jihoon of three years before, running frantically behind deadlines, without a moment to think for himself.

Without thinking too much about it, he opens the door, jumping down, “Hello.”

She merely raises an eyebrow. “Are you in the habit of making home deliveries too?”

“Home deliveries?” Jihoon stares at her, only realising that he’s still holding onto the leftovers from dinner, “ah, I was having dinner with my parents.”

She gives him a sad smile, “ah, dinner with the parents. That sounds great, actually. I’m going to have my own dinner right now, if you’ll excuse me.”

She makes a move to pass him, and he steps in front, “Ah, hold on, hold on, do you want to have dinner with me?”

She doesn’t say anything, just stares at him, and he can feel the weight of her gaze, “Didn’t you say you had dinner with your parents?”

“I did?” He’s racking his brains, “ah, yes, yes I did.”

“You did,” she raises an eyebrow, “now, if you’ll excuse me.”

She moves past him now, and Jihoon sees her walk past him, towards her house, wherever it is. He’s not interested, not at all, it’s just that she reminds him of himself. Yes, that’s what it is. She just reminds him of himself. Not interested. Her shoulders are drooping, barely holding on against the weight of the world, and he just thinks to himself, she looks so lonely.

Was that how he’d looked to the others? That lonely? Was this how the great Lee Jihoon was to others, this sad, lonely shell of a human being, whose loneliness was measurable by how their shoulders dropped when their backs were turned. He’s seized with a sudden bout of self-loathing, of course his parents worried when he looked like this.

“You never really gave me your name, you know!” He yells, fully aware of how desperate he looks, but he’s damned if he lets another person become Lee Jihoon again, “I gave you my name, right?”

She turns. And with that enigmatic smile still fixed into place, “No, you didn’t. I don’t know your name, either.”

“Ah.” Now he’s getting embarrassed. He’s supposed to be slicker than this, damn it. “Do you want to know my name?”

She laughs and laughs and laughs. It’s a different sound than what he’s used to, a mix of sad and happy, almost as if she’s fighting against her instinct. She sounds more carefree than he’s ever imagined her to be, not that he’s imagined her in any sense of that word. “You really want to tell me your name?”

“It’s Jihoon,” he stumbles over his words in his hurry. “Lee Jihoon. That’s my name. You don’t even have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.”

A beat. Then, “you’re right,” she says, with no sense of anger in her tone, “it’s getting late, Lee Jihoon. Go back home.”

And with that, she’s gone. Jihoon wants to hit himself on the head, but he’s sane, a sane adult who would never do anything like that, and so, instead of running away from her, he walks back to his car, and calls up Jeonghan, who answers in a single ring, “what?”

“Should I come back to Seoul?” Jihoon bursts out, “not that I want to go back, I hate the city, but I don’t think I should be living in Busan anymore. I need to move somewhere else. Jeju? England?”

“Hold on, you’re not making any sense.” There’s a lot of background noise, and Jeonghan shuffles a bit before saying, “did she reject you?”

“Who—no! No one rejected me!” Jihoon yells into the phone, putting his car into reverse gear, “I just think I should have a change of pace. England seems perfect for this. Should I go?”

“Who’s the girl, Lee Jihoon?” Jeonghan teases, “you’re never really this insistent on anything if it's not for a girl.”

“I do not do that.”

“Agree to disagree.” Jeonghan laughs, “did she reject you?”

Jihoon sighs. There’s no escaping Jeonghan, is there? “She just said she doesn’t want to tell me her name.”

“Oh. That’s got to hurt, hasn’t it?”

“Incredibly.” Jihoon is groaning into the phone, “I’ve never really met anyone like her.”

“This down bad, already? You haven’t even met her more than twice.” Jeonghan laughs, and then his tone shifts, “it’s been a long time since I’ve seen you this agitated over a girl. Not until middle school, I think.”

“Ugh. Don’t even remind me of that.” Jihoon wants to die every time people remind him of that time; he should have never told anyone about the crush he’d had in middle school. Jeonghan had never let go of it, it seems, “anyway, let me know what I can do about this mess.”

“She’s a regular at the diner, you say?”

“Well, she’s only been there a couple times, so I can’t really call her a regular. But she might be one.”

“Well, Jihoon, I don’t know how to say this to you, but you’ve fucked up.” Jeonghan laughs, “at least give the girl some space before you start with your nonsense about knowing their names and telling them how much you love and adore them.”

“I have never once done that.”

“You just told me you did,” Jeonghan sighs. “Just—give them as much space as they want. You get over excited when it comes to them, just back off a bit until they approach you in the first place. No need to start going all out when you don’t even know if it’s going to last.”

“Solid advice.” Jihoon’s pulling into his own driveway, equally populated by cars and congested, “how much do you want to bet I won't be adhering to that?”

“I don’t take shit bets, Jihoon.”

—

It’s a seaside diner. One that stands alone in the middle of the wharf, serving customers from evening till they close. It’s a small diner, nothing special. They have seafood on the menu: haemul-tang, gukbap. Everything you need to make the end of an otherwise normal day, unusual.

The person behind the counter is a man, who looks at me like he knows who I am. As if my existence here is a bout of déjà vu for him, a trick of the mind. I am nothing but a long-lost memory to him, a reminder of the person that he once was, or he still might be.

If this was a romance novel, I would say something obvious, comment on how good he looks, standing behind the counter, standing as though he had been waiting for me all his life. I do nothing like that, instead walking over to a side, ordering the first dish that comes to my mind.

When he prepares the food, I look at him. His shoulders droop, his eyes close from time to time. It reminds me of a psychology lecture: when you want to know more about someone, make sure you see them once, from behind. People have barriers, walls they construct around themselves to act as shields from the world. Take a look at people when they have their backs turned to you. You might see a lot more of them than they let on.

This man is lonely. I can see that, from the way he wipes his hands on the edge of the towel, from the way he smiles at me before setting down my order in front of me, every action of his, accentuated by his long, slim fingers that seem almost ethereal. Everything tells me about his loneliness.

And to be honest, am I not lonely either? I’m having dinner by myself at a diner while the rest of my office gets off work to go back to their families. I am here, spending my time with an unfamiliar man, on a night when I probably should be with company.

Loneliness grows comforting when there is nothing else to compare it to.

I hit ‘send’ on the email, and predictably, Seungkwan calls me half an hour later. “Yes?” I pick up, “did you like it?”

“It’s great. Nothing out of the ordinary for you, but I just want to know one thing,” he pauses for dramatic effect, “are you in love with that man?”

“What?” I sputter. “Who the hell are you talking about?”

“The owner!” he screeches, “you write about him in a way that makes me wonder if you’re in love with him.”

“I’m not,” I say, “aren’t you watching too many dramas nowadays? Is this what they teach you guys?”

“They don’t teach us how to write dramas. That’s on you,” Seungkwan laughs, “this paragraph right here, when you describe how lonely he looks to you, is that not a confession?”

“It’s not a fucking confession!” I’m yelling now, pacing rapidly around the apartment, “it’s nothing! I’m not even interested in him that way!”

“Really? Who is he, by the way? Just some random restaurant owner? Because I’ve never seen you write about anyone other than the people who’ve been in your life for more than half a decade, hell, you didn’t even write about Kim Mingyu, and we all know how you feel about him—’

“I’ve known him for only a fortnight, Boo Seungkwan,” I interrupt, and on the other side, Seungkwan cackles, as though he’s stumbled on the juiciest piece of gossip in a short while, “don’t even dare to take this out of context. I’m not someone who does things on a whim. And for god’s sake, stop bringing up Mingyu every time you lose an argument.”

“I don’t do that, and you know it.”

“Really?”

“Never mind,” Seungkwan laughs, “at least tell me if he’s cute.”

“He isn’t.”

“Liar.” He laughs again, and I keep wondering what exactly it is about my life that makes Seungkwan think that all of this is a big fucking joke, “I’ll give you the edits by tomorrow, but this two-page script is enough for the issue, I think.”

He cuts the call, and I throw the phone away to sit back down on the sofa. What the hell was Seungkwan thinking? Just because I wrote about that man, doesn’t mean I am interested. Hell, I don’t even know his name yet. Nothing about the two interactions I have had with him points to any degree of attraction.

But that’s not true, is it, a voice tells me, you know his name, you just don’t want to acknowledge it.

Lee Jihoon, he had shouted at me, as though we were standing on the opposite sides of a gorge instead of three metres away on an empty street. Lee Jihoon. A beautiful name, that. He looked distraught, as though he had been agonising over the decision to call my name out on that empty road.

A step forward would have been too much for him, perhaps, but I was the one who pushed him away in the first place.

It’s a funny thing, to be on the precipice of a decision. I could have told him my name, could have told him who I was, or I could have just let him know that I wasn't averse to spending time with him.

Except when I went to say my name, the same voice inside my head, which has been a part of me for so long, insisted: why are you doing this? When you know he will leave you. Everyone who knows you will leave you, so better for you to do it first. If you hurt yourself before they do it to you, then you’re not going to be affected at all. It’s better this way, so just leave it at that.

But this can’t be an excuse, can it? I can’t keep telling myself that all the time. All my life, I’ve never allowed myself to want. Truly want something. There’s so much I could have had in life, if I allowed myself to reach out and grab it, instead of stepping back, thinking what if. Fear of failure suppressed the desire to win, and the person who has suffered the most, is me.

I pick up my phone, dialling the first contact that pops up, and my mother’s voice floats through, “this late at night? Is everything okay?”

Funny, how she always asks that. Even during university, when I was going through perhaps the worst phase of my life, I never had anyone ask me, ‘are you doing okay?’ But now I am here, and my mother is asking this.

“I’m fine,” I mutter, “did you have dinner?”

“It’s almost midnight, child,” she replies, “of course we had dinner. Your father keeps asking about you, though. He’s thinking of coming down to Busan to see you next week.”

“Next week?” I make a mental list of everything I need to finish by next week if my father came to visit: I need to finish cleaning my house, something I have been putting off for weeks, put away all my clothes to make sure it’s not in piles of laundry on my chair, and finally, get rid of all the cigarette packs, because my father is not aware of my smoking habit. No one is, actually, save the people in my workplace, who all look at me like I’m some kind of alien when I join the men on the terrace to take a smoke break, Seungkwan, who’s told me to stop it so many times he’s one step away from nagging me with cancer PSAs, and of course, Lee Jihoon, who looked at me like it was a habit he knew all too well. I also need to restock my groceries, because my father likes cooking elaborate meals at home — a passion he’s turned into a hobby after his retirement.

“Next week,” my mother replies, “he’s booked the tickets already. He wants to see first-hand how you’re doing.”

“Dad never does that, though.”

“He does,” she repeats, “he’s always been a sucker for the two of you. He’s going to come by, so make sure you take him to that diner you found the other week. He’s been going around telling me he wants to have the gukbap there.”

“Diner?” I’m stunned for a moment, to hear my father act this way, my stoic father, who never really had a bout of excitement over anything save our grades, “he really wants to have rice soup at a seaside diner in Busan? Is that why he’s coming?”

“That’s not why, of course,” my mother’s tone grows pensive, “you’ve always been more closed-off than your sister. He worries, that’s all.”

“And you don’t?”

“Don’t take my words out of context,” I laugh at that, because of course I am closed-off, of course I am someone who hates talking about their feelings, of course I am all that. It's who I am, it’s a part of my soul. I cannot change it now, even if I want to, “he’s coming to see you, you know. He worries a lot. We worry a lot.”

“I’m doing fine, mom,” I sigh, “there’s really no need for anyone to come down to Busan, of all places. If you want, I can go to Seoul next week.”

Yes, this is right. This way, I can go to Seoul, and my father won’t have to be seen with the image of his youngest daughter living half a life in another city. Of all the things I know about my father, this is one I am sure about; knowing how I live will break his heart. He won’t be able to take it.

There’s a reason why I hid everything from them as a child, after all.

“No, he’s pretty adamant on going down,” my mother reasons, “at least this way he’ll get to go out of the house.”

I laugh, “When’s the last time he did that?”

“Don’t even ask me,” my mother sighs, “he keeps saying he doesn’t need the exercise, but he really does. Ask anyone, and you’ll know exactly why. He’s just being lazy.”

“He still likes playing chess, doesn’t he?”

“That’s all he does. Sometimes he’ll go out of the house to get groceries, and have the neighbour’s kid deliver it to the house while he spends hours in the park playing chess with old men. Even the neighbour’s kid is angry with us, at this point. Did you know he’s managed to establish a chess club for the retirees in the neighbourhood?”

“You always complain about him, mom, but in the end, you’re the one who keeps up with all his demands,” I sigh, “but does he really need to come by? Can’t I just come to see you both in Seoul next weekend? I can make it; it’s not a big deal.”

“Are you avoiding it?” she asks, and I want to do two things; smack my head on the nearest hard surface, or throw my phone away entirely. Of course I’m avoiding hosting my father. “No, I’m not,” I reply, “just thinking about all the things that I need to do before he lands in Busan.”

After a bit more of small talk, mom cuts the call, and I lie down on the bed, still in the clothes I was supposed to have taken off before I slept. From tomorrow, I will clean the apartment, make it fit for my father to stay over, but tonight, I want a little bit of peace.

Outside my window, it starts raining, unseasonal torrential downpours that make their peculiar noise on my window panes, and I think of that man. Lee Jihoon. The owner of the diner by the sea, with a smile that seemed to be crafted out of sadness. I wonder if he likes the rains, or if his work was affected by the downpours. Nothing would happen to the diner, I’m sure, but even the thought of it is saddening, losing one of the main reasons behind my recent small happinesses. It’s funny how this random place went unnoticed by me all these years, but now that I’ve had a meal here twice, I cannot think of my life in Busan without it.

I wish nothing happens to him, I think, before drifting off to sleep.

—

The rains are unpredictable this year, Jihoon had heard from fishermen on the coast, the rains have always been unpredictable, but this year, they seem to possess a mind of their own entirely. Jihoon isn’t too bothered by this, because as long as he’s been alive, the rains have always been unpredictable. The fishermen have always said the same things, and they have always had rains at pretty much the same time as everyone else. There really was nothing to be afraid of.

But today, as soon as he steps foot onto the stoop of his diner, the skies open, and cold drops of water drench him halfway almost immediately. He’s left standing on the stoop of his restaurant, looking angrily at the skies. Damn it, I should have heard them when they said the rains were unpredictable this year. His shirt is drenched, he’s about to catch a cold, and all he can think about is how he should have listened to the bloody fishermen. They knew better, of course they did. And he hadn’t listened, which resulted in this—him getting pelted with rain in the middle of winter.

He's drying himself off, when his phone rings, and this time it's Minghao, calling in the middle of the night. Jihoon doesn’t even remember the last time Minghao called him this late at night, after their teenage years. There hasn’t been an occasion for him to do so, after all.

He picks up the call, and before Jihoon can ask him about the reason behind this call, Minghao is losing his shit on the other end of the line, “Did you know, Jeonghan asked me if he could use my designs for Hoshi’s next comeback? He wants to have Soonyoung dress up in my designs for the showcase.”

“The showcase?” Jeonghan hadn’t told him this, of course, but Jihoon had a sneaking suspicion this was a miscommunication on both their parts, “I would have thought he wanted to put your work in the music video.”

“The context doesn’t matter, what matters is that I don’t want this to happen,” Minghao seethes, “I sent them a cease-and-desist letter, to make them stop this madness. I don’t know how to make myself clearer; I don’t want any artist from that damn company to be wearing my designs. Least of all Soonyoung.”

Jihoon sighs. He knew getting Minghao to agree would be impossible; he hadn’t realised how deep Minghao’s grudge against the company ran. “Maybe the legal notice was a bit overkill, but you’re entirely justified in not wanting Soonyoung to wear your work. Do you want me to talk to Jeonghan?”

“No, I know he asked you to talk to me,” Minghao mutters, “he knows that you’re the person with the most sense in the group.”

“Minghao,” Jihoon asks, “why don’t you let go of the grudge? It’s been eleven years already, you’re established, I’d wager. Why are you still holding on to that one moment from all those years ago?”

“Hyung,” Minghao sighs, “have you ever thought to yourself, why you wanted to run away?”

Jihoon stops in his tracks. The rain is still pelting, and his entire shirt is drenched, but somehow, at this point in time, he doesn’t seem to care at all. All that is ringing in his ears are Minghao’s words, “what do you mean?”

“You ran away from Seoul, and we all kept looking for you,” Minghao says softly, “but I used to be envious of you, really. I wanted to run away, just like you did.”

“Minghao,” Jihoon mutters, “you know why I left. Under what circumstances I had to make that decision, you know everything, so why the hell are you—”

“But were those circumstances really necessary?” Minghao’s voice is sharp now, sharper than Jihoon has ever heard it before, “if you didn’t go back to that company, hell, if the three of you went your separate ways, was it going to be necessary for you to take that long break? You didn’t even maintain contact with any of us, and that hurt, really.”

Jihoon doesn’t say anything for a long time. How can he? He’s the one who left, he’s the one who forced the rest of them to pick up the pieces of a disaster that they did not have a hand in, “I’m sorry, Minghao,” he replies, after a beat, “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“I don’t blame you man, not at all,” Minghao, on the other end, seems to be fighting tears, “I left for China as soon as they told us to go back to our homes. I didn’t look back either.”

“Yes, but we were teenagers then.”

“Sometimes I wonder if things could have been different, after a point. If there were any of us with you when you were at your lowest, if we had been there.” Minghao’s tone is pensive, “if we could have held you back, just for once, would things have been different?’

Jihoon doesn’t say anything. He’s struck dumb by this revelation, because Minghao is not wrong, at all—he was selfish, and was an awful person when it came to his decision to leave. “I felt guilty, we all did,” Minghao sighs, “I’m not blaming you, hyung, just saying.”

“Doesn’t matter now, does it?” he laughs, but it sounds hollow to his ears, and he wonders if Minghao, on the other side of the call, can hear it too, “doesn’t matter at all.”

