#ink who are not official yet but ink is too short to reach the top of the table so dream picks him up and puts him on his lap

[trunklewunjle]

He doesn’t approve

Ink belongs to comyet

Cross belongs to JakeiArtWork

Dream and Nightmear belongs to Jokublog

Dust belongs to ask-dusttale

[jungwooisms]

gekokujō | k.dy | official teaser

pairing: kim doyoung x female reader members: suh youngho (johnny), lee minhyung (mark), nakamoto yuta, lee jeno, kim jungwoo, jeong jaehyun genre: historical au (early 1900’s)/historical fiction, angst, fluff warnings: smoking, language, alcohol word count: 13k/? summary: kim doyoung left his home in search of himself; yet when a collection of both familiar and unfamiliar faces surface, he finds that he may just be a a part of something much larger than he anticipated.

| this will be a part of @puppywritings’ historical collab |

[1909.04.01. Boston, MA] ‘John,

I feel enough time has adequately passed to allow me to write to you. Although, there is not much news from home to tell you of. 

The snow is fast disappearing now. I came across an article in the paper the other day about Boston and it said that 14 or 15 years ago bears used to roam around the northern end of the city, but there seems to be nothing around now except the wild fowl, and an uncountable number of deer. 

How are your hands now? I know that the winter air dries yours as it does mine. Mine are very cut, so scattered with paper trails that I fear I should bleed ink from all the books that you left me. Have you been able to acquire any more on your travels? I find that the supply you gave me is running rather low now. 

You left for Munich inquiring after Daniel Lim if I recall the name correctly, I hope you found him in good health on your arrival. I also hope he does not overwork you, you said as much happened the last you worked under him in London.

I am very pleased to say I am keeping very well, and I trust you are the same. If anything happens, know that I will gladly storm my way across the sea and give your wrongdoers what for.

I miss you, John. And I hope you return soon, you know I love to hear about your travels.’

A short chuckle to yourself as you pull the pen away from the paper after signing your name, ink stains settling into the grooves of your fingers as you aren’t cautious enough with the writing implement. Short blows over the thin paper as you try to dry the ink as quickly as possible, although this isn’t the sweltering heat of the summer you’re unsurprised the ink hasn't run but so much. Carefully standing from your seat you begin your search around the room for an envelope, fingers brushing over various stacks of papers and novellas lying around your workspace. Eventually you find a weathered, but perfectly usable one underneath a dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre. You address the letter to his newest residence, some boarding house in Germany, but you aren't sure if he was even staying there anymore. If that doesn't work out and one of your letters was stamped “Return to Sender” once more, you’d just have to wait for him to send you something first. It seemed like you were always waiting after John. Not that you mind much, you had been as thick as thieves as teenagers and that had hardly ever changed, even after he’d decided to go abroad and study, then go onto some teaching stints wherever the wind blew him.

As you return to your seat you hear a gentle meowing outside, head peering over your desk and out of the glass panes into the garden below you spot a small black and white tabby looking up at you. A sigh escaping your lips as you move to grab your pen once more, beginning to write a post scriptum,

‘p.s. Your lovely feral cat has now decided that I take ownership of her in your absence. Is there a name you prefer I call her?’

You hope he can understand your tone, it’s an issue of yours that the words you write sometimes don't hit their mark. Regardless, you’d send the letter and hear his thoughts on it whenever he has the gaul to write back. You straighten your back from your hunched position and move through the house, your fingers tracing along the smooth walls until you reach the door leading into the garden, it lay nestled in the corner of the kitchen. There’s a faint scratching as you approach, only opening it to find the same tabby waiting for you, it barrels inside once it sees an opportunity.

“You wretch,” tsking as she begins brushing up against your leg. “What am I going to do with you?”

[1909.04.30. 今出川, 京都] The ground crunches underfoot as Doyoung walks; the pavement, covered with a thin layer of grit from a small windstorm that had picked up an hour or so prior, feeling as if it’s shifting as his leather soled shoes move over it. Storm having left its mark and not going to disappear until a rain shower decides to wash it away, he breathes in the particles still floating through the balmy weather. A small frown as he fans his jacket, allowing some air to circulate under the thick fabric. Had it not been impolite, he would have shed the garment as soon as he stepped out of the train station only minutes ago. His hand still wrapped around his bag he looks to the signs adorning the tops of businesses along the road. Doyoung was never great at learning hanja, so when it came time for him to begin learning the already different kanji and further hiragana and katakana that would come along with his trip abroad, he thought he might set out to find a tutor during his time here. Hand moving to rummage around the inside of his jacket, he procures a worn letter from its depths. ‘今出川 居酒屋,’ it is the only thing foreign to him within the contents of the scripture, the sender had asked to meet him there for lunch on the second day of Doyoung’s arrival to Kyoto.

Doyoung finds the bar after walking a few more blocks, north from the station and hidden away behind a bookstore in a back alley. Before he enters, he pauses. His grip on the letter tightening, the parchment creasing from the increased pressure as the slight tingly pervasiveness of guilt begins to wrack him from the inside out. A look to his left, and then to his right, a ghost of a figure in his peripheral, deterring him from running from the drinkery. It drives him closer, away from an inevitable future and towards the uncertain present. 

A haze of smoke blankets the air as he enters, that of tobacco intermingling with the small fire stoking in the back of the bar. It invades his nose rather viciously, itching the back of his throat and causing tears to form in the corners of his eyes as he greets the hostess with a small ‘Hello’ and ‘A table, please.’ She guides him and he settles down at a chabudai towards the front of the building, almost with enough of a view so that he can peer past the two small curtains at the entrance and into the street.

The letter now resting atop the table and his bag by its side, he reaches into his jacket yet again to procure an almost empty pack of cigarettes and a newly bought lighter. He had run out of fluid during his journey across the sea and he thought that buying a new one would be a novel idea to commemorate his trip. Doyoung’s eyes wander around the enclosed space as he scans the faces of the patrons. Most were men but there was the occasional woman mingling among the crowd as well. Cigarette placed on his lips, lighter spewing to life and igniting the end as he takes a deep breath in. Doyoung hates smoking, hates the way it pierces his lungs with its inky black vapors. It leaves his breath smelling awful, but it is just something people do to pass the time. Fingers finding the cigarette, he removes it for a moment, tapping it against a small silver dish atop the table, the ashes pooling at the bottom as he continues to look for someone he hasn’t met yet.

“Did you want to order anything else?” A voice to his right calls out, he jumps slightly before turning, only to find the kimono clad waitress at his side. She sets down a tray of dishes, some foods he recognizes, and some he thinks to be the local cuisine.

“Oh, no thank you.” As his eyes look over the food he moves to rest his cigarette in the ashtray to come back for later.

The woman gives a short smile and brief nod before speaking again, “Please let me know if you need anything.” Even after she had walked away, Doyoung could feel her eyes lingering on him like a child seeing some sort of marvel for the first time. This is not to say that he thinks that highly of himself, just that he knows that he is an outsider in a foreign place, his accent could tell anyone as much.

“I think she likes you.” A voice speaking up when Doyoung goes to take a bite out of the onigiri on his tray.

Mouth half full and brow furrowed in confusion, Doyoung turns to face wherever the voice had come from, “What did you say?” Chewing his food and swallowing rather harshly, he almost chokes as he thinks he’s going insane after hearing what sounded like Korean. This time it was a man who spoke, he was sitting at another table across from him, a shifty grin on his face. Something about him seemed different from everyone else in the bar, but the man couldn’t quite put a finger on it in this dimly lit room.

“She’s still staring at you.” The other man answers, now standing up and proceeding to walk over to him. “But it’s not like she’s hearing me say that anyway,” He laughs, brushing his hands against the lapels of his jacket.

Now in a better light, the man can get a better view of this stranger. “Are you Korean too?” He asks in his native tongue, feeling much more relieved that the burden of speaking a different language is momentarily sated.

“No,” Another laugh as the man settles down in the seat adjacent. “Just familiar with the language, is all.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes staring into Doyoung’s as if he’s trying to memorize his facial features. “You wouldn’t happen to be Kim Dongyoung, would you?”

“Doyoung, actually.” He clears his throat. “I am,” Eyes glancing at the letter still atop the table, Doyoung comes to a realization, “Are you Nakamoto Yuta?”

“I am,” A smile as he extends his hand. Less practiced with western formality Doyoung looks at the greeting for a moment before raising his own to formally address him, “It’s nice to meet you.” After a moment they drop their hands away from each other, Yuta’s gaze shifting to watch the hostess move his food from his old table to the one he now shares with Doyoung. “With an accent like that you must be from the south, Daegu, maybe?”

“Guri, actually.” He returns to his food for a moment, Yuta taking this time to also take a few bites from his own bento. “Where did you learn Korean?”

“Did Youngho not tell you?” Youngho is their mutual friend, he’d given Doyoung Yuta’s contact information to inquire if he had any availability to tutor him. “I studied with him when we were in college, I moved back here a year after we graduated, my mother fell ill and wanted to come back from living in Hanseong.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Doyoung frowns, shifting as he sets his chopsticks down. The two must have met after Doyoung had left his schooling to return to his family, per their wishes. 

A smile, “She made a perfect recovery, but now that she’s home she never wants to leave again.” Yuta reaches for the porcelain flask of sake the hostess had brought over, pouring himself a small glass then offering one to Doyoung. The younger politely refuses, still not accustomed to the savoriness of the drink, as Yuta nods and knocks back his own cup before speaking again. “When can you start classes? We typically meet for an hour or two every day if we can.”

“We?” Doyoung’s caught up on the word, he thought these would be private lessons, not an actual class. He leans forward, somewhat anxious at the thought of his abysmal language skills to be put on show for more than one audience member.

“Just a handful of other students from all over the place,” Shoulders shrugging Yuta leans backwards, hands placed atop his knees as he stretches his back. “We have a few Korean and Chinese kids, even a Canadian student as well. Not everyone’s at the same level so you shouldn’t worry too much about it.” He smiles, toothy and carefree as if there wasn’t an unhappy thought that had ever crossed him, Doyoung somewhat resents the uncertain assumption he made. “The schoolhouse isn’t too far away from here actually; did you want to stop by?” Hand motioning towards the doorway, Yuta’s head tilts inquisitively.

“I actually have to check in at the hotel I’m staying in, my parents told me to write whenever I got here and I’ve been putting that off for a while,” A sigh escaping him. Doyoung had been thinking about what to pen for the past day and a half but couldn’t muster the strength to go through with it. He’d left on rocky terms and was expecting to be hounded whenever they responded. “I’ll stop by tomorrow when you have class if that’s alright?”

“Fine by me,” He’s now searching his own pockets, finding a pen and reaching out for the letter near Doyoung. Yuta scribbles down something, a few kanji that Doyoung can’t decipher, and hands him the paper back, “Classes start at ten, when you’re in the area just ask someone if they know where this is and they’ll point you in the right direction.”

“Thanks,” Doyoung looks down to the paper, seeing in his periphery that Yuta was already on his feet, straightening his jacket as he begins to head over to the waitress.

Doyoung sees him say something but can’t make out what, it’s only when Yuta turns to him and speaks that he can ascertain the meaning, “Don’t worry about paying this time, you’ll have to treat me to lunch some other day.” And with that Doyoung finds himself alone once more in the tavern.

 [1909.04.30. Boston, MA] The letter had arrived early in the morning, but you had been out in town with your mother attending some group function that you didn't want to be a part of in the first place. So, when you walk into your own little study and see it lying atop your things you race over and tear open the seal adorning it.

‘When I arrived in Munich, my work left me so urgent that I could not write in time before I left again. I thus deferred it to a point where I once again found myself with solid footing. It rains heavily in Seoul today, my travels have taken me here instead of crossing the Atlantic.

Currently I am holding a tutoring position for the American consulate’s son. I expect to hold this position for some time before I return home to Boston. 

Tell my mother not to fuss over me too much, if anything I implore her to look after you. Of all people, other than your own family, she knows of the antics you pursue.

I was able to sneak out a few books from Munich, upon my return I swear to you that you will have the greatest library in all America- no, the world, even.

If I were a better artist, or wealthy enough to photograph, I would show you how beautiful my journey across the world has been. Although, so much has changed in Seoul since I held my studies here. I cannot help but have the inklings of melancholy eat away as I recall the memories and compare them to what I see now. This will come to pass, I hope. 

I hear the boy calling for me now— My writing will have to cease here, I fear. Send my affection to your family, I know they miss me as much as you do.

With all the love I can muster,

x John

p.s. I think I have decided to call her Minnie, please refer to her as that accordingly.’

While scattered with his familiarities and humor, the letter seems all too short, all too hurried. Your lips purse as you read over it, brow furrowing as a small knot in your stomach begins to form. Thumb rubbing over the x marking his name the worry only grows ever more prevalent, you pull your eyes away from the words and begin to rummage around for your own writing implements and paper, wanting to respond to him as quickly as possible.

‘John,

Your letter left much to be desired. Seoul? Your mother anxiously awaits your return any day now, before you left you said you would only be gone until early May at most. I hope that nothing unsavory has happened, God knows you find yourself in trouble more than any other man I know. 

Please let her know that you are safe, I fear that she may follow after you should you be gone any longer. A son should never burden his mother with his absence for an extended period, I can only keep her company for so long before her weariness sets in and she longs to see you. 

She also knitted you a pair of gloves, seeing as you left your moth-eaten ones behind. I know the air is growing warmer, but it is somewhat endearing to see how doting she is over you. Please, ease her mind by writing.’

[1909.04.30.-1909.04.31.  今出川ホテル, 京都] Doyoung eventually finds himself standing at the small entrance of a hotel, the name written in cursive English on a wooden sign above the doorway. Youngho had recommended the inn, saying that it would be one of the more accepting places to stay at as a foreigner. It has a somewhat Victorian looking façade, contrasting the traditional Japanese styled buildings around it, he wonders why that is as he ascends the handful of steps to the door, struggling ever so slightly while lugging his bag behind him. As the door swings open, he’s greeted by an elderly woman with a rather round face, “Good evening,” she smiles and ushers him inside. “Did you need a room for the night? Or do you have a reservation?”

Mind fogging as he struggles to keep up, “Apologies, my Japanese isn’t—” The stone floor clicking underfoot as he follows her to the main desk.

“Ah, Korean?” It’s accented, but he appreciates it nonetheless. “Do you have a reservation?” Her hands dance along a worn leather book atop the desk, flipping it open as she looks down a list of names, some of those which are crossed out and some of which are not.

“I do,” He nods his head with a short smile, “It should be under Kim.”

Humming as she runs her finger down the list, as her head turns upward it causes Doyoung to return his attention to her, “Kim Heesung or Kim Doyoung?”

“Doyoung,” he says, shifting his weight from foot to foot, mentally hitting himself as he should’ve been more specific. Eyes scanning the list, Doyoung takes a short look around the interior of the inn.The space is smaller than he imagined, but rather cozy. A glowing fire going to warm the chill of the night, large armchairs beside it and the largest bookshelf he’s ever seen built around the hearth.

“Wonderful,” She smiles, turning her back to him to find his room key from a small drawer behind the desk. Before she faces him again fully, she shifts through a small stack of papers atop the desk, “This also came for you,” The woman reaches to pull out a thin card from the stack, it has both hangul and kanji printed on it so it was easy to assume it’d come from his homeland.

“Thank you,” He smiles back before taking the telegram and tucking it into his jacket pocket. She hands him the key and he’s off to find his hotel room. It lays up the staircase and down a winding corridor, as he passes by some of the rooms, he can hear the muffled voices of a few of the other patrons, speaking languages he can mildly understand and others that sound alien. Once he finds his room, he’s all too giddy to throw himself onto the bed. Door locked, shoes and suitcase strewn aside he falls onto the plush bed, his eyes watching the ceiling as the weight of sleep begins to take over his vision.

Broken sunlight filters into the room, the shades drawn enough only to allow sharp slants of light to come through. The city outside is bustling whereas the hotel room seems almost vacant of any form of noise, save for the sound of soft breathing as the occupant sleeps. Kim Doyoung continues to snore  softly, dreaming of something sweet enough to add a slight curvature to his lips. He rolls in his slumber, the telegram received in the night folding under his weight, unbeknownst to him.

Three swift knocks awake him from the depths of slumber. He bolts up, raising a hand to run through his hair as a frown of confusing forms on his lips, wiping away whatever essence of his dream remained. “Are you awake?” A voice rings out seconds after the rapping. It’s the woman from the night before, Doyoung was too tired to connect the dots quite yet.

“Yes,” He responds groggily, moving to allocate his footing onto the floor. He hears soft footsteps leading away from his door, he supposes his wakeup call is completed. Rummaging around his wrinkled jacket-pocket he pulls out his timepiece, the clock reveals that it is seven forty-five in the morning, he has two hours before his lessons begin. Letting out a soft groan, he places the watch away and pushes himself onto his feet. His knees creaking and cracking as he rises and stretches out his arms, signaling that his sleep must’ve been docile. Once again, his hand moves to his jacket as he recalls the telegram, now crumpled in the crevasses of his pocket. Doyoung pulls out the letter, walking to draw open the shades to allow more reading light in.

“Kim Dongyoung,” He mumbles out, reading over the first, short line as the sleep is rubbed from his eyes. ‘Mom and Dad are going to kill you if you continue to ignore them. For my sake, please write. - Donyun’

An audible scoff after he’s finished reading, he can almost hear his brother’s tone. Doyoung does care about his family, but his brother is as much on his parents’ side as he is against it, it is a giant rift in their already teetering relationship.

The telegram tossed onto the bed as Doyoung takes off his jacket, he’d been avoiding his familial issues for a while now and it seems as if they’re coming back to bite him in the ass. It wasn’t entirely his fault for doing so, his father was never a good listener and Doyoung’s ideas were always pushed asunder.

A few moments later he finds himself in a fresh set of clothes, ready to face the day. In truth, he is dreading his lessons but at least it will provide some relief from thinking about the drama happening back in Guri. His shoes drag along the wooden floor as he steps out of his room, locking it with the small gilded key behind him. Once in the hallway, his posture straightens as he begins to make his way towards the staircase that would lead him into the main lobby. The crushed emerald green velvet railing runs under his fingers as he descends, swiftly moving into his pockets once his feet land on the granite tiles splaying out an ocean of deep gray below him.

A thin beam of light shines in through the slit in the door of the entranceway, the windows attached to the door are covered in the same crushed velvet encasing the staircase via curtain. It feels like he is in a black hole with how dimly lit the interior of the building is. Eventually he makes his way through the lobby, past the plumes of smoke belonging to the lackadaisical men resting in overly decadent armchairs smoking out of their kiserus.

Doyoung shuffles his way to the front desk, a younger woman manning it instead of the elderly woman from the night prior. “Can I help you?” Voice sullen sounding, or maybe tired, Doyoung still isn’t awake enough yet to dissect it fully. 

Reaching into his pocket, pulling out the letter from Yuta with the name of the school, “I’m looking for this?”

The girl leans over the desk, it’s easy to tell the yukata she wears is inhibiting her from her full range of motion. Eyes reading the characters carefully, “Whoever wrote this has awful handwriting,” She mutters under her breath and Doyoung can’t understand it entirely. “It’s about a fifteen-minute walk that way,” Hand raising to motion southward, “When you see the sweets shop you should turn right, and it will be a few buildings down on your right.”

A nod of his head as he thinks he caught most of her instruction. He takes the paper back and tucks it away, thanking her as he makes for the door. The heat greets him with a gentle breeze, an inkling of warmth as to what’s in store for later in the day. Doyoung looks to the sky, to see where the sun is positioned so he is able to gauge the direction he was supposed to go. He sets off, pace not brisk or lax, merely at a stride to absorb what’s around him. It’s still early in the morning, plenty of time before the school day begins to wander the streets for a bit.

The street’s crowded, thinning in places where it seems more residential than not, it reminds him of home. Different feel, different language but it has a strange nostalgic aura about it. A sweetness hitting his nose as he approaches a small wooden building, he can’t read what it is but by the smells emanating from it he supposes that it’s the sweet shop the girl at the hotel had told him to turn at. Head tilting to peer down the street, it looks like nothing of note. As he stands there, presumably looking more confused than the average local, he feels a finger gently tap on his shoulder, “Are you lost?”

The voice comes as a surprise, turning Doyoung on his heels to come face to face with a stranger. Eyes wide as he looks the boy over, “A little bit... I’m looking for,” reaching into his pockets as the other stops him.

“Are you Kim Doyoung?” It seems as if everyone here knew of him before he could introduce himself. Before he can speak, a nod of affirmation rattles through him and the other smiles, “Yuta said that we’d be getting a new student in today.” Hand outstretching, Doyoung’s a little more practiced with the greeting now, “My name’s Lee Minhyung, I can show you the way to the school if you want?”

“It’s nice to meet you,” He gives a brief smile before another nod of his head, “I’d really appreciate it.”

[1909.05.05. San Francisco, CA] If anything were to be your downfall, it would be that of your impatience. You’d been sitting down with John’s mother, a woman you likened to your own family when the one back home was too involved in her own business, when the news broke. She was kind, offered you tea and as always had the little tin of biscuits you loved when you were a child sitting atop the tea tray, and then graciously divulged to you that her son was currently under police custody in Tokyo when the last you’d heard he’d been in Seoul. It would explain the absence of letters, or inability to write. Upon questioning her further you realize that maybe he was in far greater a circumstance than he left you off thinking.

It isn’t a matter of asking your parents to ship you off to a foreign land, it’s a matter of when and how soon you can leave. The money sitting in the dank vault of your late grandmother’s account had laid in wait for some sort of use, and she had wanted you to use it to fulfill some sort of errant dream of yours after her passing. You couldn’t find it within yourself to touch it, seeing it as too prized and too treasured a thing to take away from for some frivolous means. But your grandmother had liked John, the late one on your father’s side and not the vile one from your mother’s. She had treated him kindly whenever he had stopped by, sometimes even saying that she had wished him her grandson more than the monsters that were your cousins. You think that is reason enough to pull from your funds and splurge on a rescue mission to Japan. There were several people you’d known that had been there before, detailing it as a curious place but had neglected to tell you why; you don’t think of the language or cultural barriers separating you until you’re standing on a pier in San Francisco, waiting for your ship to dock.

The brine of the sea had never settled well in your stomach, salty on your lips and your cheeks as the coastal winds torrent towards you. Your ship doesn’t leave for a while yet but the queasiness felt on the decks of other ships returns to the pit of your stomach with a ghostlike vengeance. Perhaps it is anxiousness that riddles you instead of the fear of the sea.

 “Im-a-de-ga-wa Gai-ko-ku-jin Ni-hon-go Ga-kko” words falling from your lips in strange and oblong vowels and consonants that were almost completely incorrect. John had mentioned it in the letter to his mother, detailing that should she not hear from him for another month to contact the school and ask for the aid of a Mr. Yuta Nakamoto, a friend that he’d talked about in passing a few times. Apparently, he is a persuasive sort that would most definitely help him out should the occasion arise. Or so John had put it, you aren't really sure what to think of him.

John’s mother had insisted that it had been a mix up at customs but a bitter taste in your mouth and gut wrenching feeling in your stomach told you otherwise. He was a rebellious spirit and had probably said a few choice words that had gotten him in trouble, he had said his Japanese wasn’t great but he had learned a handful of colorful phrases from the aforementioned friend in University that could definitely be taken the wrong way by unknowing ears.

If the seas were steady and your luck good, maybe you can reach him within a month. If not, a week or so longer but you’re not sure if the anticipation of it all would let you, you might jump ship and hope to swim there faster should such a situation arise. Again, impatience being your downfall you can barely stand just watching the large metal steamship land at port and empty its passengers before you were to board.

The air is salty, the gentle spray of foam from the shore landing on your cheeks carefully as you look towards the ship that is to be your dwelling for the next portion of your life. Maybe you shouldn’t have come alone, taken a chaperone or a friend with you, but you were worried, too crunched for time to even entertain the thought as you packed your bags and told your mother you were taking the first train out of town. Your face still stings with the remembrance of the slap she’d given you in her frenzy, calling you something along the lines of a girl too thoughtless to know her role. By no means a heartfelt way to leave her, but your father had said to go, knowing a little more than your mother how much John means to you.

Your bags, brown leather and worn from the days when your father was still youthful enough to travel, lay at your feet as the thin paper ticket folds under your grasp. The chatter from the crowds around you mixing in with shouts of vendors and merchants lining the docks over the squalls of seagulls overhead. It’s all too much when your mind is racing with concern, not too much though to deter you from a gentle tapping on your shoulder.

“I think you dropped this?” Deep voice causing you to turn on your heels and face the perpetrator. When you do, you’re greeted with your passport being held out to you and a dimpled smile to go along with a rather dashing face.

“Oh,” Eyebrows raised as you reach out to gingerly take your own booklet from the other, you hadn’t realized its absence since you had thought it stowed away in the depths of your handbag. “Thank you—?” A pause as you wait for an introduction.

“Jaehyun, or Jeffery, whichever is easiest for you,” he nods and then you offer your name before he speaks again. “It was really no problem,” he continues with a smile as he looks down to the bags at your feet, “Did you just get back or are you going somewhere?”

The innate curiosity of the stranger mildly perplexing, “I’m off to Tokyo.”

“Tokyo,” his tone faltering as his hand drops down to his side after you begin stowing the passport back away in the small purse slung over your shoulder. “What business is taking you there?”

You pause as you think, it isn’t exactly family troubles or business matters that are taking you across the Pacific, stubbornness, and inability to take your friend for everything he said, more like it. “A friend settled there a little while ago,” a nod after a moment of silence, “it seems that he has gotten himself into a little trouble so I am going to make sure everything is alright.” Absentmindedly patting the bag as you can see the other mull it over in his head, “What about you? Are you heading in or out?”

“Out,” The answer is almost immediate, a shift on his feet as he straightens his posture. “I’m heading to Korea; I haven’t seen my family in almost seven years.”

“Seven years?” The most John had been gone was the three years he spent studying abroad; you can’t imagine someone gone from your life for that amount of time. “What were you here for?”

“I was staying with a group of missionaries as I went through college,” Hands in his pockets as he turns to the blue horizon overlooking the ocean you were both meant to traverse, “Now that I’ve graduated there’s nothing keeping me here.”

“What will you do when you’re-” you begin to speak when a loud whistle blares from the port your ship had saddled up to. Growing quiet as you begin to hear the general buzz of the people around you grow as they begin to shuffle towards the bridge that linked the port to the steamship. “I guess it’s time,” Reaching to pick up your bags, the leather against your palm somewhat soothing your nerves, “are you boarding too?”

A shake of his head, “My ship doesn’t leave until the afternoon.”

“Ah,” the sound leaving your lips as the thought of, perhaps, having someone to accompany you on your journey was swiftly diminished. “Well,” A small smile gracing your lips, “It was nice to meet you, Jaehyun.”

“It was nice to meet you too,” smile returning, “Safe travels.”

“And to you,” You nod as you begin to walk towards the front port, looking down to your hand to make sure that your ticket is still in hand.

[1909.05.16. 今出川外国人日本語学校、京都] “It’s not kūremashita it’s agemashita.” writing on a chalkboard, the dust from the small white stick clinging to the ends of Yuta’s jacket as he scrawls out the hiragana. “Unless you’re thankful that Doyoung’s parents give him money?” A smattering of laughter echoing the room as he tries to teach the handful of students how to show appreciativeness and the reporting of it to others. “Try one more time.” Doyoung sits back in his chair and looks at a pink-cheeked Jungwoo who leans over his notes in an attempt to reconcile his verbal mistake.

There’s another try from the dark-haired man, it sounds good enough to Doyoung but apparently, the structure of the sentence needs more tweaking, as seen by Yuta giving out a small sigh before walking to Jungwoo’s side. Doyoung takes this time to look around the small, confined classroom. It was in no means shabby, but one could tell this building wasn’t meant to be a school, Doyoung thinks Yuta told him that it had been some sort of distillery prior to the deed falling into his hands.

From eleven in the morning, when the sun slants in through the two glass windows of the classroom just enough to see the dust flying through the air, to noon is when Yuta teaches the native Korean speakers basic Japanese grammar and vocabulary. It’s only a handful of students; Minhyung, whom Doyoung had met on his first day, Jungwoo, who is somewhat timid but roaringly confident at times, Jeno, a kid on some sort of exchange trip who hopes to build up his language skills before his university classes start in the fall, and of course, Doyoung himself. It is an intimate learning experience, perhaps that’s why Doyoung now feels miles more confident in his speaking ability now than he did a month prior. Hell, he could now converse freely, albeit somewhat confined in his topics, to the front desk woman at the hotel he still resided at.

There’s a knock at the classroom door, pulling the attention from the room’s occupants away from their work and now to the dark wooden door that leads out into the small foyer where the next group of students is presumably waiting for their lecture. “The next class doesn’t start until noon,” Yuta looks to the clock placed atop his desk, “You’ve got five minutes.”

The door opens with a small creak, shadows from the entranceway spilling in as Doyoung catches a familiar face standing there to greet the class. “I was actually hoping to sit in?” A voice Doyoung hadn’t heard since his university days accompanied the creak of floorboards underfoot as Youngho strides into the room. “I think my Japanese is a little rusty.”

A small laugh from Yuta as he recognizes his friend, “There’s the jailrat.” Yuta returns to the front of the room to stand in front of the taller, no doubt feeling the confused gazes of the students behind him staring past him and to the stranger. “I’m surprised they let you out that early.”

“You know I’m persuasive,” Smile lingering on his lips as his head turns and he catches sight of Doyoung looking at him quizzically. He is still caught up on the word jailrat and the connotation behind it, when had Youngho been incarcerated?  

“Well,” Yuta turns on his heels to address the class, “Why don’t we end early today?”

Minhyung’s already leaned over his desk to get Jeno’s attention, Doyoung thinks he hears him say something about grabbing lunch at the nearby market, but his interest is far too deterred to be paying full attention to the younger men. The class packs their bags, Doyoung taking the longest time of all as he tucks away his books into his makeshift bag. In all earnest it was a bag he’d borrowed from the reception at the hotel, he’d neglected to bring or buy a suitable bag for school when he left home and arrived in Japan. The worn canvas of the thing almost wearing through at the bottom, he slings it over his shoulder and makes his way towards Youngho and Yuta, who look to be in deep conversation.

Youngho spots Doyoung approaching in his periphery, turning to greet him with a jovial smile. “I see you made it here in one piece?” His eyes looked tired, his face gaunter than the last time he’d seen his elder, but he wasn’t going to question, it was neither the time nor the place.

“Mostly,” Doyoung replies, “Yuta’s been a great teacher.”

“Thanks for the ego boost,” Yuta’s fingers dance on the lapels of his jacket in mock vanity, only then moving into his jacket pocket for a lighter and his infamous pack of Chūyū cigarettes. He offers one to Youngho and then to Doyoung, to which they accept, pulling their own lighters out of their pockets and lighting the butts of the sticks.

“God, these are shit,” a grit through Youngho’s teeth after he pulls in a drag. “They confiscated my Lucky Strike back in Tokyo.” Doyoung’s brow furrows as the other begins to speak again, “Let me know when you’ve got a free night. I’d love to grab dinner and catch up; it’s been a while.”

“I should have time this Saturday?” Doyoung thinks of his schedule, it’s not that he had massive time commitments here, but he was making a point to travel around the city in his free time. “If that works for you, of course.”

“It sounds doable,” A nod as Youngho moves his hand to tap his cigarette against an ashtray atop Yuta’s desk, the wood around the tray stained with the ashes of past smoking ventures. “Are you still staying at that hotel I told you about?”

Doyoung shifts on his feet, “I am, are you staying there too?”

“Yuta has offered me residence in his home until he is sick of me,” Youngho nods to the aforementioned, “I can meet you in the lobby around five then?”

“Sounds good,” Doyoung agrees, looking at the clock hanging on the wall, “I think Jungwoo wanted to go over the homework together so I should go and help him out.” It’s something of an excuse but Doyoung could feel as if there was some sort of pregnant secret looming over the heads of the other two.

“Would you mind sending Sicheng and the others in?” Yuta asks as Doyoung snubs out his cigarette in the ashtray and makes his way to the door.

Metal knob in hand, Doyoung turns and gives him a brief nod, “Of course.”

There’s something that doesn't sit right with Doyoung. Youngho had noted that he’d planned on staying in Hanseong for a while in the letter he’d sent to Doyoung a few weeks ago. It’s not as if plans can’t change or anything of the sort, yet he’d seemed vehement about it, detailing something about a someone he was going to visit before heading home to America. He isn’t one to question where questions aren’t due, if his friend was to stay in Kyoto for the time being, he’d be nothing more than appreciative of having a familiar face around.

[1909.05.18. 今出川ホテル、京都] When Doyoung ascends the staircase, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, he can immediately tell that Youngho sits in one of the large armchairs by the hotel’s unused fireplace in the lobby. Although his face is obscured by the wings, with the way his hand taps in rhythm with the song wafting through the air, the excitedness of the movements are a telling sign that it is his friend. 

A glance to the victrola that lies in the corner of the room, the audio scratchy and soft as it emits a tune that Doyoung does not know. He strides over to the plush chair, glancing down to its occupant before speaking. 

“Good afternoon,” the words escape him and Youngho turns to him with a jump and widened eyes before he realizes who it is. 

“Dongyoung!” Youngho smiles from the armchair, rising to his feet to greet the other with a quick embrace, “Long time no see.”

“Actually I go by Doyoung now,” he nods awkwardly as Youngho steps back from him, his hand rising to scratch the back of his head, “helps me forget myself for a bit.”

“Still having family issues?” Youngho’s brow furrows as they break their embrace, “I thought you wrote that you had sorted that mess out?”

“More or less,” another awkward smile, “But enough about me— I thought you were supposed to be in Hanseong?”

“Change of plans, there was someone I was meant to meet in Tokyo, but they left during the time while I was imprisoned.”

“Yuta mentioned something like that when you first came in, what happened?” Youngho’s holds out his hand, motioning to the door, as Doyoung questions. The latter begins to walk forward, towards the entrance of the hotel as his friend trails behind him, “Were you really taken into custody?”

“They thought I had ties with Homer Hulbert,” A laugh as the two make their way out the front door, trapezing down the steps and onto the sidewalk, “Which is correct, but they had no grounds to imprison me on the idea that I know him alone or had one of his books in my possession.”

“Hulbert— is he the one that—?” 

“The very same,” he nods, “But that is more than contrived at this point, let me know how you are. It sounds like things are the same with your family the last I saw you.”

“If things were okay then I would have stayed home,” A huff of heated breath leaving him in something of a passive laugh. “My father is still trying to set me up with that girl, the past runs deep, I suppose.”

“I cannot agree with you more,” Youngho agrees with a nod, “Have you even met her yet?”

“The last time I saw Seungwon was when I was thirteen, even if I saw her I cannot say I could point her out in a crowd if you asked me to.” Doyoung's hands find purchase in his pocket, hidden away from the sunlight that falls onto his head and burns the back of his neck as Youngho and he walk further down the street, through the masses of people.

The older nods solemnly, almost as if he understands the situation, "I have a friend who's nearly in a similar situation as you. Although her parents haven't found her a match or approved of anyone she's liked, I'd say her feelings mirror your own."

"Is that right?" Doyoung questions rhetorically as Youngho digs through his jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes, "Is that the girl who you spoke so much about during our classes together?"

Youngho sputters, his hands failing to ignite his lighter at Doyoung's words, a cigarette dangling from his lips, "Did I really talk about her that much?"

"So much so I feel like I know her," Doyoung smiles and shakes his head, a familiar pang hitting his stomach once he looks back to the street before them. "Do you want to grab something to eat? I don't think I've eaten since lunchtime yesterday."

"Too busy studying?"

"Something like that..." In actuality, he'd received yet another telegram, this time from his mother, scolding him for staying away again.

"You always were more studious than me," the other nods and looks to a small restaurant they begin to pass on their left before stopping in his tracks, "What about this place?"

"Soba?" The intensity of the sun once again baring down above him as he looks to the sign on the door, he nods quickly, "Sounds great."

The pair make their way inside, settling down at a small table in the back corner of the shop as they wait for their food to arrive. Doyoung moves his hand to unbutton a few fastens from the front of his jacket to allow some of the shop's cooler air to hit him. His hands then move to rest atop the table, his long and slender fingers tapping as Youngho smokes the last of his cigarette, snubbing it out on the ashtray settled at the end of the table.

