#literally every other word was missing and it was all blurred and chopped

[asteracaea]

just heard a kendrick lamar song on the radio and like.... why did they even bother

[theharrowing]

Dollhouse 💛 14: A tangle of bodies

Hoseok’s job is simple: He enters the host’s body, he confiscates or terminates the target, and he gets back into his own body by dinnertime, easy peasy. Until a client comes along who becomes as obsessed with his life as he becomes with theirs, and the lines between their realities begin to blur.

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💛 Hoseok x Namjoon, Jungkook x Yoongi, Hoseok x Yoongi, Namjoon x Jungkook, Hoseok x Yoongi x Jungkook 

💛 word count: 7.9k

💛 hired assassin au, sci-fi, body swapping, graphic violence, infidelity, body dysphoria, lgbtq, smut, fluff, angst, poly, nsfw, smut, 21+

💛 chapter warnings: infidelity, ass eating, angst, oral, vaginal & anal sex, threesome, recreational drug use (ecstasy), selfcest?

💛 beta read by @neoneunnajimin​ 

💛 posted may, 2022 | read on ao3

Jeongguk: Old men are heading home tomorrow, on schedule with us. We'll have to whack them on home soil.

Hoseok: I need you to stop sending me texts containing orders to whack people. We're not part of a mafia.

Jeongguk: Who are you afraid of seeing your messages? You're literally a government official.

Hoseok:  We'll talk about this later. 

Jeongguk: Are you sure? I plan to have my hands and mouth pretty full later. And I don't think you'll be in any shape to argue, big boy.

Hoseok sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He misses the façade- Jeongguk, who was too shy to look him in the eye, much less call him "big boy." This Jeongguk—bossy, sexually deviant Jeongguk—is a fucking troublemaker. Hoseok wonders if Namjoon still wants to go through with their drunk plan or if he'll realize it's all been a mistake now that he's had time to think it over. He should probably find a way to ask him. 

Namjoon: Ran into Jeongguk at the gym. He's asking about brunch. Yes or no?

Hoseok: Sure. Do you want to come back and shower, or should I head down soon?

Hoseok gets off the bed and makes his way to his closet, deciding that now is as good a time as any to put on some actual clothes since he just went to sleep in briefs last night. He chooses a black tee and slacks, telling himself they should be good enough for today, forgoing his standard button-up—something he's been doing too often lately. Namjoon will probably want to dress more casually, anyway, so he tells himself that it's probably fine.

As Hoseok changes into new briefs and pulls his t-shirt over his head, there's a knock at the door. He pauses, arm hanging halfway through its hole, unsure if he really heard a knock when there's another. 

"Hoseokah?" Yoongi calls from the other side. 

Hoseok sighs and, forgetting he's not wearing pants, pads his way over to the door, straightening out his shirt. When Hoseok opens the door, Yoongi's eyes fall to Hoseok's bare legs, then move back up, and he pushes his way into the room with a smirk. 

"Hey, baby," Yoongi says, taking Hoseok by the wrist and pulling their bodies together against the closing door. Yoongi wraps his arms around Hoseok's waist, and Hoseok stumbles forward, allowing Yoongi to overwhelm him. 

"Our boys are in the gym and are probably gonna hit the shower for a bit, so I figured I would come keep you company while we wait."

Hoseok's phone is on the bed, so he hasn't had a chance to see if Namjoon has responded, and he's not sure if Yoongi's just trying to get in a quick fuck. But he also doesn't care. Yoongi's freshly showered with slightly damp hair and dewy skin, and he smells like a field of lavender and newly chopped trees. And, wearing just a black t-shirt and black sweats, Hoseok can make out every delicate curve of bone and muscle on Yoongi's torso.

"Yoongi," Hoseok mutters, "I—"

Hoseok's head spins, heart pounds, and Yoongi's fingers, which have inched up Hoseok's shirt and hold his waist, are searing hot. Yoongi cocks his head and hums, encouraging Hoseok to go on. 

"What happens if all of this works out?"

Yoongi squints, attempting to read Hoseok, and holy shit, Hoseok feels incredibly anxious. He takes a step back, guiding Yoongi toward the bed, and Yoongi follows, holding eye contact, waiting for Hoseok to elaborate. The walk across the suite feels like forever, but Hoseok's thoughts are so scattered, he welcomes the time to attempt to think. When his calf finally hits the mattress, he flinches, then sighs. 

"If Namjoon likes it, and if everything is good, and it works out, what—" Hoseok leans against the edge of the bed and allows Yoongi to spread his legs with a thigh, grazing Hoseok's cock and balls through his thin briefs. 

"What are you afraid of?" Yoongi asks, leaning in just enough to graze his lips over Hoseok's as he speaks. 

"You," Hoseok admits, almost whispers. "Me. Everything. I won't want to stop. And Jeongguk...I want you to fuck me in his body again. I want to feel what it's like to be him again."

Yoongi licks over Hoseok's lips, and Hoseok whines, melting into the kiss. Yoongi's thigh gently rubs Hoseok, and Hoseok can't help but whimper and rut against the friction. He wants Yoongi to touch him so badly. To fuck him, to taste him, to do anything he wants. 

"Wait," Hoseok mutters. His brain is foggy, and his body is electric with arousal, but he knows he should check his phone. "I should see if Joonie responded."

"I told you, Jeongguk has him."

"He's not going to just let Jeongguk touch him, though," Hoseok mutters, stretching his arm out to reach his phone, which sits just out of reach. Yoongi loosens his grip, and Hoseok manages to touch a finger to the device, then shimmy it over with his fingertips. When he grabs his phone, he notices messages from both Namjoon and Jeongguk. 

Namjoon: Jeongguk wants to work out a little longer. He says he sent Yoongi to keep you company. I hope you don't mind?

Hoseok:  Not at all. Take your time.

Hoseok checks the time stamp. It was only four minutes ago. 

Jeongguk: Sent you a gift. Feel free to unwrap him. I want to make Joonie a sweaty mess and then clean him off.

Hoseok: Joon is the one who wanted all 4 of us to be together the most, but good luck. You have my blessing. Let me know when you're heading back. 

"Everything okay?" Yoongi asks, tightening his grip on Hoseok's waist. 

Hoseok tosses his phone to the bed and wraps his arms around Yoongi's shoulders, pulling him closely while he pouts. "No, daddy."

"Awe," Yoongi mock-pouts, "what's the matter, baby?"

Hoseok grinds his ass down on Yoongi's thigh and whines when the tiniest amount of friction passes his hole. He hasn't felt this needy for someone in so long, and although he still feels sore from taking Namjoon's cock the night before, he knows Yoongi's mouth will feel like heaven on the sensitive flesh.

"I miss your tongue, daddy," Hoseok whines, resting his forehead against Yoongi's. "I want you to eat me out."

"Hands down at your sides, baby," Yoongi mutters, and Hoseok nods his head, then drops his arms from Yoongi's shoulders, brushing his fingertips down Yoongi's chest and breathing in his smell. 

Yoongi grips onto Hoseok's waist and spins him, shoving him into the mattress, and Hoseok gasps, feeling a jolt of excitement start from his tummy and shoot through him. The old familiar vines snake tightly around Hoseok's ribs, blooming with bright flowers as Yoongi yanks Hoseok's briefs down and spreads him with his big, firm hands. 

Hoseok bends into the mattress and grips onto the comforter, and as soon as he feels Yoongi's tongue lap slowly over his hole, Hoseok moans, melting further forward. Yoongi's tongue is wet and warm, and it sends a wave of arousal crashing through Hoseok, already causing his legs to tremble.

"Did Joonie fuck your tight hole, baby?" Yoongi groans then licks again.

"Y-yes, daddy."

"It's so puffy, baby; so pretty. Is it sensitive?”

"Yes, daddy."

The trouble with fucking around with Yoongi is that Yoongi clouds Hoseok's senses so completely that all the world falls away. This includes thoughts of his husband. Hoseok knows in his heart that letting Yoongi have so much power over him may ultimately be his downfall—could very well claim everything Hoseok holds dear, ripped straight from his grasp—and he does nothing to stop himself around Yoongi. Hoseok is powerless.

Yoongi eats Hoseok's ass. His expert tongue traces him in circles, flicks, laps, and penetrates, and Hoseok whines and sobs as the pleasure overwhelms him. Hoseok's cock presses into the mattress, and every tremble in his thighs and jolt in his hips give a painful rush of pleasure. Yoongi licks him in a rhythm that has Hoseok's desperate, leaking cock throbbing quickly.

"Please," Hoseok whines, holding himself on weak, shaky legs.

Yoongi moves his mouth away, and Hoseok's hips jerk back. "Please what, baby?"

"Please, I want to come. Please, daddy. You feel so good."

Yoongi tugs Hoseok away from the bed, then twists him again, and Hoseok nearly topples over, grabbing Yoongi's head for stability. The sight of Yoongi down on his knees with his lips pink and chin slick from eating his ass makes Hoseok's heart pound hard. Yoongi angles himself up, holding Hoseok firmly against the mattress with his hands pressing into Hoseok's hips, and mutters, "Then come for me, baby boy," before taking Hoseok's cock into his mouth, sucking down into his throat. 

Hoseok leans back against the bed, hands propping himself up, and loses himself in pleasure as Yoongi sucks his cock down and swirls his tongue as he comes up. Yoongi's deep, raspy voice moans, sending vibrations through Hoseok, and Hoseok whimpers and tries not to cry out too loudly as his hips shake and his arousal builds.

It's a tidal wave crashing hard against the shore, and Hoseok can't even form words before he's about to come, just mutters a weak, "Da-ha-aah—" before his hips jerk, and he fills Yoongi's mouth. Yoongi groans as if Hoseok's orgasm brings him pleasure and sucks until Hoseok begs him to stop and then sucks a little more. Hoseok jolts forward and gently grabs Yoongi's head, then his legs give out, and he tumbles, assisted by Yoongi as Hoseok straddles his thighs. 

"Fuck," Hoseok whimpers, burying his face in Yoongi's neck.

"You taste so good, baby."

"Fuck, we weren't supposed to—how do I keep letting you—"

Yoongi scoffs and kisses Hoseok's neck. His voice is deep and raspier than usual when he mutters, "Letting me, what? You begged me, Seokah."

"Letting you intoxicate me. Letting you cloud my thoughts. How do I keep letting you do this to me?" Hoseok sighs. He's so incredibly fucked. 

"It's okay, baby. Jeongguk and Joonie are probably fucking in the shower right now. I bet Namjoon couldn't wait to taste pussy again."

Hoseok sits back, and his head hits the side of the mattress. It's a dull thud, and he squeezes his eyes shut. "No," he mutters. "He wouldn't do that. He's probably gently turning Jeongguk down. He wouldn't just do it without us discussing it."

Yoongi hums and holds onto Hoseok's hips, keeping Hoseok from sliding off his angled legs, and Hoseok opens his eyes and stares at a spot on Yoongi's shirt rather than look him in the eye. This thing that they're doing—this thing that Hoseok seems addicted to—it's getting the best of him. Try as he might, Hoseok can't figure out why he can never seem to get enough of Yoongi. 

"I should get dressed," Hoseok finally says, forcing his thoughts to stop swimming. He pushes back, out of Yoongi's grasp, and haphazardly stands up. 

"Alright," Yoongi says. "I'll go change and brush my teeth. Call me if you need anything."

There's something so casual in how Yoongi invites Hoseok to call if he needs anything; Hoseok can't imagine what he could possibly need from him. As Hoseok walks to his closet and picks up the slacks he intended to put on earlier, he can't help but wonder if Namjoon would do something with Jeongguk down in the showers. After what just transpired, he hopes that Namjoon would. 

"Alright, well, thanks for uh—" Yoongi stops and clears his throat, and Hoseok turns to watch Yoongi shrug, "uh, coming down my throat."

Hoseok scoffs and looks at the floor. "Thanks for letting me. It felt amazing."

Yoongi hums, and then he's gone, and Hoseok can't help but feel suffocated by his anxiety. He walks to the bed and checks his phone, and when he finds no new notifications, he sighs in relief. Maybe Jeongguk was convincing enough, and Namjoon went along with it. Maybe. Hopefully. 

Hoseok walks into the bathroom to brush his teeth, wash his face and neck, and put enough product in his hair to comb it out of his eyes. He returns to the main room and sits on the ugly fucking white couch that he might miss a little once they leave this place, and he inhales deeply, holds it, and exhales. His phone dings. 

Jeongguk: Coming back. Is Yoongi with you?

Hoseok:  No.

Jeongguk:  Okay.

The moment Hoseok sets his phone down, his mind is in overdrive once more. Jeongguk didn't brag—why didn't Jeongguk brag? Jeongguk would brag, right? So, why. He wants to ask, but he's not sure whether he should because what if Jeongguk was joking before, just riling Hoseok up, and Hoseok did something with Yoongi that he should not have done. Not that Jeongguk would mind, but...Namjoon. Namjoon, Namjoon, Namjoon. 

Hoseok squeezes his eyes shut, and when he opens them, his vision is clouded with white spots, and the door to his suite opens. Namjoon enters alone. His hair is wet, indicating a shower. Good, that's good. But his cheeks are flushed, and he's looking at the floor. That's concerning. Hoseok gives Namjoon a moment before greeting him, then smiles widely when Namjoon finally makes eye contact. 

"Hey, baby!" Hoseok says, sitting forward and giving Namjoon his full attention.

Namjoon approaches, opens his mouth to speak, and then crumbles. He falls to the floor in the middle of the room, knees bent in with his hands on the carpet, and he heaves desperately as if suddenly the air is too thin. Hoseok gets off the couch, half-standing, half-crouching as he walks over, then kneels next to Namjoon.

"Joonie, what's wr—"

Namjoon curls in on himself and cries. Big, heavy, shoulder-shaking sobs that echo through the room, and this is not what Hoseok imagined would happen, though he isn't fully surprised. And he already knows. Hoseok already knows what happened before Namjoon even has to say anything. And the vines squeeze and squeeze. 

"Baby, talk to me," Hoseok coos, reaching to rub circles on Namjoon's back, and Namjoon flinches away and throws himself further onto the floor.

"I don't deserve—I don't—don't touch me," Namjoon stammers through sobs and sniffles loudly. 

"Of course you deserve me, baby; just tell me what's wrong."

"J—Jeon— Jeongguk, he—'' Namjoon shakes his head. "No, it's my fault. I can't blame him, I wanted it."

Hoseok swallows a lump in his throat and fights the urge to cry for his husband. He wants to tell Namjoon that it's okay, that he's not upset, but he doesn't want it to seem like he knows. So he says nothing, and he waits. Namjoon gasps for air and cries for a while longer. And then, when he's laid on the carpet in the fetal position, he clears his throat and tries again. 

"I'll understand if you leave me," Namjoon says, voice raw and deep. 

Hoseok lays on his side on the floor facing Namjoon and slowly reaches out to test a caress. Namjoon doesn't flinch when Hoseok's hand gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze, and Hoseok gives Namjoon a soft smile. 

"I would never leave you, baby. Just tell me what's got you so upset and we'll handle it."

Namjoon closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. " Jeongguk came to the gym, and he was very touchy and flirty, which I expected. And I was good at laughing off and allowing it because it was...nice. It was nice. I didn't think you'd mind."

Hoseok shakes his head with a smile. "Of course not, Joonie."

"But then we went into the showers, and he—he followed me into my stall, and I was shocked and told him that he shouldn't be there, but he begged me for a kiss. I barely h—" Namjoon chokes on a sob and begins to cry more, though not as hard as before. 

"I barely hesitated. Hoseok, I hardly thought twice. I just thought about last night and how good it felt, and I pushed him against the stall door and kissed him until he was moaning and begging me to let him suck my cock. And he got naked, and, fuck, he was so, so pretty."

Hoseok takes a deep breath quietly, not letting it sound exasperated because he does not want to make Namjoon even more upset or make Namjoon think he is upset. Then he squeezes Namjoon's shoulder tighter. 

"Joonie, look, I know we agreed to wait until we were all four together, but I promise you, whatever happened with Jeongguk in the shower is not enough for me to leave you."

"Seok, I'm so—"

"I mean it. Whether you kissed, or Jeongguk sucked you off, or you fucked...whatever happened, I'm not mad at you, and it would never change how I feel about you. We already blurred the lines with them last night, and I don't feel hurt or upset."

Namjoon curls further into himself and cries harder. "I don't deserve you. I don't deserve you, Hoseok. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

Hoseok gets up, crawls to Namjoon, and drapes himself over his body. "You deserve the world, baby. You deserve me, and Jeongguk, and Yoongi, and you deserve pleasure. I promise you."

Namjoon shakes his head and continues to sob, and Hoseok repositions himself to spoon Namjoon, holding him through his tears. Hoseok tells himself that he should have expected this, but he hoped that, with what happened last night, Namjoon would be far less devastated. 

Enough time passes that Hoseok begins to feel drowsy, and he wonders if Namjoon is asleep when Namjoon finally sniffles and begins to sit up.

"I need to shower again," he says weakly. 

Hoseok sits up on the floor. He pulls his knees to his chest and hugs them tight, watching Namjoon get onto his feet and shuffle into the bathroom. For the most part, Hoseok feels numb. He wants to console Namjoon, but he's not sure there's much more than he can say, and he doesn't want to upset him further or overwhelm him. 

Once Hoseok hears the shower start, he gets off the floor and walks back to the sofa, where his phone was left. Hoseok's stomach grumbles as he curls onto the monstrosity and checks his phone. 

Jeongguk: I can't tell if Namjoon is okay with what happened. If not, I'm sorry.

This begs questions, although Hoseok can't say he's too shocked if Namjoon held in most of his feelings until he got back to his room. Whatever may have happened, Hoseok can't imagine Namjoon fully blames Jeongguk; otherwise, he wouldn't be so upset.

Hoseok: What exactly did happen?

Jeongguk: He didn't tell you?

Hoseok: Not really. 

Jeongguk: Is he upset?

Hoseok: He's pretty upset. He's taking another shower now.

There's a pause, and then Hoseok's phone rings, showing Jeongguk's name. Hoseok hesitates, then answers it. Before he can say anything, Jeongguk says, "I'll tell you what happened. No need to speak. And if he comes out of the shower, you can just hang up."

Hoseok hums, and Jeongguk continues. "I was really touchy at the gym. Tentatively at first, testing the waters to see if Namjoon would allow it. He allowed it and seemed into it, so I laid it on thicker and thicker, and he flirted back. I thought everything was good. So then, when we went into the showers, I followed him into his stall. I had a towel on, and I hovered in the doorway, asking him to let me in."

Jeongguk sighs, seeming to collect himself. "He let me in, and I begged for a kiss. He hesitated, and I offered to leave, but then he pulled me in and pushed me into the door as he locked it behind me. We kissed until we were both super turned on, and then I begged to suck his cock. He said no, and I begged again, and he said no, so I backed off and said it was fine. But then I guess he changed his mind. We took our towels off our hips, draped them over the door, and I got onto my knees. He seemed like he was into it and happy, but then once post-orgasm clarity hit, he seemed...different. Like a switch had flipped. He wouldn't say much, just stood in the water stream and stared at the floor, and I attempted to console him, but he didn't want it. You okay, Seok?"

Hoseok hums; he is as okay as he can be. Jeongguk continues. "Anyway, I managed to get him to leave the shower and get dressed. I was apologetic, but he just shrugged it off. He said he needed to walk alone and gather his thoughts, so I went another way up a different elevator. I gave him his space. Fuck, Seok, I never would have pushed him if I thought he would feel so guilty."

The sound of the shower curtain opening pulls Hoseok's attention, and he whispers, "Gotta go," and hangs up. Then he texts Jeongguk. 

Hoseok: I'm not surprised he feels guilty, but it's worse than I expected. I'll talk to him and see what he wants to do. I'm not mad at you, but I wish I could have prevented this from happening.