“I wish things were different, hyung,” Minghao says, finally, “I’m not going to retract the legal notice, but I wish things were different. Maybe in another time, I would not be sending this notice to the company. But in this lifetime—we’ve got to do whatever we can, right? I know he got what he worked for, and I’m not holding a grudge for that. I just want to understand why it seems like he’s the only one of the entire group of us, who seemed to get whatever they wanted, while we’re the ones who cannot seem to move on from a moment at seventeen.”

“Right.” Jihoon shuts up until Minghao cuts the call, and all of a sudden, the expanse of the sea rushes at him, swallowing him whole. He hadn’t realised when he had stepped onto sand, entirely soaked by the freezing water. Minghao had felt guilty, everyone had. And Jihoon had—

Jihoon had left, of course. He was the one who left, leaving everything behind.

It’s easy to cry in the rain. Your tears are obscured by the failing drops, and all you need to do is hide it as best as you can. Jihoon has realised this now—that tears are cathartic, that they are somewhat of a balm to soothe the hurt caused by his own actions.

As he crumples onto the wet sand, sobbing his heart out, he thinks back to the moments of his youth, the dorm shared with the boys, and everything they had shared, once upon a time. All those memories, now restricted to work calls and pub hangs and legal notices. Who would have thought that the five boys who never really thought beyond their dinner, would grow up to be so complicated?

He really hates nostalgia.

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subbyboysgalore · 2 months ago

Text

movie date <33

a/n: continuation of this thirst post. I'm a little afraid it's ooc but fuck it I've done too many character analyzations for him anyways

summary: yamato is comfortably seated on your lap, the both of you wrapped in a blanket and watching a shitty movie. romantic isn't it, what else could you ever want? well, your cute boyfriend really wants you to stop fucking him so damn slow under the blankets, that's what. but nooo, he has to pay attention to the stupid movie.

tags: cockwarming, edging

type: oneshot, 1,306 words

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡

This.. truly was a shitty movie.

The lighting was horrible, far too dark on important scenes. The (plastic?) props looked oversaturated. Even the main character drawled out his lines like he was bored. It's kinda impressive that a movie could be so mediocre.

Every once in a while, it got so bad that you couldn't help but think about how Yamato could do the job so much better. Your talented boyfriend was so amazing, and you watched every movie of his. When you told him about that, he looked away, uncharacteristically shy. All the more reason to keep telling him about it, over and over again!

Honestly, you were grateful that both you and Yamato didn't personally know any of the actors. Especially if it were Yuki, that would be horribly embarrassing to look him in the eye next time you saw him. After all, this was a special kind of date.

You adjusted your position, unintentionally shifting your hips around. At that, Yamato let out a shaky sigh against your neck. His once lax grip on your sweater tightened a little, the only reaction he offered.

"Are you even watching the movie?" You asked, words unintentionally filled with exasperation. With the way you were fucking him under the blanket, it wasn't surprising his attention was somewhere else. How cute.

'Not.. Not worth it.." His grey eyes were still passively watching though, a little unfocused, but still there. He leaned his cheek against your shoulder, slumping.

Y'know, he never really liked fancy dates. The spotless tablecloths at high end restaurants stressed him out. Crisp and itchy suits reminded him of work and his childhood, and that really wasn't the best thing to remember during a date.

Cuddled against your body like this, and your blanket draped over the both of you? Holding on close like a teddy bear, your body heat enveloped him. This was the dream. Yamato's head looked to the side to watch the (horribly filmed) movie.

“I could do better.” He muttered out.

“That's exactly what I thought too.” You replied, a bit too chipper than what he would have liked. It was like you weren't even affected at all! Here he was, biting down on his lip to hold back a whimper and you were all.. like this! Frustration bubbled up in his stomach, right next to the steadily burning pleasure. How dare you sit there, unaffected when you burned his skin with your touch?!

To be honest, he would have fallen straight to sleep if not for that.. problem.

Despite the cold air of the room, his body couldn't help but flush horribly. Why did he ever bring this date idea up.. maybe he was a bit of a masochist because this felt like torture.

It was supposed to only be a passing thought, only a kink he would entertain for a day or two. But no, fate had other plans. As soon as Yamato causally brought up cockwarming the other day to you, it's like you took it and ran. Your eyes sparkled in excitement, and he couldn't say no to that! God, you looked like a child in a toy store then, as if you weren't just given another opportunity to fuck your boyfriend in another perverted way.

“You're.. such a pervert..!” Yamato groaned out. His sentence ended with a strangled gasp as you leaned forward and kissed the spot between his shoulder and neck. At this point, the tiniest stimulation set him off, skin buzzing with hot electricity.

“Never thought I'd hear that coming from you of all people. Pervert.” Mumbling against his neck, you let your hot breath fan across it. “Shh.. let me watch the movie. You're being too loud, I can't hear what they're saying.”

The blanket wrapping around the both of you made him feel like Yamato wasn't supposed to be doing this, wasn't supposed to feel so filled up. Against his common sense, it shot a thrill of adrenaline through his tense body. Damn his body and the things he was into.

Casually, like you were just stretching, you held his body closer and bucked your hips a few more times. Holding him by the hips to control his movements, you pushed up impossibly deeper. A string of curses burst out of his mouth before he could stop it.

“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck y-you- mmh..”

“Well I'm doing that to you right now so-” your words were interrupted by an annoyed grumble of words from Yamato. His glasses almost fell off from the way he crashed his head into the crook of your neck. Teasing him like this really was the best thing ever. “No, I won't shut up if that's what you want me to do, Yama-san.”

Gritting his teeth, he tried to move his hips forward, to at least soothe the burning heat in his stomach. His whole body felt like a rubber band on the verge of snapping.

“Hey. Stop.”

This time, he couldn't keep his whine back as you held his hips still. Of course, he could keep going if he really wanted to, Yamato wasn't physically weak by any means. But.. the way your assertive and soft command touched his ear did something to him. If he were standing, honestly his legs might've given out a little. He hoped you didn't- never noticed.

“Pay attention to the movie pretty boy.”

“S-stop calling me that.”

You only hummed in reply, too fixated on the way his body twitched when you shifted inside him. After at least an hour of this treatment, he was so sensitive to the tiniest of touches. His ruffled hair flew everywhere, a result of the both of you running your fingers through it. Resisting the urge to coo in cuteness aggression, you opted to kiss his neck again.

“Come on, the movie's almost done, you can hold on for a little longer right?”

“I'll.. I'll break, you won't even let me touch myself, and you won't touch me- gh- so mean..”

You smiled, lips against his shoulder. “You'll be fine, stop being so dramatic.”

He just whined a little more to complain, mind pleasurably blank.

For the remaining twenty minutes of the movie, it actually got a bit more interesting. The (shittily made) mystery unravelled better than you thought it would.. Fortunately for you, the acting got an upgrade. Unfortunately for Yamato, that meant you were paying more attention to the TV than him. Maybe he was a little bit of an attention whore. Only for you though.

Taking advantage of your shifted focus, he ground his hips down, desperate for any kind of stimulation. Fuck, fuck, fuck-

As calmly as ever, you placed your hands on his hips, keeping them still.

“One more minute okay?”

Your tone was a mix of mocking and soothing, and on top of all that, your eyes never left the TV screen. How mean, after all this time you knew that he could get off on your attention. How mean.

“Please, I need to- need to finish please.. p-please touch me- fuck me properly-!”

At that, he clapped a hand over his mouth, his sentence ending in a choked noise. He was just so cute like this, how could you not? Finally, you touched his cock under the blankets, his entire body jerking. He was so pent up and wet, it was a wonder how he didn't start crying at this point.

“Damn..” Your eyes widened a bit. This was probably the first time he'd ever been edged for so long. “You did so well, I think you should have a reward after all this, hmm?”

The movie already ended a few minutes ago, but Yamato didn't seem to care, or notice at all. He's put up with all your antics, why not give him what he wants? After all, he does look cuter fucked out.. maybe you should take a picture.

#x reader #idolish7 x reader #sub character #dom reader #idolish7 #ainana #i7 #nikaido yamato x reader #yamato nikaido x reader #nikaido yamato #yamato nikaido #IM SO SORRY FOR MY INACTIVITY #had a confidence drop in my writing #but then went “im writing anime x readers. i really dont need to worry about dignity here anymore”#shrugs #be cringe be free

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artist-issues · 6 months ago

Note

Sounds like Moana 2 felt like the rushed tv movie it was supposed to be.

THIS IS THE MOANA 2 CRITIQUE POST

I'm tired of excusing things with the word "rushed." If you have less time to produce, you should simplify what you're trying to say. That way, all your small amount of time can be spent on carefully building the best way to say it. Moana 2 felt very unfocused. It felt like it was trying to say:

"You Can’t Survive in Isolation" (but like why not? why do they need their neighboring islands? Don’t make up a reason—tell me the reason the movie showed you.)

"There's Always Another Way” (what? As opposed to what? One way? What One Way was Moana demonstrably sticking to before the not-really-villainess sang her song? Wasn’t finding that One Way ((“learning where to go by remembering who you are/where you’ve been”)) the whole point of the first movie? Now we’re throwing that out the window?)

"Together But a Little Different" ("Different" as in 'In-New-Circumstances' not "Different" as in 'We’re-Different-So-It’s-Hard-to-Relate-to-One-Another,’ which would've been the better, more cohesive sense of ‘Different’.)

“Something-Something Stories Are Important” (literally they just substitute the phrase “we’ll die” with “our story will end.” No mention of why that’s bad, or what makes a story a story, no reason why stories are important, or what for, just throwing the word “story” around vaguely.)

And none of those "themes" I listed just now had a lot of work put into them. That’s it, in a nutshell. But I can flesh-out my argument for those, and present what I think they could’ve easily done differently, if they’d just picked one and worked hard to make it simply good. SPOILERS BELOW.

“You Can’t Survive in Isolation”

We're told in a quick vision that Moana's people will die if they stay in isolation—but there's no showing us that.

In fact, what we've been shown is that they're thriving, they're fine by themselves. They were in the first movie. They are at the beginning of the second.

So we're not convinced that they need what the whole adventure is supposedly about. Compare that to the first movie! Totally doesn't measure up to the storytelling quality!

In the first movie, the whole first act sets up the idea of darkness reaching through the ocean from Tefiti's missing heart, killing everything. That’s especially bad for Moana’s people. We know that because we’re shown how Moana's people are so deeply connected to the ecosystem of their island, and how every part of it is needed for their way of life to continue—then were also shown that Moana has a deep, personal longing to leave the island. There’s a real connection to home and an urgent need to leave it, and that creates really good emotional tension.

So by the time we're shown (not told in one scene, or through snatches of overdone dialogue, but shown) how the darkness will destroy everything if she doesn't go, we really believe it. We have lots of reasons to empathize with and believe in Moana’s reason for going on this mission. We also feel for her having to make the big decision; we’ve been shown that she’s trying to live up to her responsibilities, and leaving the island would seem like a dismissal of those responsibilities, but we can also see how doing nothing and staying actually would be a dismissal. We feel that tension because they showed us several believable reasons to feel it.

But when Moana is singing “Beyond,” which is supposedly about her conflicting feelings about leaving, and the need to go? I’m just bored. Not emotionally invested. I just saw her going back-and-forth, leaving and coming back, leaving and coming back, one song ago, in “We’re Back.” And everything was fine during that song. Leaving-And-Coming-Back is the dream she’s been living as a voyager. So why is she suddenly convinced it’s a hard decision to…leave-and-plan-to-come-back?

“Because the last voyager died doing this mission she’s about to go on! She might die too!” Okay but all you did was tell me that. You didn’t show me Moana nearly-dying (like she did the first time she tried to cross the reef, or the first time she tried to tackle Te Ka on her own) and then realizing, “gee, oh no, I could die this time,” and then having to make a renewed decision to go anyway. You didn’t put work in, so I don’t believe it.

But the emotion Moana is feeling about leaving is also undercut, like I said, because there doesn’t seem to be a need for her to leave. All they did was tell me that Motunui is in trouble if it stays isolated. But no proof. They were fine isolated from other islands in Moana 1. They have been fine up until now in Moana 2. One random vision of an empty pavilion for three seconds isn’t going to make me forget that and believe that continued isolation will do anything negative to them.

And another thing, what does “uniting with other islands” even mean?” Why would it be such a good thing?

Nobody mentions trade. Nobody mentions learning from one another, or demonstrates learning from one another. Honestly, having Kele teach Moana or Moni or the Kakamora, an actual other-islander, about farming would’ve been a great demonstration of “why we need to meet new people and get out more.”

Having Kele LEARN TO SWIM would have been a SLOW ONE DOWN THE MIDDLE.

But nooo. They just half-bake suggest the idea that the old man doesn’t like leaving his comfort zone, but then never let one of the others have a real conversation with him about why he needs to learn new things from new people. NEVER. It’s just “bouncy vague song, almost-jump-in-the-water-under-coercion BUT NEVER ACTUALLY DO IT, banter and one liners” for the rest of the movie! (And don’t tell me Kele “learning to speak Kakamora” was an example of him “getting out of his comfort zone.” No. Kele never demonstrated a lack of desire to meet and learn new things from strangers. He demonstrated a hatred of fun and the ocean. All the others could also understand the Kakamora literally whenever they needed to, so that wasn’t a special-character-arc for Kele.)

Even though, my point is, they could’ve easily had a character arc for Kele. And that would’ve had something to do with “learn new things from new people, or die stagnant and stuck in your ways,” look, see, a mini-object-lesson in one character’s journey about the theme of the movie. But noooo

They could’ve done the same type of “learn-something-new-or-die” with Moni. Have him be convinced that doing things the “traditional Motunui Wayfinding Way” on this, his first adventure, is the ONLY way to do things. But he’s not good at it, no matter how much head-knowledge he has. And then the Kakamora (or literally any non-Motunui-character) could’ve shown him a newly-developed style for him to learn and grow.

They could’ve done the same type of “learn-something-new-or-die” with Loto. But nope. She just has a really poorly-done, poorly-written, poorly-performed snippet of a song where she mentions how… “perfection is a myth, the journey is just failing, learning, then death, no destination, ever.” But that ridiculous, absolutely absurd worldview is not portrayed as something she’s wrong about or needs to grow out of. It’s portrayed as a good, quirky, revolutionary thing.

But that’s not the same thing as portraying the value I’m describing. Loto just sings about it and invents-and-reinvents canoes. She does not learn how to make canoes from outsiders. She doesn’t learn anything from anybody. She is portrayed as a solitary genius with her own ideas who’s never once shown to be wrong about anything in the whole movie, and everything she tries works. She never messes up or makes a mistake, for all her singing about it. So she never actually “falls on her face, then gets up and learns.” Even though learning from others would be the literal only way for her character to portray the idea of this vague theme they throw out there, “You Can’t Survive in Isolation.”

The point is: there is no reason, in-movie, SHOWN, for the audience to believe that Moana should “re-unite the islands.” There’s no believable demonstration of why that would be a good thing, and no believable demonstration of why not doing it would be a bad thing.

So then why do we care if she risks her life and Maui’s life to re-unite the islands? For a bunch of nameless nobody background characters to show up for a five-second afterparty on Motunui at the end? Ridiculous.

Moving on.

“There’s Always Another Way”

So BUMP ALL THAT, I GUESS.

Matangi, everybody’s Cherished Hope for a New Villain, sings a song and it’s about “get lost, there is no one way, there’s always a different way.”

Fine. Cool. Whatever. The whole point of the first movie was that there’s this symbolic, ancient, WAY of sailing and living your life bravely. And Moana doesn’t know what that One WAY is because her tribe had forgotten it, so she has to learn it. It’s cool, because you navigate by looking at where you’ve been, to see where you’re going. It’s the whole “remember who you are in order to face life’s challenges, not hide from them.” That’s “the Way.” But whatever. Dump that down the toilet, new movie. You know why? Because everybody’s obsessed with “There’s No One Truth,” and “There Is No Right and Wrong,” and “Let’s Experience Things Just to Experience Them, the Journey is the Destination Because We’re not Going Anywhere!” Blah blah blah ridiculous inane sewage slop.

BUT whatever, fine, IF you mean it in a “There’s Lot’s of Ways to Solve Most Problems, Try Try Again,” sense, that’s okay. That’s true for most problems (not all, but most, certainly there are more than one ways to sail.) Sure. that message, if that’s what they mean, is fine. That’s the sense in which Moana takes it, at least, when she dives down to touch the Core Island and break the curse instead of it rising.

But you know what? Yeah. They don’t flesh it out. They don’t take time to show that that’s what’s happening. Moana doesn’t try to teach her new crew how to sail, and they suck at it, but if she lets them do it their own way or whatever, then they work—and she learns there’s “more than one way.” That doesn’t happen.

The Kakamora that joins their team doesn’t solve all his problems with blow darts, or violence, or whatever—and then Moana, or the kindhearted Moni, or the peaceful Kele, tells him, “no, there’s another way, you don’t always have to do things your violent way.” That doesn’t happen.

Loto has one moment where she applies the way she was already living according-to, from the moment we meet her, not a NEW way, to the canoe so that the gang can out-sail magical waterspouts. And it works for like twenty seconds, is played like a great triumph, before they all get smashed into the ocean anyway.

Kele, again, would’ve been a great example of “learn to do things in a different way, or problem-solve by try-trying again.” Because he’s old and they set him up as hating life for no reason and not wanting to do new things. But they didn’t do anything with him.

And guess what else—at the end—when Moana has her own demigod powers, and her own magical-arm-tattoo ripped off from Tears of the Kingdom—guess what her magic power is?

To stick her oar in the water, and light up one current or “path” for the boat to take to a new destination.

A Path. ONE SINGULAR SOLITARY WAY.

Not “a new way.” Not “all possible ways.” Not “multiple ways.” Not even two ways. One. Even though the big lesson she sacrificed her life for, even though the one and only song Matangi got to sing, was about how “there’s always another way.”