"How's your family doing? Is your father's business going well? I saw a few copies when I was in Hanseong.” Lackadaisical in question, Doyoung can hear something edging behind his friend’s tone that tinges upon suspicion. 

“It’s going well,” a silent nod as a server comes to their table, the two order quickly, leaving little room for questions before Doyoung asks, “What about your family?”

“Willfully ignorant as ever,” Youngho frowns, shifting in his seat. It looks as if bitter words reside on his tongue but he swallows them down with a redemption of a smile. 

“About what?” Doyoung pauses as he reaches for the pot of tea the server had brought on her arrival, his hand hovering over the handle. 

“Everything.” Youngho’s shoulders shrug as Doyoung eventually pours himself and his friend a cup of tea. “Korean politics, American politics, hell- even the politics of their own inner circle. I refuse to believe they aren’t intelligent, they refuse to accept anything that isn’t affecting them personally.” 

“I see…” He winds off his acknowledgement with the abating of his words, woefully aware that his parents are of the same mindset. His own father being the worst of all of them, claiming that any interaction or deals with unsavory business men were for the benefit of the family, not to the detriment. 

“My father’s own brother died in ‘07 and he seemed unfazed by it at all,” Youngho huffs out, “At the hands of the Imperial Army, and yet, still, he said nothing.” 

Doyoung’s eyes widen and he raises a finger to his lips as if to tell the older to lower his voice, unknowing if anyone within the shop understands Korean. “Even if he did, there would be nothing your father could have done about it. Not only is he in America, he holds no authority in Joseon.” 

“No one wanting to do a damn holds any authority in Joseon anymore, you know better than me what the yangban have gone through, what everyone’s gone through.” Youngho leans in closer to Doyoung, ceding as he lowers his tone, “It may be easier said than done but I believe we have the ability to change that.” 

“How would-” Doyoung begins but is interrupted when the server comes back with their food, carefully setting each dish atop the table before retreating back into the depths of the kitchen. “How could ‘we’ possibly do that?” 

“There are ways, I know there are. I just need time to think of a proper solution,” Youngho nods as he reaches for his chopsticks, eager to sate his own hunger that had risen during their conversation. “If you’re interested I’ll tell you more when I have an idea.”

[1909.05.27. 今出川外国人日本語学校、京都] Doyoung’s mind doesn't return to that conversation with Youngho until a Wednesday afternoon about a week later. The sun begins to sink down in the sky as Youngho, Minhyung and himself were cleaning off some blackboard tablets in the main room of the school. Yuta was busy teaching a class and Doyoung’s fingers were pruned from what felt like endless scrubbing with a rag and vinegar ridden water.

“You know,” Youngho speaks up after what feels like an eternity of silence, brushing his hands on his pants after setting down a board onto the floor below. “I think we can really change something here.” His shoes quickly tapping on the floor in some sort of anxious apprehension, “Yuta and I have been talking and the resistance effort in Korea seems to be strengthening again.”

“What are you implying?” Doyoung asks, confused at the sudden statement. His brow wet with perspiration, even having the windows cracked open doesn't allow for much wind to travel throughout the building.

“I am saying that we can try and do something to change the… trouble happening back home,” Youngho shows no anger but a passion resides in his voice that remains hard to mask. “Do something before something more is done to us.”

“That is…” Minhyung begins, looking up to Youngho from his task of drying off the boards.

“Idealistic?” Doyoung interjects, biting his lower lip before continuing, “Youngho you do realize if someone hears you talking about that you’ll get thrown in prison again?”

Eyes trailing around the space as if he hadn’t already known they were alone, “Every one of us are sitting ducks. You know that,” a point to Minhyung and then a point to Doyoung, “and you know that. Is fighting back against that such a bad thing?”

“How do you propose we do that? Drop everything now, hop on a ship back to Korea and just roam the countryside looking for this supposed group?” Blood rushing to his ears as it sounds like waves crashing on a beach’s shore. 

“Not at all,” A shake of his head. “There are ways of resisting that do not rely on fighting, think peaceful, diplomatic.”

A nervous laugh escapes Doyoung, it’s involuntary but he can’t help it. “Suh Youngho I knew you were insane, but this is another level.”

“I— uh— I’m going to get some chalk refills from the storage room,” Minhyung excuses himself from the conversation, a glance at him as he walks away tells Doyoung that he doesn’t know how to interact with the situation and was looking for an easy escape.

“Doyoung if you would just listen to me and get that stupid doubt out of your head you might just be able to make some sense of it all.” A sigh from Youngho as he stands, reaching into his jacket to rummage around for a pack of cigarettes. “Can I bum one off of you?”

Cheek bitten as he grabs his pack out of his pocket and tosses it to the other, “Do you have any idea what they would do to my family if they knew we were having this conversation? Your family and Minhyung’s are across the world and have no worries about what they say or do. The other student’s and mine are not privileged with that.” Cigarette carton tossed back, the sound of a lighter igniting and the smell of smoke pervading through the air as he tucks the pack away into his pocket.

Youngho thinks, an exhalation of smoke through troubled lungs as his outward breath intermingles with the dust thick in the air. It dissipates without a sound, quietly invading the space as Doyoung is overcome with a sense of trepidation from the other, he picks his words meticulously, trying to string them together as carefully as possible, “This is not just about you or me or my family or yours. It is the fate of a nation on the line, is that so hard to understand?”

It causes the younger pause for a moment, his hand falling to his pocket, hovering there before he pulls on the fabric as if he’d meant to straighten the coat all along. His throat clears, thinking of his parents and brother he’d left behind in Guri, what any actions that Youngho’s ideals cause may entail for them. Even if he was trying to get away from his obligations back home, he’d never want to intentionally put them in any sort of danger. 

Doyoung opens his mouth to speak, before catching a bright glimpse of color passing by one of the front windows, followed by the school door opening with a large slam against the wall. Silhouette standing in the setting sun for a moment, not looking at all familiar to Doyoung. An equally confusing circumstance when the words, “John Suh,” spill from your lips.  It’s a confounded expression that crosses your face, standing in the front door of the school as the taller leans leisurely back against one of the walls. 

Cigarette in hand, Youngho turns at the call of his name, nearly falling over in surprise to see you standing there. No, not surprise- bewilderment, shock or some form of abject horror as you take a few long strides to stand in front of him. It’s as if a child’s been caught by his mother and Doyoung is playing witness to it all.

Doyoung watches the scene in a state likened to childlike curiosity, he understands not one word that falls from either of your or Youngho’s lips, but he can tell you’re angry and him beyond apologetic. Hand movements gesticulating, he catches the words ‘Seoul’ and ‘Tokyo’ at some point as you huff something out under your breath. Voices raising, Doyoung’s surprised Yuta hasn’t come out to tell them to be quiet, but if he were in Yuta’s shoes he wouldn’t as you sounded royally pissed. When you turn on your heels Doyoung looks to Youngho for some sort of explanation, but his gaze is solely locked on you leaving.

“Shouldn’t you chase after her?” Minhyung asks, the two others not realizing he had returned, box of chalk in hand as the three men watch you storm out into the crowded streets.

“She needs to calm down before I talk to her again or she might really kill me.” Youngho sighs, bringing the cigarette to his lips before taking in a long drag. A hand runs through his hair as it looks as if all of the blood had drained from his face upon your arrival.

“Is that the friend you mentioned a while ago? You showed us a picture I think.” Doyoung questions, somewhat relieved at your intrusion into their previous conversation.

“It is,” the answer not coming from Youngho, but from Minhyung. “And by the sound of it she’s ready to pack you into her suitcase and take you on the next boat home.” Head nodding as he looks to the space you once occupied, “You really didn’t tell her you were coming here?”

“You understood that?” Smoke leaving him he turns to the younger, “You didn’t tell me you speak English.”

“It never really came up.” Shoulders shrugging as he sets the box of chalk he’d been fiddling with down onto a nearby chair. “And I am from Canada, after all.”

“Son of a bitch, Yuta told me you were from Hanseong.” Youngho muses, tossing the cigarette from his hand and smothering it with his shoe. “But yeah, that’s her. I may have neglected to mention that but I was a little held up,” he looks confused as he pushes himself off the wall and makes his way to the door, peering out in the street. “I just don’t know how in the hell she found me.”

“She probably used the wrath of God to do it,” Minhyung suggests, “That’s how my mom says she knows everything I’ve ever done wrong.”

“Wouldn’t put it past her,” A shake of his head as Youngho turns to Doyoung. “She said she’s staying at the hotel you’re in. Would you mind meeting up with me tomorrow morning in the lobby to talk some sense into her and get her to go back home?”

“I don’t even know her though?” Hands dried on a nearby towel, Doyoung stands and reaches for the bucket of now dirty water. He walks past Youngho and into the street to dump its contents out, “I don’t even speak that much English.” 

“It’s more of moral support than anything,” Youngho steps aside to let Doyoung back in, “I wasn’t joking: she might actually kill me if she gets the chance.”

“Fine,” Doyoung sighs, walking to pick up his bag from the corner of the room. His hands smell of vinegar and he rubs his still pruned fingertips together as he thinks of what the next morning would hold. “You owe me, though.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Youngho breathes a sigh of relief as Doyoung makes his way to the front door once again, this time with the intent of leaving. “Nine work for you?”

“Nine works for me.” A nod as he walks down the two steps and onto the dirt road below, the indentations from your shoes leading off down the almost empty road. He glances back to Youngho with a, “See you tomorrow,” and then to Minhyung with a question of “Do we have a quiz on Friday?” before waving it off and beginning his trek back home.

The night descends on Kyoto quietly and without noise, the stores closing long after the sun has fallen behind the western mountains in Arashiyama, lanterns aligning the street as Doyoung shuffles his way to the hotel. It’s quiet, the city typically is at this time of night, he’s learned over the course of his stay in the ancient former capital.

Before he goes inside, he stands outside of the entrance, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat as he stares up at the night sky blooming with stars. His bag lays at his feet, more worn now than it had been on the first day of class. Crumpled in his fists, buried away into the depths of his coat lies a letter, the ink that had adorned it far too smudged and water damaged to read now. Doyoung hadn’t meant to ‘accidentally’ drop it into a puddle when it had arrived that morning, so the contents lie unknown. However, on the corner of the envelope, a blurred name, ‘Seungwon’ stays virtually untouched as if to remind him of former obligations. 

It’s as if there’s a clock ticking in his chest, counting down to a day, a time, when he’s meant to take up the holstered responsibility of his family and place it onto his own shoulders. A burden not yet ready to bear, he sighs out into the balmy night and makes his way inside of the hotel. 

[1909.05.27. 今出川、京都] Doyoung wakes to the knocking on his door, his head burrowing into the tangled blankets and pillows from a restless night’s sleep. It takes a moment for him to find himself, writhing around the sheets before pulling himself out of his own stupor. Feet hitting the floor with a dull thud, he drags his lethargic body to the small bathroom, running his hands under the cool water of the faucet before splashing some onto his face to wake himself further. He meets his own gaze in the reflection, tired eyes and the slightest shadow of stubble beginning to darken on his jaw and upper lip. He’d have to visit the barber at some point in the coming days before he becomes totally unkempt.

He dresses himself in casual attire, a white linen button up, the most breathable thing he’d wear today, before he dons the dark blue of his three piece suit, a light gray and black one still residing in his wardrobe. He notices the threadings are nearly worn as he buttons the bottom half of his jacket, the things threatening to fall off should he exert too much force. The soles of his shoes too lie in disarray, wearing thin from endless wandering the streets of Kyoto after his classes have finished. It’s not that he’s searching for anything in particular, maybe a solution to his current situation. But he can’t find that at a merchant’s stall.

The route to the dining hall located on the first floor is a path easily tread, remembered in his first few days of arriving in Kyoto. The carpeted floors giving way to a wooden expanse the further he delves into the hotel, the scents of varying breakfast foods calling out to his aching stomach. 

His hands keep busy with the morning paper, perhaps yesterday’s or the day prior to that one. It takes a while for the Korean post to arrive in Kyoto, the postage system seems to take years for important things to arrive, yet the letters from home seem to be weekly. A sigh as he sets down the news, reaching out for the carafe of coffee situated some ways away from where he’s seated. He begins to pour himself a cup of coffee, only pausing when he catches something out the corner of his eye. 

A few darkened drips from the coffee pot settle into the white linen of the dining room tablecloth as he spots you stalking towards him. His eyes go wide and his breath hitches when your gaze narrows on him, almost causing him to choke on coffee he’d just brought to his lips.

The way you saunter over to his table reminds him of his mother when she’d be out to scold either him or his brother. Doyoung doesn’t know you but can easily tell that you’re not a force to be reckoned with. 

“Where’s John?” You ask, standing before him, arms crossing over your chest as you look down at him expectantly. “You were one of the men with him yesterday, right?”

“What?” Doyoung asks, trying to make some sense of what you were saying. When he was a young boy, his parents had allowed him to take English lessons with a handful of the Christian missionaries that had drifted through Guri, but seeing as he understands nothing of what you just said, it’s obvious he hadn’t retained much, if any, of his vocabulary. “What are you looking for?” He sees no glimmer of understanding in your eyes as your brow furrows, probably trying to decipher what he’d just said. “Youngho? Are you looking for Youngho?” It’s the common connection the two of you seem to have, it’s his best bet on trying to figure out what you want. 

You nod at the name, recalling that his mother shouts that at him whenever he’s angry. “Where is he?” If you’d taken up John on any of his invitational Korean lessons, you may have had much better luck in this situation. But you’d gone off to learn French because you were enamored with one of your classmates at the time, you could almost hit yourself seeing where it’s gotten you. 

“Whe-” Doyoung pauses, lips pursing together as he thinks of the word. Youngho was meant to be in the lobby when she came downstairs, but it’s now clear he’s nowhere to be found. 

 “School.” It’s one of the words he can pull from memory. “He’s probably at the school,” he says again and gestures in the general direction of Yuta’s academy. 

“The school- Imadegawa Gaikokujin Nihongo Gakko?” You’ve said the name of the institute hundreds of times to yourself that you think it’s the only Japanese you know. Not that you fully understand what it means, just knowing that it’s the name of the place. 

Doyoung nods, somewhat surprised that you know the name. 

“Can you take me?” The question falls out quickly and you see he’s confused, so you repeat it again slowly in hopes that he comprehends it. It seems that he does, reaching for his coffee and finishing the cup before rising to his feet, motioning for you to follow him as he heads towards the exit.

The walk to the school is painfully awkward, drenched in a silence that neither of you want to address. Both of you are not confident enough in the other’s mother tongue to make small talk as the two of you begin to walk the streets. 

“Hey!” Doyoung hears Minhyung call out as the schoolhouse nears, “Took you long enough, you’re almost late.” When the younger sees that you’re accompanying him he gives you a small wave, “You’re Youngho’s friend, right?” 

“I am,” You say after a moment, not having expected to hear English today. But with the company that John keeps, you can’t be too surprised at anything now. “Do you know where he is?”

“No, he’s not here yet,” he shakes his head and turns to Doyoung, “Didn’t Youngho say that you’d meet him at the hotel?”

“He did,” Doyoung’s lips curve into a frown as the three of you make your way into the school. “She’s been interrogating me about him, I think. Although I can barely understand what she’s saying.”

Minhyung laughs at the older and then turns back to you, “My name’s Minhyung, but you can call me Mark if that’s easier for you.” His demeanor has a lightness to it that descends onto you as something of a godsend. It’s an ease that you’d probably find with John if he were here and you aren't still angry at him. 

“It’s nice to meet you Minhyung,” you offer him a smile before your eyes go wide and you turn to your partner, “I uhm, I never asked him what his name is.”

“Doyoung,” Minhyung answers, another chortle leaving him and the elder looks confused as to why his name’s just been called out. “What’s your name?”

You respond quickly, glancing over your shoulder to see if John is on his way in, to your misfortune, he isn’t. Minhyung quickly introduces you to Doyoung, probably so he has a gist of who you are. It’s hard to tell if John’s said anything about you to these men, but it doesn’t look as if he’s said much.

“We’ve got class soon,” Minhyung’s voice pulls you from your search and you turn back to him, “I’m sure Yuta would let you sit in on the class if you wanted to, although I’m not too sure that you’ll understand much, I don’t even get all of it.”

“It’s alright,” you shake your head at him, “I’ll just wait out here for Joh- Youngho.”

The man in question strolls into the school around thirty minutes later, the local paper tucked under his arm as his brow raises in surprise to see you, “I thought I said I’d meet you at the hotel.”

“I got impatient,” a frown as your gaze flickers over to him. “Jail John? Jail?” You fume, storming over to the taller, “Do you have any idea how worried I was, how worried your mother was? God- If you don’t write to her today and tell her that you’re okay, I'm stuffing you in my suitcase and taking you back with me.”

He laughs heartily, despite you glaring him down, “I wrote to her as soon as I got out. I wrote to you, too, but it doesn’t seem like you got the message.” A few more chuckles escape him as he holds his arms out, “I missed you.”

You sigh, falling into his embrace, “I missed you too.” After a moment you pull away, stepping back from him, “I’m glad to see that you’re okay, but if you ever do something like this again-”

“I’ve missed your hollow threats,” John smiles and glances around the school’s empty halls, “Do you want to get out of here for a while? I know a good cafe nearby.” 

“Don’t you have class?” You question with a tilt of your head, the gentle murmurs from the classroom some ways away drifting out into the hall. “Minhyung said that Doyoung was already late, I wouldn’t want to stop you from your lesson.”

“I’m not a student,” John shakes his head, “I’m just… in town for a while and Yuta’s putting up with me for a bit.” He flashes you a grin before you have a chance to ask him exactly what he means by that, “Now come on before they run out.”

The two of you walk out into the dense heat of August, passing by a group of students as you do so. John recognizes some of them whereas you don’t, him saying something to them that elicits a laugh or two before you’re both back on your way to the city center. 

“Why were you arrested?” You can’t stop yourself from asking the question as you turn onto the main road from the alley in which the school is situated. There are only a handful of people perusing the streets, but none look interested in what you’d just said. “It wasn’t serious, right?”

“Of course not,” he reassures you and looks to a few buildings ahead, “We’re almost there.” John walks in silence for a moment, his fingers rubbing against his palm as he looks back to you, “I lost my passport, can you believe it?” You recall when you were leaving San Francisco and you had lost your own passport, if it hadn’t been for the man that found it for you, you’re not sure where you’d be.

“Well, actually, I didn’t lose it, it fell between the pages of one of the books that I bought, which reminds me- I have a few for you, I wrote you about them, just remember to tell me to give them to you,” John says quickly as you approach the building he’d been eyeing earlier, walking into the opened door confidently and heading to the nearest open table. 

You can tell he’s lying. You’ve only known him since you were children and he’s the closest person to you, you know almost every little quirk about him. And one of the first things you’d learned was that he talks quickly when he’s not being truthful. Yet, you don’t question him on it, seeing as you’d just calmed the tension between you, you don’t want to ignite it for the second time today. So, you just nod and follow him inside.

More oft than not, you hide your feelings behind a veneer of snark, of a bite that seems to sting but never lasts. It’s a sham way to hold yourself together, for if you let the dread of reality seep into your veins any longer than you allow it, you may just become the person you’re trying to hide. A vulnerable being who longs for the company of others but finds errant ways to keep them close instead of just outright saying it. 

John offers out a seat to you and you sit, hands folding neatly atop the tabletop as you look to the menu scrawled onto a chalkboard near the cafe’s counter. You’re not sure why you do, the mix of Japanese alphabets is still foreign to you.

“I’ll go grab something, just wait here,” he says, noticing your confusion, still standing before he turns on his heels and strides over to the counter. You turn away before he begins to speak to the barista, looking out of the glass window at the front of the shop, 

“How long were you planning on staying in Japan?” John’s voice stirs you some time later, the gentle sound of two cups being placed on the table making you turn in his direction as he sits down across from you. 

“As long as it took me to find you.” You smile at him, reaching out for the small cup, “I guess that means I can pack my bags and leave now.” The smile placated on your lips is joking, but you hold a sincerity in your gaze as if to ask him if that’s what you should do next. He was the entire reason you were here, to find him, to make sure that he was okay and to bring him home if you could. 

John’s finger traces the rim of his own coffee cup, gently lifting after a moment to tap along the surface of the tabletop. He hums, low and obstinate, as if to ponder the significance of you being here. 

“I guess you could,” a slow nod of his head, “You know, you were never obligated to chase me half-way across the world to try and get me back home. I’ve been detained before-”

“You have?” eyes widening as you look from your coffee to meet his eyes, “You’ve never mentioned that.”

“I’ve been detained before but,” he continues, gaze hardening at you as you interrupt him, “I really thought I had lost my papers so I sent my mom a letter saying I may need my official documents back home to get me out of the mess I found myself in. This was a little more serious than the others.”

“What happened the other times?”

“Well, in London they stopped me for taking too much tea out of the country, I guess they thought I’d run them dry of it,” a teasing smile twinges on the corners of his lips, “and in Cairo, I tried to sneak off with a few things from Cleopatra’s tomb.”

“You know,” you lean back in your chair, a snide frown on your lips, “lying less might help you out in the future.”

John laughs, reaching into his jacket pocket to procure his pack of smokes, it isn’t until he’s got a lit cigarette dangling from his lips that he speaks again, “Where’s the fun in that?”

He suddenly gasps, the smoke he’d been inhaling filtering into his lungs and causing him to sputter for a moment. You reach for and hand him his cup of coffee  so he doesn’t choke on himself. After a moment of hitting his chest and extinguishing his cigarette into the ashtray on the corner of the table, he speaks up, “You didn’t use your grandmother’s money to get you here, did you?”

“Well, technically it isn’t hers anymore,” a guilty exhalation of a chuckle, “but yes, I did.”

“Oh,” He’s crestfallen in the most faux of ways, “You said you’d take me to Italy with that.” It’s a joke, but you can see his concern wavering behind the sincerity of his words. 

Your hand falls to run over the textured brocades of your dress, a wavering smile delicately tugging at the corners of your lips, “I was just worried about you.”

“And I appreciate that, I really do,” brow softening as he reaches for his coffee, voice still a bit hoarse from his earlier choking. “But you don’t need to throw everything you have away for me, I know the trip probably wasn’t cheap.” 

John’s not wrong. It had taken quite a large portion from your deceased grandmother’s account to get you here, and the subsequent stay in the country. 

“I had to make sure you were okay,” you shrug your shoulders with a coy smile, reaching out to pick up your teacup and bring it to your lips. It’s then you realize something, setting the cup back down and looking around the shop, eyes wide.

“What is it?” John questions, noticing your shift in demeanor. 

“I haven’t ever been abroad before, I thought maybe I’d travel to Paris or London, Milan, even… Never…” A small hum as you turn to look back at him, “Never to Kyoto.”

“I’d have loved for you to see Seoul,” John smiles softly, his fingers tapping along the sides of the cup, “It’s beautiful this time of year.”

“You make it sound as if it’s impossible to go,” a tilt of your head. John had told you stories from his time studying abroad, of the antics he and his friends would get up to and of the history he’d learned. 

“It would be a little difficult to go back right now,” the smile lingering on his lips looks sad now, almost wistful in a way, “I’m sure we could go in the future if you want to.”  

“I’d love to,” you nod, glancing out of the window once more to watch the passersby walk up and down the crowded street.

[divineluce]

Point of Origin || Alcher & Luce

Timing: May 14th, 2021

Location: The Outskirts

Tagging: @zahneundklauen & @divineluce

Description: Alcher can smell fire in the wind-- she finds Luce instead.

Shuffling around the edge of the burnt out clearing, Luce scrutinized the bits of charcoal, half-burnt branches, and the charred earth that remained. As far as she could tell, it was all just burnt pieces of wood, but she needed to find the anchor point, the place where the phoenix had first been raised. The books she’d gotten from Rio were about as clear as mud, but as far as she could tell, she needed… a piece of the phoenix. Which was easier said than done. The feather she and Adam had found was incredibly volatile on its own. And besides, just because they’d seen the phoenix, that didn’t mean this was where they’d reincarnated. For all she knew, they could have come here from another goddamn state. “Fuck.” She muttered to herself as she continued to look around for anything that might help her. “Like looking for a needle in a haystack full of fucking needles.” Luce said as she made her way through the woods, twigs and leaves crunching loudly under her boots. 

A familiar smell had awoken Alcher from her nap on the stoop. Smoke and charred wood was a scent that Alcher was sure she would never-- could never-- forget. The strangeness came in the lack of pain. Fire always triggered a fear response in Alcher, but this time, all she felt was-- something distant. She did not have a word for it. Still, it worried her. If there was a fire in the forest, it could reach the farm. She needed to act fast. But as she ran, something else familiar began to come into her senses. It smelled like-- Leah. Was she here? Was she the one that caused the fire? Alcher did not know much about phoenixes, but she knew that this could mean Leah was in trouble. Her feet carried her fast, despite being human. There was the smell of a human nearby as well, mixing and lingering with the smell of the ash, the burnt wood. Alcher stopped mid stride when she heard leaves crunching under boots. She could see the opening up ahead, where the fire had caught the trees, the ground, the brush. Her head swiveled and she followed the scent line. A woman, younger. She was rifling through the burnt remains as if looking for something. Or, perhaps, someone. Alcher stepped forward tentatively. “Are you looking for something?” she asked, showing herself fully, making sure to stay nonthreatening. Whoever this woman was, she could have answers about what happened here.

The sudden presence of another person made Luce flinch, her fingers instinctively flexing as though to call upon magic. But, her flames were still dead, buried under six feet of ash. She couldn’t start a fucking candle like this. She glanced down at the charred bits of debris around her and then to herself. Yeah, a tattooed lady in ripped jeans and a crop top didn’t scream “Nothing to see here, official park business,” so she couldn’t even lie about why she was here. But, the lady didn’t seem like she was with the cops either. Standing up, Luce shrugged. “Sorta. I’m looking for… whatever started this fire.” She said, not entirely a lie not entirely the truth. “Just. Looking out for the forest, you know. Civic duty and shit.” Luce said, her voice trailing off as she squinted at the woods around them. Were there other people just lurking in the woods? It wouldn’t surprise her if that was the case. She should have come here at night. But, that would just be a whole host of other problems. Turning her attention back to the other woman, she asked, “What are you doing out here?” 

What was Alcher doing out here? Had she really expected to come here and find Leah? And if she had, what would she have done? She did not want to see the other girl. She did not want to see the pain on her face as she looked at Alcher and saw only the wolf who tried to kill her. Alcher idled for a moment before pointing to the charred earth. “I smelled the fire,” she said, “it was...close to my home.” The farm, the pack, that was all that mattered right now. If a fire had reached the property, Alcher didn’t know what she would’ve done. Claws and teeth can not fight fire. She brought her attention back to the other girl, who smelled of ink and metal and-- “Ulfric.” She spoke his name slowly. It was small, but it was there. This girl had been somewhere Ulfric had been, enough to let his scent sink in. She tilted her head, curious. “Why are you looking for the source? What do you wish to do when you find it?”

She smelled the fire? What did that mean? The fire had been out for days, there was no way the woman would have smelt the remains of the smoke now. Luce kept her expression neutral, even as she tried to piece together what this lady meant by her answer. “Your home. You live all the way out here?” This part of the woods was far from the rest of town, deep in the outskirts. If this woman lived out here, it was in a place tucked away that Luce wasn’t familiar with. That or-- Blinking at the mention of her boss’s name, she frowned. “How do you know my boss?” She asked, though even as she did, pieces were starting to come together. She’d said she had smelt the fire, even though it was long since dead. And she said it was close to her home. The only person who lived this deep in the woods was Ulf, and his farm. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been there, but… “You’re like him, aren’t you?” She asked. If this woman knew what she meant, good. And if she didn’t, she could brush it off. Say she mistook her for some kinda… Viking lady or whatever. 

Blinking in confusion, Luce glanced down at the melted shards of rock, lumps of molten earth that had fused together from the heat. “I’m trying to help. Whatever happened here, whoever did this, they’re hurting.” She’d seen them, trapped in that half form. They had to be hurting, “I just want to help.”

Alcher approached with less caution as the girl spoke. She kept her eyes sharp on her, though even just a few feet away, her figure was blurry. “I do. On a farm. My--” she paused, thought on it a moment, “--family lives out here.” But it seemed this girl was more than Alcher had previously thought. She worked for Ulfric. He had mentioned a few of his employees but Alcher often had a hard time recounting stories about humans she did not care for. She wondered which one this girl was. You’re like him. Ah, so she knew. Tentative, Alcher nodded. “I am. In a way.” She mused on the thought, her sentences short and punctual, her accent slipping thick as the weight of her burdens continued to press down on her. “While he is...what you would call feral, I am patient. Controlled.” Though she would not show her full hand yet, she bent down to examine the earth as well, running her finger through the ash before bringing it to her face. The scent was unmistakable. “A bird who smells of ash and human,” she murmured, “you are looking for a phoenix, yes?”

On a farm. That clinched it. This woman had to be another wolf-- and the confirmation came a moment later. Luce nodded, listening to the other woman speak. A controlled werewolf? Color her surprised. Not that she doubted that people who could do that sort of thing existed, but she’d never heard much about them before. Granted, outside of casual conversation with her boss, Luce had never paid much attention to the particulars of werewolves. The woman lifted a handful of dried, cold ash to her face-- wild. In a near literal sense, too. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.” She said, shifting her backpack on her shoulders. “I need to find where they came from and get some kind of… essence. A piece of them. There’s something wrong with them and I just-- I need to help them.” Because this was beyond a want. She rarely wanted to do things for people she didn’t know. No, she needed to do this. To atone. 

Alcher stood back up, dusting the ash from her hand on her leg. Her plastic joints creaked as she rocked back on her heels and closed her eyes, letting the scents of the forest come to her. Familiar were most of them, but one stood out. It smelled just like the ash in front of her. “A feather?” she glanced around, but she doubted there were any feathers here. At least none that would’ve survived this purge. She turned her golden eyes to the girl who smelled of ink and wondered what she would want with a phoenix, why she would want to help them. Perhaps she knew them. Perhaps she knew Leah. It was all speculation without confirmation. “Why do you need to help them? Has something happened to them?” The unasked question being-- have you done something to them?

“Yeah. Essence.” Luce repeated, looking again at the ground. It was useless, she knew that. This place was a husk, burned and devoid of anything that might help her. All that remained was glass and ash, which was of very little help to her. As the woman stared back at her, Luce held her ground, in spite of the strange luminous eyes that held her gaze. She might not be feral in the way that Ulf was, but Luce knew that there was no such thing as a tame wolf. If this woman wanted to take her out, she could do it and Luce would be powerless to stop her. That reality made Luce’s next answers all the more important. “Yeah, something happened to them. As far as I can tell, they were reborn on corrupted ground. And I need to find that place, so that I can figure out how to help them. They’re… in pain. Or at least, I think they are. They way they were stuck between shapes, it can’t be good for them.” She paused before tackling the other question. “As far as needing to help them, I just have to. I didn’t do this, if that’s what you’re wondering. It’s just… the right thing to do.”

Just the right thing to do. Alcher hadn’t thought humans capable of empathy outside their own species, but then again, did she have that ability? She thought of Nicole. Of Nate. Did they count? Her eyes traveled back to the scorched earth and she thought of Leah. Maybe, if she helped this phoenix as well, then her heart would forgive her for what she’d done to Leah, too. She nodded astutely, approached the girl and held her hand out. “If you have a piece of them, I can track that place for you,” she said, as if that were the simple answer presented in front of them. “It can not have gone far, considering these burns are fresh and the smell of smoke still lingers here.” She would help this girl, she decided-- this human-- because it was, as she’d said, the right thing to do. And in all of the horrible things Alcher had done lately, perhaps some atonement could do her good.

Luce blinked in surprise, unable to hide her confusion. Why was this woman helping? She had no stake in the game, she didn’t need to do anything. She’d figured out that her home-- Ulf’s farm, Luce guessed-- was no longer in danger from the flames. She should be content to go her on way. And yet, she was offering to help? Why? What did she stand to gain? “I don’t have anything of theirs. I don’t know them. I’m not sure that any of their stuff would even still be here, their fire, it burns so much hotter than anything I’ve ever seen.” She said with a shake of her head. Squinting around, Luce looked at the wide swaths of destruction, the burned out tree trunks that littered the area. “Okay. That’s a good start.” Kicking out with her boot, she began to sift through the ash and debris that littered the ground. When she and Adam had first tracked down the phoenix, she remembered seeing footprints that had been seared into the ground, glass forming where sand had been superheated and fused together. “We might be able to backtrack? They melted sand into glass, dried up a stream in the middle of the woods. Problem is, they cut through Scorch Street at some point and that place is a mess of magic and fire already. I’m not sure where they came from before that.”

Not being able to differentiate between scents was such a human problem. One Alcher had never dealt with. She tilted her head at the younger woman, but retracted her hand and nodded. Once they were away from the main source of the scent, she was sure she’d be able to track the location that way as well. She nodded towards the path of burnt ash that led away from the quarry, and picked up a fist full of the burned grass, rubbing it into her palms before they departed. It would keep the scent fresh for her, and distinguishable from the original source. “Even fire has its own scent,” she said as she looked over at the younger woman, “once we find a path, I will be able to follow it.” She motioned towards the treeline and made sure to keep her from wiping her hands off too much. She pushed through the bramble and back towards the town. A phoenix whose fire had corrupted them. She’d have to ask Leah about that someday.

What? Fire had a scent? Smoke, maybe, but fire itself? Or was that just a werewolf thing? Luce wasn’t sure what the woman meant by it, but she followed after her all the same. “Okay.” She said cautiously, doing her best to keep up with the woman. The way she moved was distinctly inhuman, as though she was more at home in the woods than she was anywhere else, which made it a bit difficult to keep pace. But, Luce was no stranger to the woods either. They walked in silence, with the woman leading a path that seemingly had no rhyme or reason to it. “What’s your name?” Luce asked after some time. She’d only just realized she’d never gotten the woman’s name. “I’m Luce. Ulf might have mentioned me. I’ve helped ward his farm a few times before.” She said with a nod. 

The woods were like home, perhaps even more some nights than the farm. Alcher moved through them with an ease that did not suit humans in any fashion. Crouched and low and slinking along through the bramble as if it were simply water being parted. She did not look to see if the other woman was following. Not until she spoke up, and Alcher turned her head to gaze back at her. “Alcher,” she said, deciding that she, too, could trust a human Ulfric did as well, “you are...one of the artists.” She remembered her smelling of metal and ink. “You carry it on your scent.” Tattoos were not something Alcher had ever thought about, but the ones she’d seen on Ulfric, and the meanings they had for him, made her wonder if she might want one, too. How did one carve an entire family lost onto their skin, though? How did one carry such an intangible pain? She stopped and closed her eyes. They were close. “This way,” she pointed, taking off again before the artist could ponder on her words.

Branches scratched against Luce’s arms, the woods not parting for her as easily as they did for Alcher. Was it because they remembered what she’d done to them? The trees, did they remember how she’d burned and raged and brought ruin to the forest? As another branch smacked against her shoulder, Luce brushed away the thought. No. It was just a branches. Just stupid branches and stupid trees and… she was going to help this phoenix. She was going to fix this. “Nice to meet you, Alcher.” Luce nodded. “Yeah, I work for Ulf. I was his apprentice for a while and when I finished, he took me on full time.” She said, continuing to follow behind the woman. Small talk. She hadn’t done much of that outside the shop in a hot minute. When Alcher came to a sudden stop, Luce nearly bumped into the woman. But, she stopped just in time to change directions and follow the woman at that quick pace. “How do you know Ulf? Birds of a feather? Or whatever it is for wolves?”

“Ah, the apprentice,” Alcher nodded, “Ulfric speaks well of you. And often.” The scent of rusted metal reached Alcher’s nose, and for a moment, the fire was gone. She lifted her palm to her face and drew the scent back in, checking the area. There, at a trailhead, burnt trees, bent over from the exhaustion of the heat. It was old. She stepped up to it and ran her fingers along the ash, watching bark crumble to the ground. “This way,” she said, and her eyes fell on an old coal mine, machinery long abandoned, and a curling sense of dread tainting the ground. This place was cursed, with a dark energy. She could feel it. Lyssa’s Peak was nearby, after all. Perhaps the human touch had tainted its natural magic and left behind this, the curse of a broken phoenix. She pointed towards one of the cave entrances. “Through there.” Went to continue her way forward, but paused. “Birds of...yes. We met through another wolf, a pup. He is...what a human might refer to as my beta. My right hand.” 