Jeongguk: I feel like an idiot.

Hoseok: You are an idiot. <3

Jeongguk: </3!  We want to get lunch. Maybe if Joonie seems more relaxed, we can get room service and talk?

Hoseok: I'll let you know.

Namjoon comes out of the bathroom, and Hoseok turns to look at him. He wears a towel around his hips while using another towel to dry his hair and walks to the closet. He seems to just stare ahead for a while, and Hoseok clears his throat quietly. 

"Baby, would you be okay with bringing the two of them here to talk things out? We could order room service and—"

"No."

"Oh. O-okay."

Namjoon drops his arm to his side, dangling his towel in his fingers, and he continues to stare at his clothing. "I might look for a flight and go home today." 

Hoseok's heart pounds and everything feels heavy. "Baby, we're going home tomorrow."

"I want to leave now."

Tears well in Hoseok's eyes. He wants to console Namjoon, but he's never seen him shut down like this before, and he doesn't know what to do. 

"Look, I wish you would stay, but if you need to go home now, I won't stop you. Maybe a ferry to Busan would be good? Stay in a hanok overnight and take the train to Seoul in the morning?"

Namjoon nods his head, but they're shallow and noncommittal movements. Hoseok stands and cranes his neck to try to see Namjoon, then makes his way to the closet. Namjoon stares ahead with tears in his eyes, and Hoseok gently pulls the towel from Namjoon's fingers, making him flinch. 

"Joonie," Hoseok says softly but sternly. "How can I prove to you that I'm not upset?"

"I'm upset," Namjoon croaks weakly. "I disappointed myself. I hurt myself. I hurt you and—and Yoongi-hyung."

Hoseok rolls his lips in between his teeth to bite back the urge to make any noise in response to the idea of Namjoon possibly hurting Yoongi, then licks his lips. "I asked Jeongguk, and he told me that Yoongi is not upset."

"But we agreed—we said we would all—" Namjoon inhales a shaky breath and sighs. 

"Listen, I understand that we agreed on that boundary. I know that we all said it was important for all of us to be together. But Yoongi trusts us as much as I trust all of you. I'm not worried about my husband running off to be with another man; whether you feel affection for either of them does not hurt me because we all—to some extent—seem to feel that way about each other."

Namjoon closes his eyes. His breathing is measured and shaky on the exhale. 

"Would you have been hurt if the tables were turned today? If Yoongi met me in the gym and we fooled around, still high from what happened last night."

Namjoon bites his bottom lip and knits his eyebrows. "Maybe," he mutters. "Maybe at first. But maybe not?"

Hoseok swallows a lump, and his voice shakes. He decides that perhaps giving Namjoon a half-truth might help, despite the fact that the entire truth is almost a mirror of what happened in the gym shower. 

"Yoongi and I kissed when he came here."

Namjoon's breath hitches, and he opens his eyes. When he turns to face Hoseok with surprised, pained eyes, Hoseok feels instantly anxious and looks off to the side, squeezing the towel in his hand. 

"We were talking about last night, and about you and Jeongguk, and then we just...looked at each other and then…we kissed. It wasn't terribly heated, but it wasn't innocent, and—and I wanted more. I'm sorry, baby."

Namjoon nods and scoffs, and Hoseok meets his gaze to find something burning, something Namjoon appears to try to blink away. "Good, so none of us are trustworthy. Wow."

"Baby—"

"No. Wow. Thank you for your honesty, Hoseok."

Not Seok, not Seokie, but Hoseok. That one stings.

"Wh-what I mean to say is that we are all still excited about what happened last night, Joon. Because it's the two of us and the two of them, not because we're unfaithful people at heart. I mean, god, how long have we been married?"

Hoseok is panicking. The air twists and contorts in ways that throw Hoseok off balance, and he finds it hard to focus. At this point, he truly doesn't know what to say, and he's terrified of saying too much.

Namjoon finally begins picking out clothing, sliding on a white tee, brown slacks, and a brown cardigan. All the while, Hoseok stares ahead at the shirts hanging in front of him, barely seeing Namjoon in the periphery, watching as the lines of the sleeves hanging together blur in and out of focus. When Namjoon is dressed, he goes into the bathroom, then returns while shoving his phone and wallet into his slacks.

"I'm going to go have lunch and look for a flight or ferry home, and I'll be back to pack a bag," Namjoon says. He doesn't turn back and look at Hoseok. "Good luck with the rest of your stay. Tell the guys I'm sorry."

"Namjoon, wait," Hoseok calls—no—whimpers. He feels weak and suddenly defeated. So, so defeated. 

"I'll text you when I figure it out. And at each stop, so you don't worry."

Tears pour down Hoseok's face, and he tries to blink them away, tries to get his bearings on what is happening, but as the suite door opens and clicks shut, Hoseok feels grounded in place. Hoseok wonders if he should try to chase after Namjoon. But, ultimately, he doesn't make a move. 

Hoseok wakes up in a pile of bodies. It's hot, and he's covered in sweat, and his clothing tugs and indents uncomfortably around his waist and thighs. Yoongi stirs and releases his hold around Hoseok's back, allowing Hoseok to sit up. He sucks in drool and mutters a weak "S-sorry," to Jeongguk, whose shirt is too dark to reveal the size of the wet spot.

"You cried all over me, baby; a little drool is nothing," Jeongguk says, and Hoseok weakly nods. 

Noise from the television can faintly be heard, and Hoseok squints through sleepy eyes. "What's this?"

"Some old western," Yoongi responds as he sits back and crosses one leg over the other, which is how Jeongguk sits. Hoseok straightens himself out and then pulls his knees to his chest. 

"Thank you guys," Hoseok mutters, staring at the white comforter covering their bed. 

"Are you hungry?" Yoongi asks. 

A large palm rubs circles into Hoseok's back. He's inclined to think it's Yoongi's hand, but he's not quite awake enough to tell. "Yeah."

"Good," Jeongguk says, running a finger along Hoseok's cheek and neck. "We ordered a bunch of shit; it should be here any minute. Also, uh...Joon-hyung texted you to say he landed in Seoul about ten minutes ago."

"Th-thanks."

Hoseok was still crumpled on the floor when Namjoon came to pack his suitcase, and he didn't speak a word until, while in the open doorway, he said, "I love you, Seok. Safe travels tomorrow."

Yoongi and Jeongguk kept their distance until he was gone, and once they had the go-ahead, they came to get Hoseok and bring him back to their room for a cry session that exhausted Hoseok until he fell asleep. Everything piled on at once and felt too heavy to carry, and Hoseok let it all out. Now he just feels numb. 

Room service comes shortly after Hoseok wakes up, and they sit around their table, passing around plates of steak, seafood, vegetables, rice, and noodles. Yoongi fills everyone's glasses with wine, and they eat and drink quietly. It's still light outside, probably just mid-afternoon. 

"Seokie, baby, do you wanna get high and forget about everything for a bit?" Yoongi asks.

"High how?"

Jeongguk leans forward, elbows on the table. "Ecstasy."

Hoseok doesn't do drugs—being an employee of the government and all—but he has in the past, and the idea entices him. Maybe, for the next 8 to 12 hours, it would be nice to just feel euphoric and let go. Hoseok nods his head. It's still daytime, his flight is tomorrow evening, and they don't anticipate getting any more actual work done, so...why not.

Hoseok nods. "Sure. That sounds fun."

"Yeah?" Yoongi asks, sounding shocked. 

Hoseok shrugs.

Jeongguk gets up, walks over to some luggage across the room, and starts unzipping zippers. Hoseok pokes at his food, drinks his wine, and tries to feel a little excited for what's to come, but it's tough to feel anything at all, so he just doesn't. 

When Jeongguk returns, they inspect the little pink pills with a beloved cartoon character stamped on the front, and Jeongguk mutters something about how sometimes it's beneficial to have a drug lord father-in-law. The three of them touch their pills together over the center of the table as if they're shots of liquor, and stick them on their tongues. 

The pill is bitter and tastes repulsive, and Hoseok lets it sit for just a moment to bask in the awfulness before he chases it down with the rest of his wine. The waiting period between swallowing a drug and feeling a drug is always filled with anxiety—anticipation putting every nerve on edge—so Hoseok goes back to picking at his food, so he doesn't overthink it too much. Nobody has much to say; probably the others are feeling the same way, but Hoseok doesn't mind the silence.

Several minutes pass, and Yoongi's voice breaks the silence. "Would you ever swap bodies and fuck yourself?"

Hoseok looks up to find Yoongi looking at Jeongguk, but then his gaze turns to Hoseok. Hoseok shrugs. "I guess so. I don't see why not."

Jeongguk nods. "I would lick my pussy."

Yoongi nods and chuckles. His eyes look a bit glazed over and far away. "Nice. I would. I would fuck the shit out of me."

"You should use my body to fuck yourself," Jeongguk suggests.

Yoongi takes a long, finishing gulp of wine and reaches for the bottle, dumping the rest of it into his glass, filling it a little over halfway. Two full, recorked bottles sit in the center of the table, and Hoseok finishes his glass, then reaches for one of the full bottles.

"I'm suggesting it because I think we should put Seokie back in your body and take care of him," Yoongi says. Hoseok's eyes fly between Yoongi and Jeongguk, who share a glance and then turn to Hoseok.  Yoongi smiles sweetly. "Would you like that, baby?"

Hoseok licks his lips. He knows he should put a stop to this affair and prevent further damage to his relationship. But he's already come so far, and he's about to come up on drugs. What's once more?

"Yes, daddy."

Once the choice is made, they quickly shuffle over to the penthouse suite. Although there is plenty of time to jump before the drugs have a chance to kick in, they do not want to risk anything weird happening. A staff member stands idly while Yoongi performs the jump himself, and Hoseok decides that, while it is pretty fucking sus, he has bigger fish to fry than to keep asking why people let the Mins do whatever they want.

The jump is easy—so easy that Hoseok actually fears that nothing happened, just for a moment. But then he sits up and looks to his left and sees his body lying there and lets out a huge, deep sigh of relief. Once the men get their bearings, they thank the staff—who said and did nothing to assist them—and shuffle back to Yoongi and Jeongguk's suite. As soon as they arrive, the room feels foggy and air is a bit light.

"Whoa," Hoseok mutters as he stumbles back to the bed. "I think it's happening."

"Good, baby," Yoongi says sweetly from behind Hoseok. He runs his hands up Hoseok's back, making Hoseok flinch and then sink into the feeling, and when Hoseok groans, he remembers he's in Jeongguk's body. He tells himself that Yoongi's hand runs up Jeongguk's back, and when arousal licks between his legs, Hoseok feels beyond excited that it's between Jeongguk's legs that he feels the familiar tingle. 

"Let's get you out of these clothes, okay, baby?" Yoongi asks, wrapping his arms around Jeongguk's torso, gripping Jeongguk's stomach tightly in one hand while the other goes down between Jeongguk's legs and rubs his pussy.

Hoseok feels Jeongguk's legs tremble beneath him, and he gasps. It feels so good, like Yoongi has somehow lit hundreds of tiny fireworks inside him, and Hoseok arches Jeongguk's back and rubs Jeongguk's ass over Yoongi's cock. When Yoongi groans a deep, raspy sound, Hoseok melts against his chest. 

"Please, daddy," Hoseok whines in a voice deeper than he's used to. "Please, I need you."

Jeongguk gets onto the bed wearing only briefs, and he sits in the center against the headboard and pats his legs. Hoseok is stunned at the sight of himself and clambers onto the bed. Jeongguk's limbs feel heavy and wobbly, but Hoseok does his best crawling between his own legs. 

"I want you to suck your pretty dick, baby," Jeongguk says, smirking at Hoseok. "Let me see what my perfect lips look like around your shaft."

Hoseok wonders if this counts as selfcest and whether it's ethical to suck his own cock, but decides that he still doesn't feel weird about it and tugs his briefs down. Hoseok knows what his cock looks like, but it's strange seeing it from this angle, and when he licks up the shaft, he's pleasantly surprised by his taste.

"F-fuck," Jeongguk whines in Hoseok's voice. "I'm still not used to how this feels."

Hoseok licks his cock, then begins to tease the tip. His mind is floating in the clouds, and he feels like melting, but he does his best to stay in solid form to fellate himself while his voice moans and whimpers in pleasure above him. Hands are on Jeongguk's hips, pulling his sweats down, and Hoseok makes sure to wiggle Jeongguk's ass for Yoongi as he's undressed. 

Yoongi gets Jeongguk's pants to his knees before spreading him with his hands and licking over Jeongguk's pussy and ass, and the feeling sends wave after wave of pleasure so intense that Hoseok worries he might collapse. 

"F-fuck, I'm still not used to how this feels," Hoseok whines. 

All feelings that aren't pleasure melt away. Yoongi licks and caresses in slow, deliberate movements that cause Hoseok to suck and lick in a similar rhythm, steadily building and drawing out arousal, as if they have all the time in the world and there's no need to rush. Hoseok thinks he's in love, thinks he could be sandwiched between the two of them for eternity—thinks the way he feels electrified is enough to cure all his pain and worries. But he knows it's the drugs; they're hitting him really hard. 

Time and space operate differently, and as eternities pass in seconds, Jeongguk whines about feeling like he's going to come. Hoseok is so focused on Jeongguk that he doesn't feel the build quite as strongly, but the feeling of Yoongi's mouth is still so perfect and inviting that he lets it be this way, at least until he can swallow down the load that Jeongguk keeps trying to warn him about. 

Hoseok sucks his cheeks in, and Jeongguk squeals, a pitchy nasally sound that Hoseok is all too familiar with making, and Jeongguk grabs his own hair tightly as he holds his head in place and fucks into his throat. Hoseok keeps Jeongguk's jaw relaxed and takes everything given to him, and when Jeongguk comes in his throat, Hoseok swallows it proudly, litters kisses on his cock and thighs, and thanks Jeongguk for coming for him. 

As soon as Hoseok is finished focusing on his task, the overwhelming, shaky euphoria returns, and it feels like a dam has been broken, causing the pleasure to flood in. Hoseok falls forward on his thighs and whines as Jeongguk runs fingers through his hair and tells him what a good boy he is. He doesn't have a chance to whine about feeling like he might come before it rushes over him, and he comes hard. All he can do is whimper "Please" and "Thank you" over and over. 

Yoongi's languid movements are heaven, and though Hoseok feels like the orgasm begins to wind down, it keeps coming, never stopping. It's too much, and Hoseok begins to worry he might experience a full mental collapse if it continues, but he doesn't want it to end. But then it does end. Yoongi stops, and Hoseok whines, even though he can still feel traces of pleasure tingle between Jeongguk's legs.

"I want you to sit on my face," Yoongi says as he crawls to the head of the bed and lays next to where Jeongguk sits. "Can you do that for me, baby?"

Hoseok looks up to see Yoongi talking to him and nods weakly. Limbs are still gelatin and so heavy, but Hoseok manages to shimmy Jeongguk's calves out of his pants, get out from between his legs and crawl to Yoongi. Yoongi pulls his shirt off and tosses it aside, and Hoseok sits up on Yoongi's hips and runs Jeongguk's hands up and down his body.

"You're so fucking beautiful," Hoseok mutters. 

Yoongi smiles at Hoseok affectionately, then looks at Jeongguk, reaches a hand to pet Hoseok's cheek, and says, "You're beautiful too, baby."

Hoseok's breath hitches. He wants to be beautiful in Yoongi's eyes. He wants it so badly. Jeongguk leans down and kisses Yoongi deeply. Both men moan, and Yoongi reaches up to grip Hoseok's shirt to hold Jeongguk close. 

"Your lips taste so good, Seokie," Yoongi whines against his mouth, and Hoseok gasps again. He can't begin to explain the euphoria he feels, despite not being able to experience the kiss that Yoongi shares with his lips. Jeongguk pulls out of the kiss and sits up. He removes Hoseok's shirt and crawls down to where Hoseok is, near Yoongi's hips. 

"Kiss me," Jeongguk whines, and Hoseok leans down and kisses him—kisses himself. Hoseok likes how Jeongguk kisses, spinning his tongue gently while moaning. Jeongguk sucks on his bottom lip and smiles against him when he moans, and Hoseok thinks once more that he must be in love, though he knows that it's as effect of the drugs; they're still hitting him really hard. 

Yoongi's hands rub up Jeongguk's thighs, and Hoseok whines. He remembers he was supposed to sit on Yoongi's face. Hoseok pulls from the kiss, and Jeongguk nods toward Yoongi to signal Hoseok to go and Hoseok chuckles. He suddenly feels shy, though he has no reason to, especially since he's not even in his own skin—especially since he's in skin that Yoongi loves and has memorized a thousand times over. 

"Get over here, baby," Yoongi says, and Hoseok does as he's told. It's awkward to crawl up his chest and kneel around his head, but Hoseok gets where Yoongi needs to be, and Yoongi wraps his arms around Jeongguk's thighs to guide Hoseok right to where he wants him. 

Yoongi wastes no time going back to work on Jeongguk's pussy, and Hoseok falls forward into the headboard, doing his best to angle Jeongguk's hips to not suffocate Yoongi. Yoongi seems unbothered—like he's done this many times before—and Hoseok closes Jeongguk's eyes and gets lost in the shimmering, all-encompassing pleasure once more. 

A gasp followed by a deep, raspy whimper comes from Yoongi, and Hoseok looks back as best as he can to see Jeongguk sucking Yoongi's cock. He wishes he could get a better look at his own lips around Yoongi, taking Yoongi's shaft into his own throat. Yoongi's tongue pulls Hoseok back into Jeongguk's body, and this time he licks and sucks fast and hard like he wants Hoseok to crumble and come as soon as possible. Hoseok wonders if he can handle coming again or if it might be enough to stop Jeongguk's heart. 

Yoongi pulls his mouth away and says, "Grind your hips down on me."

"Huh?" Hoseok asks, feeling suddenly very dizzy. 

"Rub your pussy on my tongue and make yourself come."

Hoseok gives Jeongguk's hips a tentative swish against Yoongi's tongue, and although it's not the right spot, it feels good. He leans into the headboard and tries again, angling Jeongguk's hips down a little, and when Jeongguk's clit rubs on Yoongi's tongue, Hoseok trembles and whines. 

"Oh," Hoseok says, realizing he can do this. "Okay."

It's awkward at first to swirl Jeongguk's hips and chase his own high, but once Hoseok finds a rhythm, he gets lost in it—completely swept away. Yoongi moans and whines while he keeps his mouth open for Hoseok, only occasionally sucking on Jeongguk's clit when he finds it in Hoseok's rhythm to do so. It's not as fast as a build as it was before, but it's exhilarating. Hoseok envies Jeongguk for getting to ride Yoongi's face often. Then, Hoseok feels silly about being envious and tries not to think about it right now—tries not to think about anything right now, which is impossible because all his mind can do is feel overstimulated and race.

Hoseok feels overwhelmed. So, so fucking overwhelmed. He leans into the headboard more and struggles to move Jeongguk's hips. Yoongi pulls him close and goes back to work on Jeongguk's clit, and Hoseok whines and shakes. There's an external shakiness that spreads throughout, but there's also an internal shakiness, like all the blood in Jeongguk's body is being pulled by magnets. Like he's full of glitter, and it's all shimmering under intense bright light. 

"I don't know if I can come again," Hoseok whines. "I'm too—I'm so—intense. It's too intense."

"Wanna lay down, baby?" Jeongguk asks. 

Hoseok nods and sits back, and Jeongguk and Yoongi somehow manage to get Hoseok onto the bed but not without creating a big, weird tangle of bodies. Once they shimmy around, Yoongi and Jeongguk lay Hoseok down and litter kisses all over his—Jeongguk's—face and neck and chest, and Hoseok giggles and pants. He's so sweaty; maybe he's even melting. Maybe he'll evaporate and disappear into the bed completely. 