WHILE they’re singing a reprise of, “We Know THE Way.”

It’s like being in a conversation with someone who starts a sentence and then forgets what they were saying halfway through, and winds up saying worse than nothing.

“Together, But a Little Different”

Like I said, if you told me that the Main Point of the movie (not one of many vague ideas, but the Main Point) was “Together, But a Little Different,” I immediately would’ve said:

“Oh, so it’s about having to adjust to long-distance relationships. Maybe even death.” Or, maybe, because I saw the trailers, I’d go, “Oh, so it’s about keeping what makes us unique, but uniting when we need to, in spite of our differences. ‘Together, But a Little Different.’”

No. It’s not about any of that. It’s just a phrase the Grandma’s Ghost says whenever she hugs Moana to remind her that she’s still “with her.” She’s still with her; she just glows and can shapeshift into a manta ray now! That has tons of application for real life. 🙄

It’s supposed to be her words of comfort to pass on to Moana, who can then pass it on to the people in her island, so they know that she won’t “ever really leave them.” But like. Then why should I care that she’s leaving them? Why should that be sad? If there’s no sacrifice in being apart, in leaving for the adventure, then the adventure keeps feeling low-stakes and boring and kind of pointless.

If you tilt your head and squint, it’s also maybe-applying to Moana’s pointless ugly annoying Little Sister character, Simea. Simea is in the movie so that someone can be immature for three seconds about how Moana’s always gone from home. And I do mean exactly three seconds, that’s all the emotional drama we get, and it’s not built up to either. She says, “Never come back? -sniff sniffle- I don’t want you to gooo!” And then runs away and then Moana takes a break from singing the next day to briefly explain to Simea about how she can pass messages through the ocean. Then she’s fine.

But the way this theme is thrown around, you think it would mean, “Moana Has to Go Away Sometimes, But if You Remember Her She Never Leaves You.”

But seriously. Again I say to you, who cares? We know Moana is coming back. We know that. Nobody in the audience seriously believes she’s never coming back when she leaves for this adventure. If we did, maybe we’d care that Simea cares. But we don’t.

Even when Moana “dies,” and it’s the perfect time to be like, “seeee, what we feeeared has happened, she’s dead, she can never go home to Simea!” THERE IS NO FOLLOW-THROUGH. There’s not even a cut to Simea back on Motonui, feeling through the ocean or the Force or whatever movie mumbo-jumbo that her sister is gone. And there is not even a deadline, in the movie, for Moana to accomplish this mission, so it’s not like she could be running late and we could get some scenes of Moana’s family mourning. Simea having to do something, take some big step, that show’s she’s willing to go on even if she can’t be with Moana anymore because she believed Moana about how she’s always with her—something like that.

My point is, Simea has no real point, so she doesn’t add to this “Together, But Different.” idea at all. And we already know that it doesn’t mean, “overcome our differences” from what I said in the first Theme.

But what they could have done? They COULD have gone whole-hog and MADE MOANA A BELIEVABLE DEMIGOD. Instead of a vague joke about tattoos that leaves the question open-ended, a pointless and theme-breaking display of shiny superpowers, and no other change to the status quo—

—they could’ve shown that there are consequences to that action—maybe she’s a Demigod of Navigation, or something like that, and the condition is, she can sail around connecting islands, but she can never stay on one too long. So she’ll never be able to live with Simea and her parents again on Motunui, but it’s the price she has to pay to connect the islands. Then she’d have to show Simea how they can still be “Together, Just a Little Different.”

Or someone could’ve gotten hurt or disabled, giving off the idea that even though everything is “different,” they can still be “together.”

Maui could’ve died and passed his fishhook powers, AND MINI MAUI, on to Moni or Moana. “Together, but different.”

Nothing, nothing at all like that happens. It’s just a pretty phrase that could’ve meant something, but any meaning it actually has hamstrings the whole emotional weight of the story instead of fueling it.

“Something-Something Stories Are Important”

The thing here is. I already said it. You can’t just say words and expect them to be impactful, in a story. You’re supposed to show what they mean and why they’re true, and THAT’S what creates an impact.

So when you’re talking about “stories” in a story, you definitely should not have nothing to say.

And I can feel it. I’ve seen none of the promotional material, I don’t watch the interviews, I haven’t checked BuzzFeed or ScreenRant or the Disney Youtube page in a while, but I can feel it.

I can feel them trying to say, “Something Something, ‘Storytelling’ is a big part of Pacific Islander Culture!” I can imagine the headlines. “[Actor or Disney Exec Name Here] Invites You to Celebrate Your Story with Pacific Islander Heritage Month!” They’re so into “culture as a marketing tool” these days.

But they say it so lazily. Just repeating the word “story” over and over in the movie doesn’t pay tribute to how important “stories” are to Pacific Islanders. Or to anybody.

You know what makes stories impactful? They point at truth, when the darkness and misunderstandings and evil of the world threaten to distract you or hide the truth. That’s what makes stories impactful. I’m sure Pacific Islanders use stories in that way—to pass on what they believe to be true, in a way that can be retold and remembered.

So MAKE THAT THE THEME OF YOUR MOVIE. Instead of just having Moana replace “Nalo wants to kill us” with “Nalo wants to end our story” for Empty Effect—instead of having Grandma say something about “your e

Okay okay.

Nalo is a silly, lazy villain. He is clearly a Thanos rip-off in design and introduction in a literal post-credits scene, and his most-present form, in the movie, is just a big ocean thunderstorm. But the laziest thing about him is that he’s the Conflict that everyone is trying to rise up and overcome, and the whole reason he sunk the Island was “He gets power from humans being divided.”

That’s never explained. It’s never shown at all why he gets power from the vague “humans are divided” thing. He has no scenes. He has no interactions with other characters (till the end-credits scene.) A range of his power, like “here’s what it looks like when the humans are divided—oh, now here’s how much less-powerful he is when they’re together!” is never shown. So. No consequences if the heroes fail, no change to the status-quo, villain-wise, when they win.

If Nalo wanted to end their stories, though, that would be another thing.

Stories are meant to be told. They’re for the benefit of others. So what they should’ve done is made the secret key of Nalo’s power hidden. Unknown. Nobody knows how to beat him. And he’s not sinking some unfindable island in another dimension. He’s just devouring the resources of the weather with his ever-more-powerful storms, (kind of like the darkness leaking through the ocean from the first movie) and nobody can stop him.

But that’s because each island, around Oceania, has clues to how to beat him. Clues in their stories. But they can only sail so far from what they know before his storms kill them. So he’s literally making them weaker by using his power to keep them apart, and making himself stronger by defending his weakness. Now they can’t Wayfind to each other, and learn one another’s cultural advancements or stories or beauties, because Nalo is powerful enough to make storms that rip their boats apart. But if they could learn from one another’s stories about the things their ancestors used against him, they could get rid of him.

That’s what they should’ve done. Shown why Nalo was a threat and how the Main Theme was the key to overcoming that threat.

They did not do that.

They made stories just a hot button word to be thrown around with no impact. In a story.

The point of this post is that Moana 2 had a lot of potentially-good points, and it made none of them, so it was totally unsatisfying. If it had just focused on one, the other little benefits they were trying to fit in could’ve been mentioned more naturally.

The way that Beauty & the Beast is all about ONE theme: “True Love is Self-Sacrificial.” But because of the tools it uses to tell that story—a beast that it would take a lot of self-sacrifice to be stuck with forever—you get little side-themes thrown in, supporting and draping decoratively over the ONE theme: “Beauty is Found Within, So Don’t Be Deceived By Appearances,” etc.

Moana 2 should’ve just picked the Story One, and it could’ve had that theme, and it’s cultural-nod cake, and it’s unifying-effect cake, and EATEN IT TOO.

And we could’ve eaten it. And WE could’ve enjoyed it! But no. Money money money lazy lazy lazy.

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bwobgames · 1 month ago

Text

“Woah… a real ghost…”

“You seem well educated, why are you scared of ghosts? Or even believe in them?”

“Well, its hard not to! Everyone says they are real and scary!”

“Also, ugh, I was forced to tell you sorry for being ‘creepy’ or whatever. I’m not creepy though!”

“It’s normal for girls to look at other girls and appreciate how attractive they are!”

“It’s true, I was the same at your age. Comes in every girl’s life”

She ignores the fact that she is married to a woman.

“But at the end you end up with a guy regardless, yeah?”

“…Maybe”

“I’ll have to end up with Fede, which is kinda gross but I’ll get over it probably”

“Wh- What do you mean you ‘have’ to? Is someone forcing you to marry him?”

“No, no, it’s not like, planned or anything, it’s just…”

“We know each other for a long time, and our parents know each other for a long time and are good friends and they love to say we’re like a couple and plan stuff for when 'our families become one' and …”

“I’m not like, being forced to marry him or anything but like. Seems like things are heading that way”

“It wouldn’t be awful really, he’s my friend so we already get along, And! I get to stay at home all day while he fucks around in his dad’s business! I’ll be set for life!”

“And then what”

“Huh?”

“Once you achieve the life of your dreams, the perfect life”

“What comes next?”

“Uh. Kids?”

“Would that make it better?”

“Well, I wouldn’t get bored with kids…”

“And you’ll be happy with that?”

“Of course! It’s the dream! Everyone wants that!”

She’s right, of course. Anyone would want that life.

The correct life.

The one she’s been following, set for her, sacrificed for her.

Her parents might’ve been strict, but they taught her well, she will never fault her for doing what they thought would make her happy.

(But did they ever really do it for me?)

They taught her to take shortcuts, to cut all possible loses, to cut the floor beneath another person if necessary, to lie, to cheat.

To live with the sacrifices of others.

To love numbers, to live numbers, to see people as numbers.

To recognize the opportunity of a lifetime when it’s presented to her.

She could always recognize people like her by the way they smile.

Too perfect, too controlled. Too aware of their teeth.

Unlike her uncle’s smile. Yellow and crooked. Unbothered.

She was not unhappy, by all means she cannot say she was miserable.

Having high quality health care at her hand is more than most of the population could ever wish for. Not having to worry to survive until the next pay is a relief as well.

She is with her best friend, working together, being successful.

She has reached the top.

But she’s hungry.

She can differentiate right from wrong, she has let her family into an idyllic state of never worrying about money again. She is what everyone desires.

So there must be something deeply wrong when she’s still hungry

A hunger that is only satiated when she brushes her own hair. When she chooses her own clothes. When she’s in charge of decisions. When she can stand her ground in an argument.

A hunger that only grows with every stolen glance, with small touches, with an unbothered smile, an understanding voice.

Something that beckons to her to run away, to forget everything and start anew, to call her uncle and finally have that camping trip he offered. To say No to the ring.

But she can’t.

Because it’s not right.

It’s not what’s supposed to happen. It’s not what’s supposed to make her happy. It’s what she was taught. It’s what made her who she is.

It’s what everyone says.

And they’re all full of shit.

“I don’t think you’d be wrong to share the rest of your life with your friend, as long as you keep things as they are”

“Forcing yourself to a role you didn’t ask for is… detrimental in the long run”

“You’re young, surely someone as tenacious as you won’t bend down to the whims of some old rich guys, yeah?”

“Huh…?”

“You’ll get it when you’re older. I know you got a heart in there somewhere”

“I know it wants more than what they can offer.”

“Oh, it’s dinner time. Let’s go. It’s rude to keep people waiting”

“Wuh, uh ah, yes!”

Sometimes she really wishes things were different.

That she didn’t make so many mistakes.

That she noticed the lie sooner.

She grieves her youth.

<-PREV START NEXT->

#detective beebo overnight train #Traeme más personajes Charlie vengo inspirado #I enjot her. I shall make her. playlist #thats how you know it got to me

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trippinsorrows · 11 months ago

Text

looking through your eyes + five

authors note: soooo, i both hate and love this one. can't tell if i'm just being super hard on myself, but it feels flat and a bit boring, but i also know if i keep messing with it, i'll never feel wholly satisfied, so here is the best version i could come up with!

it does include more of roman's background though so....there's that at least lmao

if any cw/tw’s are missed, please let me know, and i will add them!

cw/tw: sexual harassment, language, violence, ptsd episode (dissociation, avoidance, breakdown), torture

song inspo: ‘looking through your eyes’ by leann rimes

masterlist

words: 8k

Solana has come to the realization that training isn’t entirely awful.

Or maybe it’s the fact that along with training, she’s allowed the chance to socialize, to be around other people and learn to not be so nervous all of the time. Naomi is a great person for that, bubbly and naturally personable. She’s created such a welcoming space that has left Solana feeling less and less nervous.

A couple weeks into training, Solana also feels like she’s growing more comfortable in her learning. It’s still the very basics, a lot of focus on flexibility, but it feels good. It feels almost relieving to be able to learn certain skills and tips that she can use to maybe one day defend herself.

To maybe one day be able to take care of herself.

Or maybe some dreams are just too big to wish for.

It’s the end of her session with Naomi, and Solana is in the women’s locker rooms, having just finished her shower. She’s in her head a bit, mentally going over what she’s going to make Roman for dinner.

He’s been gone more often than not the past couple weeks, and she’s torn on that. On one hand, it’s nice not to be around a man who she’s supposed to be figuring out a way to kill, a man whose presence alone creates an additional layer of anxiety on top of the pre-existing baseline that is her everyday anxiety

But…..

But, there’s also a part of her that….that wouldn’t be too opposed if he was around more. Being alone in the big house also creates a space of anxiety. If…if he was present more, maybe she could learn how to interact with him.

Could learn him.

It’s this strange thought process that’s so confusing and almost overwhelming for her that it keeps her from noticing the pending danger lurking just steps away.

“Hey, Solana.”

Solana gasps loudly, spinning around, her eyes widening at Austin Theory who stands before her with that same predatory smile. She opens her mouth to scream, but she’s too slow.

Austin backs her against the lockers and slaps his hand over her mouth. His other hand moves to pin her hands over her hand. Instantly, her heart is beating out her fucking chest, an intense weight of dread anchoring her down.

Solana feels paralyzed. She is paralyzed.

“Always so damn jumpy. All we wanna do is get to know you....”

It’s almost perfect timing when another man appears, Grayson. But, it’s when he sees Austin and Solana that he frowns, walking over, “man, what the hell are you doing?”

Austin rolls his eyes, laughing. “Come on, don’t be a little bitch. It’s just a little fun.”

“This isn’t funny, Austin. If Reigns finds out—”

“What the fuck is he gonna do, huh?” Austin scoffs, gaze returning back on Solana who has her eyes clenched shut, tears threatening to spill over. “And you’re not going to say anything to him anyway, are you?”

Solana gasps, breathing uneven as Austin lowers his hand to tug on the knot of her towel just enough to loosen it but not enough to undo it. Regardless, it’s that one act that truly immobilizes her because she’s no longer standing before this man as a grown woman.

She’s that 12 year old little girl completely unaware of what night of horrors is about to be unleashed on her, the way an unspeakable act of evil perpetrated on an innocent child is going to lead her down a dark, depressing path.

And she’s frozen, frozen in time, forever stuck in that state of suffering.

Grayson’s eyes fall on Solana, seeing that she’s almost no longer present, dissociating, and that seemingly freaks him out even more. He tugs on Austin’s shoulder. “You had your fun, mate. Let’s fucking go.”

Austin has never been one to listen to others. Ever. But in a testament to his cruelty, Solana’s lack of reaction, lack of struggling and displaying helplessness in front of him wanes the enjoyment. He doesn’t get off as much, doesn’t feel as empowered as he does by making people feel small.

So with a scoff and not an ounce of influence from Grayson in his ear, he releases her, stepping back with a smirk as she instantly moves her arms over her chest.

“Relax, Mrs. Reigns.” She’s anything but, and it brings a smile to his face. It’s so fucking easy to get her unnerved. “Just messing with ya, that’s all.”

There’s more distant talking, snickering and combatting with someone speaking quietly but urgently. Solana can make out part of that as she gradually returns to a state of awareness. Enough to where she’s eventually cognizant of the fact that they’ve left, that she’s alone, that they no longer pose an immediate threat.

But, they do. They do, because what if they come back?

Chest still tightening, breathing still erratic, Solana rushes over to the door, shaking hands managing to shut it closed and locked. But, it’s not enough to just be alone, to know that no one can come in and try to hurt her.

Because she still feels it.

Still feels hands on her, restricting her, bounding her, and it makes her sick.

Hand over her mouth, Solana does her best to push back the nausea, rushing over to the showers, turning the knob so that it’s at full strength.

And heat too.

Shoving the towel off her body, she steps under the scalding water and grabs the soap, immediately scrubbing at her body. It’s unnecessary force, unnecessary heat, unnecessary altogether, but it’s the only thing that gives her a faux sense of comfort. She needs to wash the feeling of them off of her, scrub until her skin starts to look wrinkled and raw, her complexion tinging with redness from the heat of the water.

Eventually, the scrubbing stops feeling like enough. Nothing feels like enough, and she falls back against the wall of the shower, sliding down as she pulls her knees to her chest.

And she cries, the water blending seamlessly with the tears that filter out the drain in a way she wishes the heavy feelings wrecking her body would melt away.

Safe.....

It's a dream that she'll never achieve.

A wasted hope.

A lie.

—-----------

“The RKO proposal is pretty decent.”

“But not good enough.” Roman’s dismissal is swift and to the point. “I want 75% of all profits.”

Rikishi presses his lips together, calmly reminding, “that’s gonna be a hard sell.”

“Orton is desperate. He’s an imbecile who uses more products than he moves and is running Bob’s legacy into the ground.” Roman is a man who prides himself on always being on the up and up. He makes it his business to know what’s going on with all competitors and even partnerships. “He should consider my offer fucking mercy. 75% or nothing.”

Rikishi sits back in his chair, a proud smile growing on his face. “I’ve taught you well, Uce”

There’s a modicum of truth to his cousin’s words, but for the most part, Roman has learned more on his own than anything anyone could have ever taught him.