It wasn’t often that Luce heard things like that. She knew her boss liked her, valued her, even considered her someone he trusted. But, it was still nice to know that he spoke about her at all. Particularly to another wolf. It was good to know that even now, he still cared about her. Her work had been fine the last few months, but her creative spark-- similar to the magic-- was lying low. “Thanks.” Luce said awkwardly, not really sure how else to respond. Luckily, she didn’t need to as Alcher led the way towards the creepiest fucking thing she’d seen in a minute. It was an abandoned coal mine lying derelict, forgotten by the town. As Luce stepped towards it, the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. She didn’t need Alcher’s to tell her that something bad had happened here. She could feel it in the air. “Christ. Yeah, let’s go,” She said, hefting her backpack on her shoulders as she stepped into the darkness.

The air underground had a chilly edge to it, but the underlying current of magic made sweat roll down Luce’s temple. What had happened here? What had the people who’d been operating this mine before been looking for? And why would a phoenix be here? As the plunged deeper into the darkness, Luce did her best to keep as close to Alcher as she could. She couldn’t summon a ball of fire to light the way as she normally would and the lighter in her pocket wouldn’t be much use while they were on the move. “Do you see anything up ahead?”

Could she feel it, too? The tattooed woman? Perhaps there was more to her than Alcher had previously thought. If the air was filled with magic, maybe she was, too. She didn’t stop to ponder on it long, though. She did not necessarily care. All she knew was that she wanted to help this phoenix, and that was enough for Alcher. They walked slower through the mines, Alcher’s bare feet tripping on old wood planks left by humans, and crumbling posts. Her eyes were no help in the dark of the mine, and the further they strayed from the sun’s light, the darker it became. It felt almost...created. A thick film of darkness that coated even their skin. “I do not see much,” she commented, and opted to simply close her eyes and let her ears, her nose, guide her. They never failed her, not like her eyes did. She pointed again. “Left,” and turned down a side tunnel, that reeked of metal and rust and-- “There.” Her eyes opened and a low, red light illuminated the walls of a cavern. One that was neither natural nor man made. The rocks were scorched, as if a bomb had gone off inside of it, smoothing the rock down to their grain, like glass. She ran her hands along them and felt the cool touch they had taken on after they had become incinerated. “Is this the place? What you were looking for?”

“Shit.” Luce muttered under her breath as she followed behind the other woman, feet stumbling in the darkness. She didn’t like this, being surrounded by what was clearly malignant magic that had soaked into the earth. What had this mine been used for? What had they been digging for? As they made their clumsy way through the darkness, the magic in the air continued to grow. But, it reached its peak when they stepped into a cavern, the radiant magic practically suffocating. It wasn’t a cavern so much as it was like… blown glass. It was as though the earth had been superheated in a single burst of flame, she could see the way the rocks had shifted and melted into one form. Luce leaned against the cave to steady herself, her hand touching dark obsidian-- similar to the glass shards she and Adam had found. “Fuck.” Luce breathed as glanced at the ground. Unlike the winding tunnels they’d followed, she could actually see here and she hadn’t stopped to question it until she’d looked down. In the center of the cavern, was a pile of glowing ashes, the same bright red color she’d seen emanating from the feather that had melted through Adam’s shovel. 

“Stay away from the center of the room.” Luce said in warning, dropping to her knees to pull a few glasses from her backpack. They were jars with thick fireproofing wards etched into the glass-- remnants of a simpler time. Back when she’d been hell-bent on studying the will-o-the-wisps that lingered on the outskirts of town, when her biggest problem had been trying to escape Bea’s shadow. Walking up to the ashes, Luce gingerly scooped up the glowing ashes into the jar. The glass heated rapidly in her hand, hot enough to make even her wince in pain, but the glass held. Holding the glass up, she nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I think this will work.” Belatedly, she added, “Thanks. For… helping. You didn’t need to.” Why are you helping? I still don’t understand.

Alcher examined the human as she made her way into the glass cavern. Her curiosity for the younger woman had never left her as they traveled, but observing her now was a different situation. The look of horror on her face was not lost on Alcher, despite the dimly lit room providing little for her eyes to catch. Whatever had happened with this phoenix was not just a tragedy, but a danger. Something burning this hot could destroy almost anything. One could not fight heat in the way one could fight a fist. She didn’t need the warning for the other woman, but she heeded it anyway and stayed in the doorway as she observed her pull out a small, glass vial and do exactly what she’d been warned against. Whoever she was, she knew about fire. A human who played with fire. Fascinating. She met her eyes as she stood back up and tilted her head. “Odd,” she said at first, “why would I not?” It confused her for a moment, before she remembered how often humans denied each other the same hospitality supernaturals in need gave each other. “Need and want are two different things. I know I did not need to, that does not mean I did not want to.” She shuffled from her flesh foot to her plastic one. “Is that all you need from here?”

Staring at the glowing pile of ash, Luce watched as they clouded the jar with trails of smoke. In the gray vapor, she could have sworn she saw the image of a bird, flapping dark wings in the jar. But, the smoke filled the space until the glass held a swirling, shapeless mass, a crimson glow emanating from the bottom. Setting the jar back in her backpack, Luce stared at the ground the ash had come from. The ground here had also been superheated and cooled, forming that glassy black surface. But, unlike the other places she’d seen it, the surface had been shattered and broken into fragments. Luce grabbed another jar and did her best to scoop some of the crushed earth into the bottom of it. Whatever had happened here… it wasn’t good. But maybe she could fix things. Fix the earth, once she’d finished trying to help this phoenix.

“On the other hand, why would you?” Luce asked, matching Alcher’s question with one of her own. “But… yeah, that makes sense.” The differences between need and want. Hm. Something about the words-- there was something about them that stuck in her mind. But, she didn’t have time to dwell on that just now. Rising to her feet, Luce brushed some of the dirt from her knees. “Yeah, that’s all. This place… it’s not right. We shouldn’t be here.” No one should be here. 

Alcher contemplated the words for a moment. “Because that option doesn’t exist,” she answered simply, as if it made sense to anyone what she meant. While wolves were at the top of the chain, other supernaturals were the only other beings that mattered. And if they needed help, she, as a leader, was to help. Perhaps not in the ways she would another wolf or her pack, but helping was the only option. She looked at the inked woman and punctuated her statement with a nod. “Let us take our leave, then,” she agreed, stepping aside as Luce came towards the entrance of the cavern again. She looked down under her feet and saw the ash, knowing her soles were covered with it. She would carry the stench of this corrupted earth with her home if she did not wash it off. There was a river nearby, though. She could stop there. “Follow me, then,” she instructed, and began to head back through the pitch dark tunnel, wondering to herself, was it really just the phoenix she’d ached to help? Or had she really allowed herself to help a human.

[clnriswood]

ARCHIE ANDREWS X READER

Big Little Town: Part One

Story synopsis: The once young reader used to be best friends with Archie Andrews before her abrupt move from Riverdale following her father’s unexplained passing. Now, years later, she returns to finish high school, only to discover that the young boy she’d once had a crush on is both her neighbor, and a not-so-young boy anymore. Together they re-kindle their friendship (and something more) and uncover the truth behind her father’s death and the return of his killer to Riverdale.

a/n: I’m so so excited to embark on this probably eight part journey! I really hope you’ll stick around for a fic packed with angst and mystery, haha! Please do tell me in the replies if you’d like to be added to a tag list! I’ll be updating as soon as possible. <3

X

It’d been years since she’d set foot in Riverdale. Despite her departure five years ago, the small town hadn’t changed a bit, and apparently neither had the near constant grey cloud cover. It seemed picturesque how quaint yet familiar everything was. The leafy viridescent trees that lined the streets, the tips of the fresh grass that peered out between the cracks in the sidewalks, and the Columbian style houses with their neat lawns and creaky stairs, one set of which the girl currently lurched across. She held a large brown box in her hands; within it were stuffed photographs, candle holders, and whatever other miscellaneous items her mother could cram inside them. As she made her way through the bright red front door, the smell of old wood and must went shooting through her lungs.

“Gee, who lived here before?” she said aloud as her mother followed close behind, setting a box down and staring into the abandoned space.

“A little family,” her mother shrugged, “the Coopers, I think?”

The girl shrugged and blew a piece of hair from her mouth, her muddy converse bringing tracks with her as she roamed the desolate soon-to-be living room.

“Doesn’t sound familiar,” she voiced loudly, seeing how much echo would feed back to her ears.

“They had a girl your age,” her mother continued, adding, “you’re mudding up my floors, honey.”

The girl stopped in her tracks and stared down at her feet, scraping them awkwardly on the edge of the cobblestone fireplace to rid herself of some dirt.

“Betty,” her mother finished. “Her name was Betty.”

“Knock knock!” an airy voice came instantaneously.

The two looked up in surprise, confusion crossing their features as they stared at the girl in the doorway. She had smooth blonde hair that was slicked into a neat ponytail, and her blue eyes were like giant ocean orbs against her pale skin. She wore a pink knit sweater against a white collared shirt, like something out of some horse girl catalogue.

“I’m Betty, actually,” the girl laughed shyly, procuring a bag with the familiar Pop’s Diner logo on it.

The girl raised her brows with surprise, “hi Betty.”

“I heard you guys were moving in today so I thought I’d bring some ‘welcome to Riverdale’ donuts to, you know, say hello,” she continued with a bubbly tone.

The girl, feeling awkward, hung her mouth open, able to only respond again, “hi.”

Her mother hit the girl lightly against the chest with a scoff of embarrassment. She stepped forward and extended a hand to Betty, exchanging the sweet treats for a polite handshake.

“This is my daughter, (Y/N),” she said, “she’ll be starting at Riverdale High soon!”

(Y/N) grumbled quietly to herself, clearly not thrilled at the idea.

“That’s great,” Betty beamed, “I can’t wait to see a new face around!”

“Oh, we actually lived here a few years ago,” the girl’s mother explained. “But we moved away when-”

The words seemed to stop there, getting stuck to her throat like glue. Betty’s blue eyes widened with confusion, so the girl took a nervous step forward and quickly swooped in for her mother.

“We moved away a few towns over, but Riverdale never stopped being home, so we came back in time for my senior year and my mom’s new job.”

“Oh,” Betty’s shoulders relaxed, her ponytail swinging to the side, “that’s great.”

“Yeah,” the girl forced a smile back at her new acquaintance.

“So, is it just you two then, if you don’t mind me asking?” Betty asked.

“Yeah,” the girl took another step, holding her mother’s arm and giving it a light squeeze, “my dad passed away a few years ago.”

Betty seemed weirdly unphased, saying, “mine too.”

“Oh?” she perked up.

“Yeah,” Betty said, more flat now, her blonde brows knitting at the thought of something that troubled her. Then, realizing she’d fallen silent, she beamed again, her glossy pink lips splitting. “It was really nice meeting you both! And (Y/N), I uh, left my phone number on the bag, if you ever want to talk.”

The gesture warmed the girl’s heart, and she smiled, for real this time, seeing the black ink scribbled on the paper.

“Thank you,” her and her mother voiced in unison.

“Of course,” she giggled, “see you soon, I hope.”

As Betty turned, her cute shoes tapping the old floorboards and her ponytail swinging, she waved at someone who was outside. Her voice drifted along behind her as she greeted the girl’s unknown neighbors with a bounce in her step.

“Hey!” she called.

A muffled male voice called back, but despite its, well, muffled-ness, something in it sounded familiar.

“I’ll see you at Pop’s later?!” Betty said from the top of the moss covered stairs, her head turned towards someone that was out of view.

Again, a male voice chortled back a positive reply. This time it sounded even more familiar, and the girl felt a weird tingle in her stomach, unable to place its speaker. But she didn’t have to think very hard about it, for Betty turned, giving her, and her neighbor, one last wave.

“Bye (Y/N), bye Archie!” she said before turning and skipping down the steps.

“Archie?” the girl repeated cluelessly.

And then, practically as the name rolled off her tongue, her heart lurched from up in her chest to down into the floor. Her mother’s eyes widened as they came to a mutual realization, and before the girl could even process the idea, her mother was wagging a finger at her with this huge knowing grin.

“Archie Andrews, that boy you liked in middle school, Archie Andrews?” she smiled wider, going in for one her annoying tickles and sending the girl stumbling backwards.

“Nuh uh,” the girl retorted, turning her head away to hide the visible red that was flooding through her face, “I know plenty of other Archie’s.”

“Ok, name one,” her mother challenged, hands moving to her hips in a very mom like way.

“Archie-” the girl started confidently, but her brain immediately short circuited, “-Andrews, OH MY GOD!” she covered her mouth with her hands and went running to the staircase, her mother yelling indistinguishable mockeries up at her as the girl went bounding up the carpeted stairs two at a time until she reached her white bedroom door. Her hands grabbed the brass handle, turned, and slammed the door behind her with such force that the empty room rattled around her.

Back before she left Riverdale, the red headed boy from her year had been practically the only friend she’d had. Being the weird introvert with the recently deceased father didn’t exactly help her case, making it all the more strange when the popular soon-to-be-jock decided to start trailing by her between classes and in the courtyard, usually followed closely behind by a highly optimistic blonde in a ponytail.

“Betty,” the girl realized, slamming her hands into her forehead when the pieces came together.

Pre-pubescent Archie Andrews was just about as middle school fantasy as it could get for a girl. He had these skinny arms and flashing white teeth, and oh my god did the fiery hair make a statement, the girl recalled. He used to force her to catch footballs with him at lunch, so, in exchange, she’d make him listen to her guitar playing after school while they waited for their parents to arrive. It was a blossoming but short lived friendship, for the death of (Y/N)’s father was followed shortly by her departure from the small town and its small town redhead. But the thought, the actual thought that he was less than sixty seconds from her at this moment, sent a combined panic and excitement through her, one so strong she felt she could throw up. The last time she’d seen Archie was before the summer of eighth grade, when she’d left without telling him she was actually going. Giving the sudden life altering change she was going through, the last thing she could handle was officially departing from the boy she liked. And so she waved at him from her mother’s car, the poor redhead totally oblivious it’d be goodbye forever as he waved back from the sidewalk, clutching the guitar she’d thrust goodbye into his hands.

And now he was right there, right across her window and through to his, she thought, raising her head in despair and feeling her throat tighten at once. Because, sure enough, he was literally right there. Archie was standing upright in his little room, and he was staring directly at the girl with a look of mingled confusion and shock written over his large brown eyes. Except it wasn’t actually Archie, she thought, unable to think a single coherent thought as her gaze fixated on the absolutely jaw dropping man that stood a few dozen feet from her. No, skinny little Archie was not this tall, muscular, sharp jawed creature who wore tight fitting tees that clung to his bronzed god-like chest. No way that was Archie that stood frozen like a mirror image to her. But that hair. That hair. There was absolutely no denying that those fiery locks could belong to anyone but him. These thoughts all took about three second to travel through the girl’s mind, and by the third, she did the only thing she could think of and dropped to the floor.

“Oh my god!” she squealed into the flowery carpet, her nose squashed against it uncomfortably.

“What the hell am I doing?!” she spoke to the floor like it would reply.

Obviously he’d seen her drop dead to the ground, but now that she was here she couldn’t exactly get back up, so she took the only acceptable alternative and just lay there like an idiot. If she waited long enough he was bound to get sick of waiting, right? Feeling her phone buzz against her thigh, she reached her nimble fingers into the back of her jean pocket and procured her phone.

new instagram notification: @archiebandrews has started following you.

“NO!” she screamed at her phone, so loudly there was no doubt Archie himself could hear it from his room.

Archie Andrews would like to send you a message.

This was it. This is how she was going to die.

[ Archie is typing… ]

(Y/N), I know you’re still there.

[ Archie is typing… ]

That floor hasn’t been washed in months.

The girl practically spat the carpet from her mouth, her hair getting tangled as she rolled up from the ground. Feeling like her body was on fire from the blaze in her cheeks, she dragged herself up, crossing her fingers that the boy couldn’t see her rosy flushed face from where he stood. He was closer to his window now, clearly his intrigue had brought him slowly forward. Seeing her rise from the floor like a pathetic phoenix would from the ashes, his brows lifted with a keen curiosity, and he found himself stepping closer yet, so he could get a better look at her. Feeling as though she might as well do the same, the girl approached the dirty glass frame nervously, stopping when her muddy converse touched the walls. Archie Andrews wore dark blue jeans and a loosely tucked white tee that curved around the unfamiliar ripples of his chest. His auburn hair was parted kind of in the middle and kind of to the side, framing his high cheekbones and square jaw handsomely. Some of his red locks fled from the neat array of others, one in particular falling across his forehead and curling attractively upon his defined brows. Everything about him was so different and just so, endearing; even the curvature of his rounded pink lips into their inquisitive half smile. And just as she studied him, he’d studied back.

The last time he’d seen the girl she’d had braces and choppy hair, the result of her hacking relentlessly away at it following her father’s sudden and mysterious passing. She hadn’t grown much height wise, but certainly everything else had. Her long straightened hair lay flat against the curvatures of her now rounded out chest, her cheekbones rested higher on her face in such a way that she possessed an attractive maturity, and her brows and collarbones had a matching sharpness to them that defined her features well. She wore tight fitting light wash jeans, torn patchily at the knees from her own falls, and a black tank top, matched with a chunky black belt similar to the one Archie himself wore around his sturdy hips.

It was...bizarre. It was like they were just recognizable enough to each other to be unmistakable, but also grown enough that it seemed they were like strangers.

It was Archie who finally, after what felt like years but in reality was a few seconds, withdrew his phone. The red headed boy stared intently at his screen, typing away quickly and sending a buzz into the girl’s palm. Broken from her daze, she lifted her phone, seeing on it his invitation to join him and his friends at Pop’s in the evening. She lifted her gaze to the auburn haired boy next door, letting out a long and heavy sigh. Honestly, she’d just gotten here and she wasn’t too good at the socializing thing, but it was impossible to resist those glittering brown eyes. Seeing the doubt playing through her mind, Archie tucked his phone back into his jeans, fingers lingering in his pockets as he softened his expression further.

The boy tilted his head sweetly, mouthing “please?”

The girl’s heart seemed to pound so hard she could feel it smacking around her own chest, and so she nodded reluctantly, parting her lips to say yes but instead finding them hung partially open. And then he cracked that smile, that disgustingly perfect smile with the sharp canines and massive dimples, and she knew: it really was him.

[wwounu]

love talk | lee jihoon

—every thoughtful curve of each letter on the ivory paper, it’s rose pink envelope standing out from the rest of the simple, white envelopes, your heart can only yearn more from the warm, loving words. you yearn, yet, you don’t seem to realise the answer is a miracle waiting to happen

“because of you, each day is beautiful. sometimes, i’m afraid it’ll all vanish, but each time i think that, you look at me and smile. you’re my miracle, it’s you.”

pairing: jihoon x reader + love letter!au

word count: 15k

warning: tiny tiny angst

note: 15.1k words?!?! this may have been the longest piece i have written ever, and i’m still late for woozi day... ah, i’m so annoyed with myself, i stayed up until 1am twice just to finish this, but never did get to finish it! but here we are! if i had more time, then i would’ve been able to write the ending much better, i think the only reason why it became an adlib to me was because i wanna watch vagabond... i’m also officially back — hooray! it’ll take me some time to adjust, i guess, a lot has happened since i’ve been gone, but i still followed svt because it’s me. in regards to opposites attract i’ll make a separate post about that, but for now, i hope you all enjoy this long fanfic! it really challenged me as a writer and, little fun fact, this was supposed to be a minghao fic originally. happy belated birthday, jihoon, i hope you remain happy and healthy for eternity. i admire you so much. (i promise you this is a jihoon fanfic haha — this isn’t proofread either... also iida best boy mwah)

An ivory paper sits securely inside your palm; its fluffy, blunt edge from where it’s been ripped apart multiple other pages, contrasting with neat and straight folds, care put into them. The envelope that originally held the note was rose pink — different from the simplicity of white envelopes — the change unusual but comforting as you read each handwritten curve of your name, a small heart at the end, possibly drawn hesitantly, probably not.

A wave of familiarity hits upon unfolding the contents, simple yet pretty handwriting filling the page, its ink radiating all the warmth from the words.

I thought about you today.

A strange thought to confess to you, but I just felt like saying it, so please hear me out.

You look like you’ve been busy these days, which is why I haven’t been writing as much to you. I didn’t want to be such a disturbance to your studies. Though — as I realised — it’s also important to support you and give the positive reminders you deserve. I know I’m quite late to it all, so I hope I can make it up to you next time… Not sure how I’ll do that yet, it’s still in the works.

I’m getting off track — just remember to take it easy on yourself and that you’re doing well so far. Good luck on your remaining essays! Things will get better afterwards, so hang in there for me, promise?

Oh! Do you know the strawberry milk on the table? That’s for you too. I promise I didn’t drug it or anything, in case you’re wondering. It’s a lame present, but I hope it energises you through the day… Ah I’m so lame haha. One day I’ll give to you in person.

I missed your smile, I hope I can see it again. You shine the brightest when you do.

(Did you also like the change in envelope? I think I’ll be using coloured envelopes more these days~)

Miracle.

You fold the letter and place in back into the envelope, eyes attracted to the carton of strawberry milk, a baby pink post-it note taped onto it saying drink well~ in the same writing. Your hand immediately reaches to the drink, punching the straw and taking a long, refreshed sip.

While you enjoy your drink, your eyes fly back to the letter, mind lingering on a particular thought.

“Something on your mind?” Someone’s voice registers near you, breaking the train of thought. You see the pout form on his lips, face innocent as he removes his bag.

“Nothing, Jihoon. Blanked out a little,” you awkwardly stammer, smiling with the straw in your mouth.

Lee Jihoon — one of your closest friends. Before the term friends, you knew about each other through friends until he found out you were going to the same university as him, giving perfect reason to start a friendship there and then. Despite having contrasting courses (in fact you weren’t in any classes together), you were easily each other’s go-to.

Jihoon’s eyes acknowledge the open envelope with the letter hanging out, soon turning back to you. “Where did the milk come from?” He points to the cute-sized carton.

Do you tell him?

No one knew about your secret, it didn’t seem important to mention really, but it stuck in your mind whether you’d tell it someday.

The letters began at the start of the year, in the middle of a cold, cold January, the wintery hex making you go as far as to forget your backpack in the library. Fortunately, your bag was still at the same spot where you left it, saving you from the panic and fear that would’ve came if it wasn’t the case.

But as you inspect the inside, that’s when you see it. When you see the snowy white sleeve of the envelope, no name addressed, except for simple letters spelling an ode to you on the outside. Curious, you pick it up assuming it’s for you, fingers working to slide across the envelope’s tongue, revealing the note that held your first ever love letter.

Miracle was his name. Or what he called himself, really. Even though you were curious about the name’s origin, it was all explained in the second letter, where he wrote the name as a last-minute thing (that letter was written a week after the first, found inside your textbook).

Seemed fitting for him in your case.

It was strange — having multiple love letters, let alone just one — but through time it made you more excited as you received them frequently, each day being less of please don’t be a serial killer and more of I hope he writes today, ending with a small smile that you don’t admit to having whenever you say so.

The thought alone triggered your finger to hover over the letter, a sudden burst of eagerness spreading inside you.

Time to reveal yourself Miracle, you think, I’m going to do everything it takes to find you.

“Long story short,” easily, you begin, “the milk and this letter are from Miracle.”

“Miracle?” Jihoon repeats, his expression wanting more coverage.

“Miracle has been sending me letters for a while now. I know the point of secret admirers is to be anonymous, but he seems like a cool guy, I wanna be friends with him.”

“And you’re telling me you aren’t convinced this is some prank or...”

“This is my first admirer, be more happy for me!” You frown instantly, fingertips gently brushing the envelope flap. “Problem is, I have no clue who Miracle could be. He could be anyone!”

Jihoon hums, his hand held out. “Pass me the letter,”

“Don’t rip it.”

“What makes you think I’ll do that?”

“Just a hunch.”

Busy finishing the strawberry milk, Jihoon opens the letter, eyes concentrated on the page for a strong five seconds before nicely handing it back in your possession.

All of a sudden, he leaves his seat.

“Hoon?” Eyes appearing childlike, Jihoon only hums in the midst of lifting his bag. “Are you going somewhere?”

Once his bag is lazily hung on one shoulder, he says, “We’re going to Seventeen. We’ll talk about Miracle there.”

Naturally, a smile spreads across your lips. Jihoon never fails to make you float with words — always trailed with gentleness.

By Seventeen, he means the campus coffee shop. Everyone in the university has visited the cafe one way or another, whether it be the Valentines day special offer (which its ridiculous slogan was ‘All orders half price if you bring someone you like a latte!’) or to daydream over the baristas.

Its exterior and interior was as equally impressive. Walls splashed in snowy white and accented with raven black, the sign outlining 7-TEEN in a muted sapphire blue, the dangling chalkboard displaying the specials in chalky rose writing. The inside held a same, homely feeling, following the palette of desaturated pink, blues and whites, completed with the dark floorboards and tables for comfort.

You seat yourself by the window — specially requested by Jihoon — able to see most of the coffee shop and Jihoon’s place in line from the corner.

He comes back with a black mug steaming with heat, a mountain of sugar packets at its side, and a cake for you and him to share (even though you both knew that you were finishing it).

“The love letter please,” Jihoon requests after bringing out one of his many journals, pages taken out and deflating the fullness of the book. You react unpleasantly to the term, handing the item nonetheless.

He sets up the letter beside his journal, fingers holding his pen as he produces rushed, messy scribbles — it was almost unreadable. The words at the top of the page read Miracle Suspect List, a tiny giggle earned from reading it.

“Now... Any ideas?”

Even Jihoon doesn’t need words to understand the utter panic frozen your face as he asks. He huffs a sigh.

“Let’s read what Miracle says, maybe that’ll help.” Jihoon leans to the note, eyes drawing strange patterns as they move across the note. “Hm, Miracle noticed you’ve been struggling these past few days, does that ring any bells?”

“I’ve been so busy I didn’t even notice...”

“It’s okay, you had other things to focus on. Totally valid.” Rhythmically, he taps the pen on his chin, lips pouted like a baby duck. “If Miracle was aware about this, maybe he’s someone in your major. Anyone from your lectures that you can think of?”

Rather than answering a simple no, you think very hard this time. Jihoon does a really good job in trying to narrow the perspective for you, so its your role to meet in the middle. This secret admirer business was harder than you thought.

You think through everyone in your class, filtering them one by one until it comes into your head, radiant as ever.

“There’s Junhui. We chat when we’re in the lecture hall and sit next to each other sometimes, I probably told him about my worries. We don’t talk outside much... Unless!” You exclaim, “Unless I meet him whilst he’s on shift here, then he doesn’t shy away from me.”

Right after saying that, Junhui enters the shop, greeting the cashier at the counter, his goofy smile plastered as he disappears into the staff room with a laugh.

“Okay. Junhui...” Jihoon says, stretching Junhui’s name as he scribbles, classmate and works at Seventeen jotted underneath.

Another person comes to mind, your hand tapping repetitively on Jihoon’s arm as you tried to recall. “Oh, oh!”

“Ow, ow — what?!” Mimics Jihoon.

“There’s Soonyoung!”

“Kwon? Dance leader Kwon?”

“I heard some rumours that he liked me when I helped out with the department spring showcase—“

“You won’t like him.” Deadpans Jihoon, the interruption slightly out of place.

“What?”

Jihoon shrugs. “I don’t like him,”

The statement further confuses you, given that the dance and music departments fit hand in hand, not to mention the student’s between both departments were the most stable (in this case, the drama majors were scarily the lone wolf of the three).

And other than you, Jihoon — being the music department’s campus prodigy and following the cliché — stuck like superglue to dancer Kwon Soonyoung.

“Aren’t you friends?” Your face paints a fusion of disgust and confusion.

“We’re friends,” he confirms, nodding firmly, “he just doesn’t seem like your type. He’s... Gullible sometimes. His energy will refresh you, but it’ll eventually drain.”

“You never know.” Replies you, only focusing at the statement about being your type.

Jihoon continues to write down Soonyoung’s name even after voicing his opinion, small devil horns and a pointy tail doodled at the around his name.

“Better than nothing. Anyone else on your mind?”

“Jeon Wonwoo?” You raise your tone at the end. “I don’t think he’s that interested in me though,” you lips pull into a frown at the thought of the university’s famous librarian slash well-rounded student. He was also your tutor, but he tutored many people, so it wasn’t something out of a k-drama.

Jihoon’s hand moved right away as he notices your look. Unlike the past two, Wonwoo’s name only had a question mark underneath. “We’ll add him. There — three potential Miracles — who shall we investigate first?”

“I’ll hang around them and report back to you—“

Unexpectedly, your phone rings. The caller ID makes it clear to you that you had to take the call. You excuse yourself from Jihoon, taking one more bite of the cake before you head outside, getting lost in your conversation.

When the lengthy chat ended, you walk back inside to find your friend gone. Before you broke into a cold sweat, a light ding comes out of your phone, the screen reading a short text from Jihoon.

A classmate ran into me and they asked me to do a favour, sorry I left all of a sudden. Text me when you get to your dorm. Get there safely.

The gesture touches you, lips concealing a smile. The text also signalled to you that you should get going too, the sky outside slowly blooming into darkness.

Yet as the chair is pulled back for you to access your bag, an envelope appears.

Heart racing, your fingers scoop the item in one motion, rushing to take out the contents inside.

Two letters in one day... It doesn’t suit my style haha. I hope you’re secretly happy about it though.

I saw you in Seventeen earlier, and correct me if I’m wrong, but did I hear you talk about me? The wonderful, most-handsome Miracle?

First of all, I’m flattered, who wouldn’t talk about me? And second, I heard a little more that I should’ve. You want me to reveal myself?

If you think I’m going to give myself away, I’m not. Just because I like you doesn’t mean I’m going to tell you~

It’s your turn to do the chasing now, I can’t wait to watch. This is going to be so fun — I’ll be super hurt if you mistake me as someone else...

Joking! All I’ll say is I’m supporting you from here, I’ll be watching closely! Please don’t be disappointed when you find out who I am. Hehe.

(Before I go! I recommend Seventeen’s Poet Latte, it’s a million times better than the Hope Macchiato. Ask for hazelnut syrup too, that thing is like sweet magic)

Miracle.

Now determined, your eyes scan over the lines again and again, each word being critical yet painfully ambiguous.

That’s when it crosses your mind. His words craft you into the right direction, even though Miracle has the power to do the complete opposite depending on how he wants to play his cards.

For now, you’ll take his words as gospel, aware that he was present at the time you were in Seventeen. All the signs pointed to Junhui, majorly assuming that he was the only one that who entered the cafe, and that Miracle recommended the Poet Latte.

It settled your first target quite quickly: Wen Junhui.

Stashing the letter in your bag, you head outside, eyes following Junhui practicing latte art until you can’t see him anymore, thoughts already planning on certain strategies.

If Miracle wants this to be entertaining, you’ll make it entertaining.

It’s been a week.

And nothing has happened.

“It’s been a week.” Jihoon voices, “And you‘ve gained zero progress.”

Panic stricken, you blurt, “I’m still working on it...”

“We’re gonna get nowhere if you carry on stalling.”

“I know, but I don’t know when to do it—“ Which was partially true. You were just too shy around Junhui.

“Just do it today!”

“Ugh, okay!” As equally as loud, you shout like Jihoon. Geez. Why did he get so hot-headed? “I’ll head to my lecture and see if he’s there.”

A smile shows on Jihoon’s lips. “Great. You can do it, good luck!” He balls his fists in attempt to encourage you, passing the motivation on.

When you arrive you instantly want to go back to Jihoon. By the notice board — other than confused, tired students — stood Junhui, his face standing out almost the others as he points his fingers to one direction while talking to other students of your major.

The students walk in the direction Junhui pointed to instead of the hall, prompting a perfect chance to talk to him.

“Jun?” You add the slight confusion to neutralise things, heart racing. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, hi Y/N,” Junhui naturally grins when he sees you, finger pointing to the board. “The lecture hall is being used, so our professor changed it to the other side of campus.”

“What?!” You groan, the act washed away once hearing about the announcement. “Ah — I’m so exhausted already, we don’t get paid enough to do this.”

“We don’t get paid at all,” muses Junhui. “Should we walk together? Saves you being bored and me being lonely.”

Right, Junhui’s a potential Miracle, act along, you tell yourself.

“Sounds great.” Gladly accepting, you and the male walk together, chatting amongst one another.

Nothing special happens from there. You chat with Junhui — who has a strange calmness when it comes to talking to him — until you get to your class, sitting next to him. The both of you intently listen to your lecturer, taking notes and sharing them, but halfway through the two hour session Junhui opens a new tab on his laptop to play chess, obviously being bad at the game.

You join in, too, helping the clueless man on how to win. It leads to you and him doodling on a sheet of paper he tore out, zoning out of the lecture from what was time to time to completely not listening.

The lecture comes to a close, making you and Junhui realise how much trouble you’re in as your essay was due for the weekend after.

“Come to Seventeen tomorrow,” tells Junhui, “I’ll ask a friend to recap the lecture today and we can go through it together while I work. Does that sound okay?”

Perfect — this was perfect!

A little too enthusiastic, you blurt, “Yeah!” Before coughing loudly, realising the awkwardness. “I mean, yeah. Sorry for distracting you today Junhui,”

“It’s okay. I like studying with you, it’s fun.”

His words, along with the soft smile he has, makes you want to swoon with glee inside. It was hard to tell if he was a smooth flirt or if he was usually like this.

Either way, you said your goodbyes and hoped for the next day to come as soon as possible.

“Y/N, welcome!” Is what Junhui greets to you as you walk into the cafe, the morning atmosphere ruined as Junhui shouts, waking up half the people in there. He didn’t seem to mind though, so you made your way to him.

“It’s ten in the morning Junhui,”

“It wakes people up. They’ll thank me for it when they don’t sleep in their classes later on.”

He tells you to seat yourself while he finishes the next few orders. Once you do, you stare out of the window whilst waiting for your laptop to load, the day transitioning from gloom to a morning sunshine, more people coming onto the campus site.

You even see Jihoon walking with Soonyoung (even though it was hard to identify him under the hat, but judging by Jihoon’s mannerisms it definitely pointed to Soonyoung).

Chair sliding, the male taking a seat as he hands you a warm, rose mug. “A Poet Latte ordered by the lovely Y/N.”

“Thank you,” you warmly answer, grinning at the latte art of a panda with hearts swirled around. “This is amazing Junhui.”

“Doing it is harder than it looks,” confesses Junhui, “and in the end people will just consume it. Imagine that, eating all of my hard work... Literally.”

“Aren’t you going to drink something?”

Junhui shakes his head. “I don’t like coffee.”

Oh?

“Oh? That’s a shame.” You counter, trying to stay composed. “It isn’t for everyone — um — random question but, if you had to recommend a drink from here, what would it be? I’m up for taking some new drinks.”

The excuse made things sound more natural and by the look on Junhui’s face, the verdicts in your head point to not Miracle right now.

He taps a finger on his chin, “Out of all the orders... The Truth Iced Mocha, mainly because I don’t like warm drinks either.”

Uncertainty shows on your face, not knowing whether Junhui was telling a lie or not. There was a high chance he wasn’t, but he could most likely be lying. If he was, he was a great liar.

Studying your face, Junhui speaks. “I’m a bit picky,” he admits, laughing, “my friends hate me for it, but I’m a simple man with simple needs.”

His statement causes you to laugh, the tension in the room quickly gone. Junhui sure knows how to tone things down.

So Junhui doesn’t like coffee. Huh.

You come by Seventeen for the next two days, chatting with Junhui more often as he works. However, you walk into the male while he’s off-shift, a bouquet of pink daisies and a cinnamon-coloured teddy bear sat on the table.

Staring intensely at it, Junhui doesn’t even notice you sit across him.

“Is something on your mind?”

Breaking out of the odd staring contest, Junhui sits up, shrugging. “Which present would you like more?”

He turns the teddy’s head and the flowers to face you. The question shifts the atmosphere slightly, your mind nervous of what to answer.

“Can I have the context?” Instead, you ask that question, hoping the answer would give more indication where this was going.

“I wanna give something to my friend for support,”

Junhui doesn’t hesitate in his answer, but there’s no denying over the pinkness in his cheeks. Although he was still being vague, you point at the flowers.