"I can't stay hard anyway," Yoongi mutters against Jeongguk's clavicle. "I don't know why I thought sex while coming up was wise. I was just excited to make you come."

Hoseok feels sad for Yoongi. "We'll make you come, I promise," he whines, and Yoongi chuckles. 

"Baby, it's okay," Yoongi assures.

"I might need to go outside," Hoseok says, sitting up and shedding Jeongguk and Yoongi from him. Hot. He feels so hot. 

"We can shower," Yoongi suggests. 

A shower sounds good. So they shower. It's cramped and awkward, but they touch and hold and kiss, and Jeongguk and Yoongi focus most of their attention on Hoseok. When the water feels too cold, and his high starts to feel more evened out and less internally chaotic, they return to their wine and share a full bottle while swaying and dancing around the room to music Yoongi plays from a laptop. 

Hoseok sometimes thinks about Namjoon, and he hopes that Namjoon is feeling relaxed and getting the clarity he needs. Hoseok knows that no matter what Namjoon chooses, he will accept. Even if it breaks him. Even if it shatters him into a million pieces, and he loses some of them and is never able to fully heal. He knows he'll have to let Namjoon do what he needs to because he's the one who fucked up. 

Hoseok tries to tear his thoughts away from Namjoon, but it's hard to. When they're in a pile on the bed, hands stroking hair and breaths gasping a whimpering, it's hard not to think about Namjoon. 

When they fuck again, over and over again, tangling their three bodies in ways that makes Hoseok dizzy and sore, he thinks about Namjoon. When they collapse into a sweating, writhing, sticky mess of intertwined limbs and exhaustion, he thinks about Namjoon. He thinks about how fucked everything is and how much he wishes he could just make it alright. But he knows he wouldn't go back and change a thing because he's so, so deeply infatuated with Yoongi that he can't imagine his life now without him. He can't imagine never jumping into Jeongguk's body again. 

It's 4 am when Namjoon calls. Hoseok rolls out of bed in a sleepy search for his phone on the bedside table, but as he reaches for it with Jeongguk's tattooed hand, he realizes that he shouldn't answer it. How would he explain being jumped at this hour. Instead, he stares at Namjoon's photo on his phone, at his name in bright white letters across the top. Yoongi grumbles, and Hoseok realizes he never silenced the ringer and whispers, "Sorry."

Silence and darkness fill the room once more, and Hoseok sits on the floor holding his phone in Jeongguk's hands. He feels deflated, like a balloon filled to the brink of explosion, then let go to fly around the room as all the air pushes itself out, leaving him a vacant, hollow shell of unwanted, shimmering latex. Hoseok's screen brightens once more with a message, and when he reads it, his heart drops. The vines around his ribs clench so tightly that cracks begin to form. 

Namjoon: I know it's 4, but I can't sleep. I told myself that if you picked up, we could talk it over, and I could begin to heal. But maybe it's for the best that we have some space. I'm going to stay with family for a while in Ilsan. I don't know when I'll be back. I'll call when I'm ready. Love you, Seok. Safe travels. 

💛😰

tag list: @btsstan12​, @dasexydevitt13, @giriiboyy, @moonleeai​ ✨ comment or dm to be added to the tag list!

Dollhouse is copyright 2022 theharrowing, all rights reserved. Don’t be a silent reader! I love to hear from you! Comments and likes keep me motivated! 

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[kookiebunnii]

d4u || a-tier healthcare

aug. 2018. finally moved back in today. i needed to get something for classes this year, but jungkook’s gone and hurt himself again. i swear the boy barely functions when he stays up all night playing overwatch. if he keeps this up, well, he better like hello kitty band-aids. 

pairing: best friend!jungkook x reader

genre: slice of life

word count: 1.4k

warnings: brief mentions of blood (like .2 seconds worth)

Most people you knew absolutely dreaded when school started. As soon as August and September roll around like a couple of snickering troublemakers, your fellow collegians would weep knowing that classes and exams were about to insert themselves into their schedules. It meant that summer, and all the freedom and laughter associated with it, was coming to an end. Instead of enjoying the bright sunshine and baby blue skies every day, the scenery was being replaced with drab grey walls and chairs that felt uncomfortable no matter how you sat.

Surprisingly enough, it didn’t really bother you all that much. You had spent summer working full-time at a relative’s restaurant as a waitress, meaning that you never got the chance to really take a vacation. The three months you were blessed with passed by like a blur. They were filled with placating tipsy adults or bawling infants, carrying as many plates as you could in your arms without spilling mystery sauce all over yourself, and bringing yourself to smile consistently on an 8-hour shift. It was far from an ideal summer, to say the least. In fact, you were relieved that classes were starting. Now, you could work and learn about concepts you were actually interested in. Besides, it also meant that you would get to move back into your apartment near university, which you shared with Jungkook. The boy loved traveling and spent most of his time jumping from one destination to another, filming small videos for G.C.F. You could count on one hand the amount of times you spent physically with him over the break, and as much as it pained you to admit—you missed watching him embarrass himself on the daily.

Late August was still warm, teetering curiously between summer and the beginning of autumn. You had just finished moving back into your place, feeling refreshed with a shower after the long trip. Deciding to head out and do some stationary shopping before preparing dinner, you pulled on your favorite shoes. It wasn’t like you needed anything in particular, since you��d keep the same 3-subject notebook from last year-- but the store you loved always had the cutest animal-shaped post-its. Surely it couldn’t hurt to find some (FaveAnimal) ones for this quarter, just to start off on the right foot.

Humming to yourself, you bounded down the stairs of your complex while double-checking your pockets for all your personal items. As you walked at a leisurely pace, you began wondering what Jungkook could be doing at this hour. You saw that his things were already back in his room, meaning that he was back for school as well. Maybe you’d make some pasta for the two of you when you get back, since he always liked when you cooked for him.

“Y/N!”

Hearing your name causes you to look up, realizing that the familiar saying really was true: speak (or in this case ‘think’) of the Devil and he shall appear.

“Guk?” you ask, observing the way he’s slightly favoring his left side as he walks towards you, “You good?”

You can see him wince as he approaches, but still trying hard to brush the pain off with a silly grin, “Not exactly.”

Pulling at his wrist, you realize that the skin on the side of his hand is broken and bloody. There’s dirt and bits of granite adhering to his skin, streaks of dried blood all over. You stay silent as you look down to observe his knee, seeing that his jeans are ripped with red stains that definitely weren’t part of any fashion statement. He had hurt his knee as well.

“Did you fall?” you guess, letting go of his arm to look him in the eyes questioningly.

“I bought a penny board over the summer since my classes are sorta far from each other this quarter. Guess I need more practice,” he shrugs nonchalantly before walking in the direction of your apartment, waving you away.

Frowning as you watch his back retreat where you came, you realize that by being the stupid worrywart you are, you only had one real choice in this scenario.

Sorry cute stationary, mommy’s gonna have to reschedule.

Sprinting to catch up with him, you silently walk beside him as the two of you head back inside the apartment. Even though he struggles up the stairs a little, you don’t hold him up or anything like that. You know that he hates when people treat him like a kid, so you’ve grown accustomed to accepting his stubbornness. Unless he’s literally on death’s door or asks for your help, you let him be responsible for himself.

Leaning his new penny board against the doorway, he enters the apartment with a sigh before heading to the bathroom to clean his wounds. Clicking your tongue like a disapproving mother, you head to the kitchen to look for the first-aid kit. After a couple of mishaps involving the kitchen knife and your clumsy fingers, you learned that that was the best place to keep it.

Pulling out some bandages, rubbing alcohol wipes, and anti-scarring cream, you follow him into the bathroom.

From the faucet, water runs over his hand as he gently brushes blood and dirt away from the injury. You can tell it hurts by the way his jaw is tight, and a small part of you feels bad to see him in any sort of pain…even if that pain is probably due to him trying out a trick he saw on Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater or something.

“Give me.”

You grab his hand and turn off the faucet. Patting his hand dry with his towel hanging from the side, you look at it closely to make sure the opening in his skin is relatively clean. Satisfied, you open up an alcohol swab and smile widely, “This is gonna hurt a lot!”

“Why am I not surprised that you seem to be happy saying that? Whatever…just hurry up” he looks at you blankly, but you can still feel his arm tense at your words.

You start with a quick and heavy swipe, and to his credit, he doesn’t even flinch. You follow up with more gentle administrations before tossing the wipe into the trash. The anti-scarring scream is cooling, so he’ll probably enjoy it a bit more.

After finishing up his hand, you let it go and catch his round, brown eyes staring at you. You stare back for two seconds before sticking your tongue out and causing him to laugh.

“Alright string bean, show me those kneecaps,” you roll up your sleeves to show that you mean business.

“On the first date? Damn,” he whistles before starting to unbutton his jeans.

“Alright I guess you’ll be handling your knee yourself.”

Closing the door behind you, you can literally feel the amusement radiating from him in waves through the wood. It was a wonder to you that he could be so casual and teasing with you, but once he sees a pretty female within a 10-mile radius, he’d act like a frightened rabbit. After all these years with him, he probably didn’t even see you as a woman. It didn’t particularly bother you, since you were just as friendly with him as he was with you. He’s seen you walk around the house with bed hair and dark circles, so you never felt the need to be cautious or nervous around him. The two of you cared for each other in a comfortable, relaxed way.

As you pull out tomatoes and fresh herbs from the fridge, you hear Jungkook leaving the bathroom. He fills up his favorite Overwatch mug with some water and takes loud gulps as you begin cutting your ingredients and boiling a large pot of water over the stove for the spaghetti.

“Pasta?”

You make a noise of affirmation. He gives the top of your head a few gentle pats which you understood as him thanking you for everything. You stop in mid-chop to pat his hand atop your head in response to let him know that it wasn’t a big deal at all. The beginnings of his special bunny smile start creeping in, and you resist the urge to tickle him to hide your own embarrassment. Just as you open your mouth to say something, he messes up your hair and runs into his room before you can get a punch in.

You wonder if he’s actually 21 this year or 11.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

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[ashintheairlikesnow]

Karen Renford Comes Home

Just a drabble exploring a side character who is a whumper in a class all her own. I’m not tagging this as directly part of the Kauri story, as it’s not. Just a character study. Takes place within my variation on the Box Boy universe - original idea from @sweetwhumpandhellacomf.

Who is Karen Renford when she’s not at work? She’s this.

CW: Referenced violence and physical abuse, forced feeding/starvation, dehumanization, pet whump. Referenced/discussed whump of a minor/foster care whump (though none occurs directly within the piece, it is discussed from the POV of the whumper and could be triggering, stay safe)

Contains a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it reference to one of my favorite Whump storylines, @comfy-whumpee‘s Alistair and Ellis stories, and this excellent drabble I’ve returned to over and over.

Also includes Henry, who belongs to @spiffythespook and is used with permission, and her OC Wright Farling is referenced but does not appear directly.

When Karen Renford comes home at the end of the day, it’s Dex who greets her at the door.

Her oldest Boy isn’t a boy at all, of course; Dex turned 39 this year, making him only a few years younger than Karen herself. He’s dressed in a simple green sweater with jeans, tall and slim - she insists her Boys maintain their physical fitness even past the point they function as entertainment for friends and other guests - with short dark hair starting to pepper with silver and a hint of crow’s feet beginning around the edges of his dark brown eyes. 

He wears a simple green leather collar with his name stamped at the front just below his Adam’s apple, as always. He has one to match every color of shirt he is allowed to wear, and he never forgets to wear the right one.

Dex has his hand out for her coat before she’s even fully crossed the threshold, and smiles for her just the way she likes; a slight expression of warmth, nothing false or overly effusive.

The expression never reaches his eyes.

Karen grants him a peck on each cheek, watching him gently lay her coat over his arm with a practiced, experienced grace. “Good evening, Dex. I assume no one started any obvious fires today?”

His smile might widen, imperceptibly, at the humor; it might not. 

Dex’s only answer to the question is a nod, stepping back and out of her way as she enters the foyer. Pulling sleek leather gloves off her fingers one by one, Karen lets her eyes skim over the dark custom-ordered wood doorframes and cream-colored walls, the grand staircase that wraps up to the second floor. 

Minimalist but with a subtle, simple lived-in look and feel. 

She has worked hard for every inch of her success, signed up with Whumpees-R-Us fresh out of college and was part of the neurological engineering team to develop the first truly successful training protocol, and Karen Renford will never apologize for the wealth on quiet display.

She earned every cent. 

Her position as Director of Client Success now is really a way to help her make her first steps towards retirement, not that she could ever imagine doing any such thing. Karen loves her job. She’s good at her job. 

Every job Whumpees-R-Us has ever placed before her, Karen Renford has set new standards that the other employees must then meet. 

But she is proudest of the Boys she has taken a personal stake in, starting with Dex himself. Dex was one of the first ten success stories, and she’d been the one to guide him right from his first day at the Facility (it was a different building, back then; much smaller, more cramped, but you make do and excel with what you have).

Dex had been her Christmas bonus, when it became clear that the training to make him seen and not heard had been entirely too successful and his intended owner returned him.

Dex hasn't spoken a word since the day, twenty years ago, when 19-year-old Dex (just called 10, before they changed to a random numbering convention), had slapped 24-year-old Karen Renford across the face and said you'll never shut me up, you fucking bitch, I'll kill you myself!

Now he smiles, with an empty gentle affection, as he takes her gloves and packs them away within the pockets of her soft coat.

He's a raging success, as far as she is concerned, in his pristine contented silence. Never so much as an eyelid flicker to betray any evidence of the thoughts she is sure she took away from him a very long time ago.

"Henry?" She asks, craning her head slightly to look around.

Dex gestures with one arm gracefully towards the kitchen. 

"Ah, lovely. Did he invite himself, or did Seb ask him?"

Dex holds up one finger, then steps over to the foyer's closet, hanging her coat with nimble fingers, pressing it lightly with his hands to ensure there will be no wrinkles. Then he turns back to her and signs, quickly, fingers flying through names and words fast enough that even Karen must sometimes ask him to slow down. 

This time, she keeps up, and nods. "Good. I'm glad they get on so well. Sweet boy." She moves in that direction, then pauses, turning back to Dex, who raises one thin dark eyebrow in question.

"Where is Peter?"

Dex's mouth quirks to the side in what might be meant as either smile or sneer. He signs again, curtly, ending the sentence with a flourish of his hands.

Karen laughs.

It's not much of a sound, short and quiet and a laugh devoid of affection or warmth, but it is a laugh nonetheless. "Well, if he learned his lesson, I don't mind him sitting with Henry. How is his back healing since the caning?"

Dex shrugs, and Karen moves away without asking for elaboration. If the careful set of his shoulders - and the tense expressionlessness of his face - relaxes when her back is fully turned to him, Karen does not see it.

She finds the other three in the kitchen, right where Dex said they would be. 

Sebastian is her beauty - her personal chef and second Box Boy, her second large-scale bonus after she introduced a widely successful and lucrative change in price-per-position for the Romantic/Companion poses. Owners were buying their Boys (and Babes) for the purpose regardless, why not add some fun and extra profit into the options available?

She'd received Sebastian - and a promotion - for that one.

Sebastian stands at the counter chopping vegetables with a sharp chef's knife nearly a blur in his hands. At 34, Sebastian's youthful looks - blond hair with a cowlick, a sharp jaw, hazel eyes - have begun to deepen into a sharper handsomeness she appreciates, at least aesthetically. 

Karen's never cared for much beyond aesthetics. In that, she is a rare pet owner indeed.

"Good afternoon, Sebastian," Karen calls.

"Good afternoon, Madam," Sebastian replies without missing a beat. "Filet mignon, tonight?" 

"Sounds perfect."

She pauses. 

There are two more young men in Karen Renford's house, and both of them sit with their backs to her, and neither of them has moved.

One is her Peter, the third Boy at 24 and a gift from a very good friend who had, she thought sometimes, played a bit of a prank by buying her a Boy who still needed correction - and Henry…

Ah, Henry.

Her foster son, 17 years old, sits with his head bent before an array of worksheets, chewing thoughtfully on the end of a pencil as he considers the formula he's working on. 

Henry is not one of her Boys, but he is hers. And she will be soon correcting and removing all that need for independence, that sense of certainty in a future that Karen does not command. Once Henry turns eighteen, he will understand his place in her household is a permanent one. 

But Henry is not the one she focuses on now.

"Peter," Karen says, with a hint of reproach. "Your Madam is home. Show some respect."

Peter, all soft brown hair with a hint of curl and a hopeless cowlick and warm brown eyes, pushes himself out of his chair quickly, turning to face her and falling to his knees into Position Two. His collar is a silver chain and she can still cut his breath with a single hard yank, and everyone here has seen Peter pass out at her hands before.

"S-sorry, Madam," He says softly, his voice trembling. She loves a good tremble, and her friend must have chosen Peter with the way his voice can shake so beautifully in mind. "I was, um, I didn’t hear you-"

"I know, beautiful boy. Your hearing hasn't been the same since that last repair, has it? Still. You can show more respect than that, don't you think?"

Peter swallows and nods, leaning further over until his face is parallel with the floor. She sees him wince as the motion pulls at the bandages layered over the vicious caning he'd received at her hands the day before. The sight makes her smile, but she says nothing until finally he bends completely in half, breathing harshly, to rest his forehead on the floor. 

She does not require Dex or Sebastian to fall into Respect any longer. They haven't needed it in years.

Peter, though, still needs reminders.

Karen would never admit how much she enjoys providing them. 

She waits until his breathing is ragged with the ache before she nudges him with the rounded end of one perfect black shoe. Peter swallows, hesitates perhaps a fraction, and kisses the pointed toe before returning to his position.

She nudges him with the other, and he repeats the motion on that shoe, too.

She lets out a slow, soft breath.

Karen requires little more than aesthetics from her boys - but there is something to be said for the curve of a neck and the flush in the face of someone doing something they truly do not want to do.

Peter is imperfect - but Karen is absolutely certain Wright requested him that way when he bought him for her. It had been such a lovely Christmas, that year...

“There, don’t you feel better, doing what you are meant for, Peter?” She asks in a soft voice.

“Yes, Madam,” Peter replies almost too quickly. She’s not convinced he even heard her, to be honest - he really is nearly deaf in one ear as a result of some defiance during his time in the Facility. 

But the respect is what matters, and the willingness to literally kneel and kiss her feet. 

Henry never moves, doesn't even turn his head. He keeps working, scribbling some formulas on the notebook he keeps for workpaper before carefully writing the answer in the provided space on the worksheet. 

Henry has been living with her for not quite half his life, now. Seeing Peter kiss her feet is in no way unusual for him. He and Peter had gotten closer than she liked recently; Henry had been tasked with assisting her with his last caning and it seemed to have put the correct emotional distance back between them.

She hoped. She might need to speak with Dex and have them watched to be sure. 

"You may rise and attend Henry," Karen says and moves carefully, casually away. Peter waits until she is over with Sebastian in the prep area before he gets back to his feet, sitting with delicate slowness back down at the table, face pale and teeth gritted. Karen wonders if blood will begin to spot through the back of his shirt again, if he will bleed through his bandages.

She loves the look of fresh red blood on a perfect white shirt. 

The same year Wright had gifted her with Peter, she had given him a painting she had had commissioned of his favorite son at the time, painted from the back with bright red spots in a perfect aesthetically pleasing pattern, like a constellation of learning what you are.

Wright had been delighted.

Honestly, if either of them had been remotely attracted to the other, they could have made quite a marriage.

Sebastian hums to himself as he works, not quite tunelessly, his own collar a shining black leather that sits against the pale skin of his throat like he was born wearing it. He's already poured Karen a glass of her favorite dry red wine, and she lifts it to take a sip, eyeing the array of ingredients.

If Sebastian stands straighter when she looks at him, moves more carefully, if he smiles less and looks nervously eager to please her… it is only what she deserves. What she worked very, very hard for.