“What’s the status of the imports from Columbia?”

Jey leans forward, answering without pause. “Scheduled to arrive just on time, assuming nothing goes awry.”

“Who’s managing?”

“Tama.”

Roman nods. “It’ll be fine.” His distant cousin, Tama Tonga is a bit on the……eccentric side, but he’s never failed to see a successful shipment through from beginning to end.

“If…..” Paul’s low but firm voice enters the conversation, Roman’s lazy gaze falling on the man. “If I may, my Tribal Chief?” With the nod of approval from the Head of the Table, Paul clears his throat. “By my calculations, there’s a way for us to improve on the total time it currently takes for us to move product by over 40% with some minor….changes.”

Jimmy, who sits almost bored at the other side of the table, feet propped up, asks in a suspicion tone. “What kind of changes?”

Paul clears his throat. “If we were to have access to the Eastern harbor—”

At that, both Jimmy and Jey land eyes on their cousins head counsel. Jey is the first to speak though. “You know that’s Nightmare territory, correct?”

Paul’s voice is surprisingly calm. “I do.” A nervous set of blue eyes settle on the man who sits at the head of the table, the primary one who needs to be convinced of the possible benefits of what he’s about to suggest. “If we would just consider—”

“No.” Roman’s rejection is loud and echoes throughout the conference room. “How could you even fucking suggest that shit?”

“My Tribal Chief, if you could please hear out my—”

Roman’s fist banging against the table sends an alert to all members of this current meeting that the Tribal Chief word is final and unchanging. “I said…..no.”

Rikishi shakes his head, thankful that a stern rejection is the extent of his cousin’s reaction. He can’t believe Paul could even be stupid enough to even suggest such a thing to Roman. Perhaps he could be swayed over to see the business and financial benefits, but Roman…..no, that history runs too deep and bleeds too much red for Roman Reigns to ever consider some sort of ceasefire or let alone alliance with The Nightmare Factory.

“Well, that shit got awkward real fast,” Jey mutters, uncomfortable with the sudden shift in the atmosphere. Even if it makes all the sense in the world. “How about that marriage life?

Roman shuts his eyes. It’s jumping from one annoying topic to another. “What?”

“Man, Big Dog living good over there,” Jimmy’s smile is wide as he rubs his hands together. “Lil Soso can cook her ass off!”

“Stop calling her that.”

“Speaking of ass, she pregnant yet?”

This is why Roman didn’t want to get on this subject, because he knew where it would lead to, another road he’s not trying to go down right now.

Rikishi chimes in, “their delivery is trash, but the question is still fair. Is there a chance she’s pregnant?” A sly smile falls on his face as he teases, “I know you well enough, Uce, that I don’t need to remind you of the importance of trying.”

Jey snorts. “That ain’t never been a problem for any of us. Especially Roman. Man, I still don’t know how you don’t have a gaggle of lil mean mugging ass kids running around here.”

The answer is simple, and Roman expresses as such. “Because I know how to fucking use a condom unlike you idiots.”

“Hey. I don’t know what you talking about. All my kids by Nicki.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing.”

At that, Jey jumps out the chair, Jimmy rolling his eyes as Paul shakes his head and sighs heavily. “Ayo, you the Tribal Chief and everything, but you not gon’ keep disrespecting my wife like that, aight?”

“Where did you sleep last night, Jey?” Roman’s tone is both bored and knowing, especially as Jey’s gaze drops the same way his ass does right back in his seat. “That’s what I thought.”

“Just…” Rikishi’s voice is louder, allowing him to realign the conversation. “Keep us updated, Roman. When she does get pregnant, you’ll need to up her security.”

“I’m aware.” Just like he’s aware of the fact that unless this girl is the virgin fucking Mary and will have an immaculate conception, there’s no need to worry about that right now.

Or ever.

His business phone lighting up with a familiar name across the screen is both a welcomed surprise as well as distraction for Roman. Without hesitation, he answers, watching the TV anchored on the wall light up.

Roman’s shoulder straightens as he leans back further into the soft Italian leather of his chair. “Dwayne.”

“Roman.” Dwayne removes the stereotypical dark glasses Roman always grew accustomed to seeing his cousin wear in any interaction. His smile beams. “Long time no fucking see, cousin.”

Roman shrugs, answering honestly, “been busy.”

“I saw that. Congratulations on the marriage. An invite would have been fucking nice.”

At that, Roman chuckles, calling out his bluff. “Like you would have come.”

Dwayne’s laughter echoes through the office. “Fair.” He then greets the rest of the men present, though it’s a surprise to no one that his initial exchange is solely with Roman. They’ve always had a great bond, even better business partnership, hence the position Roman has placed him in. “You know why I’m calling though”

And there goes the ‘fun’ while it lasted. Straight into business with his big cousin. He respects it immensely though. Dwayne is all about profit and efficiency and ensuring the smoothness of operations. “The same reason you always reach out, cause it’s not that often.”

“It’s been a couple years, cousin….”

“I’m aware.”

And he is.

6 years, to be precise.

“You need to fly out here.” Dwayne isn’t saying anything Roman doesn’t already know, hasn’t already heard. “They need to see your face.”

“They have you.”

Dwayne snorts. “They hate me almost as much as they hate you.” They being that other side of Roman’s family, the side that he could go on with the rest of his life without seeing or speaking to. The side that probably feels the same about him and his Tribal tattoos, long hair, and skin that is not like theirs.

Yeah….hate is definitely the right word.

“Do you care?”

“Hell no.” The answer is surprising, unlike Dwayne’s next statement. “But, I do care when shit starts to get more openly disrespectful.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re becoming bolder with questioning your leadership. Less subtle. More direct.”

At that, Roman’s attention is fully captured. He sits up in his seat. “Is that so?”

The twins, Rikishi, and Paul all exchange knowing glances, having been wisely quiet to allow the Head of the Table to conduct business as he sees fit. But this, they all know where this is going.

“Maybe it is time I remind them who the fuck is in charge here.” As much as Roman loathes the idea of having to be around and interact with these fuckers, nothing vexes him more than having his authority challenged.

Like he’s not the one, the two, and the three they’ve been looking for.

“I’ll see about flying out within the next week.”

Jey speaks up for the first time. “I can’t just leave on that short notice—”

“Did I say I needed you to come with me?” It’s a bit of a rhetorical question. “I can handle this on my own.”

As is his preference with most things, because in Roman’s opinion, most things are handled better and in the way that most pleases him when he does it himself. His expectations can only be set and maintained or exceeded by him.

“At least take Paul with you, Uce.” Rikishi suggests, and in the moment, it’s last thing he wants. Paul’s already pissed him off enough for the day. “They need to be straightened out, not taken out. Paul can help you keep that balance.��

Roman isn’t obstinate enough to disagree with that. Paul does have his uses, one of which being his ability to talk Roman down when the preference is to just kill motherfuckers the second he deems them annoying.

And that’s not the goal for this trip.

Not yet, anyway.

“Fine. Wise Man and I will go.” There are far too many other things on Roman’s plate for him to push back on a plus one. This is immaterial to the larger picture. “Dwayne, start the preparations.”

“You got it, brotha’. I’ll keep in touch.”

The screen goes dark as Dwayne ends the call. Roman reclines back in his chair, a mixture of muddy, dark, bleak emotions. The idea of having to be around his maternal family is quite literally sickening to him. He hates those sons of bitches almost as much as they hate and despise him.

But on another hand, the idea of getting away from all this, from this Solana dilemma, there could be some benefits. He’d be gone for a couple of weeks, perhaps even a month. Maybe in that space he’ll come back to a different kind of woman. A woman who knows how to fucking stand up for herself instead of being so scared all the time.

And as if reading his cousin’s mind, Jimmy breaks the silence, asking, “Ayo, Roman, you sure you should be leaving—”

A knock on the door seems to only exacerbate the tension as Roman snaps. “What?”

Alicia, his secretary, easy on the eyes and effective in what she does, opens the door just enough to stick her head through. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Reigns—”

“So why are you?” It’s well known that Roman is a man who hates interruptions, especially when he’s in the middle of a briefing meeting, and she knows this well. Might be time for a new secretary.

Alicia swallows and calmly explains, “your cousin, Nia, is on line one. She says she needs to speak to you immediately.”

“She can wait.”

“With….all due respect, sir, it sounds like an emergency. She’s been blowing up the lines all morning.”

Curious, Roman turns his personal phone over and sees his lock screen littered with missed calls, texts, and a voicemail all from one person.

Nia.

With a heavy sigh, Roman dismisses Alicia. “I’ll handle it.”

Quietly, she closes the door and he unlocks his phone to return the call. Nia never makes such an effort to get in contact with him. Some shit must have went down, though his mind still wonders what level of bullshit could have occurred that even she can’t handle.

Phone laid on the table, he dials and places it on speaker.

“It’s about fucking time, you asshole!” Her introduction is unsurprising. “I’ve been trying to call you for almost an hour.”

Roman is already tempted to hang up the phone and block her until further notice. “What do you want, Nia?”

“You need to get down here now.” He’s still not hearing anything that would warrant him moving an inch. “Your fucking Princess Peach wife—”

But at that, Roman’s interest is piqued. He sits forward in his chair. “What about her?”

“I don’t know, she had a mental breakdown or something and has locked herself in the locker rooms. We can’t get her to come out—”

Right away, Roman gets to blaming and accusing. “What the fuck did you do to her?” Nia can’t respond before he asks the next important question. “Where the fuck was Solo!”

“I didn’t do anything, Roman! And Solo can’t be with her in the fucking women’s locker room!” Nia’s defense is as sharp as his imputation. “I told you that girl isn’t made for this life. She’s a fucking problem! Come get her now, or I’m going to blow the damn doors off myself.”

Highly vexed with Nia’s smart ass mouth as well as the nature of the situation, Roman slams his finger on the end button and stands up from his chair, rolling his shoulders. “Fucking hell.”

Jey, just as confused as everyone else, decides to be the sacrificial lamb, asking, “Roman, what was that—”

“You two come with me. Wise Man. Rikishi. Finish and send out the response to Orton’s proposal.” Roman issues out indisputable commands as he marches out of the room, the twins not hesitating to hop up and follow suit. Confused or not, they know better than to question their cousin when he’s in one of these moods.

They don’t even say anything for the beginning portion of the ride to the Warehouse, a rarity for them considering they always have something to say. But this time, they wait for Roman to break the silence, and he eventually does, still just as angry.

“I don’t have time to be dealing with this shit!” To say Roman is pissed would be an understatement. He’s livid. For a lot of different reasons, really, maybe even mostly at the fact that his head counsel had the unmitigated gall to even utter Rhodes name around him.

Roman would see the entire empire go up in smoke and flames before he’d ever agree to any sort of alliance with that son of a bitch.

That only adds on top of the fact that the Italian faction of his empire seems to be questioning his ability to lead, as if the data doesn’t clearly support that business has never been better. The cash flow is endless. Numbers don’t lie.

But, Roman knows the real reason for their insubordination.

It’s because of his father, the Samoan blood that runs through his veins. His being afakasi. Mixed. They believe that following that night, the alliance between the Bloodline and the Guild, an alliance sealed by the marriage of his father and mother, should have been dissolved. That someone from his mother’s side, a full blooded Italian, should sit on that metaphorical throne.

But, that’s not the case.

Roman assumed power because it is his by birthright, and he’ll be damned if he lets some ignorant fucks try to take it from him.

So yes….there are a lot of different reasons for his anger.

But, it’s a lot easier to blame it on the reason he’s in an SUV now, heading to a place he didn’t even plan to attend today.

“I’m not going to keep dealing with this shit with her.” He’s not even entirely sure who he’s speaking to at this point, or if he’s directing his statements to anyone in particular. Just needing to vent and get it out.

“What do you mean keep dealing?” Jimmy is the first to pick up on his cousin’s wording. “Something like this happen before?”

The twins look between each other and then back at Roman who runs his hand over his face, realizing that if there’s anyone he can trust to keep this between them, it’s the twins. Annoying and sometimes dimwitted, they’re notoriously loyal and can sometimes provide sage advice.

“She had a complete meltdown on the wedding night. Panic attack, wouldn’t stop crying.” Roman conveniently leaves out the part of him talking her down from a panic attack. They don’t need to know that.

No one needs to know that.

“After ya’ll….”

“No.” He answers, honestly. “We didn’t even do it. She was too hysterical.”

“Wait a minute.” It doesn’t surprise Roman that Jimmy is the first to put two and two together. “So you ain’t even fucked her yet? But you said—”

“I know what I said.” He doesn’t need to be reminded of anything. Roman’s memory is long and sharp. “I also know what I do and don’t feel like dealing with right now.”

“Uce, the only reason you even married this girl was so that she could give you an heir. How the hell is that supposed to happen if she won’t even let you touch her?” As much as Roman wants to snap at his cousins, he can’t. He can’t because they’re right. It’s something he’s thought about on and off since the wedding night.

It’s painfully evident to him that Solana’s mental state is….fragile, to stay the least.

He doesn’t need fragility.

He doesn’t do fragility.

The same way he apparently can’t do her.

“Maybe you need to just annul the shit and cut your losses while it’s still early.” Jey suggests, and Roman can’t deny the idea has a level of appeal to it. Until the next part leaves his cousin’s mouth. “Send her back to her family.”

“No.” That’s an easy no. He’s not entirely opposed to the idea of annulment, but what’s not an option is sending her back to that house of horrors. The only way he can see himself doing that is if he’s put a bullet in both her brother and father’s head, which technically, is the plan anyway.

He would just be making some…..timeline adjustments.

“I won’t send her back there. That’s a death wish.”

Maybe set her up with some money and a house. Let her live out her days with her damn writing, reading, and cooking, the only three things she seems capable of doing without fear. But even thinking that, Roman wonders just how capable she is of living on her own.

Xavier kept the girl so damn sheltered. He’d have to keep a security detail on her at all times. Maybe keep Solo with her. She seems to have grown somewhat comfortable with him.

The same with Naomi.

Or, so he thought. People who are moving in the right direction don’t lock themselves in public fucking locker rooms.

Jimmy also points out, validly, “well, you obviously can’t keep her around if she literally can’t do the one job she has.”

“Let’s not be irrational, alright?” Jey, in a twist of faith, tries to be the voice of reason. “That girl can cook.”

Jimmy’s eyes light up. “Oh shit, I forgot about that.” Sure enough, he switches his tune. “Man, Soso ain’t even that bad, uce. You just gotta be patient with her.”

The change of tune doesn’t surprise Roman, but his suggestion is almost comical. If not for the fact that he’s already in a sour ass mood. “Do I look like a patient man?”

“No, but you do look like a man who could benefit from learning how to be patient,” Jimmy’s rebuff is quick and sharp. “That’s why you and Jey on high blood pressure medication right now. Both ya’ll hotheaded asses be getting yourselves all upset over nothing. Probably why you’re going gray too.”

There may be some element of truth to what he’s saying, but it’s also irrelevant to the issue at hand.

“I’ll figure something out,” he mutters, and it’s the truth, because that’s what Roman does. He figures shit out.

He always figures shit out.

The SUV is barely parked when Roman flings the door open, slamming it shut behind him, not knowing exactly what he’s about to walk into.

“What happened?” Roman’s demand is accompanied by his powerful stride into the Warehouse, Nia immediately rolling her eyes and pointing to Naomi.

“Ask her. She was the last one to interact with her.”

Naomi is unsurprised by both Nia throwing her under the bus as well as Roman directing his fury in her direction.

“What the fuck happened?”

As someone who’s been involved with the Bloodline and their family members for over a decade, she’s used to both Roman’s anger as well as being on the receiving end of said anger. So, her response is calm and to the point. “Like I told Nia, we trained, and she was fine. She actually did well today. I had another training session after her, so we agreed on the next date, and she left for the locker rooms. That’s it.”

Naomi’s answer is unhelpful, but he believes her. Knows she’s being honest. It’s just that her honesty doesn’t do shit for him.

“Clear the place.” It’s directed to Nia even if his focus is still on Naomi.

Nia steps forward, irritation undeniable. “Roman, seriously? We have matches lined up—”

“I don’t care. I want it cleared now, Nia.” She’s about to protest again, but he lifts his hand, warning, “I’m not in the mood, so don’t fucking test me.”

Nia isn’t stupid. She might be able to teeter the lines some days with her cousin, but this clearly isn’t one of those days. Grumbled protests stay within the confines of her inner dialogue as she turns on the edge of her heel to start emptying the Warehouse.

The twins step forward, asking, “what you need us to do?”

Nothing. He doesn’t want anyone to do anything aside from leaving him the hell alone, but that’s not an option. So, he moves quick to find a task for them. Naomi as well. “Check the cameras. Something happened, and I want to know what.”

“What if—”

“Check the cameras.” At this point, Roman’s about to kick them all out if people keep questioning him like he isn’t the fucking Tribal Chief.

Control has always been a big thing for Roman.

When one doesn’t have much, or any, as a child, they overcompensate, and then some, as an adult.

He recognizes that fully.

As all parties move to follow through on his orders, Roman heads toward the locker rooms, ignoring the complaining of the gym goers having to prematurely leave against their own volition. He’s not focused on that, just on the panel near the doors, a panel he’s never had to use until this day.

A panel only he can operate and use as its his biometrics and only his. Again, a man who likes control.

It takes less than a minute for him to gain access, the door automatically opening. Roman steps in and closes it behind him.

“Solana.” He’s certain she won’t answer him, won’t magically do a 180 and feel well enough to step out, but he does feel like at least making his presence known to her will minimize her fear and surprise.

Because one of the first things he notices and hones in on is sound, listening for any and all sounds that could lead him in her direction, and it’s a bit on the easy side considering there’s only the sound of running water coming from one area. And if he had to guess, one specific shower stall.

Carefully, his steps take him from one end of the room to the other, moving in the direction of the woman he needs to find.

And he does find her.