“Flowers are the best go-to. Maybe the teddy can be for another time?” Nodding, Junhui relaxes in his chair, patting the bear’s head as he exhales a sigh. “Isn’t this something you’d give to a girlfriend or boyfriend?”

The question catches the other off guard, his ears burning with red as he slowly sinks his head into his arms, his face hidden.

“You caught me.” Muffled, Junhui admits.

Caught what? We’re definitely getting somewhere now, you think.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m still showing support to my friend — she’s having her first art exhibit today and she’s been working on it a lot — I just... Wanna be subtle but I need to man up,”

One hundred percent what you didn’t expect. Kinda, since you had suspicions here and there.

“Man up? You’re, like, the most easiest person to talk to! I’m sure if you acted like yourself then you’d be able to confess easily to her.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. What’s there to worry about? People fall for you like a snap,” you snap your fingers simultaneously, a laugh from Junhui followed.

“Thanks for the heart to heart Y/N. I really needed it. The exhibit opens in an hour, I should get going.”

“You can do it Junhui!” Cheers you, Junhui getting up from his chair. Out of the blue, your mind mentally clicks. “Junhui—“

Junhui hums. You hold the bear out for him.

“Bring it with you, it’ll create a bigger memory for the both of you.”

Smiling, Junhui takes the bear from your hands. “Thanks for everything... Again.” He carries the bouquet and bear in one arm, his free hand reaching to pick out a daisy. “Take it as my thank you,”

“How corny,” you say, happily taking the pretty flower, “you’ll do great!”

“I’ll see you later! I’ll tell you how it goes.”

Like that, Junhui exits out of the cafe, jogging to the entrance of the campus. You sit back once he disappears.

So Junhui has a crush on someone else.

Your hands search to find your phone, scrolling through your contacts before you lift it to your ear, waiting for the other line to pick up.

“Hoon? Let’s meet.”

“Rather than liking you, he likes a student from the art department?” Jihoon asks, strolling around the town with you half an hour after you called.

You nod, confirming it. “It was hard to tell though, every second felt like he was flirting with me. Guess he was just really good at smooth talk.”

“Not surprised about that.” Jihoon pulls a face, but his arm moves to pat your hair as you twirl the pink daisy. “Don’t act so blue, you still have two more guys!”

“But Hoon—”

“No buts, it’ll work out. I promise you. If it doesn’t, I’ll look for Miracle myself and teach him a lesson.”

You snort, “Jihoon—“

“Oh yeah, you still wanna be friends with him. Got it.” Jihoon grins when he sees your smile, pinching your cheek all of a sudden. “Now c’mon, I know what’ll cheer you up,”

“Do you?”

“Unless you don’t want food, we can just go back to campus—“

“No, wait!” You panic. Great, you’ve fallen for Jihoon’s offer. “Fine, I’m starving anyway!”

With a big grin, Jihoon takes you by the hand and walks to your favourite restaurant.

Days pass and the memories with Junhui go along with it. It was a weekend and Jihoon wanted to meet in the recording booth to talk, additionally asking if you could bring some coffee.

He stops replying after you send multiple texts — capitalised and angry emoticons — giving you no choice but to get him something.

Heading into Seventeen, your appearance catches one of the workers immediately.

That worker, being Junhui.

“What a coincidence!” He exclaims once he heads out of the break room for the second time, a flimsy item in his hand.

“Coincidence?” You repeat in return.

“I found this in the lecture hall yesterday, I thought you left it,”

“But I didn’t go to the lecture yesterday—“

All of your words dissolve as soon as your eyes hit the pastel blue envelope, slowly taking it out of Junhui’s hand, your expression indescribable.

“How did you get this?” It wasn’t the words you wanted to say, but they were clearly in your mind.

“I saw it sitting on one of the rows before I left. I would’ve given it to you straight away, but I didn’t see you on campus… And I don’t know where your dorm is so…”

You analyse Junhui’s face for a moment. Gaining all the evidence you’ve gotten, it was confirmed that Junhui wasn’t Miracle. He was telling the truth about everything.

“That’s okay! Thanks for looking after it for me!” In gratitude, you let your lips spread wide — mainly towards the fact that Miracle is writing after a week (seriously, what took him so long?), but also because of Junhui’s massive help.

Forgetting about the coffee, you exit the cafe, finding a safe spot to read the letter alone. Your fingers were trembling in anticipation as you lifted the flap.

I’m guessing you’ve been waiting for me… If not, I feel really embarrassed because I had to hold myself back from writing to you.

(God, that was so cheesy)

You figured out that I’m not Junhui. Congrats!

When I first saw him walk with you, I thought — ‘Ah, you are taking it seriously!’ — and I’ve been watching here and there, but not all the time because that would be creepy. I also had classes so there were a few clashes.

After a while I began wondering why you thought of Junhui as me. It shouldn’t be a thought I should ponder on too much, but I find myself going there sometimes.

Junhui is really admirable. He has that ability to make anyone feel at ease with him, and overall he’s very bold with his actions — so bold that I even thought he was going to make an actual move on you (totally wasn’t gonna be heartbroken…) — I get why people like to be around him so much.

He’s someone that you easily get envious over. The personality, the social skill, the confidence. He makes it look so easy. Talking to so many people, adjusting to them…

I wish I was like that; I wish I had that confidence. Maybe, if I had that same level of confidence like Junhui, then maybe I’d boldly confess my feelings without the doubts or worries orbiting my mind.

At first I was going to scribble that part out and start from scratch again, but I thought I’d share my thoughts with you. This isn’t Junhui’s level of confidence, but I think starting like this will help me build on it. My heart can feel heavy on some days and I feel like you’re the only person I can go to.

Even if you don’t write to me back, I hope you’ll always stand there on the other side.

Miracle.

“Come with me.” Out of nowhere Jihoon gets his things and starts walking away.

Fazed, you hastily gather your things and begin trailing behind him. He’s always like this — announcing he’s going somewhere at the same time he leaves — and you get the other end of the stick by rushing after the male.

“You’re seriously so annoying,” you grumble without context, “at least tell me what we’re — what you’re — doing...”

“I forgot something... And I’m doing you a favour.”

The last part wasn’t picked up by you, but Jihoon’s footsteps accelerated as he rushes into one of the department buildings.

The building appeared unfamiliar to you, it clearly wasn’t the music department, so you wondered why Jihoon knew which corridor to turn and what level he was looking for.

He doesn’t bother knocking before heading into one of the dance studios, dancers unfazed by his appearance. Worried, you harshly break out a whispered Jihoon before he stops walking and you walk into his back.

“Ow, jerk!” Complains you.

An unknown voice replies, but it isn’t directed to you. “Jihoon?” The male voice gasps. “You okay?”

Suddenly, the owner of the voice gets up from the floor, a black cap covering the front of his face, dressed in loose clothes.

Soonyoung?

“My journal’s here right? I think I left it somewhere…”

“Journal?” Soonyoung juts a lip, completely focused on Jihoon, he hasn’t even said hi to you yet. Unless he doesn’t like you. You hoped it wasn’t the latter. Like a hit to the head, Soonyoung’s eyes nearly sparkle, “Ah, let me get it!”

Soonyoung turns around and crouches down, giving you perfect time to ask what the heck Jihoon was doing.

“A favour,” is all Jihoon says, Soonyoung cheerily handing the ripped-paged book and Jihoon snatching it off him. He glares. “You didn’t look inside, did you?”

Fingers moving the cross his heart, Soonyoung simultaneously shakes his head. “Not a peep—“ his eyes acknowledge you and he immediately chokes on air, releasing an ugly cough. “Y/N! Have you been here all this time?”

Jihoon holds back an amused chuckle. Ignoring your friend, you put on your best smile and shyly nod.

“Sorry I didn’t see you there!” He’s yelling now, and it’s getting the whole room’s attention. “How… How are you?”

“I’ve been good, and you?”

“Me? I’m good too! I’m glad to hear that—“

Jihoon’s voice overlaps out Soonyoung’s, “Picking up my book just turned into a damn reunion,” a puppy-like sulk comes out of Soonyoung, but Jihoon continues to speak, “also, I’ll give you your USB back tomorrow, I’ve done all the improvements you asked.”

Soonyoung brings the other into a sweaty hug, sighing loudly. “Wow, my hero—“

Pushing Soonyoung off, Jihoon clears his throat. “But I’m leaving town for this music course tomorrow, so I’ll lend the USB to Y/N and you’ll get your USB back, then we’re all happy.”

“I’m not—“ you harshly whisper next to the male, pulling him closer by the arm, surprised at Jihoon’s proposal, “what are you doing?!”

“A latte would be okay, but you can surprise me. I’d also like extra whipped cream,” Jihoon whispers back at the same volume. He looks back at Soonyoung. “Is that alright with you?”

The apples of Soonyoung’s cheeks paint red, lips scrunched as he forces a nod. “Sure — sure! Tomorrow, yeah?”

“Mhmm. We better get going now.” Turning to you, Jihoon tilts his head to the exit, promptly looking at Soonyoung. “See you man,”

“Bye Soonyoung!” You greet energetically, causing Soonyoung to snap out of his gaze, waving his hand as you two walk out. It seemed like he wanted to say something, but, it never got off of his tongue in the end.

Once you were away from the building, you stop Jihoon by grabbing his arm, a deathly expression upon you. “What was that all about?”

Although you were mad, Jihoon’s face didn’t flinch one bit at it. He digs through his pocket, pulling out a silicone tiger figurine smaller than his palm. Removing the tiger’s head, the USB is revealed.

Without a word, Jihoon hands it to you. “I finished the thing he asked ages ago.”

“Then why didn’t you give it to him earlier—“

“Because now you have an excuse to hang around him. Use it wisely.”

“Oh. Smart.”

Turns out, Jihoon actually did have to go to that course for the day, so you wished him a text of motivation before mentally preparing yourself to meet Soonyoung.

You hastily make your way to the dance department (that’s what Jihoon said Soonyoung would normally be), but because you were so overwhelmed over what you were going to say to Soonyoung, you forgot the directions Jihoon went to the dance studio.

Dumbass, you curse inside. Now you had to ask people if one, they were a dance major (which was such a stupid question, but you couldn’t help asking) and two, if they knew Soonyoung.

Onto asking the third student, you see a figure stepping out of a room, a bag lazily hung around his arm.

“Oh — never mind — thank you anyway,”

You semi-run towards this figure, watching the surprise spread through his face as you welcome him with a grin.

“Y/N?” Soonyoung stammers, shaking in his place a little. He had a black shirt hugged his torso and jeans to complement the look — it definitely gave a different tone to the exhausted, sweaty boy you met yesterday.

“Hey.” You dangle the small tiger in between his eyes. “Special delivery for Kwon Soonyoung?”

Sparkles appear inside Soonyoung’s eyes, gladly taking the item from you. “Thank you Y/N! Tell Jihoon I said thank you — actually, I’ll tell him that later—“

“It’s no problem,” you can’t help but giggle at his gratitude over the tiger USB, it make you curious on why it was so important, but right now that wasn’t your priority.

Operation Soonyoung is a go.

“Are you doing anything right now?”

“Um… Not really, why?”

“I’m craving some food, I was wondering if you’d like to eat with me… Since you just finished practicing I’m guessing—”

For the second time Soonyoung chokes on the air, hitting his chest as he lets out harsh coughs. When he’s somewhat calmed down, he looks straight at you — a slight pinkness in his cheeks — bluntly answering, “I don’t mind going!”

The answer was leaning towards an exclamation, but a yes was a yes, and the two of you agreed to get street food and eat in the park.

Watching Soonyoung munch on a burger with great interest, you feel like he’s still acting awkward with you. You had no reason why, but the showcase pops into your head. Maybe the rumours were true, but you can’t jump so easily; this Miracle business had to be very subtle.

So much for loud, muses you, Jihoon must be out of his mind, he’s so quiet with me…

To lighten up the mood, you show your interest to the USB stick once more. “So, the stick. What’s it for? If it’s okay asking,”

Soonyoung wipes the corners of his lips cutely, pointing to a bench and asking a can we sit here with half stuffed cheeks. Sat down, he brings out the USB, watching it dangle on his finger.

“They’re music samples for dances I put together. I don’t just work for myself but for my juniors too — they rely on me when they need music for their piece. I can do the basics, but when I or my classmates need something extra to make the piece stand out more, I go to Jihoon to help me. Without him, I wouldn’t have so many students joining the dance club at all.”

“Can I listen to some?”

“Huh?” Soonyoung’s eyes expand, lips parted the slightest. “Oh — oh! Okay. Just give me a sec…”

“Soon, you don’t need to if it’s a hassle—“

“Ah! I owe you one, so, this is nothing to what you’ve done!”

“All I did was give your things back…”

Soonyoung pulls out his laptop, connecting the USB to the device, his fingers tapping against the touchpad whilst waiting. The files appear, some names sensibly and with their correct name (those were probably for his juniors), while some files were called ten-ten, hoshi, rawr, for the ultimate gemini ONLY, NOT THIS ONE.

Those were definitely Soonyoung’s.

“The ones Jihoon has fixed are the unnamed ones. He’s never creative with names,”

“Of course.” You and Soonyoung laugh over the thought, the latter pressing his finger on the play button as the music begins and the volume rises. Listening for a while, you say, “This is super good, I can’t believe Jihoon can produce something like this.”

“Well he isn’t called the music prodigy for nothing. Now check this out.”

He sets his laptop aside, the music continuing to play, and he stands in front of you, breaking into a small dance like it was second nature to him. Such fluidity, well-crafted even though Soonyoung kept a smile the whole way through, rushes of excitement inside him.

You cheer him on, laughing at the sight. He laughs with you too, brightly.

The barrier of shyness between Soonyoung and you begins to break as you meet frequently, Jihoon mainly being the reason why you three met.

More of Jihoon’s colours shone, like the grumpy, cold-shouldered character when he was Soonyoung, but he would still laugh the hardest if Soonyoung told a stupid story that happened over the weekend, or small snippets into his life.

The thought about Miracle becomes less important to you as you slowly value Soonyoung as a true friend. Don’t get yourself wrong — Miracle was still heavily important — but Operation Soonyoung was diverting down another path.

But the one time you spend the day with him without Jihoon (who knows what he was doing, he just left without any word), you accidentally slip into the topic of the rumour again.

Actually, you had no idea why you transitioned into it, Soonyoung was showing you a video of himself doing dumb things during dance practice last night, and after a long laugh with him, it came out.

“To be honest, when I first met you, people kept telling me you had a crush on me,” is what you say along with your laughter, taking a bite out of your cake.

“… Is that so?”

No laugh, no burst of giggling — and when you face Soonyoung, his face is stoic. Despite that observation, his cheeks were dusted in a faint red.

You nod. “Yeah, I didn’t believe them.”

“Oh.”

“Wait — so you’re saying — you liked me?”

Soonyoung grunts in surprise, eyes widened. He shakes his head but as he directs his vision onto the floor, he sighs and hesitantly nods.

Operation Soonyoung was suddenly back on the radar. That means the chances of being Miracle were high.

“Soonyoung—“

“Listen to what I say first! And then if you’re uncomfortable, I’ll understand…” He, again, says with hesitation, eyes concentrated on the table or your hands. “Yeah, I did like you a few years ago, during the spring showcase… But we didn’t talk to each other, so what chances did I have?”

He inhales a sharp sigh, clenching his eyes shut and nose forming crinkles, sucking in a small this is going to be so embarrassing.

Fortunately, you pick those words up. “Embarrassing? What’s embarrassing.”

“There’s another reason.”

Is he going to confess he’s Miracle?

“I…”

Oh my god, he is—

“I thought you and Jihoon were dating.”

What?

“What?” You mumble softly.

“God, that’s the dumbest reason out of the book, and I fell for it.” Soonyoung covers his face with his hands, shielding himself from the weirded out looks he thinks you have on your face. “And Jihoon didn’t wanna say anything about it either, so I sucked it up and tried to get over it. Then, he tells me you were just good friends a year after.”

“Soonyoung… I’m so sorry, I didn’t know—“

“Nothing you can do,” shrugs he, “truthfully, I didn’t get over you until the winter break the year after. But I got over it in the end.”

“Still, you went though all of the emotional gain because of me,”

“It’s not like I regret it.” He smiles a bit, trying to reassure you. The smile fades as he faces the reality after explaining his side. “I bet you’re like Soonyoung, you creep, now that you’ve heard me say all of this, so feel free to laugh at me all you want… Not too much though, I have a weak heart.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not thinking that at all.”

“Yeah, I— what?”

Confused at your words, you continue to smile to let him know you’re being genuine. “We’ve become really close in a little more than a week, and you’re an amazing friend on top of that. It makes me regret not being friends with you sooner.”

“Man, if the Soonyoung years ago was hearing this, he would either feel so touched or badly friend-zoned just now.”

Alarmed, you react as if Soonyoung was still attached onto his feelings, ready to apologise.

“It’s okay, I’m not affected,” he beats you to it, which was the most reassuring thing of them all.

“Friends?”

“Friends.” Soonyoung links a pinkie with you, hoping the promise would last a lifetime. He was a precious friend after all.

After the chat, you highlight one topic Soonyoung mentioned. “You thought Jihoon had a thing with me? Why?”

“Probably because I saw you two together a lot. Before he became friends with me and the rest of the department, you were all he’d go to. He cares about you a lot, if you didn’t know.”

“Hoon? Caring about me?”

“You sound surprised — it’s pretty obvious. Didn’t he make you a cake for your birthday last year?”

“Yeah… What does that have to do with anything?”

“We both know he’s a terrible cook — I mean, he microwaved ice cream one time because it was too hard to scoop out — but he wanted to make you something like that for your birthday.”

“The cake was nice though…”

“It took him a month to get the recipe right. He didn’t want my help, he even used the culinary department’s kitchen just for that and didn’t want their help either. And you know why he did that?”

“Becuase it was my birthday?”

“Wrong!” Soonyoung lightly taps your head as an incorrect gesture. “It was because you were going through a hard time during that time. He just wanted you to cast your worries aside and see you celebrate because you deserved it. He told me everything about it.”

Your heart skips slightly, thinking over the fact Jihoon did something like that to make you happy. It was a strange feeling to experience.

“He’s going to hate me for saying all of this to you, but he looks out for you a lot. He notices things, he’s smart.”

Agreeing, you hum, deeply thinking over his words.

Later that day, a stray envelope is sticking out from the front pocket of your bag as you left it unattended. The sweet, lilac hue  instantly telling you who the sender is.

You do not hesitate to open it.

Turns out, I’m not Kwon Soonyoung either. Are you disappointed? I can sense your frown right now... Don’t frown dear, I’m sorry for letting you down...

But the game still goes on, and although I don’t know who’s left on your mind, I might reveal myself. Not for now, but I feel a little daring, kinda unusual for me, isn’t it?

Now.

Kwon Soonyoung.

Believe it or not, I’m truly the opposite to him. I’m sometimes glad that I’m not like him, but over time I sometimes dislike it. The things he can do, I don’t think I’m fit to do them. Like Junhui, he’s confident, and he always has his mind set on something. Me? My mind changes so much. I’m a big coward ha...

Soonyoung’s loud too. I could say it’s what I don’t like about him the most, though I’d be completely wrong. It’s simple enough. He stands out. I blend in. A harsh truth I have to come to terms in, but I’m guessing that’s why you chose Soonyoung too, because he stands out. He shines.

Yet among that, you shine the brightest. I know it’s hard finding me, but I know you’ll be able to find my identity and when you do, I’ll be ready to confess my feelings to you to the world. No backing out, no shying away.

I’ll find a way to make something happen, as if my life depends on it.

Miracle.

The letter felt... Sadder in terms of Miracle’s usual way of writing — light and thoughtful — as words become raw. Once you find him, you’ll definitely tell him how much he means to you, even if it was a silly love letter at the end of the day.

He sure doesn’t know Soonyoung either. The dancer, surprisingly, is insanely shy underneath the loudness he has. It makes you think whether Miracle doesn’t think highly of himself.

When you walk out to the campus, you spot Jihoon exiting a nearby building, busy looking at texts.

Soonyoung’s words form in your head again, realising the care Jihoon had for you. And without a thought, you run to the male and surprise him with a sudden hug.

Jihoon grunts quietly, but it only makes you hold onto him more.

“Huh, Y/N? Is everything okay?” You nod into his chest. “Are... Are you sure? We can talk about it—”

“Just shut up and hug me,”

With no more complaints, Jihoon gladly keeps you in his arms.

Six.

You’ve been say in the library for six hours, your paper due at midnight. Although you had eight hours left, you still didn’t fee like it was in top shape. Words felt messy; sentences didn’t flow the way you wanted to; it was just so confusing.

Your head meets the desk the nth time today, remaining at that mental block ever since you had your lunch that consisted of peach juice and a half-assed sandwich that you didn’t even finish. Sure, you came at the library at six, but you were also up until two in the morning to do the minimum of what you were aiming to do.

That didn’t happen, hence, you’re still stuck in this damn library.

The only thing in your mind right now is sleep. If no one noticed, you could get away with sleeping in the library, but not sleeping in the library is better than getting kicked out for a month because of sleeping in the library.

A headache kicks in in the midst of working, deforming your face as you wince in pain, hoping to go home soon. It’s unlikely you will, but you wanted to sleep.

At some point, all you do is stare at the screen. Stare at every blank word on the screen, done rushed or half-tiredly.

“Everything alright?”

Registering the voice, you rapidly blink and sit up, trying to be as awake as you can. Your eyes move to the person, vision slightly altered due to the fuzziness in your eyes, but you could make out the silver framed glasses and hair the fell gently on top.

“Wonwoo?” He responds to his name through the tone of his hum. “Oh, uh, yeah... Not really,”

The librarian takes a seat next to you, a strong, fresh scent radiating from him. It was almost like a magical spell, luring you to sleep. Wonwoo scans the laptop, frowning after knowing what you were doing.

“Due in tonight?” Crap, he caught you out. You nod in shame.

“I was trying to get it done last night but my body gave in... And I haven’t left this library since—“

“Since ten.” Wonwoo noticed too? “My partial job is to sit here all day, but you’ll get muscle cramps the more you stay in one position, you should’ve taken a little break... But that’s a little late to tell you that.”

“I know...” You see the textbooks in his hand. “Oh, you’re probably busy putting back books, I shouldn’t disturb you—”

“These are just to text mark for my next class. You’re fine.” Wonwoo proceeds to stay seated, in fact, he readjusts his seat to sit more comfortably, picking up a book and setting the rest aside. “You must be tired. Take a rest, I’ll cover for you.”

“Wonwoo—“

“Just face me while you sleep, alright?”

You give into his words, smoothly resting your head on your arms as you close your eyes, falling asleep within seconds.

It was a nice nap which you awoke after an hour. An hour wasn’t what you intended, but damn, you really needed that.

Blinking, your vision comes into focus with a book marked with colourful sticky notes. If the book is still there, that means...

“Good afternoon, did you rest well?”

Your eyes direct themselves to Wonwoo, smiling down at you as he breaks away from what he was doing. After a short hum from you, Wonwoo goes back to finishing something he wrote.

The action initiates you to sit up, the reality of your paper flooding your head once more. Though, when you look at Wonwoo’s notes — neatly sorted in colourful rows — you sit and stare at the notes, mind pondering.

His handwriting is pretty.

“Oh.” Quiet, Wonwoo lets out. He begins flipping pages in his book, all decorated with some form of colourful note until he stops at a particular page and brings out a long note with minimal bullet points in.

He gently peels it off the page and locates it on top of your book.

“While you were sleeping I skimmed through your paper and highlighted a few things you could work on...”

Wait, what?

Wonwoo continues, “I don’t mean to sound critical or anything! It’s just — you looked like you were having a hard time — I don’t know much about your topic but I wrote what I thought sounded relevant.”

You read through the list, the points showcasing good arguments and research topics to mention. “These are great points, I couldn’t think of these...” You pout, “You’re so book-smart Wonwoo, I’m so jealous.”

Wonwoo lets out a earthy laugh, his expression a playfully saddened. “Don’t say that, you’re intelligent too,”

“Everyone knows you though — Jeon Wonwoo, the campus’ treasure.”

“I wouldn’t call myself that...”

“Why not? It fits you.”

He looks directly at you, face tinted with some sadness. “I blend in.”

A flashback crosses your mind whilst saying the words and it doesn’t appear into your head until—

“Sorry, I’m distracting you now. You should get your work done, and I need finish this too.” He awkwardly apologises, turning back to his textbook.

Did Wonwoo just... No, don’t dive straight in yet, you warn beforehand, it was like a heated argument between your heart and mind.

As for now, you only hum and work on your laptop, more prepared thanks to Wonwoo’s involvement.

It turns to seven in the evening and you’re almost finished.

But you were starving.

Primarily, you were going to text Jihoon, asking if he could come over and bring food, but when you met him in the morning he seemed busy.

Embarrassingly, your tummy rumbles and it breaks Wonwoo’s concentration at that second, watching you clench your arms around your waist.

“I should’ve brought something else to eat...” You murmur, eyes squeezed shut. Although you thought Wonwoo didn’t hear that, it was slightly the opposite.

The male sets his pen down, patting his pockets before speaking. “I’m gonna go out for a bit. Look after my things?”

Reluctant, you answer him with bob of your head. Wonwoo exits swiftly.

Your phone chimes and you receive a from Jihoon alongside an attachment of his cap covering his full face.

His text reads I’m so tired followed by a crying emoticon.

The image is what cheers you up, catching up with Jihoon for a bit.

You talk about the majority of your day, but you somehow leave Wonwoo out of it all. You don’t even tell Jihoon your suspicions that Wonwoo may be Miracle.

The problem was that Wonwoo wasn’t an open book, so you had to play it safe.

Breaking away from the conversation, you excuse yourself by telling Jihoon you had to finish your stupid essay and Jihoon sends a bunch of hahaha and a gif of a kitten saying good luck!

Eventually Wonwoo comes back ten minutes later, a white plastic bag in hand as he sits back down, commenting something like it’s cold under his breath.

“Where’d you go?” You inquire.

“Convenience store, it was only around the corner outside campus.”

“I see...” Wonwoo brings out the items one by one, finally tying the bag and putting into his bag. Your finger points at a specific item. “Pepero? I didn’t know you liked those.”

Wonwoo sees the box of pepero, and his fingers slide it nearer to you. “I don’t eat them a lot, but I figured it would help you fill your stomach.”

“Seriously? Oh, sorry for making you go out your way to do that—“

“Rather than apologising all the time, can you just thank me for the food?”

Speechless, he knows that you know he’s right. “Thanks Wonwoo... A lot.”

“Anything for you.” Wonwoo flashes a smile, twisting the bottle cap of his drink before taking a long drink.

You pick up the pepero box, looking at its contents.

It hits you for a second time — the pepero was strawberry flavoured.

“Say, Wonwoo...”

“That’s me,”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Because,” Wonwoo takes a while to gaze at you, your features softening at the sight when a gentle grin lifts Wonwoo’s cheeks, “because I care about you.”

It’s you, Jeon?

Days and nights pass and you find yourself spending more time with Wonwoo these days — staying at the library to chat, frequently passing advice to each other, each moment getting longer every time you stay with him.

Jihoon notices your change in behaviour, commenting on your recent rejection with wanting to meet up. You dismiss that idea quickly, saying that you just had to check for any suspicions. The ambiguity in itself confuses Jihoon — mainly due to the fact you hadn’t told him about Wonwoo — but he doesn’t ask any further, quietly going back to his laptop.

These chats with Wonwoo upgrade to meeting outside campus: trips to the cinema, visiting cafes or the newest KBBQ restaurant opening down the street, all memories posted on your social medias with some silly caption.

Waking up one morning, your roommate, in an obvious rush, briefly mentions about a letter addressed to you from the mailbox. Your ears throb at the information, dashing to the foot of your bed when your roommate leaves, a pretty pink letter distinct against the white covers.

Clumsy, you manage to open the letter.

I’ve come to a decision.

Meet me at the east garden. One o’clock?

I’ll be waiting~

(Gosh, I’m regretting what I’m gonna do now, apologies in advanced)

Miracle.

You practically let out a squeal, falling to the floor from the shock igniting through you. It wasn’t just that, but the fact the letter ended with a kiss in coloured chapstick — which was probably mentioning apologising at the end. Miracle certainly had a way of driving you crazy these days; now he’s finally revealing himself.

Right at that moment, you phone rings in the same chime again. It’s from Jihoon again, wanting to spend time with you. You feel bitter knowing Jihoon has been asking this question for a while, met with rejection every time, but you end up texting back a not today, something important came up, finished with, I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.

Checking the time, it already hit half eleven. “Perfect!” You cheer, getting up to dress yourself, full of bubbling excitement.

Because of your energetic nerves, you arrive at the garden ten minutes before  the allocated time, the green hues standing out next to the bright sky, students enjoying their day either by laying on the grass studying or strolling with friends.

You analyse the place to see if anyone looked like they were waiting for you, but after two minutes, no one fitted the criteria. It turned twelve soon after and you decided to explore around to see if you can catch Miracle anywhere.

Turning to a small path leading to a less frequently visited area of the garden, you spot someone sat by the stone bench. Turns out, you recognise that person.

“Jihoon!” You exclaim, Jihoon flinching at the exclamation. He turns, his frame revealing a pen in between his fingers and a journal on his lap. WIthout any hesitation, he closes his journal.

Hand on his chest after a long sigh, his relaxed state smiles at you fondly. “Oh, it’s you,”

His tone is soft, standing up from the bench and heading your way, an embarrassed, shy curl on his lips — his dimples peeking through — shimmering eyes trained to the floor.

He stops in front of you, taking a gulp before nervously staring at you. He’s in the middle of opening his mouth, but you beat him to it.

You beat him to it, and it’s all the difference.

“Guess what, I think Wonwoo’s Miracle.”

In a blink of a eye, the shimmer in Jihoon’s eyes dull. Nonetheless, you don’t notice it, babbling on.

“It’s why I haven’t been hanging around you much,” you confess to him, frowning, “Wonwoo’s just — really hard to figure out — but after a while there are things that he and Miracle do. I’m pretty sure it’s Wonwoo, I don’t know who else it would be. I think I’m getting butterflies, I—“

“That’s… Nice,” Jihoon breaks out, not staring at you anymore. The journal held on his chest is now at his side, gripped with strength.

It took you a while, but you noticed Jihoon’s tone. “Jihoon…? Hoon, are you okay?”

“Yeah!” He replies with fake energy, but he isn’t looking up. He isn’t looking at you. “It’s great to hear that. I should go before he comes, right?”

“Wait,” you hold him by the arm, “you sound angry — are you angry at me? — did I do something wrong—“

“It’s nothing.”

“Why can’t you tell me? You know you can talk to me Hoon, I don’t like seeing you like this…” Hurt, you try to take a glimpse at Jihoon but he isn’t allowing it. “Is it because Miracle is Wonwoo? I thought you didn’t mind him. I thought you wanted to know too.

“I just said I don’t wanna—“

“No! There’s something wrong and you aren’t telling me about it!”

With enough strength to remove your arm, but not enough to hurt you, Jihoon gets out of your grip, staring at you again, though not with what you intended. He’s glaring at you, fusions of frustration and pain being hinted, but why?

“Everything’s fine. Just leave me alone.”

Before you stop him, he leaves much quicker than you expect, vanishing from the garden; besides, if you follow him, he’d only avoid you more. So all you could do was wait for Miracle to come, in hope that whoever he is will cheer you up.

Miracle never came, nor any love letter from that point.

It’s been a quiet month. Life became static, classes felt like a drag, and Jihoon certainly had no intention to contact you after everything.

You wake up at ten, knowing your roommate went out because of the bed across you done well. Although you were against it, you figured that you should do the same — at least it helps you start the day.

Feet settling on the rough floor, you blink at the stray piece of paper in front of your door. It looks like someone slid it in. Groggily, you walk towards it, complaining as you bend down to pick it up, sitting back down on your messy bed.

It was a simple, white letter. It’s sides were slightly blunt, the page looking like it was ripped out of somewhere.

“Letter?” You question, heart dropping to your stomach. You open the letter with anticipation.

Y/N.

I… I’m really sorry about that last letter. You must’ve waited a long time for me, but I never got to reach you because of my fear that you won’t look at me the same once revealing myself.

I’ve liked you for so long, I care about you so much it pains me to think you have to go through hard thoughts. I remember liking you because of your smile. It was pretty; it was contagious. Then, through watching from my safe distance, I fell for you more and more. Your kindness, your sweet nature and overall comfort seemed to make my fondness grow, it just couldn’t be helped. I was in a stage of hopelessness, but I had to make sure I wasn’t too weird or anything.

From your posts on social media… It came to my realisation you and Wonwoo became much closer.

Is it okay for me to say that I’m jealous?

‘Hurt’ is a better way to call it, but, Wonwoo’s something else. You and him connected without difficulty, and it didn’t take you long for the both of you to watch movies together or have lunch. During that time, you seemed to smile a lot more with him, I almost felt upset that it was all because of Wonwoo, meanwhile I couldn’t do any of that. I can’t make you smile like that. I’m guessing you thought I was Wonwoo — that Wonwoo was Miracle — but no, I’m not. Sorry to disappoint you…

Maybe I’m so jealous because… Because Wonwoo is everything I’m not.

My heart is being poured onto these pages and I’m sorry for my flow, but I just needed to let this out. You need to know before I finish this. I can’t even show my face, let alone confess to you… It’s pathetic. But if I can’t express my feelings the way I do internally, I’ll keep these emotions guarded if you truly like Wonwoo. In the end, I want you to be happy. I’ve never devoted myself to someone before, is that why my chest hurts so much?

So this is a letter — an ode — for you. To thank you for everything. It’s a lot to take in, and a lot for me to declare, but you’re my first love. And before you begin to think negatively through this letter, don’t. That’s the last thing I want you to do. I just think its time to come to terms with myself and my place in your eyes.

You’re still the most wonderful person I know and I want you to always remember that. Writing these cliche letters have grown as a part of my routine, each with memories that’ll remain in my mind for a lifetime and until the next. They’ll remain in my heart forever.

This letter will be last. I’m sad it had to end this way, but let’s think of it for the best. Let’s remember this beautifully rather than in pain.

I love you, Y/N.

Miracle.

You grip onto the paper, holding back the tear that want to seep through.

After a month of silence, you’re given this?

No, no, it can’t be like this. It didn’t feel right at all. It felt like all your fears creeping from behind, pushing you down into a hopeless hole that runs for an eternity.

Like an instant reaction, you do the first thing that comes into your mind: searching for your phone and tapping away on the screen, the cold screen pressed against your ear.

“Wonwoo? Can we talk?”

You and Wonwoo meet half an hour later in Seventeen, yourself ordering a sweet treat to unhealthily energise you. Wonwoo, on the other hand, ordered himself the Real Cocoa, a new order that was added just last week (which was basically their branded hot chocolate).

You do admit that you truly did think that Wonwoo was Miracle, but after the situation, it didn’t just confirm that Wonwoo wasn’t him, but that it was better off being friends with him. Towards him, your feelings never escalated because in the end, Wonwoo was just a really good friend.

“Care to tell me what’s up? You made me worried after that call…”

“Sorry… Just, let me explain all of this to you.”

“I’m all ears.”

And you tell him everything. You tell him about Miracle, the love letters, the strawberry milk, about your desire to find Miracle, Jihoon helping you along the way, even admitting that you thought Wonwoo was Miracle because his actions fit into the actions of Miracle, the so-called reveal, the month of silence after that, and finally the present day: the ode.

Wonwoo props up a paper crane made from his tissue next to him, humming as he takes in all of the information with a calmness to him.

“Do you have it on you?” Wonwoo asks, “The ode — that goodbye letter.”

You search through your bag for the item, handing it to Wonwoo, his fingers unfolding the paper’s contents and exposing their woods, letting his eyes scan paper systematically. His lips move along to the words, whispering a few phrases. In such a short time, you manage to remember most words of that letter.

The male gestures that he’s finished reading by placing the letter back on the table. First, he sighs, head jerking itself slightly. “Wow. I’m flattered that someone thinks of me as if I’m perfect—“

You whack him on the arm, a little angry he had to joke in such a scenario, but it lost some of the tension inside yourself.

“Kidding, but, I do feel slightly responsible. I never intended for my actions to affect him. So this was the last letter he sent? No hints to who he his, not even a name?”