"How was class today, darling?" Karen asks Henry, turning her eyes to him.

Henry finally looks up, a little dazed and daydreamy from the math he's still working through. "It was good," he says, a touch curtly. One day he won't be curt, Karen thinks. He will have none of that left in him.

He is very nearly perfect now.

Nearly… but not quite. 

"Lovely. Will you be singing tomorrow night for my gala? There are some very influential people in the industry who will be there. I'd love to show off what I've paid for."

And watch those pet lib assholes squirm knowing that you'll be mine, in just a few months. Mine like my other Boys. Mine for life. 

Henry smiles for her, and she does love his smile. She'll be sure to train him to smile more often than he does now. Smile even through tears. "Of course, ma'am. Whatever you need me for. The black suit?"

"Hm, the blue one. I'm wearing blue. Vincent Shield will be making an appearance, isn't that exciting?"

"He hates your company, though," Henry says doubtfully. "Doesn't he? I saw it in an interview. And his girlfriend really hates you."

"That's half the fun of inviting him, darling," Karen replies, taking another sip. “The wine is warm down her throat and through her shoulders. “The studio head for his next project is a personal friend of mine. He needs to maintain ties with the important people in the industry.”

“His industry, or yours?”

“Both.”

"If you say so," Henry mutters, doubtfully.

She'll have him broken of that, she thinks. She detests muttering, but one must expect a certain amount of it in teenagers. Once he signs his contract, she’ll ensure that his handlers - and he will have two assigned personally to him, nothing but the best for Karen Renford’s Boys - know that he must never mutter or doubt her again.

She wonders, idly, what Henry will look like with a shock collar around his neck. All her Boys start with shock collars - they earn the pretty ones they wear now. By the time they’re good enough for her, they see anything as a mercy compared to that.

Karen lets her gaze move idly around her kitchen as she luxuriates in the simple daydream of her Henry, her good little son, as a Box Boy that meets all her expectations and then exceeds them. 

He is not a crier - she loves that about him. She wonders if he will cry when they ink the barcode into his skin.

She spots something out of place - not at all where it should be - and holds up one hand. Sebastian freezes immediately, his eyes moving to her face. "Madam?"

"Why is there a small salad bowl by itself?" Karen points at the garden salad nestled in a spot nearly hidden by the angle where fridge and counter meet. 

She sees, all at once, both Peter and Sebastian tense up. Then she understands.

"Ah. For Peter. He’s doing it again.”

"Peter was a vegan before he came into service," Sebastian says softly. "He struggled with meat at lunch again today and I thought rather than force him to feel stomach pain-"

"Were you trained to think, Sebastian?" Karen's voice drops into a deep chill. 

Sebastian stills even further, slowly setting the chef's knife down. "No, Madam. I was not."

"I did not think so. Peter," Karen says, pitching her voice louder. Peter doesn't react at first, until Henry leans over to nudge him and point in Karen's direction. 

"Y-yes, Madam?" Peter turns to look at her, and his hands shake where they are laid flat on the table. 

"You will eat two servings of filet mignon for dinner tonight, and nothing else. If you cannot keep it down, you will eat nothing but the nutrient drink for three days. Sebastian, dispose of the salad. Peter will have none."

Peter and Sebastian meet eyes, briefly, and them both of them nod. 

"My apologies, Madam," Sebastian says softly. "Peter did not ask. It was my idea."

Peter looks over at Seb, worriedly. "No, I-"

"It was my idea entirely," Sebastian says, more firmly this time. "I will require correction."

Henry's eyes are up again, carefully reading the expressions of everyone in the room. Karen sits back, feeling the glow of the wine beginning to relax her shoulders and sink nicely into her veins. Dex moves through the room on his way to some other task, and Sebastian and Peter are frozen, waiting for her decision. 

"Fine. You will take fifteen stripes tonight for going against my express directions to feed Peter meat with every meal."

"Yes, Madam." 

"You may continue dinner preparations." Sebastian nods and picks the knife back up, returning to work. "Peter?"

"Yes, Madam?"

"You will return to your room until you are called to eat. You will receive five new stripes tonight for not reminding Sebastian that what you eat in this house is entirely dictated by your owner."

Peter swallows, already looking a little sick. “Of course, Madam. My apologies.” He pushes himself to his feet and nods, giving her a bow before he walks away. Dex shadows him, unobtrusive but ensuring he goes exactly where he is ordered. 

Henry watches all of this carefully, then goes back to his work. He is a hard worker and good at studying, and Karen loves to see his mind rolling around in the math problems he loves so much.

He thinks he will study statistics and mathematics in college.

He thinks he's going to college.

In truth, he will be Karen Renford's newest resounding success - a placid songbird and piano player with all those memories and that annoying independent streak removed with surgical precision.

A new acquisition to stay with her, entertain her, be carefully honed into the final missing piece from Karen's idea of a perfect life of total, unending, complete control over her four Box Boys.

And everyone in this household knows his future but him.

[elven-oracle]

under the rose: part 2|th

moodboard courtesy of @mcuspidey

SUMMARY: Would you do anything for the person you love?

Would you do anything for the person you lust?

PAIRING: Agent!Tom Holland x Agent!Reader

WORD COUNT:  2.8k

sub rosa: adjective and adverb. formal. happening or done in secret. directly translated from latin: “under the rose.”

Part 1 Part 3

Part 2: Hand on a Blade

Things returned to their usual mundane business after the episode in the field. 

It had forced you to start wondering the purpose of the men sitting around doing hardly anything all day. It was a sex-trafficking business, yet you hardly saw a single young woman pass through the warehouse that had now become your day job. In meetings at the agency, you reported and confirmed everything the mic attached to your collarbone had recorded. You had been reassured that your work was dong leaps for the investigation, but you were antsy to make the arrests of the criminals you spent your time with. 

You knew that these women were out there somewhere, going through everything unimaginable; the thought of them was what got you out of bed in the morning, and every time a “client” was discussed, you suppressed your firey urge to sock one of the men in the face, but there was a cover to maintain, and many many lives to protect. Including your own. 

Tom’s fingers laid loosely interlocked with your own, an interaction so natural that it was as if you had been doing it for years, as the cover suggested. All of the detached moments of affection were slowly burning into your motions like delicately practiced choreography. Tom grabbing your hand, your waist, your forearm, the way he pressed a kiss into your body, it was all starting to lose its spark that you felt when you had started a week prior. 

After literally saving the lives of your favorite sex-traffickers, they had started to trust you. You discovered that these rival groups spent a good portion of time attempting to sabotage any efforts, and they did the same in retaliation, all done by an entirely different set of people that you had a slim chance of meeting. It was a good report to bring back to intelligence, though. 

You had gotten into an interesting conversation regarding them. 

“They like to get creative with their attacks, one time they threw chemical bombs into the place, we left with swollen eyes, I may have been blind for a few days,” Smithy took a long drag off of his cigarette and snuffed it out on the arm of his chair. 

“Oh!” Hardy spoke up, “Don’t forget the time that you got a ninja star in your leg,” he raised his eyebrows at you, “that’s right, miss, a whole fucking ninja star.” 

“It’s almost like a game for them,” you commented, starting to catch on. 

“Yeah,” Candy spit, “It’s fucking stupid, though. They need to stop being pussies and use a gun. Like everyone else.” 

How attacking with one lethal weapon over another made someone a pussy was beyond you. 

Meanwhile, you had continued to play the game of seduction with Tom to keep your mind off of the imminent deathtrap you walked into every day. After the scene in the bathroom, you started to notice the sly way that he would eye you as you walked away, or how his hand lingered so low on your waist. Some movements were methodical, some were the result of a secret desire that he probably hadn’t realized you noticed. The extra sway to your hips and the subtle release of your breath when he held you were nothing but purposeful. 

As long as nothing carried on, you would be fine. You weren’t about to become another notch in Tom Holland’s belt. 

Sitting in Tom’s passenger seat, you made the silent drive over to the location, occasionally checking your lipstick to give yourself something to do. It was strange how close you felt to your partner, despite the limited, cordial conversation that you carried out privately. Being two different people had proven itself to be restricting in the strangest of ways. 

This morning, however, you decided to take a new step in the carpool and twist the volume on to turn on some music. You felt his eyes as you returned back to sitting, some song by Taylor Swift echoing in the speakers. 

Don’t blame me love made me crazy, if it doesn’t you ain’t doing it right.

You had never been in love. It never crossed your mind as something important. During your high school years, you had much more strenuous priorities, and now, your job was your entire life. Something about the lyrics radiated in your brain, though. The way that love could change someone. Sometimes it was the best thing that could happen to a person.

And sometimes it was the worst. 

When you reached the final destination, you were greeted with a series of tired grunts, as usual. It took a couple hours for the guys to wake up, and a few beers usually did the trick. Alcohol for them was like coffee for you: they had no words for each other until they had gotten it coursing through their systems. 

Nothing seemed out of place that afternoon. There was a specifically intriguing soccer game that they all seemed invested in, while you couldn’t care less. Anything other than soccer was more your speed. 

Well, nothing was out of place that afternoon until Boss made an unruly entrance, tossing guns to his men, and looking directly at you and pointing to the bathroom. Thrown completely off guard, you turned around to see a storm of men, clad in black, all wielding long and seemingly sharp blades. The rival gang had made another return, this time with another creative form of weaponry.

You took note of the pistols on their hips. Today they had decided not to be pussies.

You were reluctant to place yourself into hiding, but you drifted away to keep the cover intact. It was almost painful to separate yourself from the action. You had almost reached the door when you took one last glimpse, not wanting to admit that you wanted to be absolutely certain that Tom was okay. The answer was half satisfying, half terrifying. 

A dark figure was approaching Tom from behind, blade raised, going in for a fatal swoop.

You wanted to tell yourself that it was your instinct as an agent that sent you running, in the same way, that had brought you to throw that grenade out of explosion range. It definitely wasn’t the panic of seeing your partner in danger, a wild panic that was out of control, rather than the regulated anxiety that was perfect for sending yourself into life-threatening situations. Your heart was beating out of your chest as your feet pounded, your mind spun, and you shoved Tom out of the way, replacing his head with your hand. 

In training, they had forced you to endure all sorts of pain, all consensual. They would get your verbal confirmation, and with a countdown from three, you would get a shot of electricity shoved into your veins. In this job, pain was inevitable, but pain was also fleeting. The more you grew used to it, the stronger you felt.

The burning sensation that exploded in your hand was nothing like you had felt in training. You wished you had felt the fire in your hand, and as your vision went white, you heard the gunshots fire off. Boss was yelling, through the unwarranted tears in your eyes, there was the sound of Tom’s pseudonym being demanded to a task. It felt like an eternity until there was a shout of “all clear.” 

Through your blurred vision, you saw Tom’s concerned brown eyes, and his hands bring you to your feet. You were dizzy with delirium, the pain in your hand only increasing as more seconds passed. Maybe you had split it open, maybe once they contained the bleeding you wouldn’t feel like vomiting, but the sight you were welcomed to once the fog cleared almost sent your breakfast and the minimal alcohol straight up your throat. 

It was a clean slice to your pinkie finger. Which, fortunately, meant that it could be sewn back on.

Right?

Tom started to say your name but quickly corrected himself, “Rose, baby, let’s get to the car. Hospital time.” 

Despite the excruciating pain, you stayed in character, “Johnny...what happened?”

You knew what the fuck happened. Those pussies had chopped your finger off. 

Tom didn’t reply with the obvious, he replied with, “Love, you saved my life,” and then under his breath, “again.” 

You were ushered out the door, with Tom insisting that he take you himself over having the entire group follow. You knew that you were headed to the agency and not an actual hospital. There couldn’t be any public record of the injury. It would blow your cover. There was a fully operating hospital wing on one of the floors for this very reason, the surgeon would be ready for you when you got there. 

Tom helped you into the passenger seat of his car, placing your severed finger in your lap, wrapped in a towel as if that made anything better. It only made you want to hurl more. 

This car ride was not silent. 

“Y/N how’s it going?” his British accent was a breath of fresh air, and you hated that.

“I’m not fucking dying Tom.” 

“Yeah, well, pardon me for making sure you aren’t having a panic attack. You just got mutilated after all.” “I’ll live. Eyes on the road.” 

“Okay! Okay.” 

Your entire body was damp with sweat as if someone had dumped water everywhere except your hair. You could feel it dripping down your face and the way that it made the wig particularly itchy. You wanted to rip it off, but once again, the cover. The things you did for your job. 

“You saved my life again.” 

“Yes. And?”

He hesitated as if expecting a different answer, “Thanks.” “You’re my partner, I could only hope you would do the same for me.” “I would,” the way he said it was almost defensive. 

“Oh thank, goodness. I was worried for a second,” you were being sarcastic to mask the pain, but that couldn’t mask the yelp you let out as he sped around a corner. 

There was another brief silence, but you didn’t like how it felt, so you filled it with the dumbest joke you could think of, “Do you think this pain is worse than childbirth?”

You could hear him trying not to laugh, “You’re asking an expert.”

“Good. You think?”

He looked at your hand, which had now bled through the towel you were using for pressure and was bleeding onto your leather pants and onto the car seats made of the same material.

“Sure.” “Thanks, Doctor Holland, I think I’ll have kids now.” 

Upon arrival, you were shoved onto a gurney and taken away, Tom only being able to accompany you to a certain point. It didn’t seem like either of you noticed that he had taken hold of your non-injured hand until each one of your fingers were torn away from each other, leaving you to roll your eyes back and pass out, the final dose of adrenaline running out. 

…

Beep...beep...beep…

Consciousness was like hitting a wall. Your eyes fell open almost against your will, sleep wanting to regain its hold. With a deep inhale, you rolled your head over to your left hand, which now no longer had the deep pain from what felt like only minutes prior, although you knew it had to be hours. 

The memories came flooding back. There was the motion of intent in the body of the attacker, the insane panic, and the flash of internal light that stung across your eyes as the blade swept across your hand. It was a memory that would never leave you, a trauma that you knew you had no time to address. 

A thick, cast-like bandage surrounded your pinkie, sitting on a strategically laid table to keep it elevated. What caught your surprise, though, was the fact that another hand rested on top of yours, rough with calluses, a hand that you had held before, but never like this. 

Tom was asleep in a chair next to you, his head rolled back, mouth agape. The small sight of drool brought a weak smile to your face. Asleep, the usually dark and demeaning man that you worked with looked relaxed and...soft. You knew better than anyone that Tom was anything but soft. 

Your hand twitched, and Tom immediately stirred, yawning and retracting his hand away from yours. For a second you could tell he was just as disoriented as you had just been, but he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and met yours, looking slightly sheepish as he pulled on his fingers nervously. He pulled a leg to his chest, looking away for a second, then chuckled to himself as he looked back at you.

“Something funny?” your voice was hoarse. 

He shook his head, “You almost lost your finger there, agent.” 

“Thank goodness I had the wonderful Agent Thomas Stanley Holland to save me from a life of stub hand.” 

He chuckled again, “Even mutilated, you remain as endearing as ever, Y/L/N.” 

You couldn’t help the blush that sparked on your cheeks. Hopefully, the lighting was dim enough that he didn’t see. 

It was almost midnight when a flurry of agents took up almost all of the space in your hospital wing, a reminder that your work never stopped. The mission was still steady-going, and this was likely not to be considered a setback. 

“Agent Y/L/N, we would like to remind you that despite your injury, you are still expected to return to the field as soon as possible. This mission is too important for you to step back, and the chances of cover being blown-” 

You cut the man speaking to you off, “I understand. I expected nothing less.” 

As if you ever even thought about not continuing the mission. This had been the most important mission of your career. You would have to be killed in action before resigning. The man at the foot of your bed, an agent you had never met before, was trying to hide how pleased he was with your answer. Apparently, he had expected you to put up more of a fight. 

Satisfied, they left, not needing to hear anything else from you. 

“I’ll be sure to get well soon!” you called as the door shut behind them. It left you alone with Tom once again. He was smirking. 

“Can I ask you something, Y/N?”

“Go for it,” you expected it to be about the plan of action for tomorrow. Neither of you talked about much more than work.

In the months you spent preparing with your partner, he had never asked anything personal, so his question took you by surprise.

“What brought you to this line of work?”

Your lips parted, and you took a second to think before responding, gnawing on the inside of your cheek. You thought about the family you left behind when accepting the job, the minimal contact, how you hadn’t seen your parents in years. To any onlooker, you had given up a lot to take this job, but to you it had been an easy decision. 

“Um,” you sighed. “Well, initially I was a police officer. Narcotics. My parents…” Were you really about to tell him this?

“My parents ran a drug lab in our house for a very long time. They weren’t arrested until I was in college. I just wanted to make a difference.” 

“And what brought you here?”

“Putting Jacoby Zimmerman in jail.” 

He looked impressed, “You...put the Magic Man in jail?”

“Sure did.”

Zimmerman had been your side project. He was a drug trafficker, and he was good. The best detectives had been chasing him for years, and while you were the lowest tier in the line of detectives, you had been going behind their backs to try and book him. As much as you hated to admit it, the relation was personal. He had supplied to your parents, and your parents had tried to get you to deal at your high school. Instead, you worked a fast-food job and shoved the drugs down the toilet. Every paycheck went towards the drug hussle that wasn’t happening, and you hardly kept a cent for yourself. 

“Damn. He was…”

“Renowned. I know,” you paused, wondering how to conclude the strange conversation you had found yourself in, “I don’t know, I guess I just wanted to do what’s right. Change my past or whatever.”

You sat in silence some more, occasionally looking down at your bandaged finger. When you put away Zimmerman, you never pictured yourself in this position. You had been told countless times that being an agent sometimes required repeatedly putting yourself in danger, but after all the paperwork and the meetings, you had started to detach yourself from that factor. Now, there you were, sewn back together like Frankenstein. 

You hadn’t noticed when you fell asleep, but when you woke up in the middle of the night, after yet another nightmare where your finger was being torn apart, Tom’s hand had returned to sitting on yours. It was gentle. Tender. You couldn’t help the subtle feeling of comfort drawn from it. 

You were losing the game.

Part 1 Part 3

M A S T E R L I S T

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[niall-talk]

You wanted everything to be perfect for today. You had planned this day for three weeks. It was hell keeping this news from him, but you wanted to wait for him to be home from tour before you shared the news. You had dropped subtle hints but he would not pick them up.

You had facetimed with his mother to get her Sunday roast recipe that Niall absolutely loved. He asked why you wanted that. “We never fix roast for the two of us.” Your husband of two and a half years questioned your sudden interest in home cooked family meals.

“It's your favorite meal your mother makes. Thought I might need to know it so it will be someone's favorite sometime.” You thought something might click but nope. He was to far into his golf highlights on the TV.

The dvd you had his audiovisual team fix for you was delivered the day before just like they had promised. You had set up a tee time for him and Willie. Niall questioned your reasoning for everything lately. No wine or occasional beer, different food choices “You been on a health kick lately. What's up with ya?”

“Nothing. Just trying to keep us healthy.” You added a little emphasis on the word us and placed a hand on your stomach. You had not started showing any sign of a bump yet. You had been blessed to not have any morning sickness just yet.

“And I love ya for that I do,but kinda miss my wine drunk wife at times.” He moved behind you and slid his bare arms around you sides and pulled your back to his shirtless chest.

You had a spatula in hand that you threatened him with. “If you make me burn these eggs I'm gonna beat you with this.”

“Umm sounds interesting,” he hummed as he kissed below your ear. He didn't play fair; he knew all your weaknesses and he was using two against you. Hugs from behind and the sweet spot behind your ear.

“You're a menace,” you turned your face to his and pecked a kiss to his cheek before you returned to work on the scrambled eggs. “Go on and get the plates please. Oh and a couple bagels for the mini oven.”

He placed one more kiss on your neck before he moved away from you. “Niall do this. Niall do that,” he chuckled as he tried to mimic your tone. “Starting to feel like Cinderella here.”