He finds her sitting on the floor of the shower, naked, enclosed in the corner, her legs pulled up to her chest, staring like she’s in a state of shock, like she’s not aware of where she is or what she’s doing. Like she’s not aware of the heat of the water bearing down on her body.

“What the hell?” Roman’s first reaction is a modicum of shock, the heat from the steam alone almost instantly suffocating him. Naturally, he moves toward her, to cut it off, but her scream of terror stops him prematurely.

“No!” It’s been a while since Roman has heard that level and depth of fear in someone’s voice, in the hefty depth of their sorrow. She’s petrified. “P–please don’t.”

It’s for that he actually hesitates, doing his best not to shout at her because that’s clearly the last thing she needs. “Solana, I’m not gonna fucking touch you, but you’re burning yourself!”

While he does his best to keep his eyes focused on non–inappropriate areas, he can already see the reddening of her arms and back. If she already hasn’t burned herself.

Again, he tries to reason with her, which is such a strange experience. Roman doesn’t negotiate with people. He does whatever the fuck he wants and cuts down anyone who has something to say about it. But this, this is a completely different experience he’s not entirely sure he knows how to navigate in a way that won’t fuck this girl up even more than she already is.

“I’m just going to shut the water off.” Announcing his intentions seems like the next best thing, even if it seems to do little to calm her. So, he bites the bullet and moves fast enough to where she can’t protest until it’s already done.

Which is exactly what happens.

“No! I—I need—I need to get clean. I need—” She starts crying again, hugging her legs closer to her body. “I can still feel—their hands—”

“Did someone touch you?” Interrupting her isn’t a good idea, especially with the way anger naturally floats into his tone. It’s almost impossible for it not to. If someone fucking touched her….“ Solana….what happened?”

She gasps, shaking her head, pleading almost. “Please….please don’t m–make me t–t–talk about it.”

There’s a distant look in her eyes, one that’s both uncomfortably but extremely familiar to Roman. He knows what it looks like for someone to be physically present but mentally elsewhere. That’s what Solana is right now.

She’s not talking about today but something else, something much darker that whatever happened today only triggered.

Roman slowly starts to crouch down in front of her but she jerks back. “I’m not going to touch you, Solana,” he again reiterates. “But you can’t stay in here.” He starts to remove his jacket, reaching it over to her. “We have to go back to the house.”

Again, she’s panicking, protesting. “I can’t—I can’t go out t–t–there.”

“I had the place cleared,” he explains. “There’s no one out there except for the twins, Naomi, and Nia.” Truthfully, he’s starting to wonder if he should have asked them to leave too. He didn’t know she'd be this frazzled.

“Come on," he encourages.

Eventually, she accepts his jacket, and Roman stands back up to his full height, turning around and allowing her the privacy he’s sure she’d want. She steps forward, Roman seeing she’s hugging herself keeping his jacket covering her body.

She keeps her head down, obviously still shaken up, still messed up from a lot of things. He honestly doesn’t know where the trauma stops and ends with this girl.

Roman directs her. “Get dressed. Meet me outside.” He looks down at her, needing some level of acknowledgement. “Okay?”

Solana surprises him by glancing up, nodding softly, walking away to what he would guess is the locker where her clothes are.

Pleased that she’s at least well enough to be left alone to follow through on a simple task, Roman exits the locker room. He approaches the desk, the twins immediately standing up. It’s not lost upon him that Naomi and Nia are nowhere to be seen. If he had to guess, Jimmy sent Naomi home, not wanting her to bear anymore of Roman’s wrath. And Nia left to avoid unleashing her wrath on Roman, neither of which he’s entirely upset about.

He has no interest in seeing either of them right now.

Jimmy speaks first. “We found something.”

“Send it to me.” Roman is smart. Always has been. It’s not difficult for him to connect the dots to see that someone clearly fucked with Solana. And he’s almost certain whatever footage the twins found will confirm and show exactly how she was fucked with. The same way he’s entirely certain that managing his anger seeing as such is damn near if not wholly impossible.

And she doesn’t need that right now. She’s already a hot mess. Being exposed to his explosive temper will only exacerbate that, so being sent the footage for him to view when he’s alone and can respond as violently as he wants is the best route.

Especially with his next order.

“Whoever it is, bring em’ to Asylum.” He adds, as if it needs to be specified. “Tonight.”

Jey nods, and Roman notices there’s an edge to his voice. The same way there’s an edge in Jimmy’s expression. They seem pissed. “You got it.” And for some reason, Roman has a burning guess that it has to do with whatever they found rather than it being directed toward him.

Waiting for Solana to exit the locker rooms, Roman blows out a deep breath and scratches his beard. This day has been a shitshow for a variety of reasons, but this reason in particular, this thing with Solana, it ranks pretty high up there.

He hasn’t a clue what he’s doing to do with this girl.

“Jimmy.”

“Whassup?”

“Text Paul. Tell him I want Solana’s medical records. All of them.”

Roman knows now he needs answers, specific answers regarding exactly what he’s dealing with. And Solana is clearly in no position to share these things with him, not that he’d even want her to.

She’d probably have to be admitted somewhere if he tried that shit.

Jimmy looks understandably confused but affirms, “I gotchu.”

And with that, Roman also pulls out his phone, scrolling through his contacts, selecting the thread and typing out a message he doesn’t really think twice about.

Roman: Dwayne. Change of plans. I’ll come when I can, but now’s not a good time. I have shit here I need to handle first.

Roman: In the meantime, take my name out their fucking mouths.

————

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

And just like that, Solana knows that he knows what happened. Knows about Austin and Grayson.

And it turns her stomach.

Roman took her back to the house. He left her alone, giving her time and space to come down from her breakdown. And even in sitting in her room, writing out her feelings about the day's events, she knew. Solana knew that it wasn’t that simple. That Roman wouldn’t just leave what happened today at that.

That he’d want to know what happened, what triggered it, but naively, she tried to convince herself he’s too busy of a man to deep dive and find out on his own. To push her for answers.

She’s wrong.

She’s wrong because that’s the first thing to leave his mouth when he finds her in the kitchen.

Roman’s question, however, is valid and understandable, even if just the thought alone of having this conversation makes Solana physically uncomfortable.

Still, given everything that’s happened today, she can’t blame him for wanting answers.

She just doesn’t have them to give.

Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I—I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” His tone is full of mockery and frustration that she also can’t blame him for but physically finds herself feeling unsettled. “Bullshit. I want an answer, Solana.”

Her skin feels hot, stomach starting to knot. “I just—I don’t—”

“I can’t handle problems you have if you don’t fucking tell me that you have a problem in the first place.”

“I’m sorry—”

At that, Roman snaps, unintentionally, but also a build-up from all of the day’s events. “Stop fucking apologizing!”

What he doesn’t expect is for her to jump back away from him, so much so that she falls to the floor and hurriedly moves back against the cabinet, as she shouts in a panic, “I’m sorry!” Her arms are crossed in front of her body, a defensive position, like she’s waiting, bracing.

Waiting for him to hit her.

Roman’s been in this position countless times. Standing before people as they begged for mercy, begged for him to not enact his vengeance, to rule out his judgment as judge, juror, and executioner. And it’s always been a thrill for him, a boost to his ego, a reminder of his power.

And not once has he ever felt bad for causing such a reaction.

Not until this moment.

With slow, careful movements, Roman also moves to the floor, one leg outstretched, the other hiked so his foot is planted on the ground. His arm casually resting on his knee. “Solana….do you remember what I said to you that day at your job?”

She's still waiting for the inevitable, waiting for him to lash out, for him to hit her. But, she’s confused by the fact that instead of him doing so just yet, he's sitting on the floor opposite of her. And somehow, she finds it in her to focus on his question. He said a couple of noteworthy things that day, but somehow, she knows exactly what he’s referring to.

“My…..my clumsiness.” Clumsiness he told her she wouldn’t have to worry about, but she’s been more than worried about it, more waiting for it, expecting it at some point or another.

“And I meant that shit.” His head is leaned back against the cabinet, and Solana suddenly feels even worse. He seems so stressed out from all of this, from her. “You’re my wife now. I’m not going to let anyone lay a fucking hand on you. Not your dad. Not your brother. Not fucking Theory and Waller.” There’s a bit of a pause as he adds, almost quietly, “and especially not me.”

Solana is unsure what to make of what he’s saying to her. Not sure how to process and take it at face value. It’s hard for her to digest the fact that one of the most dangerous and violent men in the country wants her to believe that he’d never put his hands on her. That he’s not someone she needs to be scared of.

And she doesn't understand it, can’t comprehend how he can not be like every other man in her life. “W–why?”

“Cause unlike your piece of shit family, The Bloodline has morals. I’m not a good man, Solana, and I don’t pretend to be. But, I’ve never hit a woman, and I never will.” Roman never pictured himself having to explain to a woman why he has no desire to beat her. Yet, here he fucking is. “Real men don’t do that shit.”

Solana doesn’t know what to say to that, is still not sure what to say to any of it. But then, Roman is speaking again.

“It’s no secret. I have a temper, and that’s not going to change. I’m not going to change. Not for you, not for anyone.” Solana knows this, knows this very well, and understands it just as much. She would never expect him to change his ways, especially for the likes of her. “But, I—I’ll try to be mindful of it around you.”

That…..throws her for a loop. Why? Why would he do anything for her? What has she done to make him even feel like he should? Except stress him out and cause him unnecessary problems.

Roman continues, asserting, “but, you’ve gotta start fucking telling me shit. I need you to meet me halfway here. I need you to communicate with me. You can’t spend the rest of your life writing what you refuse to say out loud.”

She licks her lip, a nervous action, replying as best she can, “I’m not—I’m not used to—” She’s not used to people caring about her, caring about her wellbeing, and maybe that’s too strong and too inaccurate to describe what Roman is saying. It’s certainly how it feels though. “I—I’ll try.”

He seems pleased by this, probably not fully satisfied but enough for him to drop the subject. And she appreciates that, and is thankful for it. This day has already been a lot, too much. She’s so fucking tired.

Roman says nothing else, not that she needs him to, not that he needs to. But, as he stands up, turning to leave, she finds herself asking him, “where—where are you going?”

His answer is simple but ominous. “I told you. No one lays a hand on you.” He grabs his jacket off the sofa, sliding it on as he vows, “I’m gonna make sure everyone understands that shit from here on out.”

—-------

Asylums, historically, have been places of horror. Where the lives of so many end in cruel and undeserved ways. Screams and pleas falling on deaf ears, memories of terror forever etched in the walls and halls of a building that’s only seen suffering.

It’s a fitting name for Roman’s location for interrogation.

Torture. Because there is no being interrogated by the Tribal Chief. It’s just straight up, unadulterated torture. And truth be told, it’s a bit of a last, or maybe second resort. Killing someone in the moment is much easier, preferred. A shot to the head, a knife across the throat, even the snap of a neck. All much easier than methodical, drawn out ending of lives.

But some instances, some circumstances call for something more, something sinister, something lasting.

And that’s exactly what Theory and Waller are going to get.

By the time Roman walks into the building, sliding and tossing his jacket to the side, the twins have done a decent job roughing them up. One of them—he could never tell the difference—nor did he care or will it matter in a few hours, has a black eye that’s swollen shut. The other’s nose is crooked and bleeding, most likely broken. Their clothes are already stained with sweat, blood, and dirt.

They’re both tied down by their wrists and ankles that he can see have started to dig into their skin. Their chairs are situated opposite each other. Good. That’ll make this even better. Calmly, Roman walks over, snapping his finger as Jimmy and Jey step back, visibly pleased with their warm up.

He crouches down between them, looking back and forth between both with a smirk. “Gentleman, I don’t think we’ve been introduced.” One of them, the taller of the two looks scared shitless while the other is glaring with idiotic defiance. Like he clearly thinks he and his friend are going to leave this building alive.

They’ll leave.

Just in pieces.

“I’m Roman.” His voice is slick ice. “Roman Reigns.” There’s a rush of adrenaline that soars through Roman’s big body seeing the fear flash in both sets of irises. Good. They should be fucking terrified. “But, I do know someone you have met.” His voice goes cold again. “My wife.”

“Actually, I saw you meet my wife, but you didn’t just meet her, did you?” Roman smiles, shaking his head. “Naw man….ya’ll did a hell of a lot more than that.”

Roman doesn’t need to have footage of just what happened in that locker room. He can paint the image all on his own, and it’s an image that makes his blood go cold. The footage of them in the hallway was damning enough. “You cornered her, didn’t you? You waited until she was alone and vulnerable and you harassed her. You sexually harassed her. My wife.”

Roman shrugs, looking between the two. “What ya’ll think should happen?” Their mumbled and grumbled voices are incoherent against the gags in their mouths. Laughing quietly, he continues, “now, now, I’m a fair Tribal Chief.” Roman stands up, walking over to the wall of tools and weapons laid out. He settles for the hunting knife. “So here’s what I’m gonna do, I’m gonna let you tell me which body part goes first.”

He motions for the twins to remove their gags and upon that removal, the defiant punk is the first to speak, “what the fuck is wrong with you!”

The other one, however, is damn near in tears. “Pl—please. We–we’re sorry.”

“Shut up, Grayson! He–he’s bluffing.” Theory, he thinks, decides to prolong his torture even longer by reiterateing, “we didn’t even fucking touch her. The bitch is ly—”

Roman sees red, again, most likely a buildup of the day's events. But, it’s pure rage that fills him as he slams the Buck 119 down against Theory’s left hand, cleanly slicing off four of his fingers.

Theory’s screams fill the room as the twins chuckle, Jey taunting, “who’s the bitch now, huh?”

Roman grabs his chin, vowing, “I’m gonna make you suffer the longest.”

“We didn’t hurt her, I swear.” Grayson is now crying, clearly ready to beg, plead, and whatever else it takes to get him out of this hell. “Austin just—he had her up against the locker, he–he pinned her, but we didn’t rape her. I swear!”

Grayson unintentionally paints a picture in Roman’s head of what he already figured is what happened, what he figured is what sent Solana into her traumatized state.

Big mistake.

Roman brings the knife down on both of Grayson’s thighs, intentionally aiming for near the top of his knees, his quadriceps, effectively rendering him permanently paralyzed. His screams of pain are music to Roman’s ears. Roman grabs him by his jaw, screaming, “who the fuck do you think you are! She’s mine! You hurt her and think I’m not gon break every bone in your fucking body? You don’t ever fuckin touch what’s mine! You understand me!”

The younger man is practically hysterical at this point. “Please….” Roman looks down, hit with the stench of urine, seeing that the one with the accent has pissed himself. Disgusted, he backs away, hitting the pathetic son of a bitch with a blow across his cheek that sends teeth flying out his mouth.

He turns back around, eyes focused on a now teary eyed Theory. “I was going to be fair, let you decide in which order I dismember you, but now…now I’m just gonna make you watch as I kill you both, piece by fucking piece."

He looks over at his cousins who seem completely unaffected and almost indifferent to the gruesome scene unfolding before them. “Jimmy.” Roman doesn’t hesitate, a sadistic smile on his handsome face. “Give me the saw.”

—------

Blood is such a pain in the ass to get out of almost everything.

Roman showered a good twenty minutes before leaving the Asylum, and he can still see specks of dried blood, or maybe it’s bone, or flesh.

There’s a sense of satisfaction that fills him though, that almost calms him as he imagines the look of pure terror and fright on their faces as he methodically took their lives, piece by piece. Well fucking deserved in Roman’s opinion.

And he’d do it all over again if he could.

Minus the blood and guts and shit, because that's just fucking annoying. Roman readies to take another shower, hitting the light switch near his bedroom door when he immediately notices the brown journal sitting in the middle of the bed.

There’s a second to pause and another second for him to realize he’s seen a similar book before. Solana. He’s seen her writing in one very close to the one on his bed.

Less apprehensive, Roman walks over to see it’s open to a page filled with neat writing he knows must belong to Solana.

Lifting it, he reads what she’s written.

Roman,

I know you don’t want me saying sorry anymore, and I know you want me to talk to you, but it’s really hard for me. I’m not used to this. I don’t know how to talk to you.

And I know you said I can’t write, but writing has always been the only way I can express myself, so I will try to talk to you more, but….until then, can I just write?

Solana

Right off the bat, Roman’s first and initial response is no.

Because why the fuck would he write like something out of a damn movie when she could just fucking talk to him?

But, that’s the thing, that’s exactly what she’s trying to express to him, that she can’t, that it’s too hard for her. Right now, at least. Because there’s also a promise, a promise to try to transition to more verbal communication, Roman’s preference.

Granted, he hates talking to most people in general, but it’s preferred over writing damn letters like the 1700s.

And then he thinks about it, recalling earlier today and the pure terror in her voice, the fear wracking her body so much so that she didn’t even realize she was this close to third degree burns. He has to be realistic here, realistic about what she is and isn’t capable of.

As frustratingly slow as it is, she is trying, in her own way. He can’t fault her for that.

Regardless of how he feels about it, this is the best she can do. For now. And he’ll hold her to working towards that, because growth doesn’t happen in comfort zones. She has to get used to being uncomfortable with new things. That’s just how it is.

But this….he can meet her halfway.

Grabbing a pen out his nightstand, Roman writes out his response, taking and laying it out on the kitchen island for her to see first thing in the morning.

Solana,

I recognize communication is challenging for you. If this is what works for you, I’ll do it. For now.

Do you work this weekend? If so, call off.

I’m taking you somewhere.

Also, there's nothing you can't tell me.

I promise you that.

Roman

#roman reigns x black!oc #roman reigns x black!reader #roman reigns #roman reigns fic #arisnotebook

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lanalosty0uu · 5 months ago

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⋆.˚ chapter i: ahoy! ᝰ.ᐟ

🕰️ BACK TO THE FUTURE 🕰️

warning: slight cussing, time travel confusion.

main masterlist | general masterlist

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.