Shaking your head, Wonwoo tuts at the response. “I can only tell you that his handwriting is pretty. It’s also why I thought you could’ve been Miracle too, but guess not, so…”

“True, it is nicely written. Lets just read through the letter again until we come up with something.”

So you look through the letter over and over until every word is memorised, nothing relevant coming into mind.

“Whatcha’ guys looking at?” The unintended scare makes Wonwoo and you jump, Junhui reacting along with the both of you despite being the one who scared you. He’s in his uniform, so he must be working right now.

“Love letter.” Wonwoo states, but you glare at him.

He isn’t wrong per se, but to say something like that out loud was awkward.

Correcting him, you add, “We’re finding out who wrote this letter.” To be honest, you didn’t want to add Junhui — the first suspect on the potential Miracles list — into this, but it was too late to tell him something else. Wonwoo ruined that chance anyway. “Wanna help? We kinda need all the help we can get.”

Junhui’s eyes widen. “Woah, you have an admirer Y/N?!”

Brokenly nodding, you also think it’s better to confess to Junhui as well. Keeping it in will only feel heavier on your load. “Actually, at first, I thought it was you…”

“It wasn’t just me?” Wonwoo asks, surprised.

“Mhmm. It’s just three of you, though.”

“And who’s the third?”

“Um… Soonyoung,”

Junhui points at the letter, “You really think Soonyoung has handwriting this nice? We should get you to an opticians after this—“

“Jun!” Wonwoo nudges him, Junhui laughing.

“Hey, I’m not wrong!”

Shrugging, Wonwoo bends his elbow over the chair, turning to Junhui. “Any ideas then? Anything is helpful.”

Junhui bends over, head moving left and right like a metronome as he reads through the letter, face concentrated like when he was picking between the teddy and flower. You should ask him how that story went.

In the end, Junhui shakes his head. You and Wonwoo grunt.

“Unless,” He comes closer to the paper again, “Miracle wrote this letter in here.”

“Here? How the heck can you confirm that?�� You ask, taking glimpses of the paper.

“The coffee ring.”

Wonwoo argues, “But that could’ve been from any other coffee shop.”

Junhui moves back and presents the paper for the both of you to see. “If you feel it, it still feels damp and you can see some of the coffee imprinted to the other side where the note is folded. What time did you get this letter Y/N?”

“Almost an hour ago? It was slid through my dorm door.”

Triumphant, Junhui snaps his fingers. “Exactly! If this note was still fresh with these coffee stains, Seventeen is the only one that fits the criteria because your dorm wouldn’t be too far away from here.”

“Holy shit. He’s onto something.” Wonwoo gasps.

“Did you see who wrote this Jun?”

“Nope. I was restocking items then, sorry Y/N — but I probably guess it was the guy sitting near the entrance by the corner wearing a cap and mustard shirt. A gasp came from that corner and I got a glimpse of coffee being spilt there. I never got to see his face though.”

“Progress.” Inhaling a sharp sigh, Wonwoo relaxes in his chair, noticing your sullen star at the paper.

“We need a little bit more than that though… I swear, Miracle will forever be a mystery— AH!” You yell when you look at the window, Soonyoung’s face pressed against the glass, producing an ugly face. Gaining a reaction from you three, Soonyoung laughs evilly as he walks into the cafe, slinging an arm around Junhui.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere Wonwoo! I thought we were going to that new PC bang you’ve been talking about non-stop! I even ended dance practice early for it… Oh, hey Y/N!”

Wonwoo scrunches his face. “About that, well…”

“Anywho!” Soonyoung interrupts. “I saw you all crowded here, so, let me join in on the fun!”

Junhui picks up the light item for Soonyoung to see. “Can you guess who wrote this?”

Soonyoung takes it from Junhui’s hands, his reading combination of squinting his eyes and jutting out a lip. Furrowing his eyebrows, his head cocks back.

“Oh, it’s Jihoon’s hadnwriting.”

Jihoon?

“Him? Why bring him up all of a sudden—” You stammer, unable to keep the nervousness inside. “Besides, he doesn’t write like that.”

“He does! This is totally Jihoon’s! I see it inside the books he carries.”

“His handwriting his messy. Like really, really messy.”

“I know his handwriting when I see it,” you go mute over Soonyoung’s argument, Wonwoo noticing the argument progressing somewhere else.

Wonwoo takes it into his own hands. “Okay, we trust you Soon, but is there anything else you can connect to Jihoon other than that?”

Soonyoung shows the neatly torn side of the paper. “You can tell it’s been ripped from a book. He does this a lot when we’re together, but normally crumples them and throws it on the ground or something like that when it doesn’t ‘sound right’ to him…” Soonyoung faces you. “You also notice he rips a lot of paper out of his journals too, right?”

You nod, further improved by the addition of Junhui, stating, “Jihoon isn’t great with words either — he must’ve had to write what he would wanna say multiple times before writing the final thing—“

“Which explains why so many pages are ripped out from his book!” Soonyoung finishes for him, baffled.

Wonwoo leans into the table a bit more, propping himself with his arm. “Have you met him today? Jihoon?” Soonyoung nods. “What did he wear?”

“Let’s see. He wore a yellow shirt—“ Junhui’s eyes open in panic, Soonyoung rambling on, “I don’t understand how he wasn’t cold, it’s freezing.”

You look at Junhui and Wonwoo. “He didn’t say anything about a cap, anyone could’ve worn a yellow shirt…” Why were you arguing against this? Half of you didn’t want to believe it, the other half…

“Cap? I let Jihoon borrow mine because he left midway during dance practice. Guess he got bored. Was it white?”

For confirmation, Wonwoo looks at Junhui — Soonyoung mirroring Wonwoo to make it look like he knows what’s happening — who slowly nods in somewhat horror.

After the reaction passes on to the other two, they hurry to the note and reread it together, all the faint murmurs about Jihoon turning into exaggerated exclamations as they get to the end of the letter.

Drowning into deep thought, ignoring all of the others’ reactions, you piece together the truth. “No way — the garden — it was him. He was waiting for me. Jihoon is Miracle. Holy shit, what have I done?”

“Garden?” Junhui questions. Because of your late realisation to how oblivious you were, you thoroughly rub your eyes, letting this sink in. Wonwoo’s lips thin, hand tapping your arm to comfort you.

“At least we revealed Miracle’s identity,”

“It took you this long to figure out it was the person you’ve been around this whole time?”

“It didn’t seem like it was him Soonyoung! And I still dragged him into it… I flat out rejected him that day, he must hate me—“

“Hey, that isn’t true.” Reasons Wonwoo. “You two need to talk it out and apologise. Sure, you took a while to come to your senses, but he shouldn’t have led you on and decide to call it quits last second.”

Junhui puts a finger against the window. “Jihoon’s right over there — exiting campus.” All of you swivel your heads to watch the male walk out of the grounds, expressionless. “You should talk to him!”

“I can get him—“

“Wait, Soonyoung, stay. I think I have a plan. But all of you need to help me.”

It’s a nice day, Jihoon thinks, walking across the hallway, his eyes concentrated on the window and the students in groups enjoying their day. Other than that, he isn’t paying too much attention to anything, music coming through his headphones.

But his phone vibrates, causing him to tap the screen and see what the text is.

Is it okay if we talk?

Jihoon hitches a breath as he rereads the six words over and over, his heart slightly throbbing too fast, the rush of feelings flooding in. He doesn’t like this feeling — or the reason that they came back so quickly — it was like an uninvited guest.

As much as his feelings were at the tip of the iceberg, he didn’t want to give into you. He promised himself to let things go; to have time to himself before acting as if everything was fine.

So, he sets his phone away and continues walking, turning up the sound even though he’s fully aware it’s not going to distract him. He’ll reply to you in a few hours, maybe say his phone died on him, or something.

He glances at his hand, it’s shaking — what the heck?

There’s a prodding around his shoulder blade and a muffled noise behind him, but it takes him a while to finally reacts to the student who stops him in his tracks by standing in front of him. Hanging his headphones around his neck, Jihoon looks at the other with widened eyes, shifting them from time to time as he has never seen this person in his life.

“Jihoon, is it?” They say. Careful, Jihoon nods. “Someone wants to meet you at the lecture hall. He’s… This high?” The student raises their hand to estimate their height. “You won’t miss him.”

“Okay… Do you know what it’s for?” After saying that, he realises he should’ve asked who this person was, but Jihoon went against changing his question. The student shrugs and Jihoon can’t blame them — he doesn’t even know why someone would want to see him anyway, unless it’s Soonyoung asking to eat for the millionth time — “It’s alright. Thanks for tell me anyway. Um, have a nice day.”

Walking away, Jihoon’s mind lingers on what he could be asked, an odd feeling in his stomach the more he tries to push down his emotions.

Arriving to the lecture hall, he takes glimpses inside to see if there was one vacant or had someone that remotely looked like they were waiting for Jihoon.

Luckily, he finds one that fits the first criteria, and also revealed someone packing up their things near the front rows. Jihoon isn’t too sure if that’s who wants to see him, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask anyway.

He steps down the stairs until he’s level with the person, shocked to see it was Junhui. “Jun?”

Nonchalant, Junhui faces Jihoon and forms a kind face when he sees the male. “Jihoon? I haven’t seen you in a while, you doing fine?”

“Oh — I’ve been well,”

“Nice,” Junhui nods in appreciation, midway packing his things, “my lecture just ended. Did you want something?”

Junhui didn’t want to see me? Did he just forget? Jihoon puffs his cheeks. “Ah — no, it’s okay—“ he’s about to leave, but something inside him stops him from doing so. “By any chance, did you wanna talk to me?”

“Right!” Junhui gasps, digging back into his bag as he brings out an item. “Can you give this to Soonyoung? I forgot to this morning since I was in a hurry and my shift is soon.”

Doing such a simple favour can make Jihoon just say no, can you do it when you see Soonyoung again? to Junhui, but he doesn’t want to look rude so he complies to the request, being lent the white cap into his hands.

“I’ll see if he’s in the dance studio.”

“You’re a lifesaver Jihoon, I owe you one. You like food don’t you? Let’s eat next time. Okay?” A grin widens on Junhui’s face naturally and Jihoon, like he’s under a spell, nods the slightest, Junhui finally packing up and slinging a bag over him, walking away whilst humming.

Jihoon gets to relax when he finally leaves, expressing a whole sigh. Junhui’s so relaxed, isn’t he? Not to mention friendly too. Who could say no to him?

Now heading to the dance studio, Jihoon twirls the cap around his finger, his mind still going back to your text. Then he remembers he’s going to Soonyoung, and a funny memory comes into his head.

It’s the time when Soonyoung asked him about you — if you were seeing someone. In Jihoon’s mind, it wasn’t his place to say if you were dating, but at the same time, he didn’t like to think about you with someone else. From what began as platonic blossomed into something more, a slight desire to treasure you for himself, but it sounded crazy in Jihoon’s head.

Therefore in the end, he didn’t answer Soonyoung’s question. Jihoon was also aware of the feelings Soonyoung had for you, despite Soonyoung’s bad attempts of trying to disapprove of it. Jihoon was tagged to not express his feelings, so Jihoon kept it that way. Nevertheless, he didn’t want to break up his friendship with Soonyoung by admitting he liked you too — he wanted Soonyoung to keep his puppy love for you.

“Hey man, what’s up Hoon?”

Jihoon flinches a little. He didn’t even register that he was in the dance studio already. He greets Soonyoung with a wobbly smile. “Jun wanted to give this back.”

“Oh, I’ve been searching for this everywhere!” Soonyoung throws his current cap away and wears the white one. “While you’re here, I need to give you something.”

“Am I being a messenger owl today?” Scoffs Jihoon.

“What?”

“Nothing,”

An item is placed into Jihoon’s hand — a laptop that was familiar to him — and he looks at Soonyoung’s face, smiling as if it was nothing. He couldn’t blame Soonyoung, but it was like a stab to a fresh wound.

“Can you give this to Y/N? I used it to transport some files to my phone. I pretty sure she’s in the library with Wonwoo. They’re familiar with each other aren’t they?”

Yes Soonyoung, I know that, Jihoon grits his teeth. Jihoon shouldn’t be like this; he has no right to be. Why, out of all people, does he have to see Y/N and Wonwoo face to face? Fate was probably laughing at him today.

How sad.

“Whatever.” Jihoon eventually comments, walking out. Soonyoung shouts love you Jihoon! as he walks out, Jihoon scowling secretly. But he can’t get mad at Soonyoung — it was a harmless act in the end.

Soonyoung exhales loudly once Jihoon leaves. There’s a reason why Soonyoung isn’t a drama major, thank god he played it off decently. He finds his phone, lifting it to his ear. “You’re up.”

It’s quite a walk, but Jihoon makes it to the library, holding in a breath. Is it normal for is heart to beat this fast? Maybe not, but it was.

Jihoon slaps himself lightly on the cheek, wanting to come back to the reality of this all. It’s over. The simple words keeps Jihoon motivated to enter the library, quiet and unbothered.

Yet to his surprise, you couldn’t be seen anywhere. Like an idiot, he walks up and down and around the library three times before concluding one, everyone was certainly beginning to think he’s insane, and two, you aren’t in the library.

“Fantastic.” Jihoon clicks his tongue, preparing himself for what’s about to happen. Right now, he wants to kick a chair, yet he suppresses that as he walks to the desk, paper cranes of different sizes and colours filling the sides.

Jihoon stares at Wonwoo, who’s in his own world, silently folding more cranes one by one, multitasking as he reads through a textbook.

Slowly arriving in front of the desk, Jihoon clears his throat. Awkwardly.

“Wonwoo?”

“Hm — Jihoon?” Wonwoo puts down his in-progress crane, tilting his head. “How may I help?”

His chill tone makes Jihoon bubble with envy inside. Insecurity hits. Manifests. Jihoon presents the laptop to Wonwoo, hand running along one of your stickers in the corner.

He either had two options: ask where you were, or ask Wonwoo to give the laptop to you.

Jihoon comes to a decision.

“Give this to Y/N please,”

“Ah, Y/N just left, what bad timing,” Wonwoo pouts, now holding the laptop and storing it behind the desk, “I’ll return it as soon as possible. Y/N will be really happy.”

“Okay.” Forcing a smile, Jihoon thinks he can’t hold this up any longer. It feels like the world is closing on him. “Now I, uh, better go—“

“Before you do,” Wonwoo disrupts, “Y/N left this.” He shows a closed letter, sliding it along the desk to Jihoon. “I think it’s for you.”

Me? “I don’t think so…” Jihoon shakes his head, rejecting the letter. “Its probably for you.”

“Pretty sure it isn’t,” the other holds up a smile, “we’re just friends. Whatever it is, I don’t think Y/N would tell me something through letter.” Wonwoo pushes the letter just slightly, enough to tip over the edge and for Jihoon to clumsily catch it. “I have no idea what it’s about, but the name says what it says.”

Jihoon checks the letters on the flap. Lee Jihoon.

“Oh.” Jihoon says intelligently. He moves his lips to add something, but recognises the person waiting behind him, giving no option but to quickly say goodbye and walk out.

Sitting after much exhaustion, Jihoon unfolds the black letter and takes out the tiny-sized paper.

Dear Jihoon,

This is long overdue on my behalf, so here it is.

You had me fooled.

Fooled you were helping me all this time; fooled that you were just tagging along with this; fooled I was going the wrong way all this time. But you know what? You fooled yourself too.

Fooled yourself by watching me go through each person, one by one. Fooled through pointing out the good things about everyone. Fooled because when it came to you, you looked at yourself negatively. I could be mad — I’d have a right to be — but it’s not what I’m here for.

I’m here to tell you the truth.

The truth that you don’t have to be Junhui to be loved by everyone, or be Soonyoung to catch my attention, even Wonwoo to make me smile ‘brightly’. I want you to be you.

Jihoon who’s always hardworking, the person who brings a smile to my face every day without fail, who I hold precious to my heart, who’s amazing in every single way but stays grounded. You — with a loving heart even though he doesn’t want to admit, that through the stubbornness, you cherish those close to you; admire them, even.

You admire them to the point that you think you can’t get to their level, and it hurts me to see you can’t recognise your glow. Because of you, each day is beautiful to me. Persona or true self, you are held dear to me, because in the end, it’s you.

Out of all possibilities, I wouldn’t have thought you’d admire someone like me. ‘Why me?’ Is what I thought the first time I recieved that letter during that cold January. Though, I slowly loved myself more and more with your words, and I was always on the receiving end.

What I’m trying to say is… I wanna return the favour. Show you how special you are, make you love yourself the same way you did to me.

So please, meet me in the garden? I miss you so much.

I miss your face, smile, voice, the stupid texts you send at 2AM — I miss it all. I hope you do, too.

It’s fine if you don’t come. I just wanted to let you know all of this.

My miracle; that’s who you are in my eyes.

Love, Y/N.

Jihoon begins to run to the garden, heart beating faster than ever. Inside the library, Wonwoo smiles, soon texting you.

Out of the endless possibilities.

Jihoon stumbles into the garden, turning around and round, searching with every fibre of energy in him. He stops, thinking deeply before his eyes lighten — shimmering — when he goes into the direction of the hidden area, hidden behind vivid green leaves and small, white flowers growing.

He sees you standing there, a fresh breeze coming to him. He feels unworthy of being dressed so casually like this but it doesn’t matter because you’re there.

Your hand gripped onto your arm as you’re seated on the stone bench, gently swinging your legs and face sullen yet calm, eyes moving from your shoes to the stone path.

Only one miracle has happened before our eyes

Quietly, he calls out your name.

Your ears pick it up, the quiet call feeling like the loudest thing in your mind, all the messy thoughts fading away. The two of you meet face to face, taking in every curve and expression forming on your face.

Jihoon’s smooth skin kissed with faint beauty marks, deep irises shaking as they gaze at you, eyelashes moving beautifully when he closes his eyes, the hue of his cheeks warming to a cherry blossom pink, being bridged over his nose, lips agape, no words escaping out of him.

He’s just like you remembered him: beautiful.

Even if we miss each other, it’s alright, I’ll find you.

He approaches you first, walking with a little sigh while his eyes concentrate on you. You couldn’t just break away, you were enchanted too.

When Jihoon stands in front of you, he takes you by the hand, pulling you up and not letting go afterwards.

“Hi,” dumbly, you say.

“Hi.” He says with the same tone.

It makes the both of you laugh, breaking away in shy giggles as Jihoon’s lips wobble once more, and his hands begin to shake. You hold onto his hands tight, running a thumb over his skin. “Look at me,” you whisper.

Jihoon looks at you. After all the feelings he kept inside, the insecurities he hid away, the admiration he has for everyone else but himself, he looks at you and it goes away.

He finds it dazzling how you have so much impact on him. You, standing there, and letting every single thing in his head dissolve. Just like that, it’s done all because of you.

You smile, moving your hand to his cheek. Naturally, Jihoon nuzzles into your palm. Just watching it, you knew that you didn’t mind this.

So let’s be in love even more, so we won’t lose this miracle.

Jihoon breaks away from your touch, his hand reaching into his back pocket, revealing a crumpled piece of paper. His hands, still shaky, takes it out, flatting the deep creases made in them.

You remember that piece of paper; it was from his notebook the day you met in this exact same spot.

“Y/N,” Jihoon reads off the paper, and it’s apparent that you can hear his heartbeats from all the way here, “I’m aware I’m the last person who you would’ve thought to be,” you laugh in between his words, Jihoon relaxing along with you, “but I hope you aren’t disappointed. After all, I did warn you.”

He looks away from the paper, putting it by his side.

“So enough with this persona, and time to formally reveal myself. I’m Jihoon and I like you so, so much Y/N. I can’t think of anyone else but you. It’s always been you. Finally, I can say this — no worries, nothing. Will you be mine?”

Happiness rockets inside you, pulling Jihoon into a hug without any warning, nodding speechlessly. Jihoon melts into the hug too, hands wrapped securely around you.

“Say it again,” you softly ask.

Jihoon’s chuckle vibrates from his chest, sending a warm feeling to you. “I like you,”

You smile so much that it hurts, hands playing with Jihoon’s hair. “I like you too, my miracle.”

All the beautiful words from the countless letters sent to you finally come to a reality, its beautifulness more apparent inside Jihoon’s eyes, not able to comprehend such a sight that he’ll cherish for an eternity. He hums questionably, causing you to look at him with shy eyes.

Forever, this was wanted for forever.

“It’s you; you’re my miracle.”

Thank the heavens Jihoon reciprocated that feeling too.

[kurokoros]

move me, baby | sp

Title: move me, baby

Rated: T for the first four scenes. M for the last.

Words: 3314

Pairing: Sweet Pea x reader

Summary: Somehow, Sweet Pea starts calling you “baby”. The nature of the petname evolves.

AN: It’s been a hot minute since I wrote a reader insert fic, but here it is!

The bench beneath your back is uncomfortable. You shift again, waiting for the artist, an older Serpent named Micah, to finish prepping his station. Nervously, you twiddle your thumbs, chewing at your lower lip. Already you’ve begun to fidget and the tattoo gun isn’t even out yet.

And really, you shouldn’t be as nervous as you are. You’ve seen Micah’s work before and know he’s a damn good artist. It’s not like he would be doing the Serpent’s tattoos if he wasn’t. Besides, you grew up on the Southside. It’s practically criminal that you made it this long without getting one, even if you aren’t a Serpent yourself.

“Oh, come on,” Sweet Pea huffs, causing your gaze to snap to his. He glances down at you in irritation, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Don’t be such a baby. It’s just a tattoo.”

You roll your eyes at the tall, gruff Serpent. Of course he would think that. Sweet Pea’s favorite past time is getting himself beaten up by the Ghoulies. You’re not even sure pain is part of his vocabulary at this point. “Why are you even here, again?” you ask, quirking a brow at your surly, sort-of-friend. “Don’t you have someone else to bother?”

Not that you want him to leave. The only reason you haven’t bolted from the bench yet is because of his silent judgment grounding you in place.

Plus, you think as you look him over, gaze lingering on the angry, two-headed snake inked into the side of his neck, Sweet Pea has always been pretty damn good eye-candy. That certainly makes up for him sitting there and judging you like an asshole.

Sweet Pea just shrugs. “Moral support.” He crosses his arms and leans back in his seat, completely relaxed.

“Right, because you’re so supportive.”

He reaches out and pinches your exposed hip, making you yelp and jerk away from his mischievous fingers. On reflex, you swat at him, and Sweet Pea chuckles when you miss, a deep baritone that sends a shiver shooting right up your spine.

Before you can yell at him, Micah steps back into the room. The older Serpent flashes you a brief smile as he fixes his gloves and settles into the chair on your left. “All right, Sweetheart, you ready?”

You manage to nod and resist the urge to fidget as he presses the stencil to your skin, a simple flower that follows the curve of your hipbone in the front.

(You’re so preoccupied with the whirring of the machine and the nerves bubbling in your stomach that you don’t see the way Sweet Pea’s eyes trace the hem of your underwear all the way to the blue stencil on your hip.)

Micah draws the first line, officially starting your first tattoo, and your eyes squeeze shut. Your teeth dig into your lower lip at the lick of pain that curls through you. It’s over as quickly as it starts, but you don’t hear the encouragement Micah murmurs.

Sweet Pea leans down toward you. “Just remember to breathe,” he says, just loud enough for you to hear over the buzzing of the gun. “You’ll be fine. Just don’t—”

“Sweet Pea?” Your voice comes out much softer than you mean it to, more breathy, a little shaky, but just loud enough to catch his attention. You swallow. “Just shut up and hold my hand.” The fingers of your right hand wiggle to emphasize the request.

For a second he just stares at you in surprise, lips slightly parted and dark eyes wide. His jaw tightens, causing the snake on his neck to tense. Micah smiles secretively.

Finally, Sweet Pea rolls his eyes. “Baby,” he grumbles as his hand slips into yours.

The Friday night rush at the Wyrm is considerably slower than you expected it to be tonight. Most of the older Serpents have settled into their regular seats and have taken to nursing their beers and reminiscing and the ones still in school ducked out of the bar over an hour ago, bored and headed to the quarry to cause trouble.

FP Jones and his kid are notably absent, as are most of the other Serpents rising up in the ranks. It’s not hard to figure out why. Lately, things have been rough on the Southside. The Ghoulies have been causing chaos all over town. There have been more brawls in the last week than there have in the previous month, and as far as you’re aware FP is pretty keen on ending things before they get out of control like they did back when you were all still in high school.

Worry niggles at the back of your mind, but you shove it down.

It’s a little after two in the morning and the bar is almost empty by the time Sweet Pea slips in through the front door. You don’t notice him at first, half-asleep as you scrub the same spot on the bar with a wet cloth, making lazy circles.

“You know, I think you missed a spot.”

Inhaling sharply, you startle at the unexpected voice. Your eyes snap up to meet Sweet Pea’s amused gaze and his lips quirk higher. You’re taken aback by the man standing in front of you. There’s blood on his knuckles, his own or someone else’s you can’t be sure, his lip is split and puffy, and there’s a nice bruise forming beneath his left eye. More blood is splattered across the front of his leather jacket and the white shirt he’s wearing beneath it.

Without really meaning to you look him over, cataloging the injuries you see. It’s not as bad as you were expecting. He’s bloody and bruised and holding himself like his ribs hurt, but you’ve seen he look far worse than this.

“Let me guess,” you muse, leaning forward on your elbows and grinning at him, “I should see the other guy?” His answering grin is wry and humorless and you think maybe you’re wrong and it’s worse than you think. “What was it this time?”

He shuts down and immediately you regret asking. His expression becomes pinched and a dark wave of fury washes over his features. Sweet Pea grits his teeth, his jaw clenched so tightly that a muscle in his jaw pops. “Business,” is all he tells you.

You don’t have to ask what kind.

Instead, you ask “whiskey or vodka?” Something to make him loosen up or forget. It’s always the same with him.

He leans forward on the bar, careful not to get blood on the clean surface as you grab him a glass. “Whiskey.”

You pour him his drink and slide it across the bar. As he reaches for his wallet, you stop him. He stiffens under your brief touch, but doesn’t pull back.

“It’s on the house,” you tell him quietly. You aren’t sure what possesses you to say that, but you don’t regret it for a second. Hog Eye will be pissed if he finds out you’re giving away free alcohol—at least, he’ll pretend to be—but it’s worth it with the way Sweet Pea reacts.

His expression softens considerably and your throat tightens, your mouth dry. There’s something about the tall, angry biker looking at you like that that makes your breath catch. “Thanks, Babe,” he murmurs. Sweet Pea offers you another small smile before taking his drink and straightening.

You roll your eyes as he fishes out his wallet and shoves a twenty in the tip jar before heading for a table in the back where Jughead and Fangs are waiting for him.

You’ve never understood the point of drag racing. It seems stupid, betting so much on who can drive marginally better than someone else, but those were the Ghoulies’ terms. While the Serpents would prefer an all out rumble, the Ghoulies always have been fond of their flashy cars.

When Toni threw a crop top and shorts at you this morning you should have known it would be something like this. You may not be an official Serpent, but there are still certain expectations.

So here you are, waiting on some dusty back road as one of the younger Serpents argues with a Ghoulie about the same age, setting up the terms of the race. You aren’t sure where Toni disappeared to; she disappeared to go find Fangs as soon as the two of you pulled up in her beat up car.

Usually it wouldn’t bother you, being alone like this, but you’re really not liking the way one of the Ghoulies across the dirt lot is eyeing you. You doubt he’d be stupid enough to try anything in a crowd of Serpents, but you can never be too sure. The Ghoulies tend to be bold and don’t take no for an answer, and everyone here is just looking to start a brawl.

Ignoring the Ghoulie doesn’t seem to dissuade him.

You jump as a pair of big hands settle on your hips from behind and squeeze gently. Panic surges in your chest until a familiar, rough, baritone laugh rumbles through you as you’re pulled back against a broad chest. “Relax, baby girl,” Sweet Pea murmurs against your ear, voice low and throaty. “It’s just me.”

Breathing a sigh, you lean into him. “Fuck, Sweet Pea,” you huff, rolling your eyes when he chuckles.

You don’t have to ask what he’s doing, already feeling the Ghoulie’s eyes slide away from you. And sure enough, you crane your head back to look at him only to find him locked in a staring contest with the Ghoulie across the lot, who sneer and turns back to his friends. Sweet Pea’s jaw is clenched tight, his eyes narrowed dangerously, and you shake your head at the alpha male bullshit, but gladly sink into him anyway.

The pad of his thumb strokes the bare skin over the waist of your shorts, just teasing the tattoo peeking out on your hip. You wonder if he’s doing it on purpose, trying not to squirm and shiver as he leaves a trail of fire in his wake, the heat of his hands sinking into you.

“I thought you were supposed to be giving Isaac and Dexy some pointers,” you murmur, watching the two younger Serpents head back to their car, the Ghoulies doing the same. Briefly, you wonder where they got it, but figure it best not to think about it.

Sweet Pea pulls you a little closer to his torso, leaving no space left between the two of you. He doesn’t wrap his arms around you, just holds you there, grip loosening now that the Ghoulie has lost interest. “I already did.” A low sound rumbles in his chest and echoes in your own. “Thought you looked lonely.”

“So you came to keep me company? My hero,” you joke. He pinches your hip like he always does and you swat at him playfully. Sweet Pea strokes the curve of your tattoo and you hope he doesn’t notice the hitch in your breathing.

You expect him to let go as the race starts, but he keeps his hands on you the entire time. They just rest there on you hips, drumming absentmindedly against your side to his own rhythm.

Picking up an overnight shift at Pop’s Diner wasn’t something you wanted on a Wednesday night. Wednesday’s are always quiet, the shift slow because it’s the middle of the week and no one wants to pop into a twenty-four hour diner for a shake at two in the morning aside from stoners and occasionally Jughead Jones.

And that’s exactly who’s here tonight. A group of southside teens stoned out of their minds are a giggly mess in the far corner of the room, milkshakes of every flavor laid out in front of them. They’ve been taking sips of each one individually and looking like their minds are blown every time. Jughead, meanwhile, is in his usual spot on a stool up front, laptop laid out in front of him as he types away furiously, still working his way through that novel of his that stopped being about Jason Blossom almost five years ago. Besides them, it’s only you and the cook, Brian, here tonight, and you’re pretty sure Brian is taking a power nap in the back while you lazily wipe down the same spot on the counter you have been all night.

When the bell above the front door chimes, you don’t think much of it, calling out a reflexive greeting as a man in a black coat walks up to the counter. It’s not until there’s a gun in your face that you realize what’s going on. The stoners stop giggling in the booth and from further down the counter Jughead stares at you with wide eyes and you hope he doesn’t try to be a hero tonight.

White noise rings in your ears. The man is shouting, but you can’t make out what he’s saying. You fumble and nearly drop the key you need to open the register. The drawer pops open. Jughead slowly starts to stand. The cold kiss of steel presses against your temple.

You wait for the bang but it never comes. Your hands shake as you give him the cash from the register. The bell above the door jingles.

It’s all a blur to you after that. Someone must call the police, because suddenly Sheriff Keller is standing in front of you, holding you steady with one hand on your upper arm. Your head is foggy and you stutter as you recount the events from minutes earlier. There isn’t much to say. You didn’t see his face.

Sheriff Keller talks to Jughead next, and then the stoners in the corner. Jughead comes to stand next to you against the far wall and makes a phone call, but you don’t pay attention.

The shaking in your hands spreads through the rest of your body and suddenly you’re sliding down the wall to the floor, a trembling, sobbing mess as you realize how different things could have gone.

The bell above the door chimes and you flinch. Someone drops to their knees beside you. There are hands on you them, gentle and coaxing, and your back is pulled flush against a broad, firm chest as arms wrap around you. You curl into the person behind you, immediately sinking into the familiar embrace. A tattooed thumb rubs circles into your upper arm.

“It’s okay, Baby,” Sweet Pea whispers in your ear as he strokes your hair away from your face. “You’re okay. It’s okay.” A small, hiccupping sob tears from your chest and his grip around you tightens. His lips press against your temple as he rocks you both. “No one’s gonna hurt you, okay?” he coos. “I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you.” His palms rub up and down your arms, soothingly.

He kisses your head again and you believe him.

You aren’t sure how it happens exactly. One minute you and Sweet Pea are arguing about something pointless and the next you’re being dragged into the storage room behind the bar at the Wyrm and shoved up against a wall. The cold wall stings your back, but don’t have the time to complain. Sweet Pea’s mouth meets yours in a bruising kiss, and your knees almost buckle.

It’s a mad rush of hands and lips and teeth. Your fingers rake through his hair, squeeze his upper arms, dip beneath his shirt to tease the firm muscle beneath. Sweet Pea wedges a knee between your thighs and rocks up against you, applying enough pressure to make you moan and squirm, soft, needy sounds spilling from your mouth.

He grins against you, smug, and you’d wipe that look off his face if he wasn’t hooking his hands beneath your thighs and hauling you off the ground. You’re crushed between him and the wall, your legs wound around his waist, and already you can feel him, hard and hot against your inner thigh, achingly close to where you want him.

Sweet Pea’s hips rock against yours and you squirm.

A lick of heat curls in your gut, and you realize it’s skin contact you want. The leather jacket is shoved from his shoulders and left in a heap on the floor and he chuckles when your needy fingers grasp the hem of his shirt and tug upwards. You struggle with the fabric, huffing, and consider just ripping it when it catches on his shoulders. Through his amusement, Sweet Pea helps you yank the shirt off from over his head.

He doesn’t leave you for long. Another bruising kiss is pressed to your mouth before his lips wander to your jawline, nipping and sucking a path across your skin that makes your eyes flutter shut. Your hands slide up his back, feeling every bump and scar and bruise with the tips of your fingers until his mouth finds a spot that makes your whole body jerk against him. Sweet Pea squeezes your ass as your fingers grasp at his shoulders, and then his hair. He murmurs your name and you whimper, hips grinding against his until you pull a low moan out of him.

“That’s it, Baby,” he mumbles as your legs squeeze around his waist and your fingers tug at his hair. “Just like that.” His mouth moves from your jaw to your neck, the rough scrape of his lips against your sensitive skin making you shiver.

Sweet Pea grinds against you bucking his hips sharply, and your head falls back against the wall as you arch into his chest.

He pulls away from you then, and you whine at the loss of contact as you’re placed back on your shaky legs, but he smothers your complains with a kiss that makes you dizzy. And you really can’t complain as his tongue drags across his lower lip as he sinks onto his knees in front of you.

There’s something absolutely erotic about having him on his knees for you, his lips teasing the soft skin above the waist of your jeans, his eyes on you, taking in every expression you make as he pulls little sounds from your mouth. His eyes lock on yours, pinning you in place as his fingers slide up your thighs. Your breath catches as he pops open the button on your jeans.

Sweet Pea holds your gaze as he leans in to press a soft kiss beneath your bellybutton. His mouth follows the hem of your underwear to the tattoo on your hip and your legs turn to jelly. The grip he has on your thighs is the only thing keeping you upright and aren’t able to swallow down a pleased moan when his teeth graze your sensitive skin.

His fingers hook around the edge of your panties and the ache between your legs grows painful as he kisses your hip and—

“Oh!” Sweet Pea rips his mouth away from you and you gasp, eyes flying open to see a very surprised Toni standing there. Her lips twitch like she wants to laugh. She turns around and heads back out to the bar, shouting, “Hog Eye, I think we’re out of that!”

“Oh my god,” you mumble, mortification rushing through you when you realize you were about to let Sweet Pea go down on you in the back room of the Whyte Wyrm.

Sweet Pea groans and stands, leaving you wet and needy, and the sound just makes the pulse between your thighs more noticeable. “Shit.” He sighs and glances down at you, taking in your bee-stung lips and rumpled hair, your pupils blown wide with lust. “My place?” he jokes.

You breathe a laugh and stand on your toes to loop an arm around his neck, pulling him down for another lingering kiss.

[ragnarachael]

the valiant arsonist — worry

Pairing: Loki x TVA Agent!Reader

Word Count: 2,273

Summary: You're not sure what to do with the new found information Loki's given you, and you meet what seems to be a new hire.

Note(s): this is part two of WHO KNOWS HOW MANY also the gif has nothing to do with the content of my fic,,,, i just love watching it and watched it for like.. 5 mins before adding it on here. (also shoutout to @klargreeves for their loki post about how he’s the reason behind Julius Caesar getting stabbed!! it’s mentioned briefly in this piece!) 

file no. 1 file no. 2 (you are here)

"You're going to what?" You asked suddenly, panic starting to flood through your veins. Loki just stayed still, the smirk on his face still evident as the sunlight from the singular window beamed down onto his pale skin.