“Ok Cinderfella,” you were proud of your play on words there, “I think asking for two things is not too much.”

“Is it too much to ask,” he sang out his own lyric. You couldn't help the smile that brought to your lips. You loved to hear him sing anywhere anytime.

After breakfast was devoured Niall headed to your room to get ready for golf. You were in the closet to find an outfit for the day. He joined you as he dressed in his new Nike golf clothes. A gray pair of golf pants matched with a royal blue Nike top. “So what you got planned for the day?” He asked as you slipped on a burgundy top.

“Just some errands today. Going to the market and other boring things.” You tried to act like you didn't have most of the day planned out up to the minute he found out your secret.

You had left before Willie showed up to collect Niall for their day of golf. You had your list of Maura's ingredients for the roast. You checked it four times to make sure you had everything. Back home you set to work on the meal. You knew it had to cook slow and on low heat nearly all day. You facetimed Maura just to make sure that you were doing it right. She laughed at your intensity of making sure every chop and slice was perfect.

“What is going on dear?” She questioned with that motherly tone.

“Just wanted to make sure it was close to being as good as your roast. You know how much he loves it.” It killed you not to tell her. The only people to know were you, the doctor's office and the audiovisual guys. It was self inflicted torture but it would be worth it at the end of the day.

Niall had text you that he and Willie were going to stop for a couple drinks. You text back ok but don't be too long about it. That you had a surprise for him.

As you added the finishing touches to the meal you heard Niall come in. “Honey I'm home,” he loudly announced.

You couldn't help but laugh at him. “I can hear that Dear. In the kitchen.” You called out so he could find you.

He sniffed at the air a time or two and let out a hum like sound. “Smells good in here. What's in the oven?” He made his way to you and kissed your temple.

“Your mother's Sunday roast recipe.” You opened the oven door to show him. The heat and the aroma hit you both and it made even your mouth water. “Almost ready. You go wash up while i get things ready.”

He came back cleaned up and changed into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. Hair a mess from where he had his cap on most of the day. “Looks like someone got a little sun today.” You kissed his nose as you walked past him to set the table.

“Ah maybe a little. It was a nice sunny day. Just right for a round.” He looked at the table and asked what the special occasion was.

“No reason. Just glad to have you home and want to spoil you a little.” You smiled fondly at your husband; soon to be father of your child.

At dinner you asked Niall what he thought about babies and kids. He laughed, “They are loud, very needy, they stink, and they cannot do a lot till they get older. They are slimy and have grubby little hands.” You could feel your stomach start to churn with sickness. He continued, “and I can't wait to have a liter with you.”

You felt the tension release from your body. “A liter? Really Niall? I'm not a dog or a cat. And I don't want to have that many at one time.”

“Where did this come from?” He asked as he finished his plate. “By the way. This was amazing. Thank you my love.” He leaned over and kissed your forehead.

“Thank you and you are welcome.” You were glad he liked it. “I don't know. I just had a check up at the Doctor the other day we we talked about stuff. How I'm not getting any younger ya know.” You lied.

“So you want a baby? Didn't know if we were ready for one yet.” He replied very nonchalantly. “I mean with me still making music and going on tours. I wouldn't be able to be here to help much when you need it.”

“I know Niall. Trust me I know how crazy and hectic our lives are. But like I said we're not getting any younger.” You stood to clear the table. He helped you and followed you to the kitchen.

“Don't be that way,” he stated. “You know I love ya and if you want a baby then we can work on that.” He placed a kiss to your neck.

“Hey I got you a surprise. It's in the dvd player. Why don't you go get it ready and I'll join you in a minute.” You kissed his lips before you pushed him away.

He did as you asked and you heard the beginning of the dvd. You gave it a few seconds and you heard him call for you.

“Yes dear?” You entered the room to see him with a big smile on his face. The tv screen flashed pictures of the two of you or ones you took of each other. Suddenly there was a cut to an old I Love Lucy clip. Niall looked up at you with confusion all over his face. The old black and white tv show didn't seem to fit with what he had been watching. Ricky read off and announcement: “Dear Mister Ricardo my husband and I are going to have a blessed event. I just found about it today, and I haven't told him about it yet. I've heard you sing a song called “We're having a baby. My baby and me.” If you would sing it now it would be my way of breaking it to him.”

Your eyes blur with held back tears as you wait. You watch Niall as it all sinks in. Ricky starts to sing the song and more pictures play over the song. Pictures of you and him then a picture of a positive pregnancy test. Niall sets there speechless and damn near breathless. Just before the song ends the classic I Love Lucy heart appeared on the screen. It filled in slowly with the following words; We Love Baby Horan. Underneath it reads due June 2019.

Without a sound or warning he is off the sofa and wrapped you in his arms. “Is this? Are you? I mean wow.” He was beside himself right now. He didn't know what to do or say. He hugged you closer and tighter. You heard a sniffle or two and that's when your waterworks started to flow. You cried and he looked into you eyes. He tried to wipe away the tears from your eyes but it was no use. “You are telling me that there is a little one in here,” he moved a hand to cover your stomach. You couldn't find your voice so you just nod as a strangled laugh comes out of your body.

He kissed your lips and whispered back, “I love you.” Then let go and got down on a knee and kissed your stomach. “I love you too little one.”

Niall pulled you into him, and you snuggled in as close as you could. You whispered out to him, “I love you.”

[red-streaks]

millie and her youtube channel

 mildred has 300 followers on her youtube channel. it’s mostly videos of her responding to challenges, imitating HB, and doing tutorial videos for potions that went wrong once. Sybil comments on every single one. Enid calls herself the producer.

an idea discussed in the worst witch chat, bear with me.

A black screen. There is no sound for several seconds, but then a thump, a giggle, and a long-suffering sigh of an eleven-year-old who is breaking about ten school rules.

“Is it rolling? Cut! Action!” Enid Nightshade’s voice cuts through the darkness.  Another thump, followed by a high-pitched sound.

“The light’s green, Enid,” Maud sighs again. “Millie said that means it’s on, right Millie?”

“Right,” Mildred Hubble’s voice is barely audible over the static. “But you’ve got the lens on, and you’re covering the microphone.”

“Bats,” Enid murmurs. One final thump. The video ends, suddenly, before restarting again and focusing shakily on a smiling Mildred.

“There we go. Millie, say hi!” Enid shouts too close to the camera, and the image shakes and shakes until Mildred’s nostril takes up the entire frame.

“Not so close, Enid,” Mildred says, but the camera catches her grin, just visible in the corner of the frame as Enid backs away.

“Just zoom in from where you were standing,” Maud says quietly, and the camera moves quickly through the room, cauldrons and desks and dark jars blurring together as Enid swings the camera to Maud, who is standing guard by the door.

“How do I zoom in again?” Enid asks again, shaking the camera. Maud’s face comes in and out of focus.

“With that little button up at the top.” Mildred’s voice is heard out of shot. “No, not that one, the other –.“

A black screen. Enid Nightshade’s shoes suddenly come into focus. One of her shoelaces are untied.

“Alright, take three, then.” Enid says, and the camera swings around until Enid’s right eyebrow takes up the entire frame. “I’m Enid Nightshade, witchiest witch at Cackle’s Academy. Maud Spellbody eats slugs for breakfast and Mildred Hubble still sleeps with her – .”

A thump. A shriek. The camera shakes violently.

A black screen.

“Take four,” Maud Spellbody’s voice accompanies a shaking frame, focused on the frowning face of Enid Nightshade. Her shoulders are slumped. “Enid has been demoted to guard dog, until she’s proven to be a responsible camera woman.”

Enid Nightshade sticks her tongue out, arms crossed over her chest.

“Can we start, please? HB’s gonna start making her rounds soon.” Mildred’s voice, out of shot again.

The camera zooms in to Enid Nightshade’s left eye and stays there for several seconds. “Gross,” Maud says, and laughs out loud.

“How come she gets to be camera-woman, Mildred?” Enid shouts. Her eye disappears from screen rather rapidly. “Give it here!”

The camera shakes as Maud runs from Enid. It follows Maud’s feet as she jumps up a step. A shriek. Mildred Hubble’s groan, heard above the screech of the chairs Maud hastily moves over.

Maud’s breathes heavily over the microphone.

“I swear to God – .“Mildred’s voice.

A black screen.

“Okay,” Mildred Hubble’s cheery voice is heard behind the camera. Enid and Maud come into focus, both girls glaring at each other when the other isn’t looking. “Take five!”

Mildred’s skirt appears in front of the camera, her sash knotted haphazardly. She adjusts the camera and backs away, bends at the waist sideways until her head and hanging braids are in the frame.

“Perfect,” she straightens up, rounds the table and stands between Maud and Enid. There’s a cauldron in front of them. All of their faces, except Enid’s chin, are out of the frame.

Mildred clears her throat.

“Welcome to my channel! I’m Mildred Hubble, and these are my friends, Maud and Enid!” She elbows each of them until they both give out half-hearted greetings. “Today, we’re going to be making a Level Three potion – a sleeping drought -- because several of you commented that you’d like to see it done.”

“And because we messed up the one we were supposed to finish in class today,” Enid’s chin moves in the shot.

“And because we’re being tested on it tomorrow,” Maud’s ponytails swing back and forth, the ends just barely visible as she’s the tallest of the three of them.

“Okay,” Mildred claps her hands. “First, we have to set the cauldron to 45 degrees -.”

“It’s 60 degrees, Millie.”

“Right. I’ll just edit that part out later.” She begins again.

The air crackles. There’s a pop somewhere outside of the shot.

“Mildred Hubble. Enid Nightshade. Maud Spellbody.” A fourth voice, out of frame. The camera suddenly suspends in air, and the terrified faces of the three girls are perfectly captured before the camera flies backwards at a terrifying speed. “Using unsupervised magic and non-magical devices. Why am I not surprised.”

Mildred drops the ladle in her hand. Her mouth drops open.

“Uh,” Mildred stutters. The camera shakes again, and Miss Hardbroom’s legs are suddenly in the shot. A muffled harrumph!, the shake of the camera, and then Miss Hardbroom’s sneer takes up the whole shot.

“What have I told you about such devices inside the castle?” Miss Hardbroom’s voice booms. A very large eye peers straight into the camera, before backing away.

“Shit,” Enid murmurs out of shot. A strange strangled noise comes out of Miss Hardbroom. A sharp inhale. The creak of plastic. The camera shakes very, very violently.

A black screen.

Silence for a couple of minutes.

“But, but it helps us learn! And we’re only practicing for tomorrow! Perhaps, if you supervised us…”

“Enid Nightshade, I can see you recording!” A blurry image of Miss Hardbroom looming over Mildred in front of her cauldron.

A squeak from Enid Nightshade.

A black screen.

“Alrighty then!” Mildred Hubble’s voice sounds extra chipper. “Welcome to my channel! I’m Mildred Hubble, and this is Maud, one of my best friends, and this is our special guest for today’s episode, Miss Hardbroom!”

There is darkness for several seconds, before Enid’s soft “Oh, wait,” is heard behind the camera. There’s a rustle, and the room suddenly comes into view.

“Uh, try that again, Millie,” Enid says. The camera slips from her hands briefly, a thump, and another, and the room goes spinning. “From the top!”

“Welcome to my channel, I’m Millie, this is Maud, and this is Miss Hardbroom!” Mildred rushes out, looking annoyed.

“Miss Hardbroom,” Enid hisses loudly, and the camera shakes again. Enid’s hand comes into view as she motions jerkily. “Step into the frame.”

Miss Hardbroom’s shoulder appears. Enid sighs.

“More.”

An awkward looking Miss Hardbroom  takes one very careful step towards Mildred. Her shoulders are tense and she’s staring at the camera with large, round eyes that make her look both terrifying and terrified.

“I am Miss Hardbroom,” her voice is very grave. Maud cringes and there’s a stifled giggle from behind the camera.

“You don’t have to re-introduce yourself, Miss Hardbroom,” Maud explains, shaking her head.. “Mildred already did that for you.”

“I’d rather introduce myself.” She slowly walks out of the frame again, one shuffle at a time, never breaking eye contact with the camera and her arms very stiff by her sides.

“Let’s just….let’s starts over.”

A black screen.

“Hi! Millie, here, with Maud and Miss Hardbroom! Oh, wait –.“

Three groans.

A black screen.

“Hi, I’m Mildred, this is Maud and this is –“

“I am Miss Hardbroom.”

“You have to step into the frame, HB!”

“Enid Nightshade, you are one more disrespectful comment away from earning yourself a week of detention!”

“This is my literal nightmare,” Maud whispers, bringing her palm against her forehead. “Just zoom out!”

“Oh, right.”

The camera zooms out. Miss Hardbroom comes into focus, looking very uncomfortable and like she’d rather be anywhere else but here.

“We’ll be making a sleeping drought with Miss Hardbroom today. As always, don’t forget to subscribe below!” Mildred points to the ground and dances about a little. Miss Hardbroom’s lips could not turn down further if she tried.

“We’ll start by heating the cauldron to 60 degrees and measuring out bee’s brain.” Mildred continues.

“You’ll want to chop them up into smaller pieces, if possible.” Miss Hardbroom says tersely, almost as if the words are being pulled painfully from her mouth.

She looks straight at the lens as she materializes a jar of bee’s brain and presents it awkwardly to the camera, head turning to the side as if to capture her best angle.

The camera shakes and beeps.

“Uh, Millie? You said your mom lent you the charger, right?”

“A red light has appeared on your camera, Mildred Hubble.”

“Bats, is it running out of batte –.“

A black screen.

[agentelmo]

The X-Files MSR Analysis Series: Season 1 Episode 7

“Ghost in the Machine”

Previous episode analysis - 1x06 Shadows.

This episode is another that is quite light on the MSR, although there are a few little moments that bring a smile to my shipper face, it’s an episode that both gives as well as takes away in terms of the MSR.  There’s a disappointing moment or two between them, but it’s balanced out by some instances which point to the future depth of their relationship.  

It’s unfortunate that two weeks in a row now we’ve had pretty paltry episodes, BUT I HEAR THE NEXT ONE IS GOOD THOUGH. HUR HUR HUR.

So the first thing we see in this episode is Mulder and Scully buying lunch which is freakin’ weird to see them doing something so normal.  I mean, it makes sense for them to be doing that, but the series gets so fantastical and overwrought with it’s own premise and mythology that the mundane aspects of normal life are often skipped over in later seasons.  Seems season 1 is truly a season that worked to ground the X-Files in some modicum of reality, making it oddly surreal to go back to a time when “Mulder and Scully buy sandwiches for lunch” was an actual scene.

Enter Jerry Lamana, an old FBI buddy of Mulder’s who is seeking him out.  There’s a really sweet moment here, where Jerry goes up to Mulder and just hugs him straight off without any awkwardness and Mulder seems genuinely surprised and happy to see him.

Look at that goofy little smile.  Nawww.  I think Mulder probably forgot what it’s like to have friends at work after leaving the Violent Crimes Section.

I thought this was a lovely little detail, because up until this point, we’ve been led to believe that Mulder is a pariah to most everyone at the FBI.  That since he started work on the X-Files, no one takes him seriously nor do they want him around.  But it wasn’t always that way.  

We know little of his FBI career before the X-Files, other than what we learn in the Pilot, which is that he was once a highly successful criminal profiler with the VCS and rose to prominence very quickly.  This is our first glimpse into what kind of man Mulder was back then, and how others saw him and interacted with him.

Scully, bless her, can’t help but smile at this display of male bonding.  She clearly finds it pleasantly surprising to see Mulder be this friendly with someone.  She’s used to people treating him like a social leper.

Then this peculiar moment happens.

What is that look Mulder gives Scully?  A look of guilt, perhaps?  You can read the words “oh shit” all over his face.  He seems to be genuinely concerned for how she will react; just realising he’s never told Scully he had a partner before her.  

But is that something he should feel guilty for, like it’s some kind of betrayal?  Does he imagine she might think “wait, I’m not your first?!”  After all, Mulder is the only partner Scully has ever had, having become an FBI instructor straight out of the academy.  

It’s highly indicative of how blurred the boundaries are in their working partnership, even at this early stage.  It’s honestly reminiscent of a guy bumping into his ex while being out with his new girlfriend.  Realising oh shit, I never told her about The One Who Came Before™.

On a professional level, Mulder having had a partner before Scully should be insignificant.  Look at Jerry, he seems to think this is a perfectly normal thing to discuss and that it wouldn’t be an issue - and it shouldn’t be!  It’s just the truth.  It’s not a big deal, but for some reason it’s a big deal to Mulder.  And seemingly Scully too because she definitely gives him a look back.

A kind of look that belies an irrational pang of insecurity, maybe?  But only a pang, it’s gone as quickly as it arrives.

It’s utterly fascinating because of it’s inappropriateness.  They’re both feeling something beyond what is appropriate between professionals about the fact Mulder had a partner before Scully.  But as to the why - why does this matter to them?  It’s brushed aside in literally the blink of an eye and will not be revisited until another previous “partner" of Mulder’s arrives on the scene.

Yeah.  

In a way, this brief moment that I have over analysed to within an inch of its life, is a prelude to the drama that accompanies the arrival of Diana Fowley.  With the passing of 5 years and all that goes on between Mulder and Scully in that time, the feelings that are being expressed here intensify to the point they can no longer be ignored by the time we get to season 5′s The End.  

But here and now, in Ghost in the Machine, they are very much ignored.  These feelings are merely sparks of something bigger between them.  There is something deeper going on - undefined - that is beyond the professional, but at this stage in their relationship, neither are prepared to acknowledge it, and in Mulder’s case I still believe he’s not even aware of it, so onwards we go!

The next scene shifts to the basement as Jerry reveals why he was looking for Mulder.  He has a case he wants Mulder’s help with, but Mulder isn’t interested.

There’s a brief moment where you can see some history between Jerry and Mulder in these two lines of dialogue.

Do you get the feeling that this is an old, tired, conversation that they’ve had in the past?  The X-Files appears to be a sore subject between the two of them.  I get the sense that Jerry is still a touch resentful of Mulder for choosing the X-Files over him.  

Sooooo you might ask yourself, why is this relevant to the MSR?  Well it shows to what extent Mulder is willing to burn bridges and sever ties with people in pursuit of his goals.  We see from their friendly greeting that they were once friends, not just partners.  But Mulder was willing to sacrifice that.  

We’ve spent a good couple of episodes thus far examining what Scully is sacrificing by sticking with the X-Files, but this is the first time we ever touch on what Mulder has had to give up.  It’s clear he has sacrificed much for this personal mission of his; as he said in the Pilot - nothing else matters to him.  Jerry was just another casualty.  For Mulder the sacrifice is worth it, if in doing so he can get closer to the elusive Truth™.

However, what he didn’t count on was meeting Scully.  

His ability to discard any and every personal comfort; friendships, a career, a personal life - all of it - is a pretty significant aspect of his character.  But one thing he isn’t prepared to live without is Scully.

It might sound strange to say this so early in their relationship, but how Mulder behaves in Jersey Devil - his impotency without her presence - says to me, that this aspect of their relationship has already begun to manifest for Mulder; almost certainly without him even realising it.  She’s become incredibly important to him already and if he doesn’t realise it now, he will - very soon. 

*cough* Season 2 *cough*

So that’s the MSR significance for me.  His discarded partnership with Jerry serves to highlight the significance of his partnership with Scully.

Sorry Jezza... you’re basically chopped liver.

Something else of note that I thought was quite interesting here, is how Mulder behaves around Jerry compared with how he is around Scully.

With Jerry, Mulder appears to be a sanitised ‘version’ of himself - a personable, polite, encouraging friend - he appears subdued.  I get the sense that Mulder is falling into a familiar rhythm with Jerry where, oddly, Jerry was the more dominant personality of the pair.  