The next day you wake up, you felt weird textures coming up to your nose. It felt like… dust. You woke yourself up by sneezing hard, first sneeze of the day. What else felt off? It was your room that was being quiet different… Scratch that, it was completely different from when you slept on last night. The room that Mrs. Byers made you sleep in for the rest of your exchange days, the once nice purple room with soft bed, now turned into a horrifying, messy, and filled with dust.

You unlocked your phone to look for any notifications

9.13 P.M. Friday, 27th June 2025 No new notifications

P.M? But the sun is literally shining outside? And Friday is yesterday... Today's supposed to be Saturday? Things are starting to feel off, so you stood up and went out of the house.

The once beautiful house seems to be... Abandoned, now. All glass are falling out of it's place, boards covering some of the window and doors. It looks like there's no one ever lived on this place. You kept looking around in confusion as you went out of the house, coughing like a sick maniac.

"What the hell?"

You started walking down the neigborhood, passing all these big houses along the way. This still looks like Hawkins, though... But, something feels different. Seeing all the people dress weirdly like they're in some kind of cosplay event.

As you kept walking, the town starts to get crowded. Looking at these people give you the creeps, but what actually gives you the chills are the fact that lots of people stare at you as you walk. You don't feel like you're dressing weird, you feel normal. Black T-shirt, baggy jeans, and red converse, with a dark red flannel, yet these people just can't take their eyes off your, like you just comitted some murder.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖⋆.ೃ࿔*:･✧˖°.

You saw a building in front of you.

STARCOURT MALL

A neon sign says above the mall's entrance. The neon signs was already lit up even though it was still... Probably like 10 or 11 A.M? You don't really know what time is it now, since the clock on your phone basically stopped at 9 at night.

The whole vibe of the mall felt off. It’s like… you’re in the backrooms… Might as well watch too much TikTok videos, you thought. But, you were actually convincing yourself that al this doesn’t seem right. It felt like a dream. Well, at least your phone’s clock stopping is a sign that you’re dreaming, it doesn’t make any sense, right?

The mall was filled with people and shoppers of all ages, it was like the mall was just opened a couple of days ago. You really want to ask the people here about where you are and why do these people dress weirdly.

scratch that.

You only want to ask about where you are right now. Even though this whole places does look like Hawkins, but it doesn’t feel like Hawkins. Sadly, your urge to ask the people around you isn’t strong enough, compared by how these people look like they’re enjoying their time at the mall. You don’t wanna be some party pooper who just ask random people a nonsense question and ruin their mood. Until finally, you found a not-so-busy ice cream store.

The yellow colored sign with blue background, that was surrounded by red light edges says

SCOOPS AHOY ice cream parlor

You saw a guy, leaning on the counter, as if he’s so done with his job. You decided to ask the guy about your question(s) earlier since he doesn’t look so busy.

“Ahoy, there! Would you like to set sail on this ocean of flavor with me? I’ll be your captain… I’m Steve Harrington.”

His sudden ice cream jingle scared the shit out of you, it made you widening your eyes at him.

“Hi, uhm… mind telling me where am i now?”

"You're in Scoops Ahoy Ice Cream Parlor, ma'am... How may I help you?" The man answered your stupid question with a bored tone. Geez, he must hate his job so much, huh?

"No, I mean... Where am I excatly now?"

The man in front of you squinted his eyes, like he's being suspicious with me.

"You're in Hawkins, Indiana. The United States of America." He responded once again, as if I have no idea where Hawkins is. So this is actually Hawkins? Indiana? Why so different?

You looked around the ice cream shop, leaving the man staring at you in confusion. You pay attention to every detail in it like some kind of detective trying to solve a murder mystery, even if you can still feel the man's eyes on you through your every move.

"Ma'am, are you okay? You need help with anything?"

"No, no... I'm fine, don't worry." Your voice says otherwise, though.

Your eyes finally stopped at the box shaped television on the counter, showing a news broadcast about the newly builded mall, this Starcourt Mall.

"...the year 1985 will surely be a memorable year for us, the people of Hawkins, getting a chance to witness and experience the beautiful Starcourt Mall..."

You felt like your head was spinning when you hear the words: 1985.

“Ma'am, are you sure you’re okay? or do i need to call a doctor?” His face is fully concerned of your well being right now. Instead of answering him, your eyes travelled from the television back to the man's direction.

“What year is it now?"

“it’s 1985? duh..?”

And that's the moment when you knew.

You are doomed.

note: finally, the first chapter's here! i really, reaaallyyyyy hope y'all like it! i'll make sure to post daily since i also need to catch up with some school stuff here. if there's any confusion about this whole time travel thingy (trust me, i was also pretty confused with my own thoughts) feel free to ask! and feel free to request to be on my taglist! happy reading <3

taglist: @xprloki @pupwrites @gorlillaglue25 @lovestrucklyuniverse

#steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington au #steve harrington #steve harrington imagine #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader #stranger things fluff #stranger things fanfiction #angst with a happy ending #fluff #steve harrington angst #stranger things angst #steve harrington x fem #steve harrington x fem!reader #fanfic #alternate universe

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noyasaur · 1 year ago

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make shifting fun for you ♡

do you ever find yourself spiralling after every 'failed' shifting attempt? do you stress whenever you do your shifting method? or worry about what step is coming next, or worry whether you will shift? find yourself doubting your abilities?

shifting is supposed to be fun.

and this does not sound fun.

the number one thing i have been making sure to do when shifting, is to prioritise my comfortability and enjoyability when trying to shift.

i always try and make the process as enjoyable and comfortable as much as i can for myself.

shifting is supposed to be fun, right? it's exciting! shifting should be fun and enjoyable- heck, you're going to experience a whole other reality! a whole other life, a whole other self, experiencing your wildest dreams and fantasies!

how are you going to expect yourself to shift if you're still stressing over the process of shifting?

find or make a shifting method/process that'll make YOU enjoy shifting, and keep you motivated!

do things that you LOVE doing that will make YOU feel motivated to shift/more connected to your dr!

shifting should not feel like a chore. going to shift should not drain you. shifting should not be boring.

it should be a fun and exciting experience!

don't worry about what method is the most popular or most effective or easiest to the general community. ignore the trending shifting methods, subliminals, or guided meditations.

everyone has their own personal journey with shifting and there is no right or wrong way to shift.

focus on yourself first. work out what you like doing the most/what you enjoy doing the most, what your strengths and weaknesses are, and then work from there to find a method/process that works for you!

for example, whenever i shift, i always ensure that during my method, i:

a ) am feeling good! that i'm feeling excited, happy, good, comfortable and am enjoying the ride! i do not force myself to shift if i feel drained, tired, bored, or i feel that i am forcing myself to shift (you can still shift when feeling these things btw! but for me, i don't like to because personally i don't get good results when i do. however, remember that this is just a me thing!)

b ) that whatever method or steps i'm doing to shift makes me feel confident and assured that I WILL SHIFT. by the 'end' or at some point of my 'method' i truly feel that i am going to shift and i can shift, and this whole thing isn't just me 'attempting' or 'trying' to shift.

you love imagining random scenarios of your desired reality, but worried it's not 'proper visualisation' and you're just daydreaming or imagining? who cares! imagination IS reality and if it makes you feel closer to your dr, do it!

you hate visualising and you just want to say affirmations over and over again because that's what you're the most comfortable with and makes you feel confident, despite what other people tell you?

do it.

in my experience, all the times where i've just done whatever i feel like and makes me feel like i'm having the most fun, i end up feeling the most confident i ever will be in my shifting abilities! it's because when you're doing things you enjoy/love, naturally you'll shift to have a more positive and happier mindset!

it also helps me to stress less about the 'process' of shifting and rather, focus on the destination and anticipation of my desired reality!

however, this is just a small tip from me! please take this with a grain of salt 🌷

and if you've made it to the end, just know that YOU WILL SHIFT!

#desired reality #reality shifting #shifting #desired realities #shiftblr #shifting community #shifting realities #reality shifter #kpop shifting #loa #manifestation #manifesting #noyasaur #🪐 ― saturn's shifting advice!

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trappolia · 1 year ago

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GALLAGHER── while you were sleeping, i fell in love

he finds comfort in you in the waking world the same way people do in their dreams.

sleep comes easier in penacony. the reverie where locals and outlanders alike seek some semblance of escape from their truths and the hedonistic what-ifs that can become reality in the dreamscape is simply gallagher's "daytime" job ─ the meticulous dream-to-dream routine of maintaining peace and some semblance of order in a world where it is so easy for one's perceived reality to warp. those in the dreamscape prefer it to the rigid frame of the waking world, but gallagher knows all too well that the warping images of an illusion so easily influenced by the slightest shift of one's mood is anything but a utopia.

so, really, it's no surprise he finds such dear solace in your arms.

"you're back!" you beam, so sweet and darling when you catch sight of gallagher dragging his shoes past the drunken revelers ─ who will no doubt be stumbling back to their rooms where their dreampools lay, the portal to even more hedonistic pleasures and drunken revelries.

"that i am," he grunts, sliding onto an empty barstool just as you slide him his usual drink over the countertop. the gin burns through his throat, just enough to warm him up some. gallagher doesn't care how much dreamers fawn over the aesthetic of dreampools and the further bonus of their purpose. he's not fond of waking up in anything other than a bed, no matter how dreampools have been designed to offer the semblance of one. dreampools mean work, and he's had quite enough of that for the next 24 hours or so.

but stars know he won't be so lucky.

"tough time at work?" you offer him a sympathetic smile, wiping a glass with a clean rag. your customers at the bar had begun to dwindle, the few that remained idly chatting with their companions or indulging in their drink in personal quiet.

gallagher sighs ─ straightens his shoulders and tries to look less disheveled; he's here and out of work to enjoy some time with you, not to bitch and moan about his day. "sorry, darlin'. it wasn't that bad, 's just─"

he sighs again, not wanting to think about how the pillars that are supposed to uphold the dreamscape and his work seem to be crumbling every time he goes back to sleep. gallagher hasn't been on the scene yet, but he's heard reports of stuff that might be going on, and if they were true, then he was going to have a hell of a field day and a bunch of paperwork to do.

"i get it," you say, reaching over the counter to squeeze his hand. it's been hours since your shift started, and you smell of something akin to cinnamon and spice, the undertone of brandy and whiskey underneath. he thinks it fitting ─ you're so sweet, such a darling, so that must have translated into the drinks you brew even in the waking world, where the taste of one's mix relies simply on ingredient and skill.

gallagher manages a smile ─ one that doesn't strain at his lips and makes him feel like he's cosplaying in someone else's skin ─ and brings your hand up to his lips, kissing the soft skin of your knuckles. the metal of your wedding band is cool, but fills his blood with heat and his heart with warmth. "i don't deserve you, honestly."

"now i think that's just the gin talking," you tease, pinching his chin playfully.

"gah," gallagher feigns annoyance ─ badly, if the amused grin on his face is any indication but ─ and swats your hand away. "'s your shift ending soon?"

"mhm," you nod, giggling as you pull back from him and retreat back into your personal space ─ and gallagher misses you already. god, maybe the gin really is getting to him.

"what do you say we head back to our room and catch a nap after this?" gallagher asks, idly tracing his finger along the edge of his empty shot glass. the band on his finger ─ the mirror of yours ─ glints in the hazy yellow light of the bar. "or i can tell you about the day i've had and you can doze off because of how boring it is."

you give him a cheeky grin. "hard pass. your stories always keep me up at night. tell me about that masked fool who gave you a nightmare about me divorcing you."

"never again," gallagher deadpans, and when you burst into laughter, he's convinced that no sort of illusion a masked fool or xipe themself can conjure could ever compare to you ─ his very own dream come true.

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endless-ineffabilities · 11 months ago

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of perilous desire

chapter one - se mōris (the end)

vampire!Aemond x f!reader (modern AU)

story synopsis: the reader works the night shift as a receptionist at the local hospital. Someone comes in one night to drop off a patient, and she subsequently suspects that this person is pursuing her. Why is there no real trace of him anywhere? Why does she see him in her dreams? Here begins a craving that may be never be satiated, a desire so perilous it might cost her everything...

word count: <1k ▪︎ masterlist

The night is young.

You've just made your third trip to the personnel break room, filling up on a much-needed caffeine fix, slumping back in your swivel chair in a bored huff.

It's 3 in the morning, which means you have four more hours to go. Oh joy.

Working in the hospital is decent enough; it pays the bills, it keeps you from being unemployed. But it feels like it's supposed to be a transitioning - a jumping off point into bigger and better things. When you were a child, your dream certainly was not to be a night receptionist at a hospital. But it's been a year, and you are still here for some reason.

Were you stuck? Perhaps you have grown complacent? You're meant to be doing something else, something worthwhile, and you know this. Granted, you do help people to some extent, but nurses and doctors are the true heroes.

Anyone with a semi-decent high school education can do your job.

The coffee is stale, and it suspiciously tastes of the antiseptic that is always in the air. You drink it anyway, grimacing with every sip.

The tap tap tapping of your pen against the desk distracts you, and it must have kept you from noticing the new arrival.

"Excuse me."

You snap up, half in a daze, the coffee doing nothing for your alertness.

And you see him. Clad in all black - leather overcoat, leather shoes, well-pressed trousers. Long white-blonde hair flowing smoothly down his back, neatly kept away from his face. One eye a blazing purple, the other a ghostly white. He looked like something out of the gothic romance novels you used to read in middle school.

Unusual. Poised. Beautiful.

You have to swallow hard in order to find the strength to speak."How... how can I help you, sir?"

"My... friend," he says, coolly maintaining eye contact that it's almost unnerving. Or maybe it's the effect he has on people, looking the way he does. "She needs some assistance."

"Oh," you stand up, looking behind him and seeing the woman slumped on the bench in the waiting area. Leaning against one arm, with her black hair partially obscuring her face. She blinks as if in a stupor when the man glances at her, smiling goofily despite her state. "Is she alright?" you ask him, and he doesn't answer, only continuing to stare at you. You press on the paging system, calling on a nurse to come her aid.

You come over and crouch down in front of her. "What's happened? Can you tell me your name?"

She giggles wildly, like you just cracked the funniest joke. "My name is Alys," she says. "At least I think so." You notice her pallid complexion, her lips taking on a bluish tint. She appears to be awake but not truly aware of her surroundings.

The nurse on duty is taking a while, so you turn back to the man. "What happened to her? Does she have a concussion? Are you her husband or a relative?"

Seconds pass. You look at him expectantly, but he gives you nothing. He tilts his head at you, eyes narrowing, like a predator sizing up his prey.

"Hmm," he finally makes a sound, though it isn't really a response.

Growing impatient, you stride behind your desk and recover the necessary forms. "I'm going to need you to fill these - "

When you turn to address him, he's gone.

One of the nurses, Patrick, arrives to assist the woman called Alys.

He goes through the motions, flashing a penlight in her eyes, checking her pulse, asking her simple questions to keep her conscious.

"She came in alone?" he asks you, as he waves another nurse to come help.

"No," you shake your head, "her companion was just here. A man - "

"What man? Did he run away or something?"

Did he? He had seemingly vanished in a split second, and you were sure you didn't hear him rushing out the front doors. You didn't hear anything at all.

"I don't know," you shrug, confused. "He didn't even fill in a form or anything."

The nurses manage to situate Alys in a wheelchair, the dark-haired woman still smiling and mumbling to herself. Just as they wheel her away, you hear her soft voice crooning, "Ae-mond, oh, my Aemond!"

"Well, shit," you mutter, the momentary commotion had come and gone. The coffee still sits on your desk, now cold. The air still smelled of sickening sterility.

You were still, as dramatic as it sounds, lost and adrift. You snort to yourself. What a thought.

If only you could have your head in the clouds, all blissed out, like the Alys woman. Though her state was likely brought on by hard drugs.

Or was it him?

Everything is the same. Except that the stranger has become ingrained your mind.

Who was he?

An hour later, you stand outside in the portico, cigarette balanced between your fingers. It's a nasty habit, sure, but people would probably be shocked at how common it is among the hospital staff. The nurses, even.

You're supposed to feel terrible about it, working at an establishment that champions health, but you justify it in that you're just a receptionist. Weren't the medical professionals the real hypocrites? How else will you keep awake?

The smoke billows out of your lips. You watch their shapes dissipating in the cold morning air, entranced.

Suddenly, you sense something shuffle from the corner of your eye. Shivers erupt all over your arms, your mind immediately grasping at the worst possible scenario.

"Hello?" This is how the side characters die in horror movies, quickly and unceremoniously, forgotten before the main act actually begins. Your shaking hand squashes the cigarette down on the wall-mounted ashtray.

It was probably nothing, likely one of the stray kittens running around. Despite that, you determinedly walk back to the entrance, fists bunched in your pockets.

Then there's something again. A gust of wind. A flash of pale blonde hair. A feeling like you're being watched.

Is the entrance so far? You're going to get kidnapped, you're sure of it.

The doors are in sight, those lifeless glass windows within reach, when you're spun around swiftly that you don't have time to think of anything at all.

You're floating, your feet had left the ground.

Pushed into something smooth, cocooned around your paralysed form. Leather.

He hushes you, brushing his lips against your cheek, featherlike, careful not to make full contact. You want to fight, you should fight, but you can't.

Something coaxes you into accepting this, so you do.

The painful prick against your neck is momentary. Followed by complete and utter bliss.

Your final thought is the word Alys was singing so sweetly. That strange name, which now exits your lips like a prayer.

"Aemond."

taglist*: @gwaynehightowerswhore @kravitzwhore @litchifaerie @g-cf2020 @sprinklesprinkle888 @noxytopy @fan-goddess @m00n5t0n3 @diannnnsss @nsr-15 @the-awkward-barbie @rockstwrsz @yellowstonebaby @urdeftonesgrrrl @eddieslut69 @callsigncrushx @starwarsdinosaur @qweq-6802 @tulips2715 @hotdismylife @itseunaimonia @just-mj-or-not @crystal-siren @zaldrizzes @all-for-aemond @ajantanijhum @angel6776 @different-tale-student @world-of-bitchcraft @teasweeter @raging-panda @rhaenys-nyra @gelacat0413 @simplymurdock @yariany02 @barnes70stark @stupid--person @lonan-hane @thescooponsof @donalesaa

*refer here to be tagged in hotd works; comment below to be tagged in only this fic.

a/n: me 🤝 running with new ideas before even finishing my ongoing series works!!! I've always wanted to do a vampire Aemond fic. Call this a tester/taster (literally, in Aemond's case). Let me know what yous think, and we'll see how it goes!