"You heard me, darling," he stated. "I don't believe it needs repeating."

You tried to form words, but every time you opened your mouth, shock took over and made you silent.

"Be sure to keep that mouth shut, pet, or I'll readily find another use for it," Loki quipped from his seat, his smirk only growing as you recoiled in disgust from his comment.

"Why would you be burning this place to the ground?"

"Is it not obvious? Your team has captured me. I would rather be out in the world continuing my personal vendetta and not continue to be locked up in this Hel you deem as your place of work." You blinked at the God as you started to slowly stand from your seat. "I thought your kind were smarter than this."

"Well," you started, stepping around your chair to push it back in how you found it as you tried to ignore the gravity of his reply. "We are."

Loki scoffed out a laugh that definitely shook you to your core. "Now that, I beg to differ, darling. Just because you are simply a researcher does not mean you're knowledgeable."

To say that his comment hurt you would be an understatement.

"Stop with the nicknames. Just—Just stop," you demanded weakly, taking in a shaking breath as you tried to stand up straight, squaring your shoulders again. "Is there anything else you have planned?"

"Like I would tell you," Loki replied easily, the smirk finally going away to be replaced with a venomous smile.

You sighed quietly and found your hands rubbing your face for a moment.

"This has been... enlightening," you finally began, forcing a kind smile at Loki. "Thank you for your response, Loki. We'll be in touch."

You turned to leave before you could even get a reply, twisting the doorknob and pressing against the door again once you were on the other side, feeling like you could finally, finally breathe clean air.

Loki was quick to get under your skin and make you even more anxious about speaking with him than you were to begin with. Maybe that's what he had as powers.

Maybe.

Or, perhaps he was just a huge prick from some kind of family of Gods.

Regardless, you had little time for recovery as you could hear the radio's the security guards used coming from the opposite end of the hall. So, you pulled yourself together and made it seem like you were checking on the guards to see that they were back from their break.

After giving a brief welcome back to the men you smiled and walked back into the sea of desks, easily navigating to your own before looking through your small stack of files to dig up your research.

Loki's voice was still echoing in your head.

I'm going to burn this place to the ground.

It still made you shudder, even thinking about the smirks and smiles he gave you when you two conversed. Frankly, you could feel the hair on your arms standing up just thinking about it.

This also made you realize that no one noticed where you had gone. It was suspicious for sure. Everyone who worked at the TVA knew who was doing what at all times.

Maybe you were actually sneaky enough.

You grabbed a pen and started to manually write down everything you could remember from your visit with Loki, ignoring the painful scratch of the pen tip against the paper as your writing speed picked up.

Once you had finished transcribing the conversation in your notes, it finally crossed your mind that you were right.

Loki is planning something. And your director didn't believe you.

You could tell her, but that was at the cost of admitting how you got that information...

Or, you could just sit back and watch what would happen while the rest of the group figured a plan of attack to get Loki to talk and admit to his actions.

Sighing, you closed your research files and started to reach for the file that held all of Loki's time disturbances, deciding that you should brush up on the information and not actually believe anything this man says.

He is a criminal, afterall.

The manila folder was thick. Thicker than you remembered from the first time you had discovered the slight disruptions in the multiverse, and you wouldn't be too shocked if there was another folder to accompany the first one.

Upon opening the folder, you saw what little profiling the TVA had on Loki. It was stapled to the left side of the cardstock, all printed in black and white ink. Your eyes drifted to the technical mugshot that was taken of Loki the day you caught him and could feel fear starting to bubble in your stomach.

He had that devious smile as he stared right into the camera. Next to the mugshot was the simple basic identification questions, but next to race, place of birth, family, and species there were question marks followed by unknown.

At least you knew that he could most certainly be a God.

After eyeing the rest of the document, you turned your direction to the stack of papers that were attached to the right side of the folder, looking at the neon green sticky note on the top.

"All known time disturbances for inmate 60383," you easily read aloud off the sticky note before lifting the sheet it was stuck on to see another sheet full of images and handwritten descriptions. "Oh my god.."

You don't know how the pictures were taken or even who took the pictures (let's be realistic, it was probably the Chronomonitors up stairs), but it looked like the Theatre of Pompeii.

From 44 BC.

Your mind made the connections immediately, noticing the Greek architecture and the pictures varying with men of all sorts stabbing another man.

It was the Ides of March. Well—March 15th. The day Julius Caesar was stabbed 23 times.

Loki was behind that assassination, because of course he was.

As you continued in his files, you found that he was actually behind a lot of mishaps in history.

Including but not limited to: causing the French Revolution in 1789, The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand—also the assassination of Alexander The Great's father—and many, many more things that just so happened to change history in the universe.

It was giving you a headache, learning everything he's accomplished in such a short time. It's like mischief was his job.

"Wait a second," you mumbled to yourself, twisting in your office chair slightly to click around on your computer screen to open a search engine. Once you opened the first search engine your mouse could find, you typed in Norse Mythology and waited for the screen to load. Your computer was taking ages, which let you have your eyes wander on your desktop before catching the time in the upper right hand corner of your computer screen.

It was 12:30 in the afternoon.

Cursing quietly you were quick to get up from your seat, almost forgetting to close the loading window of your search as you grabbed your jacket that you tossed on the corner of your desk forever ago when you came in at 6 this morning.

"Okay, jacket, wallet—" you let your hand slip into your back pocket, feeling the plastic edge of Travis's I.D. as you pulled it out of the pocket. You've never been faster to shove something deep within the confines of a random desk drawer, cursing as you grabbed your car keys in rapid succession before practically flying through the sea of desks provided by the TVA officials.

The elevator was... calming. In a way. Smooth jazz playing on the speakers followed by occasional dings that signified what floor you were passing.

Until you were stopped on the 13th floor of the building, a man stepped in. He was tall, short dirty blond curls resting pristinely on his head. His hair actually looked to be borderline auburn thanks to the lighting in this metal deathtrap, you noted. You also noticed he was dressed up in an almost similar get up as you were that researchers were required to wear in the office.

The two of you gave awkward yet kind smiles to each other as he stepped in, hands in his jean pockets.

"Uh, what floor?" You asked softly, gesturing to the panel you were standing close to. The man glanced at the board.

"Same floor as you," he replied with the same tone.

He had an accent. A british accent. He reminded you of someone from Earth-199999, and you couldn't put your finger on it.

All you did was nod in reply before letting your hands go into your jacket pockets, redirecting your gaze to the elevator doors as the beeping started to continue as you passed floors.

After passing floor ten, you started to actually look closely at the man.

His jawline looked like it was structured by some higher power, and if you were to try and even touch you'd have cut something open. His stubble dusted over the sharp edges, though. It looked a lot softer than it might if he were clean shaven—which with the policies in the TVA, would be soon—and frankly, you'd like to see it.

It's almost like he looked like—

"Tom Hiddleston!" You exclaimed, finally making the connection in your brain.

"I beg your pardon?" The stranger asked, turning his head to look at you.

"Sorry, it's just," you started, laughing awkwardly, "you look a lot like this famous actor from Earth-199999. Tom Hiddleston."

"Oh," he started while shifting on his feet, seeming to step closer to you. "He's in that one show on Broadway, isn't he?"

"Yeah, uh, Betrayal I think it's called? I can't remember. It's been ages since I've looked at those files from that case forever ago."

There was a brief pause between the two of you before you took a breath and decided to introduce yourself, holding out your hand as you tried to relay your name without the awkward tone you still had in your voice.

The man smiled again and let one of his hand out of his pocket to shake your own. "Jonathan."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, not Tom Hiddleston—"

"Don't start that," Jonathan groaned playfully, the both of you sharing a laugh. "Are you part of Director Love's team?"

You nodded as you recovered from giggling in your corner of the elevator. "Yeah."

"She's really a piece of work."

"Yeah, but she gets her missions done," you replied easily, looking up at Jonathan. "Are you with Director Wilson?"

Jonathan looked confused for a moment before shaking his head, "no, no. Director Mills."

"Ah. Heard he's a tough guy."

"He's like the drill sergeant I've never had."

The two of you shared a laugh again before a comfortable silence took over the space. The jazz music seemed to have stopped playing now, which confused you slightly before Jonathan spoke up again.

"I don't mean to be rude or.. or break the rules, but what's your current mission about? Isn't it with that Loki guy?"

You hesitated for a moment. Why would you tell Jonathan anything about your mission? You've never seen him around before, let alone get told about him period. He seemed like a new hire. Newer than you.

That alone made you want to slam one of the buttons on the elevator wall so you could get off to avoid this whole topic.

And yet, you nodded, still under his curious gaze as you took a deep breath.

"Yeah. Inmate 60383. He's.. He's, well," you exhaled uneasily, letting out a weak laugh, "he's definitely something."

Jonathan didn't seem to like that answer enough.

"Something? What is that meant to mean?" He sounded like he was offended on Loki's behalf. You couldn't help the look you gave the man. It was a mix of confusion and offense.

"If you tried to interrogate him, you'd get it." You let out a sigh as you could feel the tension rise between the two of you, the elevator finally getting to the first floor of the building. The usual automated voice rung out in the metal box, announcing arrival to the first floor before the doors opened.

You were quick to get out, Jonathan following behind as he called your name. He probably noticed he struck a chord with his question.

Luckily, you were the only two in the main lobby of the TVA building as he kept trying to get your attention.

You grabbed the handle to the doors that led to the parking lot, turning around to look at Jonathan who seemed to look apologetic as he said your name one final time.

"I-I'm sorry for my comment. Really. I just want to know more about Inmate 60..."

"60383," you finished for him, part of you thinking you should be feeling skeptical about this whole situation.

"Yeah. 60383."

"Well," you started, letting your hand fall from the door handle, "I can't tell you anything, it's protocol. And I'd like to keep my job."

And with that, you threw open the main door to the building and walked out to the parking lot to head to your car and finally meet up with Travis for lunch.

[witcherdoaks]

Spring Day: Ghost

Word Count: 2,080

Warnings: None, just a short intermittent chapter 

Previous post in the series: A Brief Reunion

Masterlist: Spring Day

Ciri located Geralt and Yennefer along the path when word reached her of the bard’s passing. The young woman refused to leave Geralt’s side for which Yennefer was thankful. To Ciri, Jaskier had been an odd comfort, a tie to her royal life with all his fussiness and knowledge of high society manners, but more than that, he was a reminder to fuck all and live life. She was no stranger to death, so his death meant she’d have one more name to carry with her until her own demise. Now it was her turn to look out for Geralt as best as she could without making the witcher feel claustrophobic.  

For his part, Geralt pulled off a convincing act if one wasn’t paying attention. More than once his shoulders would tense, and he would quickly excuse himself whenever a different bard attempted renditions of Jaskier’s songs at taverns. Then there were the people who knew the bard would travel with him in spring and summer telling him it was such a shame the talented young man had passed. Ciri noted all of this and the manner with which the Witcher avoided towns and people even more, so she was relieved when they made it to Kaer Morhen that winter, especially after that trip to Oxenfurt. 

The famed academy had received news of the bard’s passing in mid spring. They sent word for Geralt to head to the campus by the beginning of summer, so the pair reached Oxenfurt some weeks after that. Geralt looked positively green as he was led through the halls to Jaskier’s living quarters. Ciri had offered to deal with the officials and everything else about the visit, but the white wolf turned her down. He had to do this himself, he said. 

“Professor Pankratz left you his possessions in the event of his passing, lord knows why,” the stick thin old man said in a tone that revealed he knew the why and very much disapproved of it.

Geralt only nodded stiffly while Ciri glared daggers at the man. Eventually they reached their destination, and the old man told them that any items left behind would be repurposed for the university or would be discarded. They had only four days to go through everything. For the size of the office and living quarters, it was a lot. Books were piled high on every corner of the rooms, most of which Geralt knew he would never need but had to convince himself not to take as they would serve the university well. There was also no possible way Roach and Ciri’s stallion would be able to take everything. The young woman recommended rifling through the tomes regardless; it had been her grandmother's habit to place papers or other in between pages of books. Maybe Jaskier was the same. 

Several books later, they had many dried flowers in between sheets of paper and cotton. Eventually Geralt found a rather large book where the dried flowers were probably destined for. As Geralt turned the pages, he realized there were herbs and other dried medicinal plants  placed carefully in pockets on each side of a page. Annotations and captions filled the pages next to the specimens, detailed descriptions of their properties and the occasional wayward comment. The bard must have spent a great deal of time developing the book. 

“We should take that one,” Ciri said, looking at the contents from over his shoulder. Maybe it would prove useful in the future. 

The Witcher agreed and set the book aside. As he glanced around the room, there were still piles of unsearched tomes everywhere and a disarray of parchments strewn all over Jaskier’s desk. Geralt sighed, tired of looking through tomes in a place that was saturated with Jaskier’s scent. Even with his Witcher senses, he would get accustomed to the smell, chamomile and apple blossom faded into the background, bringing with it unacknowledged comfort. Only for him to notice the scent again and be reminded that the bard was gone. It made Geralt’s throat constrict in that familiar way, yet his eyes were no longer able to express his sorrow. 

“Why don’t you take a break, Geralt?” Ciri asked, placing a hand on his shoulder, bringing him out of his thoughts.  

He glanced at her, and she squeezed his shoulder, giving him a slight nod. Geralt knew he wouldn’t be away for long; he couldn’t let Ciri do all the work, but stepping out of those quarters was quite literally a breath of fresh air. 

Every step took him farther away from the bard’s living quarters, making it easier to breathe and settle his thoughts. There were very few students roaming the passageways. Those that were gave secretive glances in his direction when they thought he wasn’t looking, for which Geralt was grateful. 

He hadn’t been paying much attention where he was going and found himself walking along one of the bridges connecting the two islands eventually. There he stopped, leaning on the stone parapet. The view before him was idyllic, blue hued mountain ranges were peaking above the forest line. His sharp eyes could make out the crystalline snow caps at the apex before they shifted back to the river‘s water, impossibly opaque but not in a murky, muddy way. The Witcher wondered if Jaskier had ever stood here, overlooking the same scene. Would he come here to clear his head, to get away from the students who surely filled the halls in the winter? What would occupy the bard’s mind when he stood here?

“Witcher!” 

Geralt turned in the direction of which his title was called. A woman dressed in orange and green was walking down the bridge toward him. The feather in her red-orange beret was fanning out every so often. 

“I heard you were here,” she cheerfully explained her approach. “It’s nice to meet you in the flesh instead of in a ballad.” 

Her cheerful demeanor slipped from her face as he continued to stare at her, wondering why she had approached him at all. None of the other students had done it. Still she continued past the mounting silence. 

“If you require assistance sorting things out, I’d be happy to extend my stay.” The woman looked almost hopeful as if she wanted him to ask her the favor, “I was passing through to retrieve any parcels Dandelion may have left me.” 

Her voice went soft at the end, and she looked wary now. 

“Dandelion?” Geralt asked, tilting his head. 

“That was what we called him here at the Academy,” she cleared her throat and looked away, “Jaskier, I mean.” 

Ah, here it was. Another facet of Jaskier’s life that Geralt didn’t know. A trivial detail of the bard’s life, which Geralt would have never known had he not met this stranger. THis knowledge left an acrid taste in his mouth. He’d never again be able to discover tidbits of Jaskier from the source itself. All new knowledge of Jaskier would be received from those that knew him. 

Geralt must have been glaring when the woman glanced at him because she took a step away.

“Yes, well, I must be going,” she hurriedly excused herself, “my offer stands, Witcher.” 

A pool of guilt seeped into Geralt’s core, making him grimace. She hadn’t been at fault, and she was only being kind by offering to help. Yet he scared her off. He sighed and started walking back to the living quarters. In the distance, a flash of red orange made a turn into one of the buildings, but he kept walking. It was too late to do anything now, he convinced himself and continued walking.  

When he got back to Ciri, the young woman had made considerable progress with the books and even had some of the students cart off the items they had already inspected. The two of them continued their perusal of the quarters. That which they didn’t need or felt immediately attached to was donated to the academy. Geralt was left with a sparsely used journal, the tome and other nicknacks of the bard’s while Ciri took with her a small ornate table mirror and a scarf she had gifted the bard some years prior. 

It was late evening on their last night at the Academy that Geralt saw the woman again, looking to deliver a package to him. He took the package in hand and accepted the words of comfort that left her mouth, wondering how much of Jaskier she knew, before closing the door on her. 

At night when the candle allotted to him had burned a quarter of the way down, Geralt sat with the bundle in front of him on the table. Ciri had gone to sleep some time ago. It was just him and his thoughts now. The bundle beckoned him, and he reached out to hold it in his hands. It barely weighed anything. The scents coming off it were smoke from a hearth, ink and that woman. It had been with her person for a couple of days at least, so that made sense.

Gently he untied the strings holding the parcel together. As the fabric fell open, the smell of dried ink intensified, yet it now mingled with chamomile and apple blossoms. At the very top of everything was a folded piece of parchment. With one hand Geralt unfolded it and his eyes landed on the topmost line in the bard’s script.

My dear Priscilla 

And that’s all he read. The parchment malformed and wrinkled with the force he used to fold it. The bundle now felt like lead in his hands, but he knew he couldn’t be rid of it. It was still a piece of Jaskier after all, so he rewrapped it and tied the string as securely as he could before shoving the entire thing into his satchel. 

Geralt blew out the candle and went to sleep.  

Even weeks later, Jaskier’s scent lingered on his belongings. 

Of course it did, Geralt had carefully wrapped them in cotton sheets to stow away in his travel bag. He had transferred them to a chest as soon as they reached Kaer Morhen. The bundle the woman gave him lay on the table of his room again. It remained there for a better part of the winter, purposely forgotten in favor of training and renovation of the castle. By now the scent of her was nearly gone, overwritten by the Witcher keep.

It was at this time, months after the incident, that Geralt took the parcel in his hands and unwrapped it with utmost care. Letting the chamomile and apple blossom soothe over his nerves and pounding hear. He smoothed out the wrinkled parchment and opened it to read. 

My dear Priscilla, 

Fate must have smitted me if you are reading this letter. I would hope I’d have died without regrets, but I rather doubt that is the case — at least where our infamous white wolf is concerned in the time I write this letter. 

I could shower you with praises for your natural beauty and talent. Except I fear that would be a waste of time as you already know how even the proudest of songbirds stop to hear you sing. 

Instead I will call upon your vast intellect and sensitivity to make the choice you feel is best, both for him and for my legacy. I leave to you some of my most private compositions. Many of these have not been finished or if they have, are not composed to my quality of my liking. I know you value an artist's integrity and would never betray this trust which I have in you. Unlike that pompous idiot Valdo Marx, seriously beware of him and kick him on his miniscule family jewels  the next time you see him in my honor. 

Back on topic, I’ll leave it up to you whether you wish to keep these writings or hand them off to Geralt of Rivia, who for the last couple of decades has occupied my heart and mind and is the subject of many of the present compositions. 

Please don’t punch him. He has apologized as I’ve told you countless times, and you would only be breaking a hand or wrist if you carry out vengeance in my name. I do not wish for him to hurt more than he is. He hides it well, Priscilla. 

Thank you, dear Callonetta. 

Sincerely yours,

Dandelion 

[arosnowflake]

And A Monster Steals Your Children

Submission for @arowrimo! Turned out to be a lot more autism-centric than aro-centric, but I still think it counts. 

Category: short story

Wordcount: 2170

Genre: Fantasy

Prompt: none/belonging (loosely)

Summary: It is said that, in a tower rising above the valley, a monster lives, and that it steals children’s souls. Netel, one of those stolen children, goes to kill it.

Warnings: heavy ableism (including internalized ableism), off-screen child murder, ableist language, mild amatonormativity. 

///

There lives a monster in the tower. This was a fact well known to the people of the valley. Surrounded by a forest of thorns, its brick and mortar rose above them all, casting their homes in shadow. It had been there before their villages were built, and they knew it would stand long after their houses had rotten away. Even so, no-one had ever approached it; the people knew better than to approach the home of a beast.

There lives a monster in the tower, and it steals your children. It doesn’t snatch them from their cribs, attack them and drag them to its lair; that could be guarded against, could be fought. No, this monster steals your children’s souls. It sucks the life from them, steals their smiles, eats their words. It devours love wholesale, consumes their humanity in the hopes it might retain it. The children it touches are hollow, screaming at shadows, unfeeling in the face of pain and sadness, filled with meaningless tics and gestures to produce a farce of life.

If a child is taken, there is no hope for them. If one is merciful, they kill the body it left behind. But sometimes, the family can’t let go of the shadow, the shell that remains, and so it stays in the village, a walking corpse among their midst.

Netel was once such corpse.

Se was stolen young, too young for sym to remember being whole. Syr hands cannot hold still, always tapping or twisting or waving wildly, no matter what syr parents did. Periodically, se would loose all sense, crying and screaming in a facade of distress with no rhyme or reason. Se could hardly speak, needing to script syr conversations before they actually occurred, or else se would forget syr lines, revealing the truth of the interaction as nothing more than a play at life. When others felt sad or hopeless, when syr mother was crying or syr father panicking over their failed harvest, se felt nothing. Se never felt anything; no joy, no sadness, nothing at all, and syr face reflected that, still and emotionless as the dead.

Despite this, se lived. Villagers parted for sym, whispered as if se couldn’t hear, talked to syr parents as if se wasn’t there - which, to be fair, se might as well not have have been. But still, se went to the market, even if se had a fit right after. Se walked by another house where a mother cried while a father sharpened his knife, their child nowhere to be seen, and se walked past, breathing in a way their baby soon would not. Se walked by the forest, its branches looming, and se walked past, ignoring the graves between its roots.

Once a week, se went to a healer. Syr parents still held hope se might be cured, you see, and even though Netel doubted them sometimes, the healer actually agreed. See, she had explained to syr parents, Netel had made a friend.

The friend in question was the healer’s son, a boy so kind he could almost jolt Netel’s heart from its eternal slumber. They’d played together as children, and now they talked, the healer’s son not minding that Netel could barely speak. With him, Netel almost felt alive. With him, Netel almost believed the healer, that se might be cured some day.

And then, the healer’s son proposed.

He was on his knees, saying he didn’t care se might never be healed, that he loved sym all the same. He was smiling up at sym, giving sym a chance for love other corpses would never even dream of, and se felt nothing.

Later, back home, after having weathered syr former friend’s curses, se looked up at the ceiling. Netel didn’t love. That was abundantly clear, now that se had refused syr only chance to gain it. Se couldn’t love, and that had been syr last hope. Now, se could only wait for the healer to pronounce sym officially dead. Even if se was still breathing, even if se lay in a bed instead of the ground, no one without love could possibly be alive. And there were no feelings to be found in the empty cavern of syr heart.

Well, no feeling but one.

It burned syr chest, a bonfire setting sym aflame. It had smoldered there for as long as se could remember, flames rising every time syr parents cried, every time se saw a new forest grave, every time se saw the tower.

And now, syr last tether to the village had been destroyed. All se had left was this burning hatred for the monster that had stolen syr soul.

When the healer came to syr parents’ house to deliver the sad news, se was already gone.

It was time for someone to kill the monster.

///

In town, there had always been a cacophony of noise; chickens and children screeching, horses and people neighing, bells being rung and carts being pulled over unstable stone roads.

In the forest, there was quiet. Aside from the few birds singing their song (too cheerful for creatures living in the kingdom of a beast), the only noise were leaves cracking under syr heels, the wind rushing through the trees. The smell was different, too; earth, still damp from the rain, smelt fresh and vibrant in a way the village never had. For those first few hours of walking, Netel felt strangely at peace, calm in a way se never had among people.

Then, se realized se couldn’t see the tower.

Even with autumn closing in, the canopy was still thick enough light barely broke through it, and when even the sun couldn’t be seen, there was no hope for the tower. It had never even occurred to Netel that se might have trouble finding syr way. After all, that tower had always been there, and always would. It was preposterous to think that se might not be able to see it.

And yet, se could not.

The rush of the wind was suddenly incredibly loud, syr clothes rough against syr skin in a way they hadn’t been before. Se rolled up syr sleeves, but it wasn’t enough, the phantom feeling of cotton still lingering, and so se scratched. Distantly, se recognized that this was bad, but the hurt was the only thing that felt real anymore, and so se scratched and scratched and then se was screaming, syr was burning and still se screamed and screamed and screamed -

Slowly, slowly, se came back to syrself. Se was still here, still in the forest, syr pants damp from kneeling on the ground, the birds still chirping. Syr arms and throat burned, and, distantly, se realized se had a fit. Because se couldn’t see the tower.

Brilliant.

It was easier to find syr calm here, though. In the village, people kept pulling at sym, talking to sym, and se could not tell them that se needed them to stop. There were no judgmental gazes or loud voices or rough hands here; there was just the wet leaves and quiet birdsong, and it was easier.

Se ate a little. Not much, se needed to ration for syr journey after all, but enough that se felt like se could stop shaking. It was late; the sun was setting. Perhaps se could sleep tonight, and try to find a way to the tower tomorrow. Just to rest a little bit.

There was no-one to stop sym, and so se rested.

The next morning, se went looking for water. After a while, se heard the rush of water, and se found a stream, its water running fast, splashing up against the rocks. Se drank to syr heart’s content, and looked up.

The tower.

Along the shore of the stream, the trees had cleared away, leaving the tower clearly visible against the blue morning sky.

Se laughed.

It would be alright.

For a week, se followed the river, accompanied by the fish swimming in the stream, the water rushing against the rocks, the smell of morning dew. No matter how close se came to the tower, the forest remained peaceful, bright in the clearing of the river, the birds as happy and calm as ever. It was hard not to be taken in by it, and more than once, Netel felt syrself relax against syr better knowledge. But se must not rest, must not falter; se had a monster to kill.

And finally, finally, se reached the tower.

It rose higher than se ever imagined, old and weathered, the ivy climbing up against it almost making it seem like a part of the woods. Windows set along the walls, but Netel could not see anyone - or rather, anything - inside; just darkness. There was no evil aura coming from the building, or any at all, in fact; it seemed like just another house, if an overly tall one.

And, to Netel’s surprise, it had a door. Wooden, normal, on ground level, easily pushed open.

Carefully, knife raised, se stepped inside.

Se hadn’t quite known what to expect. Maybe an infinite number of red eyes, staring at sym from the darkness; the sound of claws scraping over stone; animal corpses strewn across the stairs, dripping blood onto the floor, the smell of rot inescapable.

Instead, se found dust. Dust covering the hallways, so deep that se left footprints in it like se did in snow. It got in syr nose as se breathed the air, which smelt not of decay, but of stale parchment, with perhaps a whiff of mold. Syr footsteps echoed through the tower; otherwise, it was dead silent.

Se followed the stairs up, and found rooms. Normal, human rooms, covered in spider webs and yet more dust. The furniture was old and often molding, the books nearly falling apart, but they spoke of people who had lived here, once upon a time. Scholars, perhaps, if the sheer amount of dried-up ink was anything to go by.

But nowhere was a beast. There was nothing waiting in the shadows, nothing hiding in the silence, no monster living in the tower.

At long last, se reached the final room. From the top of the tower, se could see the valley, its forest and its villages, the mountains that cut them off from the outside world, the stream that had guided sym here. The breeze was cool, the sun low in the sky, its last rays hitting the window se was standing in.

A bird landed next to sym. It looked up at sym, cocking its head, hopped a little closer to syr hand, then flew away. Se watched it until se could no longer, and then, se fell to syr knees.

There was no monster living in the tower. It was old, abandoned by time and people, but there was no monster stealing children.

Anger burned in syr chest, brighter, more destructive than ever before. There was no monster. All those graves had been for children, innocent and alive, not shells or living dead. And se had walked past them, nearly every day; se had ignored the knives being sharpened, ignored the children doomed to die behind their house’s walls.

Se was one of the lucky ones, and se had been dragged to a healer every week of syr life, to be prodded and examined like an animal, talked about as if se was lifeless, stolen, despised by everyone around sym. And why? Why had they murdered, abused their children?

There was no monster living in the tower. There were graves outside the villages, knives being sharpened, people convinced that they were living dead. But there was no monster in the tower.

A ray of sunlight hit syr face.

Perhaps there should be.

///

There lives a monster in the tower. This was a fact well known to the people of the valley. It steals your children on the darkest of nights, climbing into homes and taking them from their beds. Once upon a time, it had been content to take their souls, but now, it took their bodies too. The people let it; they remembered the husks it used to leave behind, and considered that perhaps, this was a monster’s version of kindness.

Nobody dared enter the woods, the domain of the monster; this had not changed. If they had, if they had walked far enough and found a little stream, they might’ve seen clothes drying from the trees, heard the sound of children laughing, saw a vegetable garden in a clearing.

The tower was no longer empty. It was filled with people, children young, once doomed for death, and a few adults as well, who had been called the living dead. The rooms were cleared of dust and spider webs, the ink replaced, the books rebound. The sunlight seemed brighter than ever before, and in the morning, the birds arrived, knowing they could expect freshly cooked bread.

There lived a monster in the tower, and se had a family.

[ask-de-writer]

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT : Part 19 of 83 : World of Sea

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to World of Sea

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT

Part 19 of 83

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

140406 words

copyright 2020

written 2007

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

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Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users   of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.  They may   reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information   remains intact.  They may use the characters or original characters in   my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical   compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

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New to the story?  Read from the beginning.  PART 1 is here

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Chapter 5: Strangers at the Gathering

The night before the Gathering was due to begin officially, two strange, large ships came up and hove to, about a half mile off from the anchorage.  They had arrived during the dark of the moons, and none had noted their coming.  With the dawn, none could miss the strangers.  

One was a monster by any definition.  All visible parts of the ship were jet-black.  It was pretty long, but several ships in the Naral fleet were longer.  What made it so big was that it had two three hundred foot hulls, with rakish shearwater bows.  The hulls were spanned from bows to sterns by a large flat expanse, perhaps two or three decks thick.  It was hard to tell at this distance.  There was a raised navigation bridge about forty feet back from the bows.  For masts it had three pairs of poles that were fastened together at the tops by spacious platforms and possibly a hundred feet tall.  They formed ‘A’ frames that spanned the ship from side to side.  There were no visible spars and the rigging, though present, seemed sparse.

Its companion was about two hundred and eighty feet long, also with twin hulls, but there, any similarity stopped.  Its hulls were unequal in size, the smaller one being fully eighty feet shorter.  Both hulls were narrow, almost knife like, and it had three masts, off the center-line of the craft, closer to the larger hull.  They seemed far too short.

Small boats were sailing in from the big ships.  They were twin hulled as well.

“Those ships are weird, and those little boats are weirder, too.  Never seen anything like ‘em,” said a sailor to anybody.  

Juris, the Longin’s Master Boat-builder, replied, “Catamarans they’re called.  They’ve been played with from time to time.  Fast aren’t they?  Never heard of making one as a ship, before, let alone two.”

By this time, the two boats were tying up at the floats.  Master Juris noted, without saying anything, that they were tied up with quick release knots.  Each crew formed a shield around one person from their boat.  

From the unequal hulled ship this person was a man of medium height, apparently the Captain.  He wore his black hair complexly braided. He had a loose shirt, tied at the waist by tails made for the purpose and snug trousers tucked into wide topped soft boots.  His crew wore variations on the theme.

From the larger ship, the individual was a woman whose red-brown hair was worn tied back in a fall.  She wore a loose shirt, similar to the other man’s but with a belt of large polished black overlapping scales, each decorated with an inlaid medallion of polished shell. Supported by the belt were a  flattish kit and a large but empty knife scabbard at her left hip and a long empty scabbard of strange design at her right.  Her loose pants bloused down and tucked into the tops of snug, calf high boots made of glittering green Lesser Sea Dragon hide.  A document case of tanned Strong Skin leather under her left arm, the lady simply reached up to one of the bollards the climbing net was secured to and pulled herself up to deck level with her right arm.  None of her crew seemed to notice her feat as they swarmed up the net.

The woman spoke to the gawkers in an accent full of lilting overtones, “Where do we find the ones in authority here?  We wish to present our credentials.”  Some of the people tore their eyes away from the visitor’s outlandish garb and pointed out the Council Pavilion.

Kurin, who was among the curious watchers, turned to Master Juris and said in surprise, “She must be as strong as Cat was.  Did you see how she just reached up to the raft rim and pulled herself up one handed until she could sit on the edge?”

“Yes,” he replied.  “She had that package of documents in her left hand. It was like she never even gave it a second thought.”

Roper said, “I noticed that all of the others used both hands to get up onto the raft.”  He paused and added untactfully, “I thought that Captains were supposed to be picked for brains.”

“Maybe she was,” Kurin shot back.  “Not everyone who’s strong is stupid.”

“You’re right,” replied Roper, abashed.  “Cat was strong and smart.”

Their men standing guard outside, the two Captains, for such they were, went inside the Council Pavilion.  Captain Sarfin of the Dorton, was seated at a writing table working on the agenda of the Council.  He was the leader of the Council again this Gathering.  He looked up and smiled.

“If you come in peace, then welcome to the Spring Gathering of the Naral fleet.”

Relief flooded the features of the two.  The woman spoke first again.  “I am Captain Sula Corin Dark Dragon, Commander of the Winternight ship Dark Dragon, come from and representing the Corlis fleet.  We do seek permission to conduct some business, but mainly, we are seeking information.”  She handed her document package to Sarfin, who examined it with interest, and made notes in his ledger.  

“I Captain Huld Barsan Soaring Bird of the Barant fleet am,” said the man, speaking clearly but with odd construction.  “Also information seeking I am.  Opportunity to trade welcome is.”

Catpain Sarfin noted, “I see that your one set of documents is for both ships.  That is unusual.”

Sula smiled easily and said, “The Barant fleet is unusual, and the Honored Huld is even more so.  The Barant fleet does not set much store on written credentials.  The existence of a ship is license enough.  From the day that we met, we have been what the Barant fleet call ‘Dragon Bonded.’  Mutual obligations have made our lives inseparable, save by fate.  Because of our Dragon Bond, the Corlis fleet issued those credentials.”

“Very sensible,” laughed Sarfin.  “Sometime, when I am not so busy, I would like to hear your tale.  For now, I will have the Anchorage Master assign your ships to berths close by each other.  Permission to trade goes with that.  There is a fee of five hundred glue blocks or fifty Strong Skins, or an equal value in other trade goods.  Also, you must sign the Gathering’s Log Book.”  He proffered a book, opened to a page, and a feather pen.  Sula took the pen and examined it, then handed it back.

She produced a writing case from her sash-belt and took out a  fine tipped brush and a pen made of springy bone.  She inked  the brush first and wrote a neat vertical line of strange characters.  Then she dipped her pen into the case’s ink well and began writing, neatly, without any blot.

She filled in her ship’s, name, principal officers and nature of her business.  At the top of the next page, Huld applied two stamps from his writing kit, selected a brush and signed his ship’s name after one stamp and his own name after the other in unusual characters that Captain Sarfin recognized as written Barant.  He put back the brush and took a pen like Sula’s to fill out the rest of the information in Common.

“If there should be a problem in making payment,” said Sarfin, examining the entries with interest, “I am sure that I can get the Council to reduce or waive the fee.  After all, you have come half-way around the world to be here.”

Sula smiled, “I think that there will be no problem with payment.  The Dark Dragon is a dedicated Predator Hunter.  We take Wing Ray, Strong Skin, Moon Flats, Lesser Dragons and Hags.  We also take all of the usual fish.”

“I help may need.  Cargo luxury is, nor valued yet.”

“Honored One, I shall cover it for you, until the market values your goods,” said Sula pressing her hands together and making a small bow.

“That is settled, then,” said Sarfin.  “Now, what information is it that has brought you both so far?”

“We are trying to find the truth of rumors that there was a Great Sea Dragon — Some say Iren and some Mecat — that stayed with a ship of a fleet.  So far, all that we have found are rumors.  Truly, we are about to give up.  We have traveled half around Sea with nothing to show for the trip but some exotic trade goods.”

Grinning broadly, Sarfin said, “Oh, the Dragons are real enough.  I saw them myself.  However, your best information will come from the crew of the Longin, particularly, their Purser, Alor, their Captain Mord, and especially the young girl Kurin, who keeps a toy booth in the market portion of the rafts.”

Sula and Huld looked at each other in delight.  

“We have found them!”