Now I say “oddly” because when Mulder is with Scully, that’s not the role he takes at all.  Mulder seems to have a bit of swagger, a bit of charm that vanishes when Jerry is around.  With Scully the real Mulder comes out - the cocky, deadpan SnarkMaster 5000 we know and love.

Even his tone of voice dramatically changes, it’s worth a rewatch to listen out for it.

But observe when Mulder is with Jerry and shows his characteristic deadpan humour, Jerry doesn’t allow him to have the moment.

Wait, sorry... just a second... The hair wiggle, guys...

I... want to... touch it... just a little... please??

Uhhh... 

Yeah so, Jerry.  He has an ego, an image he wants to maintain - he competes with Mulder, and I think sometimes even unconsciously, like in the moment above.  Whereas Mulder has enough self-confidence and self-esteem that he can fall back when that kind of dominant personality is in the room and not feel emasculated.  It seems Jerry is the opposite.  He is threatened by Mulder - his brilliance, his charm, his sense of humour, probably even his looks.  It’s almost certainly a good thing they went their separate ways because I think Jerry is harbouring a lot of resentment towards Mulder.  Which we indeed see come out later.

Also, going back to this moment just a sec...

I like how Mulder uses his humour to deflect Scully, but she persists and he -  trusting her with the truth of it - relents.  This is such a familiar dynamic between them now that it’s almost cliche.

Ok fast forward again, Mulder and Scully get in the politically correct lift.  

I mean, elevator.   ( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°)

#IDoNotGazeAtScully

How cute is it that they both look away at the same moment.  It’s like a fucking romantic comedy up in here.

But then HAL9000 reminds us it’s the X-Files, and poor Scully hits the deck.

I mean, Mulder would be an asshole not to help her up, but any time he puts his arms around her is a time to rejoice, amirite?

#CasualTouching

The next day, Mulder is in his office looking for the profile notes he had written on the killer.  But he can’t seem to find them, and Scully, never missing the opportunity, gives Mulder a good sassing. 

She so sassy.

Guys, guys... cute!Mulder hath returneth.

Look at him, getting flustered looking for his jacket because he just lost his notes, you can almost see the thoughts in his brain, like... 

“Not my jacket too... what the hell is goin--oh.  There it is.”

The fact that she doesn’t say anything; just lets him have a mini panic haha... I luffs her.

Also the rolled up sleeves... I know I’m not the only one who finds rolled up shirt sleeves hot.  Like, dayum... Mulder knows how to rock the white collar aesthetic.

So despite not finding his notes, they hot step-it to the meeting anyway.  But hey, not to worry - turns out the notes found their way to the meeting without him!

Jerry is presenting “his” profile to the task force, and Mulder realises pretty quickly that it’s actually his own missing profile that Jerry is reading from.  Mulder has an interesting reaction to this - he’s visibly annoyed, but makes no move to stop Jerry - Mulder is loyal to a fault.

What I love about this scene though is that Scully realises it’s Mulder’s profile too and seems ready to fight his corner, and he knows it - which is probably why he lies and says it isn’t.  

How did she know, though?  It’s possible Mulder talked to her about it before the meeting, but I’m a shipper schmuck, so I choose to believe she has become so familiar with his work that she was able to recognise it as his, even when being palmed off by someone else as their own.  Like, when you know an author so well that you can recognise their writing.  I think Scully could recognise Mulder’s profile in a similar fashion..  

Anyway, Mulder then confronts Jerry, but Jerry brushes him off and doesn’t take Mulder’s grievance seriously at all, in fact, I’m fairly certain Jerry knows he can push Mulder around and he knows Mulder won’t react.  

Which is exactly what happens, Jerry doesn’t apologise, acts like Mulder is being an unreasonable dick, and takes off.  Mulder does absolutely nothing about this.

Scully, who clearly did not believe a word of Mulder’s denial - because bae knows her man’s work when she hears it - asks what Jerry said about being a filthy plagiarising snot bucket, but Mulder covers for him - again.

This is what I mean by Jerry being the dominant personality, he seemingly walks all over Mulder and Mulder lets him.  I think that’s probably a little taster of what it was like between them in the past too.

Which inadvertently puts a spotlight on how different Mulder and Scully’s dynamic is.  Mulder is comfortable with Scully for one - he is pretty unfiltered a lot of the time.  He’s just himself.  Snark and all.  

But there is also the intellectual balance that Mulder and Scully share - she is his intellectual equal.  I never really felt that Mulder was more intelligent than Scully; Mulder is simply more open to the extreme possibilities and looks for answers there first.  Scully looks for answers there only when all other explanations have been exhausted.  In a sense, she’s simply more thorough than him.  There are plenty of times when she out smarts him too, but they’re never threatened by each other - they stand on equal footing and respect one another enough that something like what happened between Mulder and Jerry - stealing his work for Chrissakes - is inconceivable between Mulder and Scully.  She’d have more self respect, for one.

Makes you realise how lucky Mulder was to have Scully assigned to him when you see how his abilities can potentially alienate his colleagues, and even his friends.

Last bit about this scene - this made me chuckle, Scully low key slipping Mulder a backhanded compliment.  

The irony of all of this though, is that the behavioural profile is utterly wrong and the killer is the machine but shhh... let’s not dwell on the details.

So Mulder and Scully head off to chat with Brad Wilczek, the guy who created the machine... and Oh my God, my baby agents... look at them!

Ugh... my heart.  They’re so sickeningly cute.

There’s an interesting conversation here with Brad, where he talks about how in the world of computer science there are “scruffy” minds and “neat” minds.  The neat deal with what he describes as “surface phenomena” things they can understand... hmm.  Sounds like someone we know, doesn’t it?

He then describes scruffy minds as puzzle solvers; people who enjoy “walking down unpredictable avenues of thought” to see where they end up.  Another way of describing someone who is open-minded?  

I don’t know if the parallel was intended, but it feels like the implication is that Mulder is a scruffy mind, and Scully is a neat mind.   Also, perhaps a tiny bit of foreshadowing was made to this point with Mulder’s messy desk and Scully’s jab about him never tidying it.

But if these two work so well together; if their scruffiness and neatness compliment one other to maintain some kind of equilibrium, then what might that mean for Brad Wilczek and his machine?  Perhaps that’s another aspect of the MSR that’s being expressed here - that an unchecked scruffy mind can lead to its own self-destruction, and that an unchallenged neat mind can stifle progress.  

Yep, I can find MSR in aaaaaaanything.

Now what happens next is that Mulder and Jerry finally have it out, and he admits in not so many words that he is jealous of Mulder.  But we move past this as Scully - despite not knowing how monitors work...

...cracks the case using voice recognition software and confirms that the murderer was Brad Wilczek. At least, that’s what they think.

Jerry, feeling his career is going down the pan unless he can “dazzle the higher ups” himself, wants to bring Wilczek in alone.  To take all the credit, basically.  To which Mulder agrees - as before, Mulder always does what Jerry wants.

The next scene I am certain is responsible for giving me a lifelong fear of lifts.  The scene where we say farewell to Jerry Lamana.

I used to be fine as a very young child - I remember liking them in fact, but at some point in my childhood I became very fearful of them, particularly if I was going in one alone.  I was certain the cables would snap and I would fall to my death.  I feared them so much, I stopped using them.  I would always take the stairs - always.  I still have the strong compulsion to avoid lifts even today, but I am a lot better than I was.

Watching this scene again, I had a visceral reaction of fear and realised it probably started for me when I saw this episode as an 11 year-old girl.  Weird.

It’s quite disturbing to me, watching Mulder review the tape of his friend fall to his death.  

The way Mulder shakes his head watching him die... it’s very unsettling but also morbidly voyeuristic - he watches it blank faced, on repeat.  For some reason it reminds me of times I’ve seen footage of people dying in real life tragedies.  That is traumatic enough, without actually knowing and caring about the people meeting their ends in the footage.

Scully then comes in and interrupts his self-torture.

This little moment is very touching, the way she slows everything down, speaking slowly and knees at his level.  Her right elbow is bent, does she have her hand on his leg??

Ahem... anyway.  Scully is right.  So right.  Mulder has been through a lot, and it goes deep.  It’s exactly the right thing for her to do - to try and slow him down and get him to acknowledge that what happened has affected him.  Because there is no way that it wouldn’t have.  The guilt of letting Jerry go alone would be crushing enough.

Mulder cannot do that though, he needs more than ever now to solve this case; to get justice for Jerry, but also to avoid acknowledging what he is feeling.  

We know Mulder is a pro at that.  

As mentioned in my Conduit analysis, Mulder’s experience of people getting close to him is that they always leave.  They’re always taken away from him... I don’t think he wants to listen to Scully because he has become very good at keeping his feelings at arms length when he needs to protect himself from them and get shit done.  

After Scully tells Mulder that Wilczek has confessed to the murders, Mulder refuses to accept that - he is convinced Wilczek is innocent, so he goes for a chat with Deep Throat to find out why the government are getting involved.

#I’mSexyAndIKnowIt  

Deep Throat basically connects all the dots for Mulder #cheating and leaves him convinced that not only is Wilczek innocent, but that it’s his machine that killed Jerry and the previous victim.  So he goes to visit him in jail.

Mulder isn’t interested in examining the fantastical in this scenario - which is this incredibly advanced A.I.  No, he wants to straight up ALT+F4 spam it’s ass.  Then go to the Add/Remove programs section of the Control Panel and ANGRILY CLICK UNINSTALL!

Basically, he wants to destroy it.  Destroy the thing that took something precious away from him.

It’s not Mulder’s usual M.O., is it.

Think about how, as recently as Shadows, Mulder was willing to risk lives in order to examine paranormal phenomenon.  The ghost in that episode had killed many more people than this machine too.  He didn’t bat an eyelid then.  But this is personal, and Mulder isn’t interested in investigating this incredible A.I. - he just wants to make sure it gets what it deserves.

We get another opportunity here for Scully to show how well she has got to know Mulder in such a short time.  She picks up on the fact he isn’t quite being himself.  She can see straight away that something else is going on for him, even if she can’t quite see clearly what it is.

At a guess, I’d say she thinks Mulder is feeling guilty for Jerry’s death.  Which I think is exactly right and probably what drives him to want to destroy the machine rather than try to understand it.  The threat of the government getting hold of it feels like more of an afterthought than a primary motivation, but maybe that’s just me.

Also, it’s not made especially clear whether Mulder shared that he got all of this information from Deep Throat.  So Scully has nothing to go on here.  It’s no wonder she doesn’t believe what he’s saying - he’s giving her very little to work with.  It’s not that she refuses to believe it, it’s that his argument isn’t credible enough, he needs to give her more.  But he doesn’t.

Scully, bless her, is just trying to take care of her friend and partner, but is pushed away.  Mulder isn’t wholly heartless, he can see what’s motivating her resistance is concern for him.  There is a brief moment where Mulder visibly softens hearing her words.

When he says “you’re probably right” I think he is genuinely agreeing with her, it’s not a brush off.  She is probably right that he isn’t being himself, that he is being driven by what happened to Jerry - he recognises that.  But he still can’t stop - he has to do what he has to do.  He understands that while Scully is more concerned for him than the case, he won’t get through to her.  So he gives up.

That’s the disappointing part of the MSR here for me. The way Mulder gives in and stops trying to get Scully on side - that’s not their way, they’re always weaker when they’re apart.  Normally he rises to her challenges and fights tooth and nail to bring her on board... but he just nopes out of this one.

Then, as if to prove that all Scully needed was something a bit more substantial to go on than “the machine did it!” and she would have helped Mulder, she witnesses her home computer being hacked into.

A trace on her phone line reveals the hacker is at the Eurisko building - where Wilczek’s machine is located. 

She arrives to find Mulder about to 007 his way inside, and tells him what happened.  He again asserts that it’s the machine behind it all, but this time she’s open to it - now she has some actual evidence to work with.  

And the team is back!

Isn’t Mulder having way too much fun for a guy about to face a murderous HAL9000-wannabe?  When Scully is there with him, he just enjoys it so much more.   Look at him, within minutes of Scully being back on side he’s quipping and smiling again.  I love the look she gives him, because she notices it too.

This offered hand makes me happier than it should.  I need help, really.  But the touching!

Oh the touching!

It’s so subconscious for Mulder to do that, it’s gotta be a protective thing, I’m sure of it.  When he’s feeling protective of her out comes the guiding hands.  Also when he wants to create a barrier between the two of them and someone else - hello handy hands!  

I mean, not always... I think sometimes it’s just force of habit.  But I do wonder if it’s comforting for him, to feel he’s connected to her - we already know that he finds her presence reassuring.  Maybe I am, again, looking too much into it, but that’s why you read this crap, right?  You want me to look too far into it!

Welp, can do!

Seriously, he’s just enjoying himself, isn’t he.

They eventually come to a locked door that they can’t get past, so Mulder has the bright idea of shoving Scully into the air ducts.  

#FeetTouching!

It goes about as well as you would expect.

Of course there’s a giant fan with exposed blades.

Mulder in the meantime has been let in the door by the far-too-helpful-to-not-be-suspicious buildings super.  But works out too late that he’s actually working for the government.

So what exactly does Mulder think has happened to Scully at this point?  They were both almost electrocuted by the machine trying to open a door earlier - this murderous computer is trying every trick in the book to kill them both, and yet he doesn’t seem too concerned that Scully has disappeared.

Wanker.

Who needs Mulder anyway.  The shit is hitting the fan for Scully at the moment OH HO HO HO... but she is being a complete bad ass, hanging from 1 hand whilst trying to shoot out the fan’s power supply.  

Seriously, Scully is such a fucking BAMF.  It takes Mulder until season 10′s My Struggle II to get a moment where he even comes close to being as cool as Scully.

Which makes it all the more vindicating when - after saving her own ass - she shows up later to save Mulder’s as well.

Fucking yeah you do.

Mulder is like, “I know this is totally inappropriate but I’m so turned on right now.”

Just as an aside... Why didn’t Mulder ask her if she was okay?  Seriously, look at her - she’s covered in cuts and bruises and clearly traumatised.  

She’s been through some shit since he last saw her.  Who gives a fuck about this guy, ask if your partner is okay, Mulder!

I was genuinely disappointed in him for not asking.

Ok, enough of that - time for some good old MSR.  So, Scully has a choice here.  

Believe the government spy who says that this is a sensitive operation that she and Mulder are trespassing in on, that she is betraying her sworn duty as a government agent by interfering, and that she will be held personally responsible for the destruction of the machine if she allows Mulder to use Wilczek’s virus to destroy it.

Or believe in her crackpot, albeit brilliant, partner about the machine being a super intelligent A.I. that can kill for self-preservation, and that the technology is so dangerous that the government should not be trusted with it.

Like there was ever a choice.

Of course she sides with Mulder and holds the government goon at gunpoint while Mulder does what he came to do.

I like this scene, because even though she’s not sure if she fully believes what Mulder is saying about the machine is true, she will always have his back.  No matter what.

Scully really was the MVP of this episode.

Sadly, there’s nothing after this; for me it feels oddly unfinished.  There’s no feeling of resolution to the Jerry stuff earlier in the episode which I thought was a shame, especially since Mulder was definitely driven to this by what happened to Jerry.  It could have done with one more scene with Mulder and Scully - maybe at Jerry’s funeral - acknowledging that he did what he did, at least in part, for Jerry.

But nope, the episode ends with Mulder meeting with Deep Throat who tells Mulder that his actions have led to Wilczek being detained by the government indefinitely as there is now no proof that he was innocent of the murders.

We know that he was definitely not prepared to let the thing live.  But turns out it might not have mattered anyway, the final scene shows the machine briefly flicker back to life from the wreckage.  DUN DUN DUN!

Don’t worry, we never see it again.  Like, ever.

And that, as they say, is that.  The end of another episode! 

Next up... 1x08 - Ice.

It’s a biggie next week - Ice is an interesting episode, the MSR gets tested to it’s limits.  Should be a good one - so see you then, guys!

[footprinting]

Tarawera 2020 ✨

"So Emma, how does it feel to have so many people you care about running this weekend?".

In an immensely thoughtful few seconds, Nico zoomed right into the heart of everything.

We were in Rotorua to run Tarawera. Friday had been filled with festivities. Saturday was to be the big one. We had a rare few minutes chilling at our shared house of dear friends, in between one activity to another.

It had been a whirlwind of a week. A week previously I had hopped on a plane to see my sister in Perth - and more specifically, her with her newborn wee girl. Winnie was 11 weeks when I visited. She's perfect. We had precious days together just being, and besotted by this tiny niece. After four days: back to Wellington. Sleep. Drive up to Napier. My brother had arranged for all of us to see Elton John at the Mission, in particular for my Mum. Spectacular. It was a colourful rainbow of joyfulness and festivities - no black t-shirts to be seen - and we immersed ourselves in the warmth and music and drank it all in from the grassy field. Then a through the night drive from Napier to Rotorua, arriving at 2am. Sleep. Up again. The weekend was ready to begin. A few of us headed down to the expo and squeals of enthusiasm welcomed people from far afield, with a particular highlight being Marieve from Canada. We leapt and hugged and exclaimed that this could barely be real. It was a feeling that was to continue. Family had shone bright that week. Treasured friends radiated that same meaningful brightness.

Its been three weeks since that weekend. I keep trying to write a race report. When I think of the weekend the numbers and details fade away. It's the feels that stay with me. Love. So much love. Highs. The highs that were stratospheric. Lows. When I hear someone had to quit from the event, or when my heart falls to my feet with worry for someone else who's not doing well. Thankfulness. For all the helpers. Bewilderment. At learning to accept help. And then: more love.

No pain. No pride. No rah rah rah I'm amazing. I read a book about ultra running this week. It missed a point. It was about pushing and striving and being hard. But nothing of what it means to build a family of people who gravitate toward these same meaningful journeys we go on. And that's the real story I want to tell. Nor is the photo of a medal or a jump or a selfie. It's of a torn up hand, raw; holding two gifted daisies in wonderment from two cheering kids.

(Here's the disclaimer that you're going to need a coffee, an Ultra IPA, or a big swig of electrolyte to last the distance on this read. Settle in!)

Friday was magic. Zooming around the race check in and expo and seminars and friends was like a trail running Disneyland. I could feel myself getting nervous for Chris and for Rachel, both in for the big dance of 💯 with me. Marieve called BS on my thinking: "Hey! You're racing tomorrow! Look out for you too!". She settled my mind for the better. Strong friends know to look out for strong friends. We found quiet oases of time. We had prepared a lot back in Wellington, and this helped gift us spare hours and relaxing. Bed. Early. Reasonable sleep -- never excellent the night before -- and we woke before the 3.50am alarm.

Saturday started with a series of familiar steps. Shower. Coffee. Bircher muesli. Whispered conversation. Our bags for the day re-checked. Out the door we went. In the dark we walked the fifteen minutes to our 5am bus. The drive reminded us the scale of the journey ahead of us. Winding roads took over an hour to the start line. It rained. We were grateful for this: not too hot, and the first rain for this scorched town since Christmas. The start line was a colourful blur of people, many focused on toilet logistics. We assembled on the start line. We were ready. We look into each others eyes, Chris especially, and with Rachel, we grasp each other with meaningful words. We set off.

I was calm. It was surreal, being back in this field, where I had been three times previously. Always a finish line to amazing days. This time was the beginning. We wound ourselves around fields and the trail. Two figureheads were clapping and cheering on the edge of a high up field: Paul, the race founder / beautiful human and Kerry, previous winner / coach extraordinarre / comedian and these guys are two of the biggest hearts around. Both have been gateway drugs for us into trail running and I admire them immensely. "Hey Paul! Hey Kerry!" I yahooed up at them. They both returned with a HEY! EMMA! and Kerry yells "Right folks, run with her today, she's the cheeriest runner around!". On we weave in this dreamlike but focussed state. They are new trails we're running when we get past the fields. Beautiful. I see great whirlpools of deep water alongside the weaving track. It's going to be warm today but we're still comfortable. We get into the foresty road after 5 or so kilometres. I'm excited about this section. My legs start moving more easily, eager to settle in to some happy miles.