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen imagine #house of the dragon #ewan mitchell

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the-daydreaming-show · 3 months ago

Text

(4.) The Skyfall

SUMMARY: Your time is up.

NOTE: I'll be honest, I've been struggling with this chapter, and this is the final version, but even then I'm not sure. It's a bit boring, but next chapter has a bonus, and then the final chapter of finales! So, sorry about the lame chapter, but hope you like it as leas for entertemiend and see you in the bonus chapter!! XOXO Ella

Memories/Thoughts in italics

Dragon Language in bold italics

Reader dress is inspired by this art of Queen Rhaenys.

Previus Part: (3.) DREAMS MADE HEAVY.

AO3 / Story Masterlist

There was less than a week between Nyx's birthday and the Starfall celebration. From what Elain had told you in the party, the previous year they had not celebrated it due to the birth and other circumstances she didn't explain.

So, it was not only her nephew’s first Starfall celebration but also the first for her and Nesta.

You spent every day until it at the House of Wind, until the morning of the celebration, when you decided it would be best to take Balerion for a fly. There was a possibility that Feyre and Rhysand would appear early at the house for the party preparations, and despite your newly acquired ability to avoid people in that house, you ran into Nesta at breakfast before leaving.

“I hope you’re not thinking about fleeing the party,” she mocked coldly at you. Of course, because she would be the first to notice how you had spent more time than usual inside the house rather than outside on the balconies or in the sky with your dragons.

“No, I'm just going to take a fly. To make sure, Balerion doesn't cause a scandal when he sees there's a party here tonight.” You explained while spreading butter on your bread and then adding a disrespectful amount of honey.

“I was glad to know that you're well-" She admitted behind her cup of tea. "She missed you too."

You tried not to halt your movements at her words and smiled as best you could before biting into your toast—a poor attempt to hide in some way.

"You can fool many people, Nesta Archeron, but you and I both know you have been missing me every day since the day I disappeared." You teased gently, taking a sip of your own tea. A small tilt of her lips was visible behind her cup. She didn’t deny it, but you hadn’t expected her to admit it out loud.

With her, it had always been like that. The longest conversation you had ever had was before you really knew each other, and you had always been able to understand her silences. You knew that made it more irritating than useful—because you already knew things she didn’t want to tell anyone. Silence had become both an agreement and a decision over the years, a shared language. That was why you had breakfast in silence and parted ways just as quietly when you got up from the table.

With Feyre, there had never been silences, probably the reason it now felt so uncomfortable not to tell her about the things that had happened and those you knew would happen. But you had seen firsthand the life she had now, and there was no room for you or what you had to do in that life. Even if she were able to accept everything.

You love her, and that was why you wouldn’t drag her to where you stood now—just for the selfish comfort of her company.

Already in the sky, you roamed the mountains and even accompanied Balerion in his hunt of the day—anything to avoid returning to the house, just in case.

All of it left your face covered in ash, so Mayhem would probably scold you later. After all, your presence that night was supposed to be an official visit—the last before leaving. Your court expected you to inform Feyre and Rhysand of your decision today. Those two didn’t know that, of course. However, you were aware that, since the decision had already been made and confirmed, staying until the party was already too much by the political standards.

So you stayed in the sky until night started to fall. Your stomach growled with hunger, and your tongue felt dry with thirst. It was then that you realized maybe you had overdone it. You flew over the house to dismount, no longer after. You threw yourself off Balerion’s side, using his wings to slow your descent and land on the balcony of your rooms—a dangerous maneuver. The dragon was flying too close to the house, meaning he could easily break something, and the risk of you missing the balcony, falling onto the one below, or any of them, and breaking something was high. But you preferred that risk.

Fortunately, you didn’t break anything, you simply stepped onto the balcony, where an angry Mayhem was already waiting for you. She glared at you with the same fury while you dropped the harnesses on the floor and headed toward the bathroom, where a bathtub had been waiting for you for far too long.

“It's cold,” you complained as you got into the water. You started to stand up, but her hands pushed your shoulders down, submerging you up to your neck.

“It would be hotter if you weren’t an hour late,” May said offhandedly, but she still left the room in search of hot water.

After the extra hot water, the bath wasn’t as hot, but warm was better than freezing, so you didn’t complain when she went for more. Your presence in the tub helped reheat it, after all, and by the time you were done, the water was bubbling and boiling. May had to let you finish washing alone because of this—for her irritation and your amusement.

You dried yourself in silence while she busied herself in the room. You wrapped yourself in a towel and went to find her, and found her delicately placing your dress on the bed, ready for use.

“Go get yourself ready. I'll call you for the hair,” you said. She frowned at you. You roll your eyes. “I know how to dress myself. You can check my work when you return. Now go get ready.”

“Okay, call me if you get tangled up.” You nodded to her demand.

Mayhem closed the door behind her, leaving you alone. You sat on the bed next to the dress and felt your stomach growl. You closed your eyes, silently regretting all your decisions, and when you opened them again, you noticed that at some point, May had left a tray with juice and a sandwich for you.

"How did I not see this before?" you muttered, quickly reaching for it.

The sandwich was simple, but it was enough to satisfy you and silence the hunger. After it, you shook off your fatigue and turned to your dress with renewed energy.

The dress Mayhem had chosen for the party was composed of two layers that required careful arrangement, which explained her hesitation about letting you put it on alone. The first layer was a sleeveless black dress with a V-shaped neckline, clinging to your figure thanks to the corset, accentuating your hips and letting the fabric cascade to the floor without a train or excessive drama. The corset had a texture reminiscent of Balerion’s scales, adorned with tiny diamonds so small they were invisible unless viewed up close.

When you put it on, you felt as if you were wearing stars, glimmering in the darkness of the room—just as Balerion’s scales did at night.

The second layer of the outfit was dark red, made of a softer fabric. This part covered the left side of the corset, fastening at the waist with an embellishment in the shape of a black iron dragon. From the sleeve, which perfectly matched the dress underneath, a cape extended, also serving as the train of the dress, elegantly crossing your bare back and cascading to the ground. It could have been just a single dress, but this way, you were sure you could wear both pieces on other occasions and with different outfits. That was a condition when you agreed to the special preparation of this attire for the event.

You were putting on heeled sandals, complaining due to the corset that prevented you from breathing and bending down enough to adjust them properly, when Mayhem returned, wearing her own red and black ensemble. All of her outfit complimented yours, but did not imitate it. Her dark hair was styled into a crown of braids on her head, leaving not a strand of place. It was surprising that she had managed to get completely ready in the same amount of time it took you to put on your dress and struggle with your sandals. She entered with a tray with more sandwich and juice, and quickly let all in the night table knelt in front of you to help. You sigh as you sit straight, since movement causes the corset to stop stabbing into the lower stomach.

"You need to eat something. " May said. You felt cold sweat running down your back.

You let yourself fall onto the bed for a moment, trying to catch your breath. That sandwich clearly hadn’t been enough. Mayhem offered you one of the sandwiches, and held the juice while you ate to offer it to you as soon as you finished, the next sandwich was offered to you immediately after.

By the time you were done, downing the third and finishing your juice, Mayhem stopped worrying about it to stop and check your dress. While you were chewing, May loosened the corset of your black dress, allowing you to breathe more freely, and refastened it just right. You hadn't realized the corset was strangling you because it was so poorly fitted until May readjusted it, and you could easily swallow the last few bites of your food.

You could barely feel the corset; probably if you hadn't suffered from it earlier due to your poor performance, you wouldn't be so self-conscious about its position. But she didn't adjust anything else, which made you feel proud that you'd managed to put almost the entire outfit on correctly.

You were led to sit at the vanity to do your hair after that, hoping that what you had eaten would be enough to tide you over until dinner and that a good meal would be served at the party. Mayhem carefully brushed your hair, and you almost fell asleep. You frowned in disappointment when she finished before you could even nod off.

"We won't do anything too dramatic with the hair," May told you as she set down the brush and grabbed a jar to apply oils. She massaged your hair and scalp for a while. "We could touch up the roots if you want," she whispered at the end, noticing the tiny roots peeking through the front strands of your hair.

You shook your head gently after considering it for a couple seconds.

Mayhem used two hair-slides shaped like dragon wings.With them, Mayhem gathered your hair away from your face, and in a half updo with a bun at the back of your head. The combs matched the clasp that fastened your dress, and they were made of the same material as the bracelets she placed on your bare arms. Then, you stood in front of the full-length mirror while Mayhem carefully hooked part of the dress’s train to the bracelets, so it wouldn’t drag too heavily behind you.

Looking at your reflection, you realized the train resembled a blood-red halo that unfurled when you moved.

Mayhem was applying perfume to your neck when Armin and Luka entered the room, also dressed for the occasion, just like May. Coordinated, but not identical to you, their queen.

"You look beautiful, your grace," Armin remarked lovingly, smiling.

"Impossible not to look good with the amount of money spent on this outfit," you remarked gracefully, stretching your neck while Mayhem continued perfuming you. "Are you all going to keep calling me your grace all night?"

"I'm afraid so, your grace," Luka replied mockingly.

You roll your eyes, and look at yourself in the mirror.

You looked ethereal.

It was strange, considering there was a time when you didn't care about your appearance because there was no room in your life to even think about that. Back then, you were still young and had your whole life ahead of you.

And then, as you learned, appearances meant survival. So you took great care of yours, always wanting to look better—in the ideal way to attract the customers you wanted, not others. You had perfected your image, making sure that every aspect of your outfit, hair, and attitude played the role that would earn you more money and more time for Rue.

Now, everything feels so foreign to you. You played with the fabric of the dress a little, watching the reflection mimic your movements, confirming that it was really you.

You didn’t know what to say or do about the outfit. It was beautiful, but that didn’t mean you looked beautiful in it. It made no sense. Perfecting your image years ago hadn’t saved Rue, and this outfit wouldn't change anything that night. So, it didn't really matter.

You had barely made it down the stairs to the ballroom, where the party was already underway, when Morrigan appeared and took your arm, leading you around the room with Mayhem shadowing you both. She complimented your dress, and without hesitation, you told her she could have it if she wanted; you wouldn’t have much use for it in the Bay. Truthfully, the Bay's fashions were nowhere near what your outfit looked like that night—it had been designed to blend seamlessly with the party and Prythian styles.

"Honestly, for a moment, I was afraid you'd come out wearing a diamond-studded riding habit or something, considering how long you took to land. I was sure Mayhem would be scrambling to get you into something elegant for the evening," she mocked, glancing at your friend for a reaction. But May just looked at her briefly before whispering,

"If I had tried, I definitely would have never left," she declared firmly, making Mor laugh.

Morrigan led you to the table, unconcerned with the people who had to shift and adjust so that the trains of both your dress and hers could pass without being stepped on. The three of you stared at the snack table in silence for a while, until the blonde picked up a caviar sandwich, never letting go of your arm. You watched her chew nonchalantly before slipping your arm free and reaching for a glass of champagne, ignoring Mayhem's gaze.

"Are you on babysitting duty, Mor?" you asked, bringing the glass to your lips with utmost delicacy, mindful of the work May had put into your makeup.

"Something like that. You are the honored guests of the evening, so keeping you entertained and well cared for tonight is the responsibility of the court emissaries, while Rhys and Feyre are the evening’s hosts. Cassian was assigned your general, and Nesta, your secretary," she explained, and you made a quip over the rim of your glass.

"I'm sure that'll be fun for Luka," you remarked mockingly, and May smiled beside you. Mor looked at you as she took another bite. "Armin is the slowest talker in the world—he's very serious, I always tell him that. He says it's his age. And Luka is just Luka. I don't think he and Nesta will exchange a single word all night unless someone forces them. Though I think they'd both prefer it that way."

"And this one?" Mor asked, pointing at Mayhem with a smile. Your friend's ears turned red in the dimly lit room. "How should I ensure his fun tonight? Since he won’t leave your side."

"Well—"

Someone calling your name interrupted you. You turned to see Feyre and Rhysand walking toward you.

Feyre wore a dark blue, mermaid-style dress that hugged her curves, with a single sheer sleeve that draped over her arm down to her wrist, where it fit snugly. Around her neck, a strip of fabric wrapped like a scarf, cascading behind her like a cape. The entire ensemble was adorned with tiny gems, making her look as though she were covered in stars.

Rhysand wasn't far behind, dressed in pants, boots, and a black tunic with silver embroidery that provided subtle contrast. Beneath the tunic, he wore a shirt in the same dark blue hue as Feyre’s—sparkly and all. They were stupidly attractive as a couple. Their coordinated outfits only made them look better—and worse—all at the same time.

You were suddenly grateful that Armin, Luka, and Mayhem matched you, because the thought of standing out alone left a hollow, lonely feeling in your chest.

"I see Mor already dragged you to attack the snack table," Rhysand teased, glancing at Morrigan, who stuck her tongue out at him while taking a sip of champagne with one hand, the other still holding a bite of food, waiting to be eaten.

"I thought I dragged her, but it may have simply been mutual," you admitted honestly, to which Rhysand smiled in amusement.

"I was looking for you," Feyre said gently, her eyes obviously trailing over your dress. "You look incredible."

"There’s no doubt the Dragon Queen of the East has arrived tonight," Rhysand added, following Feyre’s lead. "You’ll definitely steal the show, Your Grace."

"Oh, please. There’s no dethroning the best-dressed couple of the evening. High Lord and High Lady, you are undoubtedly the envy of all Prythian with the beauty you carry tonight," you said, hoping it sounded less bitter than it felt. You immediately took a sip from your glass and set it down on the table, refusing to look at their reactions.

"And Nyx?" you asked, forcing a lighthearted tone, maybe a little too disingenuous. "I hope he matches too, or I’ll be disappointed!" The words slipped out before you could stop them. But there was no turning back now—you had already stepped in the mud; you might as well sink into it completely to hide it.

You met Feyre's gaze, saw a flicker of concern in her eyes, and pointedly gave her the best everything-is-okay smile you could muster. It didn't work as quickly as you would have liked, so you turned your attention to Rhysand, making him the most interesting person of the evening as you avoided Feyre.

"He is, but I'm afraid nap time clashes with the start of the celebration, so he'll be here for the big moment only," he explained gently, his tone completely casual, his hand resting on Feyre’s waist. You nodded slowly, smiling at him, and took another glass from the table beside you. You sipped it as calmly as possible, though you could have easily downed the champagne in one go.

"I should go find Armin and Luka before they make any strangers too uncomfortable with their lack of sociability," you told them, stepping away from the table before anyone could say anything else, your dress billowing behind you as you walked away.

Once you were sufficiently covered by the crowd, you tipped your glass back at an angle, emptying it in one motion. You placed it on the tray of a passing waiter. Mayhem followed you closely to the balconies, where people were chatting without missing a beat.

There they were, standing with their matching outfits and ethereal beauty. You realized you couldn't stand it for another second. So you made your choice—you would keep your distance for the rest of the party. You ran away. That was the solution. It wouldn’t change anything, only hasten the inevitable.

And so you did.

You dodged Feyre and Rhysand as best you could for a couple of hours while they flitted around the food and drink tables, eating and drinking. But the task proved more difficult than you had anticipated—you quickly realized your dress was working against you.

That's how Morrigan found you a couple of hours later, just before the starfall began. She announced that Nyx was already at the party and had brought his dragons, so you let her drag you along—Mayhem included.

The boy truly matched his parents, which warmed your heart instead of bringing the heartache you had feared. You silently thanked that relief with a sigh. He wore pants and boots that matched his father's and a loose shirt made from the same fabric as his mother's dress. His black curls had been slicked back, but by the time you reached him, he had already managed to loosen some of them.

"Hi," you greeted softly, stepping closer to him, as he was currently in Elain's arms. The boy looked at you and immediately broke into a smile, offering you one of the wooden dragons.

"Bababa," he declared proudly, showing you the black-painted wooden dragon.

"Yes, Balerion." You hesitated, feeling Feyre and Rhysand’s gazes on you. And you could bet the rest of the Inner Circle also had their eyes on you and the boy. "Did you see that Balerion has stars?" you asked sweetly. You knew he probably didn’t understand what you were saying and wouldn’t answer, but you still spoke to him that way, unsure of how to interact with children so young.

Nyx tilted his head curiously and looked at his toy. Then he offered it to you again, trying to understand what you meant. He seemed to recognize the word stars.

"Like this," you said softly, gently holding his hand. You raised his arm so it looked like he was flying the dragon above his head. "See? There, Nyx—stars."

The toy had its wings stretched out as if it were hovering in the sky, and when Nyx looked up at it, he saw its entire belly, legs, and the underside of its wings twinkling, as if a starry sky lay beneath. The boy let out a squeal of excitement at the discovery. You thought that, in his mind, you had just revealed to him that this toy truly contained stars, because the way he held it upside down and excitedly showed Elain the stars beneath it was as if he were presenting the greatest discovery of the century.

You let out a laugh at his enthusiasm.

"Does Balerion really do that?" Rhysand asked, his tone curious. You looked at him for a moment, searching for any trace of insincerity in his voice but finding none.

"Yes. It's his scales. In the dark, they shimmer as if covered in stars, and in the sky, they camouflage him." You explained simply. "The toy is made to mimic that."

"It sounds beautiful," Nesta remarked, to which you smiled in appreciation.

"No doubt," Elain added, adjusting Nyx in her arms as he excitedly moved to show his aunts and uncles how the stars appeared on his toy.