“Here Dragon knowledge!” their voices crossed each other.

Huld added thoughtfully, “Meditate I must on this event when to the Soaring Bird return I.”

“Yes,” Sula added matter-of-factly. “Will you request that one of your Captains carry word to the Corlis fleet when you do?”  With a curious small bow to her, Huld replied, “Done it shall be.”

Returning her attention to Captain Sarfin, Sula asked, “Does your custom or law allow my crew to carry their personal sidearms?  We normally carry both a large combat knife and a small ax.”  She indicated her empty scabbards.  “I will guarantee that any of my crew who come the Gathering hooded will not be armed.  That will limit their response to any attempt at baring their faces to unarmed combat.”

Captain Sarfin regarded Sula carefully and said, “Why would they fight over something like that?”

As Captain Sula, showing the first trace of nervousness that Captain Sarfin had seen in her, replied, “Winternight regards such an assault as worse than rape.  If the hooded Winternighters are armed, the odds are good that they will kill the assailant before they have time to think.  To be honest, I am not fully comfortable without my hood and I adopted onto the Dark Dragon at the start of the first Boren Current War.”

Captain Sarfin thought carefully and replied, “It is legal for your people to be armed because such an issue has never come up before.  Let your crew know that our law and custom will require a non-lethal and preferably non-injurious response.”

Sula smiled again and bobbed her head.  “I can do that.  It is the same in our host, the Corlis fleet.”

The far away rattle of a tocsin drum and the exotic, never before heard in the Naral fleet, calls of a bugle or trumpet caused everyone on the rafts or on shipboard to drop what they were doing and watch. Eight large pulling boats came out from between the bows of each ship and picked up cables dropped from bollards at the prows.  The big strangers began to move slowly toward their berths on the north side of the anchorage.  The drum and horn fell silent except for occasional tiny course corrections.

A spectator on the raft, close to Master Juris said, “They’re so slow that I could have walked that distance, up and down the deck, by now.”

“I’m sure that you could have,” Master Juris smiled.  “But pulling two thousand tons might slow you down just a mite.  That’s some fine piloting that you’re seeing.  They aren’t letting the load get away from them.  The real test will come in just a bit, when they pull up to the anchorage floats.”

Kurin joined them.  “Sorry that I’m late, but I knew the ships had to be slow and I had some toy customers.”

“What did you sell?” asked the spectator idly.

“One of my loom kits and a rope winder,” said Kurin.

Master Juris turned from watching the ships at that last.  “You mean that those things that you made at the suggestion of the fleet’s Craft Council last Gathering are already selling?  They’re expensive.”

“They are,” she said, putting her head in her hands in mock frustration. “The Masters are coming to see if I’ve made what they asked me to, back last Gathering.  The way they look the toys over is driving me as crazy as a mating paddle duck.  They can’t seem to put anything back the way it was.  The only consolation is that they return with other people and get them to buy.”

Just then drum and horn sounded, and all else was put aside to see what the strangers would do next.  It was unorthodox.  The pulling boats, that could now be seen to have a dozen oars each, darted back, between the hulls of each of the two monsters, under the massive decks that bridged them.  You could see the lines draw tight as the boats applied all the power at their command to stop the ships.  They slowed gradually and stopped — — — exactly at the floats.  One boat came out from under each ship, and attached its cable to the float.  A second, light line was cast down from above and tied to the end of the cable.  Each boat disappeared back between the hulls of the mother ship and did not emerge.

“Neatly done,” said Master Juris, ruffling Kurin’s hair.  “These folk are good seamen, whatever else they may be.”

Kurin and Master Juris were not the only ones to watch the strangers come to moorage.

“Luve, Somet’ing’s bot’ering ye.  Ye keep lookin’ at t’ose twa new ships,” Tanlin said softly to Barad.  Two of the Grandalor’s deck-hands were following her attentively.

“Aye,” said Barad urgently, knowing that they would be overheard.  “You have been reading in my bookshelf to familiarize yourself with our way of writing.  Think.  What ships do they remind you of?  They always worked as a pair.”

Tanlin bit a knuckle lightly as she concentrated.  “ — But t’e Boren Current Wars were ‘alf t’e world away an Gat'erin’s agone! — Still, t’ose masts are unique.  T’ay ‘as t’ be t’e Dark Dragon an’ t’e Soaring Bird!  Yer books say t’at t’ey ‘ave sunk more t’an t’irty ships in t’ose wars.  W’at are t’ey doin’ ‘ere, Oi wonder?”

TO BE CONTINUED

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[ducktracy]

158. porky’s romance (1937)

release date: april 3rd, 1937

series: looney tunes

director: frank tashlin

starring: joe dougherty (porky), berneice hansell (petunia, babies), mel blanc (excited petunia), billy bletcher (time munches on narrator)

i’ve been looking forward to reviewing this since the day i first typed my review for bosko, the talk-ink kid. so you’ll have to excuse me for rambling on more than normal, i’m really passionate about this cartoon. there’s so much to say!

first off, this cartoon means a lot to me. it’s the first one i checked out on my own accord. i caught wind of who carl stalling was and wanted to listen to a piece of his music to familiarize myself. i saw his depression era compilation of music, and included was the opening number for this cartoon, which absolutely blew me away. i looked up the cartoon and watched it and instantly fell in love. porky was fat! porky has a different voice actor! porky was INTERESTING! porky was killing himself! i had never seen anything like it, so it holds a special place in my heart. i had a vague idea of some directors, like bob clampett and chuck jones, but had no idea who the hell this “frank tash” guy was. but after watching it, i knew i’d love him. and i do!

secondly, this is joe dougherty’s final appearance. while mel is undoubtedly the better porky, i’ve really come to appreciate joe. he gets a hard time because he had a real stutter, and one of the repeated criticisms i see is that it sounds too overdone. true as that may be, he couldn’t help it, and i applaud him for working as long as he did. i mean, a little over 2 years, that’s a decent amount of time! and he does have talent. we’ve seen and heard much worse. so i’m a little sad to see him go, but excited at the same time knowing wonderful things are ahead. i love this particular era in looney tunes history, the porky’s romance to, say, porky’s badtime story era. there’s this sense of newness and freshness—new voices, new characters, new directors. you feel the change happening before your very eyes. it’s all so exciting!

i’ve rambled enough, and i’m certainly going to ramble much more, so buckle up! after petunia pig rejects porky’s marriage proposal, porky seeks a noose for comfort. when the suicide attempt goes wrong, he’s then launched into a dream sequence about their potential marriage life... and realizes marriage isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

this cartoon has a unique opening to it. before the title card itself, we are presented with “leon schlesinger’s new looney tunes star: petunia pig!” curtains draw to reveal petunia positioned in front of a microphone. yes, this is petunia’s first appearance! she has quite an interesting history. she appears only in 3 frank tashlin cartoons, where she was depicted as a sultry, sexy foil for the bumbling, not very sexy porky. bob clampett would adopt her in 1939 and make her to be much cuter, giving her hair and a much more naïve demeanor. she hardly has any cartoons at all, yet somehow managed to live on through the dell looney tunes comics and in future looney iterations.

petunia greets her audience warmly, opening with “my public! i hope you pictured my liking--i mean, i hope you lictured my picking... i mean... i--” overcome by nerves, petunia struggles to read the script in front of her and greet the audience. this little bit was inspired by the short lived 1936-1937 radio program community sings. the offscreen announcer attempts to calm her down. “shhh, petunia. don’t get excited, don’t get excited...” petunia’s furious outburst (vocals by mel blanc, of course) of “EXCITED!? WHO’S EXCITED?? I’M NOT EXCITED!!!” comes from comedian professor tommy mack, who would do the same slow routine and then the explosion with the “WHO’S EXCITED?” line. tashlin’s the woods are full of cuckoos is an entire tribute to community sing.

the curtains close on petunia, and then we’re actually greeted with the title card. an absolutely stellar rendition of “i wanna woo” underscores the title and the opening scene. a happy porky whistles along to the music as we have a montage of him buying necessities for petunia. a diamond ring, some roses, some chocolates. what a good guy! i love the visuals in this cartoon. everything is so sleek and modern--it’s evident tashlin was enamored with the art deco style. and that song again is just beautiful--it’s why i investigated this cartoon in the first place!

porky finishes his routine as he approaches petunia’s house, dancing up and down the stairs before ringing the doorbell. i love that face of his as he poses by the doorbell, throwing his bouquet in the air and catching them in his hand. he’s awfully full of himself.

inside, petunia approaches the door, her brat of a dog fluffnums by her side. for some reason, fluffnums was attempted to be pushed as a reoccurring character, with model sheets and drawings of him surfacing around the studio, i guess for publicity, but he only appeared in this cartoon. same goes for the iceman in i only have eyes for you (his name is sammy sparrow?) and the parrot in i wanna be a sailor. petunia opens the top portion of her door to see her visitor, and we see cocky old porky posing with his hat hilariously tipped on his face. petunia, for whatever, isn’t very pleased, turning her nose and marching away, stomping her foot. “porky pig! pooh-pooh!” in the same rhythm, the dog barks the same amount of syllables, stomping its little paw. warm welcome.

a lovely, downtrodden chorus scores porky as he trudges away tearfully, wilting, pausing only to kiss petunia’s nameplate on her house. suddenly, fluffnums looks out the window and barks for petunia. “what is it, fluffnums?” then, petunia spots the box of chocolates porky carries along behind his back. we then get this BEHEMOTH of a scene that displays how tasteful of a director frank tashlin is: 6.5 seconds, 157 frames, 10 cuts. petunia rushes out of her house at the speed of light and urges porky back inside her home. the scene has CLARITY--you can understand what’s happening, unlike the rapid cutting in porky in the north woods. this scene is genius. petunia throws a dazed porky on her couch while she gorges herself on the chocolates, cooing about how glad she is to see him.

mark kausler identifies the animator as volney white (though the thick eyebrows make me think of bob bentley. mark’s a wonderful source of information i gladly accept everything he says, because he’s right 99.9% of the time) for the scene where porky tries to reach for a chocolate himself. fluffnums, ever the threatening guard dog, growls. we have a great back and forth scene as porky sheepishly pets the dog on the head, reaching for a chocolate and still getting growled at. the charade continues until porky finally snatches one, sticking his tongue out in childish defiance at the dog. as porky lifts up his trophy, winking towards the audience at his act of outsmarting, the dog jumps up and eats the chocolate himself, breaking a hole in porky’s boater hat in the process. (no dogs were harmed in the making of this cartoon!)

seeing as this is joe dougherty’s last cartoon, he doesn’t speak very much at all. in this scene, the animators had porky facing AWAY from the audience so they wouldn’t have to animate his lip movements. it was pretty clear that everyone was tired of working for dougherty. instead, porky’s body jitters as he speaks. they used a technique called staggered exposure, which was mixing up a sequence of drawings to get that jittery effect (so instead of going in a sequence of 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, and so forth, it would be more like 1, 3, 5, 7, 9, and so on.) “why petunia, i want you... you.. you to.. be in love.. that is.. um.. will you.. uh... er, uh.. may i.. that is... won’t you... will you... aw, shucks. will you marry me?”

just as porky finally manages to spit out his confession, disaster strikes. petunia’s bastard of a dog pulls the carpet out from under porky, sending him flipping and falling in the air. because of this, petunia ridicules and laughs at him. porky is now absolutely devastated, leaving petunia’s house for good. i love the detail of his ears and bow tie wilting. carl stalling’s music is on point in this cartoon: an underscore of “the little things you used to do” backs up the scene here. that song was sung at the end of the coo-coo nut grove, where the entire nightclub was flooded in tears.

the next scene is strikingly somber and surprised me greatly the first time i watched it. we iris in on porky writing a suicide note, a noose tied around his neck, tied to a tree branch. the note simply reads “dear petunia, i love you. goodbye forever -- porky” the camera panning out is a little janky and rough, but i digress. porky wipes away his tears, pulling a photo of petunia from his pocket and giving it a kiss. with that, porky jumps.

because of his weight, the suicide attempt fails as the tree branch breaks, porky toppling to the ground and hitting his head. thus launches a dream sequence as his surroundings spin around (by unscrewing the lens of the camera, screwing it (counter)clockwise in front of the aperture), melting away to the exterior of a church. wedding bells chime victoriously. inside, petunia and porky give their vows. porky struggles, stuttering “i d-d-d.... i-d..d-” the officiator whistles (a dougherty era running gag), and porky spits out his final “do.”

more volney white animation as the lovebirds exit the church, waving to the crowd that surrounds them. and, of course, fluffnums is there too, begrudgingly carrying petunia’s veil in its mouth. we cut to porky and petunia happily riding in their car, a victorious JUST MARRIED banner waving in the wind, with shoes attached to strings on the bumper marching along in time to “in my merry oldsmobile”. porky’s license plate reads BOOB -- a good indicator of how frank tashlin felt about porky.

a lovely overhead layout of the honeymoon hotel porky and petunia stay at (with, of course, an underscore of “honeymoon hotel”, which was also the title of a 1934 earl duvall merrie melody). the elevator rises to the top floor in syncopation with the music. a nice silhouette shot of porky and petunia, and rather suggestive at that. they kiss, and the last we see before a fade out is porky turning off the light in the apartment.

billy bletcher voices the narrator as a triumphant fanfare blares. “TIME... MUNCHES ON!” rather disconcerting eating noises, and then we open to a very rotund petunia and fluffnums gorging themselves on chocolate. not the most flattering depiction of a woman, but the ironic “laughing” of the clarinets and horns playing “oh, you beautiful doll!” is a wonderful touch. i love when the scores themselves serve as jokes. 

pan across the apartment, the score melting into another rendition of “i wanna woo” as we see poor porky hard at work. i adore the layout of this entire scene. porky busies himself with all the odd jobs petunia has (presumably) thrown onto him, washing the clothes, ironing a dress, cooking the food, washing the dishes. he unsuccessfully attempts to balance the chaos, trying not to kill himself in the process. pay attention to how the furniture is arranged. the stove, the sink, even the ironing board, they’re all slightly diagonal and at an angle. practical? absolutely not, no one has their furniture arranged like that, just jutting out. but in animation terms, it’s more than practical. it’s so that you can see the details clearly, so that you can see every little thing happening. the clarity of the scene would be muddied if the furniture was arranged the way it should be--you may miss details like the pan burning on the stove or the looming pile of dishes. this is some super smart staging, and the architecture is just beautiful within itself. porky struggles to keep up with the demands, but fails, burning food, clothes, etc. you’ll notice that when he fails to balance a pile of dishes, the china crashing into him as he flops down on the floor, whatever he’s cooking in the pot boils over as well. everything just explodes at once. 

meet porky pig jr, porky pig jr, porky pig jr, porky pig jr, porky pig jr, porky pig jr, porky pig jr, porky pig jr, and so on. all of the babies start screaming at the noise (bob bentley animation), and petunia puts in her two cents by yelling “porky pig! shut those kids up!” porky rocks one of the cradles back and forth, reassuring her “i’m doing the best i can, petunia dear.” petunia marches forth, wielding a rolling pin as she retorts “don’t dear me, you WORM!” with that, she beats porky relentlessly over the head with the rolling pin, all of the kids shouting “GIVE IT TO HIM, MAMA! GIVE IT TO HIM!” which is another radio show catchphrase of some sort.

finally, we’re met with reality. porky sits in a daze on the ground, petunia stroking his cheek with fluffnums at porky’s other side. petunia puts on her best sympathy act, cooing “oh porky, i’m so so-ree! you’re my honey man. i’ll marry you, darling, honey bunny boo...” while petunia showers porky in all sorts of pet names, he looks up at his suicide note, remembering his dream where petunia was an abusive slob. they had trouble with the camera movements again--when they came out of the dissolve, the camera was in the wrong position slightly, creating a double image.

this is one of my favorite endings to any looney tunes short. a terrified porky jumps up at zips away into the horizon (with that great electric guitar zoom/twang sound effect i love so much), petunia shrugging and fluffnums making a ! mark appear over his head. suddenly, porky retreats, snagging his chocolates from petunia and running for the hills. a beat... and he returns once more, only to give fluffnums a well deserved swift kick in the ass. the music score in this scene is just lovely, nice and jazzy. the timing is succinct, and i love the guitar zoom sound effect. iris out.

as you can see, i love this short, a lot. while i love the blow out, i think this is my first true favorite that we’ve seen so far. it’s so dark, and i don’t even like dark stuff! it just feels so different. carl stalling is in tip top shape with his music scores. every single piece is lovely, especially that beginning. the animation is fun, the expressions are great. i wish i could articulate my thoughts better, because i really just love this cartoon a lot. i’m super happy it was one of the first i had seen, because i probably wouldn’t be typing these reviews had i not. frank tashlin’s cinematography is STRONG in this one. the camera cuts, the angles... this is a beautiful cartoon, inside and out. i feel bad that it’s joe dougherty’s last appearance, but understand at the same time. great things are ahead, revolutionary things! i’ve warmed up to joe quite a lot. i’ve found nothing in terms of what he did after his tenure as porky--wikipedia (not reliable, i know) states that he attended medical school before becoming a voice actor, so good on him! anyway, i absolutely love this cartoon and have seen it multiple, multiple, multiple, MULTIPLE times. it’s strikingly different in tone than what we’ve seen and what we WILL be seeing. it’s not just your everyday frank tashlin porky cartoon. this one stands out, and i implore you to watch it.

link!

[miwromantics]

Tattooing Ryan (part 2 soon)

It was a hot summer day in Seattle, but you didn’t mind the heat at all. It was just another day to you, as a tattooer in a popular shop in downtown Seattle, every day was pretty much the same other than working on different pieces. But today was going to be exciting for you. You had an appointment with this guy, Ryan, who was a guitar player in a metal band. Even though your appearance may lead on that you love metal music, you actually weren’t into it. But nonetheless, you were pumped to meet Ryan. His band, Motionless In White, was on tour for the summer and was coming through Seattle for a few days. He had sent you a DM on Instagram a few weeks prior asking if you could squeeze an appointment in and you agreed to it. And a few days after that began the small talk and slightly flirtatious comments. But as a woman tattooer, you were used to people flirting with you and didn’t read much into it. But as it got closer to the appointment, you were getting nervously excited to meet him.

You got ready to head to the shop, throwing on a classic ‘you’ outfit to show off your tattooed body: black ripped high shorts, a white crop top, and your high top Vans. With your blonde hair falling down to your waist, you popped on some eyeliner and red lipstick and stared yourself in the mirror. You smiled and thought to yourself how you normally don’t care about how your appearance, but you wanted to make a good first impression for Ryan.

You grabbed your car keys and headed out of your apartment. As you started driving, your phone vibrates: an Instagram notification from Ryan.

“Hey gorg, still good for our appointment today?” it read.

You smiled and bit your lip. “See ya soon!” you replied.

You thought about flirting back, but opted to keep it chill.

As you pulled up to your favorite coffee shop that was on the way to work, you felt your phone vibrate again. It was another Instagram notification and your face lit up. As you unlocked your phone, you saw it wasn’t from Ryan, but just another inquiry about getting tattooed by you. Slightly bummed, you put your phone away and grabbed your coffee.

You and a few other tattooers arrived at the shop just in time for opening. A few people were already waiting for their appointments, so you helped them with paperwork while their artists set up their stations. You sipped your coffee and waited for Ryan to show up. As you sat behind the desk with your feet propped up on the ledge, you took the time to reply back to emails and DMs. You heard the doors open, making you sit up quickly, to see Ryan walk in the doors. He had dark sunglasses on, his hair was slicked back, and wore all black.

“Well look who it is,” you said, standing up from behind the desk and walking over to him.

He smiled and took his sunglasses off.

“Y/N! It’s good to finally meet you,” he said as he wrapped you in a hug.

You chuckled and took a breath in, you couldn’t help but notice how good he smelled.

“How’s everything been? How’s the tour going?” you asked as you both pulled away from the hug.

“It’s been going really well! We’ve got a few more shows left, but it feels like we just got it started,” he said with a huge smile on his face, “I’m glad we have a day off today and a show tomorrow.”

“Hell yeah, that’s awesome! Where are you playing tomorrow?” you asked.

“It’s at The Showbox!” he answered. “But hey, if you do a good job with this tattoo, I can get you on guest list,” he winked at you.

You laugh and playfully rolled your eyes.

“Well let’s get this started, shall we?” you said as you motioned to the back of the shop.

He followed behind you as you lead the way to your room. The sound of other tattoo machines were buzzing in the air. When you got to your room, you patted on the chair for him to sit.

“Okay so what are we doing today? You didn’t mention anything specific when you hit me up,” you asked.

He sat on the chair and laced his fingers together.

“Well, I was thinking that you could surprise me. Do whatever kind of piece you want,” he said with a smile, “but keep it black and gray!”

“Ooo anything I want, huh?” you said with a sly smile. You could feel your cheeks start to blush.

“Alright, not anything! I don’t want to walk out of here with a huge penis tattoo,” he laughed.

You laugh and shook your head. You reached for your notepad and began sketching. You could feel him watching you. The room was silent as you drew. After about 10 minutes, you flipped your notepad around to show Ryan what you worked up. You held the notepad to your face and let your eyes over the top. You drew a traditional style bat head, with its flesh peeling away.

“That’s fucking sick, Y/N! I can’t believe you drew that so quickly!” Ryan said, a bit shocked.

You flipped the notepad around and looked at it again.

“Thanks Ryan! Alright, let me go make the stencil, I’ll be right back.”

As you walked out of the room, you couldn’t help yourself by looking at him one more time. He caught your glance and smiled at you. It only took a few minutes to make the stencil and when you walked back to your room, Ryan was standing in the doorway.

“This is a cool shop, I can’t believe I haven’t been here before.”

“Your loss!” you joked. “Alright, so where do you want this little bat guy?”

He chuckled. You were enjoying flirting with him.

“I’m thinking this would look good on my knee cap,” he said.

“Whoa, we got a tough guy in today. You sure?” you asked.

“Hey I’m tough! Let’s do it!” he joked back at you.

“Listen Ryan, just so you know, I don’t allow crying in here. No matter how bad the pain I’m inflicting is,” you said as you winked at him.

He let out a sigh as a smirk formed on his face.

You grabbed the stencil and got down on your knees in front of him. With a steady hand, you placed the stencil on his knee. Peeling it off, you leaned back and looked at it. You looked up at him, only to see him already staring at you.

“First try! Take a look at it,” you said as you stood up.

He bit his lip, trying to hide a smile that was too obvious to hide. He walked over to the full-length mirror and checked out the stencil.

“Looks badass, Y/N. Let’s get this started,” he said.

You motioned to the chair, and pulled up your station. He sat down and watched you pour the ink into little cups. You dipped the needle in the black ink and hit the footswitch, causing it to buzz.

“You ready?” you asked.

He shook his head.

You started off with a few small lines so he could feel how the next few hours were going to be. You could see his body tense up a little bit, followed by a small sigh.

“You good Ryan?” you asked.

“Yeah, you weren’t kidding about the pain. Knee caps are rough,” he answered you.

“Well let’s talk about something else,” you suggested, “just let me know if you need to take a break.

Ryan leaned back into the chair with his arms draped over his head. You could see him taking in deep breaths. To take his mind off the pain, you guys began talking about easy things like the weather in Seattle, and cool things to do in the city. The conversation slowly brought up more deep topics like touring and hobbies. And even though you had only officially met him an hour ago, you felt like you’ve know him for years. One hour into the tattoo, the outline was finally done. You wiped away the ink with a wet paper towel. Ryan leaned forward to check it out.

“That’s killer, Y/N. You’re very talented,” he said as he stared at the tattoo.

“Oh just wait till it’s finished,” you said as you looked at him.

He locked eyes with you, and brushed your hair back behind your ear. Instantly, you could feel your cheeks get warm.

“Lean back, Ryan, still got more to do,” you said as you tried to hide your blushing face.

He chuckled and leaned back into the chair.

As you began shading the bat, he started breathing heavier. The buzzing of the machine helped mask the sounds of his exhales, but they kept getting deeper. And even though you knew he was in pain, you couldn’t help but think about how attractive he was.

“Hey can I ask you a question?” he mumbled in between breaths.

“Yeah go for it,” you answered.

“Have you heard of my band before? Did you know who I was when I first messaged you?”

You stopped the machine and looked at him. He picked his head up and looked back at you.

“First of all, Ryan, that’s two questions,” you said with a smile. You started your machine again. “I actually don’t know your band, I’m not really into heavy music. So with that, I didn’t know that you were some famous rock star,” you joked.

You looked back at him, to find him staring at the ceiling with a smile on his face.

“Sorry if that wasn’t what you wanted to hear,” you said after a few moments of silence.

“Quite the opposite actually,” he said quickly, “it’s nice meeting someone who has no idea who you are.”

You stopped your tattoo machine to wipe away the ink. You stayed quiet after he said that; you were a little taken back. This was the most forward thing he said to you yet and it made you question his seriousness of all the flirting. You looked back at him and he was looking right your way.

“I know I’ve only known you for a few weeks now, and have only met you a few hours ago but I really like you, Y/N,” he paused; “wow, I sound crazy right now..” he trailed off.

“I think it’s all done, wanna check it out?” you tried to change the subject.

“I’m sorry if I freaked you out, I’m normally not this forward,” he pressed on.

You pushed your chair back and stood up.

“I really like you too Ryan. I’ve never flirted with clients before, but I couldn’t resist. There’s just something about you that..” you said as you locked eyes with him.

He stood up from the chair to take a step towards you, but since his knee was quite swollen from getting tattooed for three hours, he nearly stumbled into your arms.

“Jesus!” you said as you try to catch him.

He laughed uncontrollably and you were quick to join in.

“Holy shit I totally forgot how much pain I’m in,” he laughed as he caught himself.

You grabbed his shoulder and he looked at you, still having a huge smile on his face from slight embarrassment. All you could think about at that moment was kissing him.

He hobbled over to the mirror to look at the new tattoo you just gave him.

“Y/N this is insane!” he gasped. You stood behind him, watching him check out his art with a smile on your face.

He turned around and reached his arms out for a hug. You threw your arms over his shoulders while his arms wrapped around your waist. As you pulled away from him, he paused by your face and you quickly gave him a kiss on the cheek. You held his face with one hand and put your mouth by his ear.  

“Oh c’mon Ryan, you really think I’m gonna kiss you on the first date?” you whispered before biting his ear lobe lightly.

His hands gripped your waist and it made you giggle.

You walked over to your station and started cutting pieces of clear wrapping to cover his tattoo. He hobbled back to the chair and waited for you to clean and wrap it.

“So, are you busy tomorrow? Would you actually want to come to the show?” Ryan asked while you finished up.

“Yeah I’ll come check it out,” you said.

He smiled and shook his head.

“Well contrary to popular belief, Mr. Sitkowski, you are not my only client today,” you joked.

“Oh I get it, you’re gonna tease me and then kick me out. I see the games you’re playing!” he joked back.

He stood up and started to walk out of the room, you followed shortly behind him. As you both got to the front of the shop, you saw your next client sitting on one of the couches. You gave them a small wave and Ryan turned around to look at you. You reached out and wrapped your arms around him one last time. You loved how his arms felt around your waist.

“Thanks again for the dope tattoo,” he said as he kissed the top of your head, “see you tomorrow, Y/N.”

He put his sunglasses on, smiled at you and walked out the door. And at that moment you realized that this was the first time you couldn’t wait to go to a metal show.

[silentexplorer18]

Self love challenge for writers out there! Make a list of your top five favorite pieces of fanfiction that you've written! It can be anything you've written, but you should share why you like it! Then pass on the challenge to some of your writer friends! Let's spread some author self love!

This was actually really fun to think about.  These are my top 5, and, surprisingly enough, they aren’t as heavily read as some of my other fics.  So I hope y’all like my list :)  Keep in mind, these are in no particular order

27

Pairing: Colby Brock x reader

Summary: This fic is based off of a song in Colby’s The Nights I’m Left Alone Playlist.  It is called “27″ by Machine Gun Kelly.

Warnings: Involves topics of death and cancer

Thoughts: Honestly, this is probably my favorite fic that I’ve written so far.  It’s short and sweet, but I feel like it’s so poetic and emotional.  I’m really not much of a song fic type of gal, but as soon as I wrote it, I was like, “Wow.  I love what I’ve written here.”  Plus, the song is absolutely incredible.

Abandoned

Pairing: Colby Brock x reader

Summary: When exploring an abandoned building, the boys discover something rather unexpected: you.  Despite them being as wary of you as you are of them, the persistence of one abandoned loving brunette causes you to realize that maybe trust isn’t so bad.

Warnings: Some cursing, mentions of dead, abusive parents, homelessness.

Thoughts: Along with 27, this is one of my absolute favorite fics I’ve ever written.  It’s honestly a really long piece to read, and it took a really long time to write, but I’d never felt so wholeheartedly invested into my plot before.  I couldn’t eat, sleep, drink, or anything else without thinking about this specific story until I had finished it.  I just adore how Sam and Colby find so much beauty in places that so many people have totally forgotten, and I think this fic really embodies that idea.  Plus, I think my jokes in it are pretty dang funny. :)

Ink:  Part 1  Part 2

Pairing: Colby Brock x reader

Summary: When the boys notice you have a less than ideal habit, Colby, Sam, Jake, and Corey opt to clean you up and get you back on track.  Then, after bringing some much needed positivity to your life, the boys decide to take your inking habit to the next level with some ink of their own.

Warnings: Mentions ideas of self harm and hurtful words.  Also a few curse words.

Thoughts:  I think my love of Ink stems from the fact that I needed it.  And since I’ve written it, I’ve had quite a few people reach out to me and say that needed it, too.  It’s not a complicated story.  It doesn’t contain some complex, winding storyline.  But I think that’s why I like it so much.  It’s just sweet.  It’s full of warmth and people just being genuinely good.  I just love the compassion in it.  Writing helps me deal with the crazy stuff going on in my headspace, and Ink really hit the nail on the head for me.

Love Sucks

Pairing: Colby Brock x reader

Summary: You and Colby have found yourself enjoying the friends with benefits lifestyle, but sometimes love just sucks.

Warnings: Negative thoughts, curse words, hurtful self image, slightly graphic sexual descriptions (by no means smut), and general sadness.

Thoughts: When I wrote this, it was from a request, and I really wasn’t sure how I was going to write a friends with benefits story.  It was pretty out of my comfort zone.  But I did write it, and it kind of took me back to my roots, reminded me of what it’s like to be that person who’s scared of their feelings, who either risks it all or lives life questioning.  I’m not one to think that Colby sleeps around a lot or anything like that, so it was kind of hard to find a situation that would warrant him having a friends with benefits relationship with a girl.  When I came up with how he would react, how he would feel, I was surprised but pleased with how deep and emotional it got.

Into the Viper’s Nest

Paring: Jughead Jones x Reader

Summary: After finding herself in a life of trouble, a bright student steps into the viper’s nest, meeting some rather charming snakes.

Warnings: Mentions of being beaten and a few curse words.

Thoughts: I really loved writing this piece.  If you haven’t noticed yet, I enjoy delving into the dark parts of life at times, and the dark, twisted parts of Riverdale are an excellent stomping ground for dark fanfiction writers.  When I started writing this piece, I wasn’t entirely sure where it was going, but I’m really proud of the result.  I enjoyed the level of complexity the reader obtained, and I really enjoyed creating the reader’s connections with everyone in the Serpents.

I also really loved my Slow Burn Crush on George Weasley Headcanon!  I’m a pretty sappy person sometimes! :)

And I have two fics scheduled to post that I think are going to probably top Love Sucks and Ink as some of my favorites.  I’ll officially add those to the list once they’re posted, but for now, all I’ll say is one involves cooking with one Colby Brock and the other involves some shenanigans that backfire.   Looking forward to posting both of them soon! :)

My Masterlist

While I’m thinking about it, what’s everybody’s favorite fics that I’ve written?  Are your favorites the ones on my list or are they different ones?  Comment below or send me an ask.  I love hearing from all of you!

[remingt0nleith]

dark cherries • two. remington leith • sugar daddy.

Chapter One here.

With a glass full of whiskey, R stood against the railing of his mansion’s balcony. The sun was starting to set casting an orange glow over the darkening waves of the ocean. He let out a sigh feeling the presence of one of his brothers beside him. Turning to look at the intruder he was met with his younger brother, Emerson who was now lounging cooly in one of the many balcony chairs, feet propped up on the expensive glass table.

“Y’know you could get a nice girl and not have to settle for this online stuff, right?”

R rolled his eyes, his sunglasses masking his annoyance.

“The type of girl I want to settle with won’t be from the internet.” He murmured, chasing his words down with a gulp of liquor.

Emerson raised an eyebrow quizzically, hand moving up to adjust his oversized hat, his question dying on his lips as he sensed the tension in the air.

R breezed past his brother heading back inside the mansion and straight into his bedroom. He shared his property with his two brothers, most of the time he enjoyed the company but it was times like this when his skin desperately itched for alone time. Raking a hand through his hair he picked up his cell phone and set to work.

Your phone buzzed from your nightstand illuminating your darkened room, a text from R on the screen. It had been about two weeks since your first meeting and despite a few short text messages the two of you haven’t spoken much to each other. You longed to know his real name but wished, even more, to see him again.

R: Sorry for the silence. Busy. I’ll make it up to you.

You raised an eyebrow at the screen, confusion circling in your head. You two haven’t agreed to anything. Sure, you had mentioned wanting to learn more about him and wanted to spend more time together but other than that were you officially his “sugar baby?”

These thoughts swam in your mind until you fell asleep, waking in the morning feeling restless and confused. Groggily, you headed into the living room only to be met with an abundance of presents covering the shaggy carpet. Black balloons sat in a corner, a single rose lay atop one of the white boxes.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang causing you to jump, almost dropping the delicate flower you’d been admiring. Hesitantly, you peeked outside to see R standing there looking as calm as ever. Muttering a curse under your breath you smoothed your fingers through your tangled hair, grateful to be wearing a semi-decent set of pajamas.

Opening the door, R grinned wide at the sight of you.

“Did I interrupt something?”

You glanced back at the mound of presents in the living room.

“I assume this is your doing?”

R chuckled, his sunglasses masking any emotion his eyes would give away.

“Indeed it is. You really shouldn’t leave your house key under the mat. It’s a total cliche’ but made my job easy.”

You probably should feel upset that he found your house key, angry that he was in your house without your knowledge especially considering the fact that you two barely knew each other. Yet, seeing him here surrounded by a literal mountain of presents made up for it.

Stepping aside to let this magnificent stranger inside you clicked your tongue.

“Just don’t make a habit out of sneaking in my house like this.”

R nodded, gracefully taking a seat on your plush couch. Today he wore a simple black blazer paired with yellow and black plaid skinny jeans. How he managed to look both rich and punk rock you didn’t know.

He motioned towards the presents and suddenly it felt too hot in the room. You became painfully aware of your pajamas and felt out of your league in your own house.

R took your wrist in his hand, gently tugging you so you were standing in front of him, legs touching his knees.

“If we’re gonna do this you gotta be comfortable with me.”

Long fingers brushed against your skin, the metallic blue of one of his many rings appearing to wink at you as the sun caught it.

Your skin felt hot under his touch but you reached out and took his other hand in your own. Your fingers brushing against the dark ink which covered his knuckles. You had a feeling his tattoos told his story for him, the ink that blanketed his body doing the talking for him.

Pulling his hand gently away from your wrist he took off his sunglasses, looking up at you with copper-colored eyes.

The knot in your stomach tightening as he looked at you with such intensity. Your mind instantly swarming with how much you’d like to kiss him. Instead, you pulled away and headed to the pile of boxes, playing with the delicate red ribbon on top of one. R smirking from the couch, dark eyes watching you closely.

You swallowed hard, pulling the thin ribbon from the box which opened to reveal a beautiful faux-fur coat. It was white and softer than feathers. Slipping it on you instantly felt glamorous. You did a little twirl, R smiling at the sight of you wearing one of the lavish gifts that he picked out.

“Beautiful.” He murmured.

Soon the pile of boxes which were stacked so beautifully now lay in a pile on the floor, the red ribbons discarded among them. Your couch overflowing with clothes and shoes that cost more than your car.

R was typing on his phone, nervousness pooling in your stomach. You didn’t deserve these gifts and yet here you were but at what cost? Admittedly, you were attracted to him. He was gorgeous you just weren’t sure what he wanted out of this arrangement.

As quick as he got here he was up and heading to the door, sunglasses once again hiding his emotions from you.