And then. Kilometre 9 or 10. On a piece of gravel barely the size of a fingernail. I'm flying. I go down. I'm up and running again before I dust myself off. The guys around me got a fright, as much as I did. "I'm getting the fall out of the way for today!" I jest. Adrenaline keeps me going. It stings. My sunglasses are done for, the front of my clothes dusted up. I wash myself off a bit at the next aid station. This is a return of a shakiness that's bugged me since the end of last year, a previous fall on a trail. It's ok. I recalibrate. I'm feeling ok and I know I'll be fine, alongside the need to be careful.

Kilometres 10 through 35 tick along happily. It's flowing and beautiful. Never boring. The light is already rising over the trees. My phone is purposefully tucked deep inside my bag. I absorb it all instead. The flowy paths. The cheer and vibrancy of the aid stations. The banter. People ask me sometimes what I do not to get bored when I run. So many hours! They say. But this was all encompassing. Connected. I dove into conversations in my mind that I needed to have, and occasional ones with trail friends.

At kilometre 35, Tarawera Falls, it gets a bit more technical, and again going through Tarawera Outlet. It is magestic at the Falls. Those deep, dark whirlpools. I run past one amazing vista after another. At the fifth or sixth jaw dropping viewpoint I relent. It's time to get a picture. The trail running fairies will give me demerit points if I don't capture this magic. And so I do. On we go. Each of these aid stations is such a lift. People! Colour! A hive of activity and people looking deep into your eyes offering help.

Through Tarawera Falls to Humphries Bay to Lake Okataina, kilometres 35 to 58, is the most technical of the day. Gorgeous, tricky, playful trail. I'm slower than usual here. I charge my watch during this section; biffing it into my bag in it's entirety with the charger. I hear it chirrup with each kilometre. But I don't need to see the pace. People are slowing, tired, grumbly sometimes. One person behind me audibly swears every time she hits a tree root. Which is very often. Loudly. Distracting. I zoom on a bit to get ahead. I'm ticking along and managing energy all ok. I realise here that my time goals have galloped on. I won't hit the number I had in mind. And that's ok. I make peace with it. The day is more important. Later I reflect on this: was I not hungry enough? How much more could I have done? But I'm at ease. It's ok. I settle in. I'm more than half way, relaxed, and I've still got some work to do.

I see the sign indicating an aid station up ahead, cruising into Okaitaina at kilometre 58. For the people that have run Tarawera: we recognise this aid station sign in a nanosecond. It is magical. The simplicity of red lettering on white background simply saying 'Aid Station, 200m' brings with it floods of endorphins, a feeling of possibility, and the knowledge that people will be on the other side of that sign. I am floating now, skipping along the end of the trail as I reach it. There's something more here though. A megaphone. A women in a wedding dress yahooing at me through the megaphone. Hallucinations??Nope. This could only be Lesley, spectacularly inspiring fearsome badass lady and coach extraordinarre Lesley! We each leap and embrace and squeal and then she runs in her wedding dress to help me with what I need, talking to me through the megaphone the whole time. What do I need? How am I feeling? Hurry the heck up she says, we'll sort you right out! In a blur of joy I'm getting my stuff, being covered in sun lotion by a lovely lady. ("This reminds me of looking after kids", she says with handfuls of sun lotion and I say it must be my childlike glee). I see a really special colleague at my left elbow, who's supporting a friend. I ask how her day is doing, how her friend is doing, and before I know it I'm being chased right out of the aid station by Lesley. Chop chop she says, get right out of here! On I go to chase the next hill, the last 2 minutes a blur of people and wondrousness and noise and hilarity. That was the first aid station all day of supporters (alongside volunteers) and I realised even more then how much I valued their company.

I head into Western Okaitaina Walkway. The next section is the longest of the day, 16-17 kilometres. It will be a slog. Except it's not. Not too bad. I had literal nightmares after I ran this twice the first year, the first ultra ever and in a tropical cyclone, an apocalypse of mud that was neverending. I would wake for years later being right back there, skiing in ankle deep sludge. I'd remember the feeling of standing in the shower afterwards, all my clothes on and even shoes, the mud still stuck on me. Now? It's a beautiful winding trail. Birds chirrup as do cicadas. There's dense bush and flowy trail. Sure, it takes work. But it's special. And I'm grateful for the tree cover and a reprieve from baking sun. It could be hotter, or more barren. I get it done.

Afterwards someone says to me: you couldn't have a constantly negative attitude running ultras, could you? The positivity must help. And it does. Positivity alongside realism. Sometimes you get tired. You problem solve. You keep on. You're in it for the big picture. You embrace the ups and downs. I realise here what I've got Chris into, and Rachel too, each running their own days behind me. I feel guilty. They'll be so tired. It's so long. I'm tired too. I'm doing the maths on the course and I'm already seeing it will run a little long. But there's work to do: I focus on keeping my feet flowing and running within my abilities. I recognise some of the trail, and always find new bits I'm seeing as if for the first time. Each brings with it sets of memories. And onwards I go.

I reach Miller Road, after 17k through the up and over of Western Okaitaina Walkway. "Heck am I happy to see you!" I exclaim, and I'm not the first that day to say so. I fill myself up with ginger beer, being careful to keep things simple with food, I'm getting closer to the finish line now (at 75k) but there's still a long way to go. I see a couple of running heroes waiting for a friend of theirs: one heckles me, one heckles him for heckling me and with kindness. It feels good to run downhill on the gravel road. I belt it a little bit. These legs still work. My mood has stayed mainly high for the day. There'll be wobbles every so often. But all solvable. I see so much of the beauty. I feel so bloody lucky to be out here. The only thing I have to do is keep moving.

I come into Okaitaina campground where we camped last summer, and on next to the magnificent new boardwalk around the lake. My feet have been scratching at me. You don't mess around with these things: if it's almost a problem now it will be a problem in a few kilometres and then a Very Big Problem a few kilometres after that. I had meant to change my socks at Okaitaina before I sped out of there like a racecar in a highly tuned pitstop (led by Lesley in a wedding dress). I have spares in my bag. So I take a seat at the next opportunity, peel off my shoes and socks, wipe off my feet, and luxuriate in the ridiculously amazing fresh socks. Plus a quick message to Chris (I love you and I hope you're having an amazing day and here is where I am and things are good) and my friend who'll be waiting to join me (I'm running late I say, I'll be there as soon as I can!). A selfie is a must to a group of girlfriends. And: all this takes 7 minutes. Seven. The best. Could I have kept on without it? Of course. Might it have bitten me later by not changing? Likely. Was it worth it for my mind? Hell yes.

Off I zoom (lol - off I creak) further around Lake Okaitaina, then Okaitaina township, then into Tennant's Track, then on to Blue Lake. I'm always in awe of the thousands of hours volunteers are investing into the event. And so many marshalls sitting on corners are doing exactly that through here. I notice and I thank them and I keep on. Tennant's Track is pretty cut up and rooty, and there's lots of concentrating happening. I pop out near Blue Lake - and there are supporters! - yay! Maybe it's 20 kilometres to go now, and this is all feeling more possible. Around Blue Lake I go, maybe slower than ever, with a highlight being when I hear Stu Milne at my elbow. "Gidday Emma!" he says, as he speeds into view. Holy shit! my blurred mind exclaimed, Stu - you're winning the miler?? It wasn't far off: he was the pace runner for the first placed 100-mile runner, and the two of them floated along these smooth delightful trails at a speeding pace that I'd run a fast 10 kilometres in.

I come into the Blue Lake aid station, again to familiar faces, and again so grateful for the people that give up their weekends to help us in ours. There's a photo Julia took of me coming in here and I'm full beam, OMG PEOPLE and in realising the end is nigh. I know the trail from here and I am already looking forward to seeing more people I love. The sun is low as I run through the Redwoods. The light is very special. It's paradise. Still very hard. But there's no doubting it's special here. I look down at my watch and I know that there are more hills to come. But on we go. We got this. Bending around corners and over hills. Onwards. Through here there is a cluster of three people, of an adult and two kids. Each kid gives me a single daisy. Great job! they say. I almost lose it in a flurry of emotion. I high five them and thank them hugely. I promise to carry the daisies with me. They are in my palm for a long time, and then in my pack pocket. These are the things I remember.

On and on deep into the Redwoods. And then. We're getting there. The aid station is further than I remember. Now I can see the cars and hear the music with the people. With this there will be 7 kilometres to go. I am already anticipating seeing Kate's face, her energy as we run together for that last bit, what it means to share that time after she's been waiting. I get there. I see her! But hang on: there are more people. Abi is also going to run. Jaime, Nico, Richard and Julia are all there too. What's happening?? They are there to cheer and yahoo, especially. This lifts me so high that I feel like a whole new person, a new day, a new run. Off we set in our trio. "Tell me everything about your day!! How are you?? I can't believe you're here after already running the 20 today!!" I say, I want to know everything and hear everything and drink in their own achievements of what they've done. (Also fun tip: asking questions is a super great way of getting your breath back a tiny bit). Along we gallop, them steering me in the right direction and cautioning me of all the various bumps and dangers and mile markers of how far to go. I feel cocooned and accept the help. I feel like the luckiest ever.

There's more.

Lindsay and Mel are on a corner. They leap up and down. They have their running shoes on. They are here to join us. We are now a fivesome.

The sun is reaching the lake now and the water is ablaze with pink, reflecting the glowing skies. The light is otherworldly. It's like a storybook. And with these Queens. The best.

Michelle joins us in a field. All these people have already crushed a race of their own - and are running, again, a quietly planned flourish to end this shared day. We're collecting people! Then Mal. Jaime. Nico. The pace is getting faster and faster, we're almost there, and faster still when they tell me the beer tent is closing. (Jokes. But it helped). Nine of us round the corner into the finishing chute. We're there. I leap over the finish line and in the background you can see people. The crew. My loves. Hands held up high in cheers. We did it.

Kerry is on the finish line commentating, a book end to the day. He was there at the beginning and here he is on the finish line. I thank him. This is not a day of sleep for him, nor much even in the month prior. He's a cornerstone to many peoples journeys and has been part of mine in recent years. We share words. I thank him for making friends on that bus all those years ago on the first Tarawera: You think you've come for a run, he said, but you are going to stay for the people.

Around the corner into the aid tent I go and I want to zoom right out to hang with these cherished people (and to lay horizontal in the grass). Want do you want to do now? I say. And I realise there's nothing else to do. Nothing we have to. But to be. And they spoil me like heck, with those minutes and those hours following being about sharing in the day. Of all our days. I get a shower. We go out for dinner. I get a nap. We go back out to that majestic last aid station.

My voice is scratchy from so many hollers and cheers at the 2am cheer party. This is the final aid station where we spend over two hours. I see Marieve in her last few kilometres, and Rachel, and then Chris. CHRIS! We run the end of his day together too, a story all of it's own, and a very meaningful one. He finishes. We leave the finish line as the sun comes up. It's been more than 24 hours since we woke the day previously.

What a day it had been, in between.

It's never about the day. It's about everything that comes before it, and the learnings, and the relationships that flourish to make it what it becomes. That's what keeps us going back. And that - I don't say this lightly - changes lives.

[adampage]

Eddie | AJ Styles

 Pairing: AJ Styles x OFC (Maria), AJ x Eddie (the cat)

“This might be weird, and I totally get if it’s not poss 😆, but maybe one where [AJ] realises cats are awesome and he shldn’t hate them?? Is that too weird?” - @we-work-hard

Word Count: 1,950

Tagging: @we-work-hard / @llowkeys / @unabashedwwesmut / @kingslayers-angel / @p1-fanfiction / @ajstylesworld / @the-geekgoddes / @xxmaddhatter39xx / @justrae9903 / @reigns420 / @xstylesxclashx / @gurimujox / @p0tat0catofwesteros / @toosweetme / @your-darkdiva / @thephenomenonalkingofthebrogues / @welshwitch5

Author’s Note: I’m taking requests! This was nearly too easy to write. I basically took the relationship between my dad and my cat Tito (may he rest in peace) and got this from it. So, I’m dedicating this to Tito. I love you and I miss you, my dear sweet gentleman. 💙

She remembered the moment he showed up on her doorstep. Literally. Not AJ, obviously - guys don’t just show up on people’s doorsteps, hold on, never mind - but Eddie, her cat. He was black and white down the middle and on three of his legs, as if he wore a tuxedo everywhere he went, with pink paw beads and an even pinker nose and gorgeous yellow-green eyes. When she picked him up, he was all muscle, toned and strong, but seemingly chubby, too. Basically, the most adorable cat you’d ever see in your life. He showed up one day, rolling around in front of Maria’s house, begging to be touched. Okay, so, maybe AJ and Eddie had more in common than they liked to think. 

Eddie, ever the gentleman and ever patient, remained outside until Maria allowed him in, after weeks of her leaving food outside and water for him to slurp, when she noticed that someone had injured him near his tail, and she wasn’t just going to let the poor kitty deal with his injury on his own if being outside meant he was prone to infection.

She managed to coax him into a pet carrier and took him to the vet, where the vet told her they’d have to give Eddie stitches, recommending also for him to stay indoors and to take antibiotics every day. Needless to say, he was hers, and Maria didn’t mind it one bit. Fast forward months later, she’s in a relationship with AJ Styles. She also met him while he was dressed in a tux, at a mutual friend’s wedding. They caught each other’s eye; he made the first move. They got to talking, and she instantly fell in love with that southern drawl of his. But she didn’t want to let him think she was too interested, so she left the wedding as soon as her friend and her new husband left the party early for their honeymoon in the Bahamas. He showed up at her doorstep the next day, begging her to let him in, and she happily obliged from that day on. The only problem was, Eddie and AJ didn’t get along. Well, AJ didn’t get along with Eddie. Eddie was too sweet to let a strong man like AJ get the better of him.

Maria chop chop chopped at the onions, chewing a piece of gum, the knife hitting the green cutting board with a thud, thud, thud. “Maria.” Came the southern drawl, all too different from the way her parents would call to her. Her name on his lips was kinder, with less of an edge. Though, he somehow sounded distressed all the same. “Yes, AJ.” “This gosh darn cat won’t leave me alone.” Sure enough, she peered down near AJ’s legs to find Eddie, purring away. AJ sighed, exasperated. “Did I mention how much I hate cats?” “Dios mío, AJ, if you pet him, he’ll leave you alone!” “But I don’t want to pet him.” He huffed, crossing his arms like a little boy throwing a temper tantrum. “Then by all means, AJ, he’s going to keep bothering you.” Realizing his one and only defense against the furry beast wasn’t going to help, AJ raised his hands in surrender, rolling his eyes. “Okay, but he better leave me alone after this.” And Eddie did. For a little while, anyway.

You see, AJ had big, strong, wide hands. They were a whole heck of a lot bigger than Maria’s, and Eddie liked it rough. He loved the feeling of AJ’s hands raking across his fur, then padding it down and petting him in just the right manner. It was downright pleasurable, is what it was. He just couldn’t get enough. And when Eddie realized that AJ took fifteen minutes longer in the bathroom than Maria did, it sealed the deal. The distinctive sound of AJ grunting onto the toilet to settle down for the next quarter of an hour drove Eddie from any hiding place in any part of the house. As soon as AJ sat down, Eddie’s perky little monkey tail came running past the bathroom door. “Damn you, you cunning little devil,” AJ said, after the umpteenth time he had to keel over and pet the little fucker so he’d leave him in peace. “I hate you.” Eddie’s response was a sweet little squeak of a meow, hardly even audible, as if to say, “Who? Me?” And Maria would waltz into the bathroom on accident, to the dismay of both cat and man. “Maria, it’s bad enough he’s in here when I’m trying to do something private. I can’t have both of you in here. Come on, now,” AJ whined, shooing her away, to her delighted, “OKAY, okay, jeez.” She left, but not before turning around to catch the glimpse of a smile on AJ’s face as he reached for his boy.

AJ finally began to understand Eddie one fine day in June. It was blistering hot, the air conditioning was out, and he and Maria were both cramped in her tiny kitchen the color of sunshine, cooking some sort of Colombian dish. His blue sleeveless tank was soaked all down his back, and he had his hair pulled up in a bun. It was days like these that he wished he had the heart to shave off all his scruff, but he knew Maria loved it. “Chop this for me.” “Ooookay.” AJ stepped back from the counter to grab a knife from the cutlery drawer, when he felt something under his foot- “YEOWWWWWWWWWW!” A blur of black and white dashed from the kitchen, disappearing under the living room sofa. “AJ, what did you do?!” Maria screamed. “I ain’t done shit,” he yelled, “it’s this damn cat’s tail done went under my feet!” “Well, did you apologize?” Maria retorted accusingly. “Maria, it’s a cat, it don’t need no goddamned apology.” She sighed, unwilling to push the argument any further.

Later that day, AJ went to the bathroom. As he settled in, he heard the ever familiar pitter patter of bounding paws running down the stairs above him, the monkey tail stopping in its tracks as it walked through the door. Eddie took one look at AJ and ran right back out of the bathroom. AJ couldn’t believe his eyes. The godforsaken cat was holding a grudge. A fucking grudge. A cat. Holding a grudge. A cat that holds grudges. Whaa? He found Maria settled into bed, reading glasses on the tip of her crooked nose as she flipped the pages of her favorite book, The Tale of Despereaux. He slipped under the thin covers from his side of her bed, watching her for a few moments. He wanted to mention Eddie, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was a damn cat, for goodness’ sake. Why should he care what a cat thinks about him, anyway? So he just lay there, arm behind his head, staring out into her bedroom. “What is it?” She finally asked. “What makes you think there’s something wrong?” AJ responded defensively, curious and not really sure if he even wanted to mention what was wrong just yet. “You’ve been laying next to me for three minutes and you haven’t bothered to cuddle me. That is very un-AJ.” He frowned. Was he really that obvious? “And Eddie hasn’t bothered to come cuddle me in bed, either, very un-Eddie, which means whatever’s going on is between the two of you.” AJ let out a breath. Okay, so everything about this was pretty damn obvious. “He came when I went to the bathroom and then he left when he saw me.” The he was clear. “That’s because he resents you, AJ. You hurt his feelings and his tail.” “It was an accident!” He defended. “So tell him it was an accident and go apologize.” “First off, I don’t see why I should go apologize to a damn cat.” Maria sighed, exhausted that she had to mediate between these two idiots. She took off her glasses and placed them on the bedside table, along with her book which she meticulously dog eared to remember her place. Pinche hombre no entiende que los gatos son igual que los humanos. “If you stepped on my foot, would you say sorry?” Her tone carried an edge to it that AJ himself would never be able to master. “Yes.” He whispered, arms crossed, clearly in disdain for where this conversation was going. “What else would you do?” He smiled sweetly. “Anything for you, darlin’.” “Nice try. What else would you do?” He huffed, but answered anyway. “Probably give you a massage to butter you up.” “All right, there’s your answer. Go do those exact things to Eddie.” “What? Are ya kiddin’ me? Maria, come on.” She gave him the death glare she inherited from her mother. “Did I fucking stutter?” “N-no,” he grumbled, stumbling out of bed. “Fine. Okay.” AJ found himself in the living room, turning on a lamp. He scanned the room for any sign of a black and white, and found Eddie’s shadow behind the curtains over the clear patio doors. Eddie’s ears perked up at the sound of AJ’s footfalls. They were heavier than Maria’s, but they seemed to be moving quicker. Eddie barely got up and bounded away before AJ’s hands reached out to where he was sleeping. “So this is how it’s going to be?” AJ muttered. AJ walked back through the bedroom door, shoulder slumped. “Maria, this cat won’t let me not five feet near ‘im.” “I’ll help you.” It was getting hot under those sheets, anyway. “His problem is with you, not me, so he’ll let me grab him.” It took them another ten minutes to finally find him. He had run upstairs, hidden behind the guest bed. Maria had brought a bag of kitty treats to lure him out with, and then she grabbed him, holding him gently in her arms. AJ was hiding just outside, waiting for her to bring him. “Look at my big, strong, manly gentle man,” she cooed at Eddie, petting him softly on his tummy. Eddie’s nose dug under her arm as she complimented and pampered him, clearly being lulled into a sense of security. AJ fought back the urge to get jealous of the way Maria was talking to him, knowing that if he made so much as a noise the cat would realize what was going on. When Eddie began to purr, Maria quickly walked through the door and handed him to AJ, who began to massage and pet Eddie with his strong, wide hands. Eddie struggled beneath his grasp, but AJ wouldn’t let go. “I’m sorry, Eddie, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry for hurting your tail, I’m sorry,” AJ chanted, continuing to massage him for what felt like hours and hours but was only mere minutes. “It’ll never happen again, I promise, I’ll watch where I’m going, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” When AJ noticed Eddie no longer struggled in his grasp, but was purring incessantly, he heaved with a sigh of relief, and let the furry being go. Eddie ran away, tail curved and delighted. Maria laughed. “So how are we sure that it worked?” AJ grinned. “Guess I need to visit the bathroom.” They descended the stairs, Maria stopping at their bed and tucking herself in, AJ lumbering towards the bathroom. As Maria drifted off to sleep, she heard the heavy little pawfalls of Eddie racing down the stairs, dropping himself at the foot of his master’s throne, and the subsequent, “there ya are, little guy” that escaped AJ’s lips.