"Can we see it?" Feyre asked, making you look directly at her. You noticed the silver combs in her hair, matching Rhysand’s cufflinks, and how beautiful she looked with her hair styled that way. You couldn't bring yourself to say no—but you forced yourself to.

“I wouldn't want to interrupt today's big event. I'm sure it'll start soon,” you said quickly, trying to divert attention from the conversation so you could escape again. Nyx showed you the toy once more, and you smiled at him again.

“Maybe later, we could watch it from one of the higher balconies. I'm sure it’ll be an equally beautiful sight to close out the evening,” Rhysand offered swiftly, glancing between you and Feyre.

Feyre smiled excitedly, waiting for your response. You looked at the toy Nyx was babbling excitedly about, staring at the stars painted on the wood and trying to scratch at them with your fingers to see if they would come off—but they wouldn't. You glanced back at Feyre, who was still waiting for an answer with hope in her eyes, and felt the urge to refuse leave your body with a resigned sigh.

“Well, I guess a demonstration won't hurt, as long as we don’t overshadow the main event of the evening,” you agreed, having no real choice.

Nyx began throwing himself toward his mother, babbling and yelling that he wanted to go with her. As the child was passed into her arms, you silently stepped away, watching as his bright eyes moved further from you.

You hid at the nearest snack table until an announcement prompted the guests to move to the balconies for the start of the meteor shower. You stood on a balcony with your court and a group of other guests. You’d like to say that the meteor shower took your breath away with its beauty for the rest of the night, but you didn’t get to enjoy it—because a few feet away, on another balcony where the Inner Circle stood, Nyx’s reaction to his first meteor shower stole your attention. And you didn’t mind, because the sight of the child, mesmerized by the way the sky lit up, was brighter than the stars themselves.

That balcony made for a perfect family portrait. Feyre should paint it, you thought as you took another sip from your glass. You had lost count of how many you’d had, but the champagne wasn’t strong enough to get you drunk.

A knot tightened in your stomach, coiling in on itself. The corset wasn’t helping matters. You seriously considered hiding in one of the bathrooms and pretending you’d had too much to drink to avoid the private demonstration. But you didn’t get the chance, because an excited Elain—who must have spotted you across the balconies—appeared out of nowhere just as you were leaving the area with your court and led you to a different, more private balcony.

On the way there, you glanced at Armin and Luka, silently warning them not to follow. If I suffer, we all suffer, you told them with your eyes. Armin, despite his age, somehow didn’t even hear Elain when she called for the attention of those still at the ball.

You did the only thing you could think of to calm your nerves. You reached through the bond with Balerion and commanded him to demonstrate, using the moment to focus on his breathing, heartbeat, and movements—syncing with them, relaxing into the connection they represented. By the time you reached the balcony, you had calmed down, and Balerion roared, making you aware of how close the house truly was. The people on the balconies below, where the party continued, leaned out to watch as well

“Well, here we go,” you said softly as Elain told you how to spot Balerion approaching, and you leaned on the edge of the balcony.

Your boy put on a show. First, Balerion revealed himself, flying around the mountain, rising from beneath the house until he passed by the balconies—so close that some people below stumbled as the wind from his wings shook them all. You only watched with affection. Upon reaching the top of the house, he quickly ascended, making sure everyone knew where he was, spitting a ball of fire through which he flew before disappearing into the sky.

A few seconds passed before anyone spoke.

“Where is he?” Nesta asked in amazement beside you.

You looked around, noticing the balcony filled with the Inner Circle and your court. Nyx was leaning against his mother's hip, staring at the sky in fascination, clutching his dragon toy in his hand. You were more than capable of locating Balerion because you knew what to look for, but the others weren’t.

You stepped closer, making sure to stand next to Nyx, accidentally placing yourself between Feyre and Rhysand—which you chose to ignore for the sake of demonstrating to the boy. You hoped they would do the same.

"Nyx," you called softly. The boy turned to you, though his eyes were still preoccupied with the disappearance of the dragon in the sky. "There, look," you said, placing a gentle hand on his back and pointing to a particular spot in the sky. He followed your finger intently, leaning forward as his eyes narrowed.

It was easy to spot Balerion in the sky if you knew what to look for. It was like staring at the sea, searching for a ripple on the still surface to find where a fish swam just below. The way the stars seemed to flicker more than the others—how some appeared to shift before blinking out—was the clue. Then, Balerion let out another burst of fire, betraying his position once again, and whispers rose from below, a mixture of admiration and fear.

“Bababa,” Nyx whispered in awe. You glanced at him, unable to help but smile at the way he stared at the sky. You were surprised by how quickly he had located Balerion after only being pointed in the right direction once, absorbing the information like a sponge.

That was when you realized you were perhaps too close to him—because, in the next second, his small arm wrapped around your neck, and his weight pressed against you as he threw himself at you with complete trust that you would catch him. You had no choice but to hold him as he leaned into you, taking you by surprise. He was probably used to being passed around effortlessly, and you froze slightly once he was settled in your arms, his legs resting around your waist.

For the first time, you willingly looked at Feyre, silently asking for help with the situation. But she only smiled and shrugged gently before turning her gaze back to the sky, where Balerion was still circling—offering no further assistance.

Traitor, you thought, and you could have sworn you heard a chuckle from your right, where Rhysand was still standing.

“Bababa,” the boy in your arms said with more certainty, drawing your attention as he lifted his toy, mimicking the real dragon’s flight.

“Yes—yes, Balerion flies like that,” you managed, stumbling slightly over your words.

Rhysand circled behind you and stood beside Feyre, but when you looked at him for help, he simply smiled, as if he found the situation amusing. You might have rolled your eyes, but any movement beyond focusing on holding the boy felt like a risk, so you didn’t.

Mayhem appeared behind you, like a saving grace. Without hesitation, she approached the boy. She gently adjusted his position, placing his legs against your hips, one arm resting slightly behind his back and the other supporting one of his legs to keep him steady. You relaxed slightly thanks to her help—and even more so when she positioned herself on the side where Rhysand had been.

You looked back at the stars, trying to appear as casual as possible, afraid that if you seemed too uncomfortable, Nyx would notice and grow uneasy. You adjusted him slightly in your arms, almost hugging him to you, wrapping the cloak attached to your bracelets around him accordingly.

Gods, it had been years since you had held a child. Your sister was the first and the last.

You stood there for a while, watching as Balerion broke the stillness of the sky with his movements. The rest of the Inner Circle and your people moved about the balcony, but Nyx remained utterly fascinated, guiding his toy through the air in tandem with the real dragon. You stayed still, letting him be. You were too focused on the weight in your arms to pay attention to anything else.

For a while, the boy was quiet—but when Balerion let out a particularly loud roar in the sky, Nyx shifted excitedly in your hold, and a pop caught your attention.

“Oh,” you whispered, surprised to see two small wings suddenly sprout from the boy’s back, tangled in the fabric of his dress. You instinctively moved to free them, but hesitated—you didn’t want to take your hands off him for too long, afraid he might move and fall.

“Here, let me help you,” Rhysand whispered, leaning closer. “Move your hand like this.” He guided your hand to support the boy’s back beneath his wings, careful not to press too far.

“Get the fabric out of there,” you instructed softly, pointing to a piece of cloth caught on the small horn atop Nyx’s wing. Rhysand followed your instructions with ease, and soon, Nyx’s wings were free of any fabric, folding neatly into place, twitching in excitement as he gazed up at the sky.

“Better, Nyx?”

You didn't get a response from him—just watched as he continued playing with his toy—and you felt bad because Balerion had already told you the show was over.

"Balerion has to go, Nyx," you informed him softly. He looked up at you in surprise, clearly not very happy about it. "Say goodbye. Goodbye, Balerion." You waved at the dragon, who breathed fire and roared before swooping down into the mountains, where he slept most nights.

"Baba, baba, baba," Nyx mumbled, mimicking your gesture with a sad tone and pouting.

You followed Balerion with your eyes as he descended into the mountains, feeling his landing through the bond, reassuring yourself that he was safe. Then, out of nowhere, Nyx rested his head against your chest. You were grateful you hadn’t worn a collar because, immediately after, he rubbed his head against your skin as if it were a pillow.

"Oh… okay," you whispered, surprised and overwhelmed by the trust the boy displayed as he murmured against you, settling deeper into your arms.

"It's because you're warm," May's teasing voice reached your ears, and you glared at her, offended by her persistence on the subject.

"I'm not," you retorted, irritated but keeping your voice gentle, not wanting to startle Nyx, who had grown even more comfortable, snuggling against your chest with his little hands all over you, as if you were a very large pillow. "He's just sleepy."

"And yet, he chose to settle against the little oven that you are," she mocked again, hands behind her back, a smirk spreading across her face. She didn’t even look at you, which irritated you even more. This time, you rolled your eyes.

"What are you talking about?" Feyre asked as Rhysand reentered the balcony with a drink in hand, which he then offered to her. You hadn't even noticed he was gone.

"Mayhem and Ragnar insist that I'm warm—like my dragons. Which is nonsense. My body temperature is perfectly normal; all the medical tests confirm it," you explained, throwing an irritated glance at your friend, but May just shrugged and grinned mockingly.

"That doesn't mean you're not unusually warm for a person—and very huggable. Nyx seems to agree." As if on cue, the boy let out a contented sigh against your chest. "See? The evidence speaks for itself."

"Go to sleep, Mayhem. You get annoying when you're tired," you told her coolly, but she only responded with a mischievous laugh. She left the balcony soon after, bidding Feyre and Rhysand goodnight.

You suspected her lack of further teasing had something to do with the fact that you were holding the child—doubtful anyone would try to kill you while you carried him.

Armin was nearby, in the hallway inside the house.

There, you realized you were alone on the balcony with Feyre, Rhysand, and their tiny, winged baby in your arms. The discomfort of holding the child returned. You felt like an intruder again, as if you were trespassing on a moment that should be theirs—to hold their child and cherish the beautiful life they had fought so hard to achieve. You were about to muster the courage to say you needed to leave, hoping it would prompt them to take the child from you, but they got there first.

"I think it would be best if I put him to bed," Rhysand said, reaching out to take the baby. You almost sighed in relief, but as soon as Rhysand pulled the child away from you, Nyx’s hand clutched at the fabric of your dress, grabbing the red part that stuck out beneath your cloak, pulling it over your shoulder. Suddenly, three adults were struggling to manage a half-asleep child who had begun to fuss, trying to free his grip without tearing anything.

"Let me get his hand out."

"Nyx, honey, please let go."

"He really has a strong grip," you laughed uncomfortably, now caught between both rulers as they tried to pry their child off you.

"Here, here," Feyre said, taking the toy from one of his hands and guiding his grip from your dress to one of the toy dragon’s wings. "There we go," she whispered as she succeeded, finally freeing the red fabric from his grasp.

You exhaled in relief as Feyre and Rhysand focused on soothing Nyx back to sleep. Rhysand rocked him gently in his arms, while Feyre whispered reassuringly. It was a beautiful sight, and you needed to escape from it, but they were blocking your only way out. You stepped back toward the balcony railing, resting your arms on it and gazing up at the sky.

Breathing through the bond with Balerion, who was already nestled in the mountains, you synchronized with his calm, steady breaths. He dragged his claws over the earth beneath him, and you sighed, feeling the sensation in your palms. The sound of birds above him and the rustling treetops in the breeze grounded you.

The click of approaching stilettos pulled you from your trance, and you turned to see Feyre settling beside you, resting her arms on the railing, her hand dangling near yours. If you moved your fingers, you could intertwine them with hers. You looked back up at the stars and immediately dismissed the thought, folding your hands in front of you, away from both the railing and Feyre.

A comfortable silence stretched between you, carried by the cool night breeze.

"You have something beautiful here, Fey," you whispered, and you knew you’d regret it later, because it revealed too much—because you felt too much saying the words. "I'm glad you found him, after all these years."

“I'm sure the Bay is beautiful,” Feyre said quickly.

“Yes, it is,” you confirmed without hesitation, looking down at your hands and the ring that had been created for you when you took over the Bay. The Bay was, without a doubt, beautiful. There was no denying that. “It used to be called Slaver's Bay; now it's Trinity Bay. And it's so beautiful that sometimes it feels like a dream, as if I'm oblivious to everything around me.”

“I understand,” Feyre assured, and you looked at her to confirm that she wasn’t just saying it to make you feel better, which was unusual because your Fey never said things just to please others. But she wasn’t Fey anymore; she was Feyre Archeron, High Lady of the Night Court. So you looked to confirm, and she noticed. “Sometimes I still wake up thinking about the routine I had before. I wake up thinking about what I should hunt, buy, or fix in the cabin.” It takes hearing Nyx complain or feeling Rhys beside me to remember I’m no longer there. Other times, it's as simple as the warmth of the blankets, which reminds me, because it was never this warm at home.”

“With those holes in the floor, it was impossible; all the houses in the area used to have that problem,” you recalled with a smile that felt inappropriate, considering how they had once lived in such poverty.

“It was that horrendous, rocky soil. Elain always complained that she couldn't grow plants there. I don't doubt it also made building anything difficult,” Feyre laughed, joining you in the memory without giving it much thought.

“Yes, my mother also complained that you couldn't even make mud to cover holes in the floors or walls. Too many stones, and the soil was too fine; the mud would form but fall apart after it dried.”

“The soil caused the problems and refused to fix them, too.” Feyre laughed again, and you burst out laughing at the remark.

“It was a renegade and spiteful land,” you added, and it wasn’t all that funny, but soon you were both laughing out loud at the idea. The laughter shook your chest in ways you couldn’t control, and for a moment, you were afraid you might go from laughing to crying in ways you couldn’t help.

“The area where our neighborhood was really shouldn’t have been built on,” you admitted as you stopped laughing. “But the town had to move a few generations ago because the nearby river flooded the surrounding area after a year of torrential rains.”

“Really?” Feyre asked, shifting from where she stood beside you. “How do you know?”

“My great-grandfather was among the people who started building away from the river before the floods. They called him paranoid, and they were the only ones who had lived in the river area who survived the floods because he wasn’t there.” You rolled your eyes at the thought. “My father loves this story—something about family pride and being born leaders.”

Feyre nodded silently, clearly tense at the mention of your father. She said nothing about it, but you could feel her irritation from where you stood.

Silence filled the balcony. You could still hear the distant bustle and the clatter of toasting glasses. The night breeze stirred the sleeves of Feyre's dress and the cape of yours.

"I wanted to find you, even when the odds were that you were dead."

It took you a second to realize that the statement, so familiar in your mind, hadn't come from you. You looked at Feyre as if she had grown a third head.

"Feyre, she was sold to a slaver. She would have died looking for me," you told her, straightening, trying to be logical and disabuse her of the idea that she might have found you. She mimicked your posture.

It would have been impossible for her. You had been in the volcano when she might have had the resources—halfway around the world. You stood across from each other now, nose to nose, and you realized you were barely taller than her in your heels.

“I would have,” Feyre admitted firmly, anger bubbling up at your response. “Rhys even offered to build a tomb for you, so I could have some peace—to honor you—but we didn’t because of the news from the Mortal Lands. But I’m immortal now; I would have sought you out beyond my lifetime if I hadn't been bound by logic. You were everything to me in those years—”

She stopped dead in her tracks, stiffening. Recognition crossed her face, and her eyes bore into yours, widening wildly in surprise. A line of panic tightened her jaw before she rocked back as if dizzy. You were about to step forward to support her, but she threw herself against the balcony railing and looked at you in horror.

Something was wrong with her, and you were about to rush to her side, to ask what was wrong. But panic didn’t quite form when a voice called out urgently.

"Your Highness."

You jumped in place when Luka's voice rang from the doorway. He stood there with a stony expression. "Just a word, please."

"Please" was the key. It was urgent. You looked at Feyre, saw her adjusting herself and regaining her balance, and although you should have asked her something anyway—to make sure she wasn’t dizzy or unwell—you walked toward Luka. Rhysand passed by you like a gust of wind, heading toward her, so you focused your gaze on Luka.

When you reached him, Luka leaned toward you, speaking in your ear in an equally flat tone.

"Astapor is under siege."

The statement made you mirror the horror on Feyre's face a moment ago, and you straightened.

“You know what to do,” you instructed, turning to face your hosts.

Rhysand and Feyre stared at each other as if having a silent conversation, and then Rhysand looked at you, his jaw clenched. You didn’t give yourself time to think or worry about any unknown offense he might have committed before speaking.

"I'm afraid we must leave early."

Morrigan and Rhysand ensured that your court arrived safely at the Bay during the night. In the morning, you dressed in complete solitude and silence, putting on your riding habit and harness with a serene expression. You had known that the former slave masters would try to attack when you were away from the Bay, even though many of your dragons were still there to defend it if necessary. They were desperate men; they would do desperate things.

You were just putting on your gloves when a pair of footsteps sounded behind you. You recognized Rhysand without needing to turn around. He remained silent as you finished fitting the leather around your fingers.

“I hope we can finish our talks once the issues at the Bay are resolved.” The phrase was more of a question than a statement, evident from the caution in his tone.

Will you return? That was the real question.

“As agreed in the negotiation treaty we signed, once the war is resolved, negotiations will resume,” you told him as you finished your task, turning to look at him. The way he stood in the doorway, where the morning sun shone directly on him, made you see even more of the man you had been told he was, rather than the mask he wore.

“Feyre will be waiting for you,” he assured you, and for some reason, he seemed to be searching for something in your reaction. You remained expressionless, giving him nothing, until Rhysand stopped. You didn’t know if he had found what he was looking for or not, but you had no time for that.

Neither of you said anything else. There was nothing left to say. Without further ado, you turned around, walking toward the balcony of the room where you had lived for these past weeks—now devoid of any trace that you had ever been there, as it should be.

You climbed up the wall to the roof closest to the balcony and glanced one last time at your room’s balcony, where Rhysand stood, watching you as if he still expected something from you.

You jumped onto Balerion’s back and flew into battle without looking back.

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