A new ache formed inside your stomach because you wanted him to stay, to get to know him, and that scared you more than accepting the gifts.

[impracticaldemon]

Hijikata’s Holiday

by impracticaldemon for @nollatooru ~ from Your HakuSanta

fandom:  Hakuouki  words: 1500 (laugh track)(oops, no)  ~ 5100 words read also on:  AO3 | FFN [added December 27, 2018]

Author’s Note:  This story is intended to take place in the winter after my story Do As I Say (also for nollatooru, so this isn’t just a shameless self-reference). I was thinking December 1865, which could work; however, although Itou and his faction joined the Shinsengumi in late 1864, they are not mentioned in this story.  The word count was already out of hand with the original cast alone.  Nollatooru requested Hijikata, HijiChi, Okita & cats, or anyone & cats.  I’ve tried to deliver.  Posted first on tumblr!

tags: @shell-senji @eliz1369 @rainylune @nalufever @petri808 @hidetheremote @resshiiram @kondo-hijikata @hakuyamazakisensei @flower-dragon @shibuemiyuu @writer-appreciation  @sabinasanfanfic @eheartangel @hakuokisecretsanta2018

Hijikata’s Holiday

It started with an absence of noise. Still half-asleep, Hijikata turned puzzled eyes on the window screen. How odd. Judging by the light filtering through the thick paper, it was past dawn—in fact, it was past his usual time to get up. Today was a festival day, but that usually meant more of a clatter, not less. There wouldn't be captains and sub-officers nursing hangovers until tomorrow.

He sat up reluctantly. Winter in Kyoto was cold, and he felt no inclination to leave the warmth of his futon to go find out what could account for the strange silence. Given the time, he'd probably missed his chance to write, which dimmed what little enthusiasm he had for facing the chill weather, today's major and minor headaches—Sōji usually accounting for both—and the dinner meeting he had with the new Sub-Comptroller of Kyoto to discuss the Shinsengumi's urgent need for extra rations over the winter months.

It took several moments to register that the room wasn't cold. In fact, it was quite pleasant, if not precisely warm. A glance at the brazier told him that somebody had tended it during the night. The fact that he hadn't woken was worrisome, but he wasn't altogether surprised. He'd recognized the tea that Chizuru had brought him last night as Sannan's 'special' blend, which meant that it was laced with soporific. He would have objected, but the girl had poured it with a soft smile, and murmured that "Kondō-san sent his best regards, and would Hijikata-san please rest well this evening." The last time he'd refused the evil brew, Kondō had brought it himself, tricked him into drinking it, and then refused to let him work late for a week straight. (1)

A quick—and slightly apprehensive—look around the room gave him a modicum of reassurance that although somebody had been in his room, it was more likely Saitō than Sōji. He'd like to think that he'd have woken for anyone less familiar, or less soft-footed. The whole thing was idiotic anyway—what kind of military force gave their Vice Commander a sleeping draught?

Huh. He'd misplaced his inkstone yesterday, but now it was sitting on his desk. And... there was a small bowl containing an evergreen sprig and something leafy with red berries. He doubted—really doubted—that the arrangement was Saitō's. Not that the art of flower arrangement was necessarily beyond Saitō, but there was an air of subdued festivity about it... if there was such a thing. He refused to accept even the possibility that Sōji might have made it for him. For Kondō maybe. If he lost a bet. And even then, he'd cut the greenery with his sword.

It was quite a quite an attractive grouping, actually—

The enduring fir supports the crimson berry that braves winter's chill.

He was out of bed and reaching for his writing materials before he realized it. Well, damn. He glanced again at the window. Nobody had come for him yet—or been sent by Sannan, in a fit of hypocritical concern. The man had once told Yukimura to wake him, on the pretext that he was late for breakfast. He'd been dressing when she'd arrived, which had annoyed him and flustered the hell out of her. Although... her comments to herself in the immediate aftermath had been pretty funny, poor kid. Yeah, but you didn't mind the admiration, did you? He had found it very... honest... after the careful flattery of the Shimabara geisha, and the half-fearful simpering of the city girls.

Hijikata couldn't see, and would have denied, the reminiscent smile that hovered on his lips. Meanwhile, he had drawn his writing book from his desk, and was quickly preparing ink in the ceramic tray. Minutes passed, while he inscribed his new haiku. Satisfied, he set aside his materials, replaced the book under the patrol log kept on top in the (so far utterly vain) hope of keeping his hobby from prying eyes, and took out fresh linen and his carefully folded hakama.

He was half-way through changing when there was a polite "Shitsureisimasu, Hijikata-san, Yukimura desu," at the door. (2) For one, wild moment, he was overwhelmed with déjà vu, and some part of him contemplated not saying anything just to see what would happen. Happily—probably—the moment passed. A second, soft, "Hijikata-san?" got him out of his fugue.

"Just a moment, Yukimura." Then, impelled by the gods knew what: "Unless you'd prefer to come in while I'm dressing?"

There was a pause—the kind of pause that you can hear—and finally, "I will wait, Hijikata-san."

Unlike last time, there was a murmur of conversation, and he realized that somebody—presumably one of the captains, was with Yukimura. Annoyingly, that brought a touch of heat to his cheeks, but it faded quickly, and he stalked over to the door and slid it open with a snap.

It turned out that Yukimura had been expecting him to call her in. She was standing just outside the door, a tray with tea and breakfast—both still miraculously hot and steaming—clasped tightly in both hands. Thanks to her lack of inches, and his expectation that she'd be farther from the door, he saw Saitō before seeing Yukimura. …Not only Saitō. Yamazaki was there as well. They stood behind Yukimura on the engawa, looking for all the world like retainers to some under-dressed, underfed princeling.

"Saitō? Ohayo, Yukimura, Yamazaki."

Fortunately, Saitō didn't seem to mind, or care, that he'd been missed from Hijikata's "good morning." Indeed, Hijikata rarely found Saitō's lack of expression to be off-putting; most of the time he found it a welcome calm in the daily drama that running the Shinsengumi entailed.

"Ohayogozaimasu, Fukuchō. I will come in with Yukimura, if I may."

Hijikata stepped out of the way, but his gaze was irresistibly drawn to the garden beyond the wooden walkway. There was a fine layer of snow on everything, but it lay completely undisturbed, with the exception of the footprints of—presumably—his companions. He observed that Yamazaki had taken up a position not far from his door, but the whole morning was beginning to take on such a surreal aspect that he couldn't quite bring himself to ask about it just yet.

Once the men were seated opposite each other, and Yukimura had set down his breakfast tray—he felt his eyes widen a little at the carefully-prepared meal—Saitō began his report. Not that it was precisely a report, it was just that Saitō made everything sound like a report. He was a first-rate swordsman, and an excellent officer, but he couldn't tell an interesting story to save his life. Nagakura swore that he loosened up when he was talking to inanimate objects, but that only happened when he was very drunk, and Hijikata was rarely around for that kind of serious drinking these days.

"The Commander was concerned by your absence at dinner, Vice Commander. As you requested, I told him that you were speaking with officials at the Comptroller's office in order to set up a meeting to discuss the current shortage of rations."

"Did you remind him that the last load of rice we received was not only short-weighted, but full of freaking weevils?! We had to toss out four bags, and decontaminate the kitchen storage area!"

"Commander Kondō remembered the incident, Vice Commander."

"Excuse me, Hijikata-san—your tea. Saitō-san—your tea."

Hijikata automatically thanked Yukimura for filling his cup, then felt his brows contract inward—well, further inward—when he saw her look furtively at Saitō, who clearly blinked in return. It reminded him to pursue his original question, once he'd wrested back control of the conversation.

"You flirting with Yukimura now, Saitō? Didn't expect it from you."

"No, Vice Commander." Saitō left it at that, but Yukimura reddened and leapt at the bait.

"Oh no, Hijikata-san, o-of course not! But Kondō-san said that Saitō-san shouldn't let you get too worked up—I mean, too worried—about the rice, because—"

"Colonel Sannan has already agreed to pursue the matter on behalf of the Shinsengumi," interposed Saitō, in his uninflected voice. "He said that he would be delighted to attend the dinner meeting this evening."

"Delighted," muttered Hijikata.

"Sannan-san said that he hadn't had the chance to meet the new staff at the Imperial Comptroller's office. He truly did seem very pleased, Hijikata-san." Yukimura smiled cheerfully, and just as Hijikata was concluding that she had no idea how scary the soft-spoken man could be, she added thoughtfully, "I realize that the last official quit after Sannan-san investigated the Shinsengumi's rice allocation, but we didn't have problems for many months after, right?" Her expression had become unusually serious. "Sannan-san said he would do whatever was necessary to protect the needs of our men, and Kondō-san agreed that healthy food was very important."

Hijikata risked a look at Saitō, who met his gaze without comment. Yukimura could be surprisingly fierce when it came to looking after the Shinsengumi, and Hijikata should have remembered that she'd taken the latest food shortage to heart.

"Fine. But why are you two here explaining all this to me anyway?" He gave them both a 'don't mess with me' look, or tried to. Chizuru was too busy pouring him more tea to notice—she had a way of making it just the right temperature from the start, so that he tended to finish it quickly.

"The Commander suggested that you would appreciate a holiday," said Saitō. "Yukimura, Sōji, and I were given the task of ensuring that you are able to enjoy the day." Being Saitō, he stopped there, having expressed the salient point.

"A holiday?! No, wait—Sōji is supposed to make sure that I enjoy a holiday?" Hijikata automatically looked around for the green-eyed… man. Menace to my existence is more like it… Not even Kondō would expect Sōji to—well maybe—no, surely not?

"Hai. Along with Yukimura and myself." It took Hijikata a moment to recollect himself and realize that Saitō was answering his question.

"But everyone is helping out," Yukimura rushed to reassure him. If 'reassure' was the right word. "Kondō-san was worried when you missed dinner—as Saitō-san mentioned—because it was the third time this week." Hijikata thought there was a disapproving edge to her voice, but her expression was as sweet and earnest as ever, gods help him.

"Yukimura noted the frequency of your absences," murmured Saitō, gazing down into his tea.

"R-right! But Sannan-san agreed to go to the dinner, and Nagakura-san and Harada-san said they'd conduct an early morning patrol today, and no drills, so that nobody would be around this morning—but also because it makes sense to check that things are safe for the holiday crowds—"

"Uh-huh." Fascinated despite himself, Hijikata began to calmly eat his breakfast. The room was warm enough that his delicately flavoured miso soup was still remarkably hot. It was obvious that Sōji's help—whatever it was—hadn't extended to breakfast, thank the gods.

"And I asked Heisuke-kun if he'd be willing to hunt ducks or geese this morning so that I could make us all a nice holiday dinner later this afternoon before everyone goes out for the evening. He thought that was a great idea until—um…" Yukimura suddenly stopped talking.

"Sōji reminded Heisuke of the last time that we shared a meal of Yukimura's duck hot pot." All three people present shared a moment of silence as they each visualized Heisuke's piece of duck flying through the air and hitting Hijikata square in the middle of the forehead. It had not gone well for the cheerful Eighth Division Captain after that.

"Y-yes, well, Okita-san just said that this was Heisuke's chance to make up for it, and so—and so, that's all settled!"

"Really, now?" Hijikata couldn't quite visualize how such a comment would settle anything, but he was willing to bet he would find out.

"I needed to discuss a scheduling issue with Sōji at that point, and I believe that Yukimura arranged any further details with Heisuke, Vice Commander."

"I see. So Harada and Nagakura just happened to volunteer for an early patrol—"

"That is correct, Vice Commander."

"And Heisuke's off hunting ducks, or geese—are you sure he'll be safe? The marsh area is very cold this time of year." Heisuke was a lot tougher than he looked, but he was also a magnet for disaster—according to his own view of things. Most people felt he invited disaster in with open arms, although he was ably aided and abetted by his brothers in idiocy.

"Shimada-san went with him, Hijikata-san. He said that he would be happy to spend time out bird-hunting with Heisuke-kun. I made sure to pack them a good lunch, and I included a few sweetened rice cakes."

Saitō didn't bother to elaborate on this, since Shimada was known for his love of sweets, and was very fond of Yukimura. He also adored Kondō, and had probably stepped in quite willingly to help out with this wild scheme to "give" Hijikata a holiday.

"I'm still a little puzzled on a few points," Hijikata said, with an air of polite inquiry. Like, what the hell is Sōji up to?

"I made sure that this courtyard was secure overnight," noted Saitō placidly.

"Oh—oh yes. And Yamazaki-san will be on duty this morning. To… to make sure that the courtyard remains secure—and peaceful, as is proper for a holiday."

"Needed to get some use out of the scarf, Saitō? Or did it dawn on somebody that leaving me defenseless to assassins for the sake of a few hours of sleep was less than optimal?"

Yukimura looked suitably concerned by the mention of assassins, but Saitō obviously felt that he had already dealt with that topic. He addressed Hijikata's first question with no trace of the sarcasm with which it had been asked.

"I was adequately equipped for the cold. The Commander allocated me extra coal for a brazier." Saitō bowed. "Please excuse me, Vice Commander. Sōji and I will be sparring together this morning over at the Mibu Temple grounds, and then we plan to visit a swordsmith who is reputed to be better than average at sharpening blades."

"You won't be sticking around Saitō? What will Yukimura do if I suddenly try to exert myself by doing my job?"

Saitō said nothing, and Hijikata finally relented and waved at him to go. Yukimura was very slowly tidying his now-empty tray.

"Since I have my writing things, am I at least allowed to get through some of my back-log of reports?"

Yukimura shook her head, looking anxious, but determined.

"Kondō-san asked me to bring him your list of reports to be filed."

"And?" How did Yukimura even know that he had that list, or where to look? Although technically she was his page, and these days she managed to spend some of her time running errands for him, despite his original plans for her (or lack thereof).

"He said that only the marked items were to be dealt with today." She brought out a piece of scrap paper—his scrap paper—and handed it to him.

There were only two marked items, and one of them had clearly been added by Kondō: 'finish summary of important points to make perfectly clear to the goat-fucking asswipes at the comptroller's office'—that hadn't been meant for Kondō's eyes! Or Yukimura's, now that he considered it—and 'buy a new coat'. Seriously? Buy a new coat? They needed food! And they were still dealing with the reputation as deadbeats foisted on them by the late, unlamented Serizawa Kamo.

"Yukimura."

"Hai!"

"Did you see this list?"

She obviously had. It showed in little ways—such as how she was practically staring at the admittedly threadbare haori he'd brought with him from Edo. But if he didn't let its condition bother him, then what was the problem?

"Kondō-san told me which items to point out to you, Hijikata-san."

"I don't need a new coat. The coat I have is fine. And when I'm out on patrol I've got my blues."

"You never wear your coat when you go out, Hijikata-san, even though you dislike the cold."

"I don't mind the cold."

There was a long silence, during which both combatants reconsidered their tactics. As a junior, and a subordinate, Yukimura should not contradict Hijikata. Or as a woman, especially since she wasn't his wife. Another good reason not to get married, as if I needed another one. Anyway, it had been tactically unsound for Yukimura to say that he disliked the cold. A true warrior didn't let the elements bother him, and he knew that she didn't want to offend him.

"…Hijikata-san?"

"Yes, Yukimura?" He held out his cup for more tea, feeling that he could be gracious in victory.

"I asked Kondō-san whether it would alright for me to improve your old—I mean, current—coat, by adding a new lining."

"You asked Kondō-san? But why—" Hijikata broke off, perturbed.

"Well, Kondō-san and Inoue-san were discussing the time you all spent together at Shiei Hall, as they sometimes do, after dinner two nights ago, and I happened to be cleaning up the dining hall, and Kondō-san asked me if you still had the haori you used to like so much. I asked him what it looked like, just to be sure, and then Inoue-san described it, and he told me that it was made especially for you by a good tailor, and that you were very fond of it."

Hijikata resisted the urge to smack his hand into his face, but it was a near thing. Unfortunately, Yukimura continued on, nearly tripping over her words as she tried to get it all out.

"And I was surprised to hear that, because you never wear that coat, so I asked Kondō-san if maybe I should fix it up a little, but Inoue-san said that you preferred to wear nice clothes, that weren't patched, and then Kondō-san agreed. So I suppose that's where it all started." She was slightly breathless, but added: "And even if you don't mind the cold, I worry that if you don't wear a coat in this weather, then you will get sick."

Many words floated through Hijikata's head, mostly unprintable. He drew a deep breath, and tried to ignore the half-anxious, half-stubborn look on Yukimura's face that always reminded him of—oh, his sister, his sister-in-law, his aunt, and the countless other women he'd grown up with. It didn't work, so he reined in his temper—because at the end of the day he was a practical man—and turned and examined his old coat. The truth was that he didn't wear it because it looked shabby, and fucking Serizawa—he rarely thought that name without an epithet—had been right about appearances, but he really didn't like being cold, even if he wouldn't say so.

"So I'm supposed to buy a new coat?"

"Yes?"

"Because to hell with rice, you're worried I'll get a cold?" He was giving in, but determined to go down fighting.

"Sannan-san will deal with the rice situation, I believe in him. Also, he is taking Okita-san with him this time."

"…As long as they don't tell me where they hide the bodies."

"Hijikata-san?" Yukimura had that reproving look again. "Okita-san said that he would smile and be very polite. He knows that we don't want you to worry."

He stared at her, but she seemed genuinely confident about the whole thing.

"And is that Okita's contribution to my, ah, day off?"

"Okita-san said that he wanted to help in any way that he could."

"Uh-huh."

"And Saitō-san said that the best way to help would be to stay out of the compound."

"Good man. I'd give him a raise, but I need to buy a new coat."

"…Yes? So I'll go get ready then?" Yukimura looked both relieved and pleased.

Hijikata debated telling her that he could damn well shop for a coat on his own. But the look on her face… She'd be crushed, probably, and he had a feeling that Kondō had already told her to go with him. So for her sake, and Kondō's—since they'd obviously spent so much effort on all this—he'd take her along. She'd slow him down by staring at all the people in town for the festival, but he'd manage. And if he was going to spend the money it would cost for a decent coat, then he could afford to spend just a little on a couple of sweets for her, and maybe a small souvenir.

"Right—go get ready, and I'll meet you at the gate. I need to add a couple of things to this memo for Sannan-san on the… rice situation." And I want to tell him to make damn sure Sōji doesn't 'accidentally' kill anyone.

"Hai!" Yukimura immediately stopped fussing with the tray, and hurried off as though Hijikata might change his mind if she didn't leave fast enough.

Chizuru spent a blissful morning and early afternoon out shopping with Hijikata. She made sure not to talk too much—although Hijikata-san didn't seem to mind her questions, for once—and she tried not to skip—something that Okita-san had teased her about in the past when she'd been excited about leaving Shisengumi headquarters—and whenever they stopped to look at coats she tried to remember to behave like a boy, and not a girl. She was extremely embarrassed when one shopkeeper told her that she obviously admired the Vice Commander a great deal, but that he, for one, didn't think that boys should be recruited so young.

They saw both Harada's and Nagakura's patrols in the distance a few times, but somehow, they never actually crossed paths with one. Even Chizuru began to suspect that this was not just by chance (or mischance). Fortunately, Hijikata-san seemed to find it amusing, so it didn't turn into a problem.

Eventually, Hijikata-san chose a coat. Or rather, he chose a style, and a material, and paid to have a coat made for him, which impressed Chizuru a great deal. After that, they stopped at a shop for tea, and although Chizuru meant to serve the tea, Hijikata-san said not to bother, so she didn't. He said that if others found it strange for the Vice Commander of the Shinsengumi to stoop to having tea and snacks with his page, then so be it.

"I suppose you should get back so that you can cook dinner," said Hijikata, when they left the tea shop. "Although it's optimistic of you to believe that Heisuke can catch anything but a cold. I predict you'll be trying to find yet another way to cook salted fish."

"Heisuke caught two excellent ducks last time."

"Ah, but flailing around in the water I can see. It's the patience required for winter hunting that I'm not so sure about."

Chizuru firmly quelled a momentary qualm or two. "He'll be fine. He has Shimada-san with him. They'll come back safe and sound, with food."

"Hm. Well, Shimada is very reliable; but he's with Heisuke, so who knows what will happen."

When they eventually returned to headquarters, they discovered that they were both wrong, or alternately, both right. Heisuke had caught not one, but two birds—migrating geese—and poor Shimada had slipped and fallen into the swampy muck. The big man brightened up considerably when Heisuke assured him that nobody needed to know about the incident—other than Chizuru, who wouldn't tell—because he could keep his mouth shut, and knew what it was like to be teased by certain people who should be kinder to their fellow officer. Chizuru declined Heisuke’s help with dinner, but praised him so effusively for catching the geese that he left to warm up in excellent spirits.

Harada and Nagakura popped their heads into the kitchen part-way through the afternoon, to say that all was well, and that Hijikata was sitting calmly at his desk writing—though whether it was personal correspondence, or work, they didn't know. Chizuru bowed to both of them, and thanked them earnestly for their hard work that morning. They exchanged knowing looks over her bent head—they'd seen her out and about that morning—and when she straightened, they were both grinning affectionately at her. As tired out as she was from all the walking, and now the dinner preparations, she had to smile back.

"He was in a damn good mood just now, Chizuru-chan," Nagakura told her, "so maybe we're the ones who owe you—he even said not to worry about curfew tonight." He paused in the act of turning away, to add, "Although I still don't know how you kept Sōji out of his hair all day, especially when he was so annoyed over the whole coat thing, and Kondō-san fussing about Hijikata-san not coming to dinner."

"Um, I—I'm not sure what you mean."

She looked so uncomfortable that Harada grabbed his friend's bicep and hauled him away. "Come on, Shin—let's go congratulate Heisuke on providing dinner without either getting hurt, or ticking off the boss."

"Yeah, fine, but you're curious too, Sano."

Their voices trailed away, and Chizuru turned back to her cooking, feeling relieved. She'd promised not to tell, and even if Okita-san thought he was just threatening her, she knew it was very important to keep her promises to him. And he had been a bit upset over Kondō-san saying that Hijikata-san should have a new coat. She didn't completely understand why Hijikata-san and Okita-san didn't get along, since both of them cared so much about Kondō-san and the Shinsengumi, but for now it was enough that she was learning not to be so alarmed by their disagreements.

In the few minutes of quiet time after dinner was prepared, and before it needed to be served, Chizuru took advantage of Inoue-san's offer to watch over things, and slipped away to a smallish gardening shed near the wall of the courtyard. The door slid open before she could knock, and Saitō pulled her quickly inside.

"They're all fine," he said, tilting his head toward the back of the shed.

There against the wall, and carefully concealed from the door by a rack of large burlap sacks, was a kind of nest made up of discarded rags and soft paper. In the center sat a thin black cat with a white muzzle and a white belly. It couldn't be called an attractive cat, since one eye was swollen shut, and it appeared to be missing part of one ear. The four kittens nestled around it—or rather, her—didn't seem to care. They mewled and gently bumped her with their heads, and periodically peered around her legs at the quiet, green-eyed man who was holding out a dish of meat scraps to her.

"It's quite a feast you got her, Chizuru-chan," commented Sōji, watching as the black cat delicately picked out another morsel of goose innard. "Just what she needed."

"I'm glad she's doing better, Okita-san. And oh—the kittens are so sweet!"

"Oi, don't move so fast, or they'll run again. They're not too quick, but it's a pain to catch them, and then mama here fusses."

"Sumimasen, Okita-san." Chizuru put her hands behind her back to keep herself from scooping up one of the fuzzballs for a cuddle.

"Ehn, it's okay—they'll probably be more up to playing tomorrow, ne, Neko-sama?"

Chizuru laughed a little, then quickly covered her mouth. "I'm sorry, Okita-san, but she doesn't look much like a court lady…"

Okita shook his head at her. "You shouldn't be so quick to judge, Chizuru-chan—you don't look much like a lady either, you know."

"Um… that's true, I suppose."

"Anyway, she's a fighter, like the onna-bugeisha."

Chizuru just nodded. She wasn't especially familiar with the women warriors of the samurai caste families, and she still thought the mother cat looked more like street fighter than a noble lady. Not that Chizuru minded, though. She thought the little family needed all the help they could get—and if Okita-san wanted to look after them, then she would help Okita-san.

"Yukimura must return to the house, Sōji. And Sannan-san will be expecting you soon."

"I know, I know." Okita turned to Chizuru.

"You promise to come by with food again later? I don't want to leave any because I don't know if she's up to handling another fight right now."

"I promise."

"And you'll check the water?"

"Hai!"

"Sōji."

"Fine, fine. But we have a deal, right, Chizuru-chan? You don't tell anyone, and you help me look after them while it's so cold."

"It's a deal, Okita-san. And I haven't told anyone."

"Well, I guess we'll see how it goes."

Okita stood up and stretched, his green eyes glinting in the faint lantern light. He almost asked about Hijikata's new coat, but then decided it wasn't worth it. He'd gotten to save the cats—plus a chance to go out with Sannan-san, which might be entertaining, although there were sure to be some dull bits—and Chizuru and Kondō-san were happy, so… he could let it go. Besides, the spar with Saitō had gone well, and he hadn't felt too out of breath, for once.

"Okay, oyasumi, neko-sama."

They all filed out of the shed, careful and quiet in the cold, dark courtyard. And if Hijikata happened to see them returning to the house, and happened to check in the shed before going in to dinner, well, almost nobody knew about it. The one silent observer had been aware of the whole thing from the start, having watched the various comings and going of the headquarters' inhabitants throughout the day. However, since Saitō-san already knew about it, and Hijikata-san didn't seem inclined to interfere—had even appeared to be smiling, just now—Yamazaki certainly had no need to do more than wish, very briefly, that he too were getting a new coat.

End Notes:

(1) See Do As I Say (not just shameless self-referencing, since nollatooru did say she'd enjoy another similar story!)

(2) "Excuse me, Hijikata-san, it's Yukimura"

A/Note: As always, your comments and reviews are very much appreciated. Please never think "I have nothing interesting to say." While a detailed review is a wonderful, precious thing, you can make an author's day with a simple "This was great!" or "Thanks, really enjoyed this!" or even "Eep!" Knowing you're out there, and enjoying my work helps so much! (To those on tumblr: yes, I read all the tags)

I'm taking the time to say this now, because I'm seeing fewer reviews and comments than ever, whether it's on tumblr, FFN, or AO3. I know it can be hard to figure out what to say, but if you can find a minute or two to type some positive feedback, it can help a writer to want to write again. And if you have constructive criticism, or you've seen a typo? All the authors I know, myself included, are grateful for that kind of feedback as well, although it's even better if you can do it directly by private message or something similar.

Note to reviewers/ those who comment: I try to write back to everyone, but it's taking me longer these days. If I haven't written back, I sincerely apologize. If you comment on Anon or Guest, I can’t write back directly, but thank you! Please know that all of your feedback is important to me, regardless.

[connywrites]

of flesh and blood 22

start - part [21]

-

Your life will be brighter Your days will be longer Become what you're feeling Flesh and blood Give it up, go It's only illusion A miracle dawning Give into the knowing Flesh and blood Give it up go Truth is just as real As your dream allow It's far away It's all around Forget yourself Cast aside regret It starts, it ends Open up Give it up go

-

The notification was unbelievable. The text was in clear, bold letters, but still Gavin had difficulty in fathoming such a thing. It was an email from Fowler, yet it held so much power he wasn't sure what to do with it.

The next model was coming out and the RK900 was going to be recycled parts by the morrow. Tears of relief stung in his eyes as he sniffled, and then laughed at himself about it. On top of that, the new models - now labeled QZ180 - a new, state-of-the-art prototype as they tested out new parts and capabilities meanwhile, was going to take its place. He felt like his head was spinning.

The letters and numbers on his back may never completely disappear, but he couldn't see them and had already planned on a way to deal with it. The branding would fade, and so would these terrible memories, assuming he'd never repeat the same mistake again with any newer models.

-

"Our remaining time together is short. I'll miss our romance," it stated in a vaguely flirtatious, slightly friendly but neutral tone. Gavin wanted to hurl.

"Because of my test run with synthetic emotions, the big mystery of what causes deviancy has been officially solved. You're off of android investigations now and so am I. You'll be continuing to work your job by yourself seeing as they're impressed with your progress and there's a new detective on the field who's going to take the prototype instead." Gavin's face paled, even though he knew he should have been all the more content that his personal nightmare had finally ended.

"Yes. It seems the head of the precinct took your advice into consideration and hired someone new." Gavin didn't know why, but he had a terrible feeling about this.

"I hope you keep your new habits even when I'm gone. I have no reason to relay this information to you, but officer Chen briefly suggested the desire to ask you for a date but had too much anxiety to do so. I thought you might want the honors of telling her your actual sexuality…or not. Do with this information as you please, as I will no longer be here to stop you."

The words were like static to his ears as he felt himself disassociate on the spot. Too much new information, all at once, so his own mind decided to entirely cop out, it seemed.

"Don't worry. I'll only be a little bitch when the situation calls for it,” Gavin said with a scoff and rolled his eyes, cueing a swift pinch in the side. He sucked in a breath between his teeth in a hiss, but his posture immediately straightened.

"Good boy.” It flashed a sly smirk that faded as soon as it  came.

“I'll see you again never."

“Can’t wait,” Gavin replied without holding back any of the bite on his tongue. RK900 flashed a familial smile.

“One more thing,” it encouraged, and he shifted his weight to the other heel so he wouldn’t slouch.

“The utilities and mortgage on your new, fully furnished house on 8890 Lafayette Avenue will be paid in full for the next three years and the kitchen will be stocked come your next payday. Also, Fowler wants to see you at the next board meeting.” Still lost in shock with a look of surprise on his face, Gavin tried not to flinch as the android reached forward to put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it.

“You’ve done well. Don’t ruin this for yourself, detective.”

-

Having a new car was weird, and having someone else in the vehicle was even more bizarre. Starting the machine himself was also brand new, already leaving him confused as he swiped over the interface; updated and integrated with yet another "personality" of artificial intelligence trying to politely talk him through the process, he scoffed as he hit the "mute" button for the pre-recorded voice that tried to play through the speakers. Not blaming him, Tina pretended not to notice, leaning towards the passenger window as she gazed outside with her chin settled into a palm, curious vision watching the buildings pass by.

"So, how do you feel?" She knew it was a loaded question, but her curiosity pushed forward as she glanced to him with focused eyes, mulling over the situation in her head. It felt fake to him for a long time, but he told himself she wouldn't be doing this if she wasn't sincere, even if it was hard to believe.

"Like it's gonna latch its teeth in my throat as soon as I look away. Any minute now," he stated bluntly, staring straight ahead even if he didn't need to watch the road. She frowned, but appreciated his honesty.

"Good riddance," she contributed, and he glanced over to her without turning his head while he wondered about her thoughts over the ordeal. Asking was a different matter of its own.

"I never liked it," she explained herself.

"Always gave me a weird feeling. Now I see why." Careful with her own eye contact, she glanced ahead, up to one of the familiar street signs as the vehicle stopped at an intersection.

-

Pulling the chicken from the oven by the tray, he set it onto the dining table barely large enough for it to sit with the side dishes of mashed potatoes, salad and dressing, with a bottle of aged wine and a snack tray on the side.

"I didn't know you could cook," she acknowledged, and he huffed with a mental revisit to the 900's 'lessons.'

"I can... put things in the oven and not burn them?" Feeling sheepish, he scratched the back of his neck and shrugged.

"It smells great," she complimented, and for a moment he mentally stepped away from the physical world as he tried to digest the idea of her being nice to him.

"Yeah well, if you chip a tooth, the bill's not on me," he half-jested in an unsure and quiet tone, pulling up a chair for himself.

"It's weird to see you so timid, Reed.”

“How do you think I feel about it?” A twitch in the corner of her lips reminisced a frown.

-

"Look, if you tell anyone about this, I swear I'll fucking--" Threatening death is not polite, he could hear the RK900’s voice scolding him within his own mind. Clearing his throat and dipping his head, he glanced away with a tired sigh.

"Sorry," he dismissed quickly, leaving her still looking a bit unnerved. Swiping a stray strand of hair back into place, he stared at her, squinting and exhaling a breath through blubbering lips.

"Whatever. All or nothin', here I go." Leaning forward in his seat, he undid his tie, prompting Tina to glance at him sideways with an intrigued but wary gaze.

By the time he shed his shirt and turned around so she could see the various damage across his back as well as the giant initials spanning from the upper part of one shoulderblade across the next, she’d clasped her hands to her mouth with a surprised gasp, murmuring a soft oh my god as the fear sunk from her chest, deep into a heavy knot in her gut. She felt like she might lose her dinner from the sight alone.

"No doctors, I assume?" Shifting back around with a pained wince, he shook his head.

"It had the basic nursing ability of an untrained military medic. I mean, that and it meant to scar," he said with a sigh, heart racing as soon as he said the words in preparation for a scolding that would never come.

"Whatever. I've wanted ink for a while and it basically left me with a trust fund. I'll cover it up," he concluded to her. She wondered if it would really help him to hurt himself after the fact, but respected that it was his body and ultimately his decision.

"I bet it'll look badass," she said with a flimsy smile. He shrugged.

"Wait," she paused as she caught on, "it paid you?"

"Like a rich parent givin' its kid a weekly allowance. These clothes, the gifts? I didn't spend a dime and I haven't touched the account. Didn't know if I really could," he admitted. She hadn't a clue how to digest such a thing, as until that moment she'd only heard of the negative aspects.

"Sometimes it hit me, sometimes it groomed me." Running his hands through his slicked hair as was a newly developed motion of self-conscious stress, he stared down at the table, and the desire to cry revisited him; despite holding back the urge, it shook his voice.

"Sorry. This is a shit show of a party," he murmured.

"Stop apologizing," she said, lowering her posture to try and catch his eyes again, but he didn't look up.

"I hate hearing that. I hate what it's made you, Gavin." This time he looked up, eyes clearly glossy, the purple bags shadowing his gaze accentuating the tired red veins surrounding his gunsilver irises. They used to hold so much coldness before, she thought; now all she saw was fear and regret. It was haunting.

"Me too," he said in a raspy voice, swallowing as his voice cracked.

"I know I'm not a good person. I've always known that. But I can't tell if I'm really better or not." She shook her head.

"Disciplined, maybe, but I wouldn't call this an improvement. I'm sorry, Gavin. I had no idea." There was no more holding back as he squinted his eyes shut, hands starting to shake as he cried. If not for the fear of agitating the wounds, she'd offer a hug or even a shoulder touch, before reminding herself he probably didn't want anything to do with being touched right now.

"Jasmine doesn't exist, by the way." He'd already opened the gates; might as well let the flood through. Confused at first, she gave him a funny look, but seeing the markings from the days before - right next to the scar on his neck - she instantly felt foolish for questioning it.

"It's cool. I haven't fucked since my last ex," he muttered, sweeping his sexuality under the rug.

"But it wasn't exactly gentle." She couldn't help bunching her shoulders as she receded into herself with newfound disgust.

"I can't believe that it...they got away with this," she said with a low voice that still resonated her shock.

"I can," he admitted, sniffling and wiping his tears away in a rush. She couldn't watch him.

"I knew those things were messed up from the start. Anyway, it's Detroit. You think they're going to give us the nice little blonde bitches?" Frowning, she slowly leaned back, reaching to absently nibble a cracker so he didn't feel as though all the focus was on him.

"But that’s over, you can start getting past it now," she offered with hesitance as she was still used to the snappy behavior he used to resonate until it boiled over like lava.

"Fuck that. I'm getting drunk," he uttered, already having skipped the dinner as he reached to pour himself a glass of the wine, before pointing the bottle nose in her direction in offer.

"Sure," she decided; not much of a drinker, but the occasion seemed fighting enough.

"So, a new car, new wardrobe, food for a lifetime," she mulled over, glancing around his house which was not only pristinely cleaned, but well-decorated, definitely a look one wouldn't expect a hobbit like himself to live in. Then, she glanced to the big gift box.

"What's in there?"

"Dunno," he said, eyes lowered again as he swirled his wine glass before swigging down half in one go. She took one sip from her own.

"My brain's telling me it's a ticking time bomb," he huffed.

"But then I couldn't be its perfect little soldier anymore. Guess I'm scared to find out, no matter what it is."

"You could throw it out,” she mentioned.

"I could," he agreed, but went nowhere with the sentiment.

"Can I open it?" His eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but he didn't really see why not.

"Sure. S'just sitting there anyways."