[jiminnamoro]

blu oltremare

sanghyuk/hongbin; angst; pg-13; 7563 words; unbetad (english isn’t my first language so pls have mercy ;;)

i.

Sanghyuk has always wanted a treehouse. He has dreamed about it for ages- even now he thinks about painting it yellow, just like the big bright yellow ball shining in the sky. He thinks about filling it with warm pillows and tasty snacks and funny comics, maybe with a mattress and blankets too so he could spend summer nights there. His Naruto notebook is overflowing with drawings and notes and drafts, stickers, pictures and a very weird tutorial that he made up because there’s no way a ten-year-old boy could build a treehouse on his own, but the beech near his house is still the same and his father still complains that it would be way too expensive, so he keeps decorating his notebook with poorly drawn projects until he gets bored. Sanghyuk rarely gets bored anyway, and when he does, he just stares at that old tree through his window and sighs.

Sanghyuk has always wanted a treehouse. He thinks about painting it pitch black, dark and deep, with small white dots that look exactly like stars. It should be not too big, not too small, just a place where he could simply isolate himself from his responsibilities- and his parents, his damn science homework, mass on Sundays, tasteless vegetable soup for dinner and boring stuff like that. Hyuk dedicates an entire page of his notebook (and an entire afternoon too) to that particular design, switching from pastels to paint and mixing colors until he’s satisfied with the result.

Sanghyuk thinks about painting it red as well, kinda like a poppy, mostly because it’s his favorite color- red makes him feel alive, happy, full of excitement.

He thinks about painting it turquoise like the sea, lilac like his mother’s favorite necklace, grey like the sky when it’s about to rain, dark brown like chocolate, white like the first snow in December.

“Why don’t you make it blue?” Wonshik asks on a humid afternoon in June, teeth lazily chewing his straw and feet dangling off the bed. Sanghyuk bites his inner cheek, not really sure about his friend’s choice. Blue makes him feel sad. Gloomy, empty. It makes him feel like he’s tiny, useless, trapped. He listens (but not really) to Wonshik as he makes a never ending list of reasons why blue is totally the best option among the others, eyes traveling to the ceiling and mind trying to imagine a blue treehouse. There are so many shades of blue, and yet none of them looks appealing to Sanghyuk.

They end up dropping the conversation for some kind of reason, and to be honest Sanghyuk is grateful for that, since he’s too coward to tell Wonshik that no, he could never paint his beloved treehouse blue. He’d rather talk about his bad grades at school, or the grasshopper that visits him every morning, or the blueberry cake that his mother baked last Saturday.

“My parents and I are going to the movies for my birthday, are you coming with us?” Hyuk asks with a wide grin on his face, fingers carelessly playing with the white band-aid on his scratched knee. Just the mere idea of going to the city makes him shiver with anticipation. The skyscrapers are so tall, so cool, and all those bright lights stick behind his eyelids like glue until he falls asleep in the car.

“I’d love to, seriously, but we’re moving out this weekend.”

Sanghyuk stops playing with his band-aid and stares at Wonshik’s apologetic smile until the tightness in his tiny chest feels less painful. He completely forgot Wonshik’s parents decided to build a wonderful future for their son- new city, new school, new opportunities, new friends. Hyuk actually forgot it on purpose, wanting to bury the ugly feeling of being left behind deep down for as long as he could. He kinda understands the whole situation though, he surely doesn’t blame his friend, I mean, no one would refuse an opportunity to live in the city. The big, living, breathing city. The countryside doesn’t offer anything to someone with such big dreams like Wonshik.

“My parents sold our house to another family, you know, and I’ve met their son. He’s cool I guess” Wonshik mentions with a tiny smile, patting Sanghyuk’s back softly.

“Maybe he’s a fanatic of treehouses like you, who knows?”

Sanghyuk ends up laughing, his big nose occupying half of his face and hands ready to smack his friend with a random pillow. Wonshik laughs as well, hitting Hyuk back until they are breathless on the bed. Hyuk will miss this, he will miss this so damn much, he will miss sharing stories and laughing and staying up late with his only friend, he will miss running down the hill before sunset comes, he will miss Wonshik like crazy.

“Build that treehouse” Wonshik’s serious tone makes Sanghyuk turn his head towards him, ears listening and fingers holding the hem of his ugly brown t-shirt with nervousness.

“I expect a full tour when I come back, understood weirdo?”

Sanghyuk only nods, already feeling the knot in his throat getting bigger and bigger with every second. He doesn’t tell him that the idea of building it doesn’t appeal to him anymore because he already knows that Wonshik will never come back, so instead he simply offers his pinky and fights back the tears when Wonshik wraps his own around it.

Wonshik leaves on Friday morning after the sunrise, tilted snapback on his head and mp3 player already in his hands. He hugs Hyuk quickly before getting in the car, fingers brushing his eyelids every now and then so the tears don’t stain his cheeks- he hopes Sanghyuk doesn’t notice them (he does) and Sanghyuk hopes Wonshik will come back (he won’t).

The remaining days of June feel like a blur. Sanghyuk spends hours, if not entire afternoons, sitting on the windowsill with his hands pressed against the glass, eyes staring at that white van that keeps delivering boxes in front of his best friend’s old house. He sees furnitures getting replaced with new ones, people painting the walls and cutting grass, he sees Wonshik’s old sofa disappear inside another van and that’s when he feels his eyes wet again, so he closes the curtains and goes to sleep.

The new family officially moves in at the end of the month, when the air gets more humid and the trees gets greener, and Sanghyuk has to admit that those people seem quite rich. They have a pool, a porch, statues all around the backyard- he could go on forever, honestly. Hyuk sees a man and a woman talk near the doorstep, so he guesses those are the parents, and then a boy that looks slightly older than himself. Wonshik was right, they do have a son, but Sanghyuk doesn’t feel ready yet to meet him (will he ever be ready to meet him?) also because he doesn’t seem very friendly from afar. The grasshopper that lives in his room seems way friendlier, and that says a lot.

Sanghyuk’s opinion of his new little neighbour doesn’t change even after a week spent spying on him. He just sits all day on the carpet made of dewy grass and draws, and draws, and draws, and draws until the sun is about to set. He doesn’t do anything else- he doesn’t swim, he doesn’t play soccer, he doesn’t even wander around the village. The boy simply opens his silly case and takes out his silly crayons and Hyuk secretly wonders what’s so special about not moving for an eternity. Then he remembers that he does the same when it comes to planning his treehouse, so maybe this kid has a talent for drawing stuff- or he just really doesn’t have anything else better to do, which might be true since the countryside isn’t really the most fun place to live in.

They sometimes meet before mass starts, on hot Sunday mornings when the sun is already up in the sky and the lady that usually sells candy sells ice cream instead. Sanghyuk sits with the other kids, thin t-shirt stuck on his skin like glue and nails scraping the wood of the bench in front of his own. He watches as his neighbour sits on a bench as well, an empty one, with little fists rubbing his sleepy eyes and feet barely touching the ground. Hyuk would like to think that his friends like the new kid -they have always been so nice to Hyuk- but they don’t, oh they really don’t, and the mean comments he hears leave a bitter taste on his tongue that lasts even after he’s on his way back home. He later decides that he doesn’t want to sit next to them anymore.

“Why don’t you give Hongbin a chance? You two might become friends” Sanghyuk’s mother suggests on a Friday evening while chopping some carrots. Hyuk stares at his vegetable soup until it becomes cold, and when his father asks him why he’s not feeling hungry, he can’t decide if it’s because of the ice-cream he ate earlier or because he keeps thinking that Hongbin owns a name as pretty as he looks.

The next Sunday almost feels the same, except that Sanghyuk isn’t sitting with the other kids- he’s sitting on a half-empty bench right at the end of the church, knees pressed against his chest and eyes fixed on the polished shoes belonging to the boy sitting next to him. Hongbin doesn’t talk much but his slightly wavy hair smells like cherries and the dimples on his cheeks make Sanghyuk’s stomach feel weird, so maybe they could really become friends after all.

“Thanks for sitting next to me” the boy mutters to Sanghyuk when mass is over, and Sanghyuk, maybe because of witchcraft, can’t wait for the next Sunday to come already (he doesn’t want to admit that his cheeks felt redder than usual after that, but they did).

Hongbin, Hyuk eventually finds out after spending a few Sundays together, is quite friendly. He’s two years older than him but somehow he’s shorter, and that makes Sanghyuk laugh until the priest scolds both of them. They don’t chat during mass mostly because Hongbin wants to finish the drawing he started last week, and Hyuk has never been happier to look at someone literally drawing little ugly red stars on an ugly green sky.

“It’s so pretty” Sanghyuk whispers when Hongbin glues some gold glitter on a few clouds, and the way Hongbin’s eyes light up haunts him for the rest of the day (in a good way, that is).

Their friendship starts quietly and slowly, but it starts anyway. It begins with them waving at each other through their windows in the morning, breaths fogging the glass and shy smiles on their lips. It begins with them sitting on the same old hill until the sun sets, drawings scattered everywhere and knees bleeding from falling over way too many times. It begins with Sanghyuk sharing his snacks with Hongbin right before going to bed, their backs pressed against Hongbin’s roof and soft wind dancing through their hair. It begins with Hongbin sharing his precious crayons, it begins with Sanghyuk helping him climb a tree that really doesn’t seem stable, it begins with all of this and they don’t really realize it until summer ends.

Their friendship starts quietly and slowly, but it starts anyway. It begins on a windy night in August, when both of them are looking at the stars without their parents knowing- heartbeats loud and darkness dancing between those centimetres that separates them from each other.

“I wanna build a treehouse one day” Sanghyuk admits without even thinking, his eyes patiently waiting for a falling star and a piece of walnut from the chocolate bar he ate earlier still stuck between his teeth. He can’t see much but he can imagine Hongbin nodding, and he surely can imagine his smile as well, thought that paints his cheek dark pink- he’s not even that mad about it.

“Can I see it when it’s done? We could make it blue, it’s my favorite color!”

When Hongbin’s voice reaches Sanghyuk’s ears, it’s just a soft whisper. The younger finds that question pretty dumb, they’re friends and friends do everything together, so he reassures Hongbin that yes, they should totally hang out there. He doesn’t tell him that blue is absolutely out of question, though. Hongbin’s laugh sounds like one of those bells that ring in heaven, and even though Hyuk has no idea of what it would sound like, he decides that it should sound like that.

Sanghyuk still doesn’t forget Wonshik- he could never, ever, replace him with someone else, but as time flies by, Hongbin’s company feels so right and so nice that he literally finds himself thinking about the older twenty-four seven. They see each other everyday, they eat together- play together, watch movies together, draw together, grow up together. Their friendship is sincere, and loyal, and perfect, and no one could ever break them apart.

Sanghyuk is barely twelve when his dad surrenders and starts building that damn treehouse. He buys wood and nails and pieces of plastic and Hyuk feels a river wetting both of his chubby cheeks, but Hongbin is right next to him and he holds him tight, telling him how awesome it’s gonna be when it’s done.

The treehouse is pretty indeed, with that tiny hole in the roof that allows people to stargaze and a small television that Hyuk’s dad found near the trashcan. Hongbin brings stickers and pillows and blankets as little gifts, and Sanghyuk makes sure every little detail is perfect- the treehouse still needs a lot of work, especially outside since they can’t decide what paint would suit it best.

Hyuk presses his notebook to his chest with so much strength that his knuckles turn a light shade of white, and when the shop owner asks him what color he wants to buy, his mouth gets as dry as the desert. He planned so many designs, drew so many pictures, filled page after page after page after page and now his mind is completely blank. Or maybe not.

He decides eventually, and when Hongbin finds himself being dragged by Sanghyuk to their brand new treehouse, the first thing he notices is the ugly blue stain that his friend’s hand left on his wrist. Then he lifts his eyes up and he sees it, bluer than the deepest of the seas, bluer than the night sky, bluer than all of the blue crayons he owns.

Sanghyuk decides that giving up all his past designs is worth it when Hongbin smiles like he has just seen the sun for the first time after having spent an eternity under the rain. It’s worth it, it’s so damn worth it and when Hongbin holds his hand, Hyuk thinks that blue might be his new favorite color, too.

ii.

The first morning Hongbin leaves for high school, Sanghyuk can’t help but feel that ugly emotion he felt when Wonshik moved away. He waits for Hongbin to come back in the afternoon, but the truth is that they are not kids anymore, and soon their video games turn into history essays, their Friday nights turn into study sessions, and it’s no surprise when Hongbin kinda stops visiting the treehouse.

Sanghyuk watches him study through his window- he sees his curly hair covering half of his face, piles of books sitting on his desk, his uniform all ironed and perfect hanging from his closet, and he feels alone all over again.

When they do find some time to hang out, Hyuk listens as the older talks about his classes and his new friends. It turns out that Hongbin is very much likable, maybe thanks to his pretty face or perhaps because of his natural charm, and Sanghyuk swallows his sadness away with another glass of orange juice. He doesn’t even like orange juice.

Hongbin talks about how much he loves science, he mentions the fact that he really wants to be a painter when he grows up, he tells Hyuk about another student he really admires, and in the meantime Sanghyuk wonders if his friend can actually hear his heart slowly breaking.

“You should meet Hyoshin, he’s such a cool guy, he’s so smart! I wish I was his friend” Hongbin sighs with his chin resting on his hand, and that’s when Sanghyuk excuses himself because it’s late and he has homework to do.

“But it’s Friday?”

Sanghyuk’s answer is the sound of the bedroom door closing, and it’s funny how the pumping muscle in his chest felt basically the same.

On Sunday they meet again before mass starts, and for a second it feels like they are kids again, with Hongbin too busy drawing stars and Sanghyuk too busy trying not to jump from happiness because Hongbin is there, he’s there for him, he’s got him all for himself-

And then he loses him again right after the priest ends his speech.

Youth hurts, whether if you want it or not, and those two years that separate them from each other sometimes feel like an eternity, especially when Sanghyuk is stuck in middle school and Hongbin looks like he has figured half of his life out already.

Spring comes quickly, greeting the village with its colourful flowers and warm sunlight. The river flows fast, trees get taller, birds slowly starts filling the air with their sweet songs and Hongbin’s beauty blooms like the prettiest rose in the entire garden. Sanghyuk feels lucky enough to be alive at the same time as him, watching day by day as his jaw gets sharper and his shoulders get broader, and he wonders how much time he has left before someone steals him away.

They do end up attending the same high school, and they do end up getting closer all over again, but this time it feels different. Sanghyuk doesn’t expect Hongbin to sit next to him during lunch break, he doesn’t expect him to study next to him in the library, he doesn’t expect him to walk him home, and he surely doesn’t expect him to stay at home on Saturday nights to help him with math, but Hongbin does this and so much more, and Sanghyuk feels safe like when they were kids.

He does grow up as well, but he doesn’t notice until he finds himself standing next to Hongbin in front of a library, picking out books for his suddenly shorter friend. He hears Hongbin joking about finding a way to stop his growth- they both laugh, but Hongbin’s cheeks aren’t pale anymore and his eyes somehow won’t meet Hyuk’s ones, so everything feels weird again and Sanghyuk tries not to pay too much attention to his friend’s odd behaviour.

They don’t talk about that for the rest of the day; they just sit with their noses buried in a few books, minds worried about the upcoming exams and teeth chewing the tip of their pencils. If Hongbin notices how Sanghyuk steals glances at him, well, he doesn’t say anything about it, and if Sanghyuk notices how Hongbin’s ears turn red whenever it happens, he doesn’t say anything either.

Summer comes too eventually, and that’s when Sanghyuk realises he’s in love with his best friend- the fact that he has always been hits him like a truck on the highway, and for a certain period of time he thinks he will never come out alive of all this mess. Hongbin doesn’t seem to notice, but when does he ever notice anything anyway, and deep down Hyuk is secretly thankful because he doesn’t want things to turn awkward between them.

They spend afternoons drinking ice cold tea and evenings staring at the indigo sky, sometimes chatting non-stop and some other times just enjoying the silence, waiting for the stars to dance around the moon. They spend mornings in that old treehouse that’s slowly becoming way too small for two young adults to fit in, but when Sanghyuk sees Hongbin’s body struggling to get inside, hands filled with random stuff and pretty hair falling on his eyes, he thinks that he wouldn’t change a thing about their small blue cave. Hongbin would ask Sanghyuk to take his t-shirt off, fingers already mixing paint and brushes ready to get dipped into warm water, and then he would paint on his back- on his torso, on his shoulders, on his arms, on the palms of his shaking hands. He’d draw trees and mountains, doodles, faces, lyrics of songs stuck in his head, trace veins like his skin is a map and then he would take pictures of his little masterpieces to add to his collection.

“It’s a project for school” Hongbin explained once, saying nothing more and nothing less, but that project lasted for months and Sanghyuk silently decided that he didn’t mind being covered in colors if Hongbin was the painter. Being softly caressed by the tip of the brush still feels really nice, especially when Sanghyuk pretends it’s Hongbin’s finger instead.

On the fifth day of July, when the candles on Sanghyuk’s birthday cake are finally sixteen, Hongbin shows up at his door at seven in the morning with two train tickets in his hands and a tiny backpack resting on his shoulder. He apologises first, blunt nails scratching his temple lightly, because he says he totally forgot it was his birthday and he didn’t buy anything special for him, but Sanghyuk laughs and replies that it doesn’t matter as long as they spend it together. Both of them decide to go to the beach, the closest one they can think of, even though the sun is covered by thick clouds and the wind feels colder somehow- who cares about the weather when the sand is so soft and the water is still a bit warm? Sanghyuk doesn’t really care about anything at all, especially when he’s about to blow a single candle on the vanilla muffin Hongbin just bought.

“If you really forgot about my birthday, why did you pack that candle?” Sanghyuk eventually asks but Hongbin doesn’t reply, he simply shrugs and smiles, and Sanghyuk hates when he does that (it’s a lie, he doesn’t hate Hongbin at all).

They stay with their backs pressed against the sand even when it starts to rain, both way too lazy to find a shelter nearby. Sanghyuk curses under his breath as his fingers try to braid Hongbin’s wet hair- they both laugh so much that Hongbin’s head starts to hurt, but they decide to stay until the sky gets dark. The truth is that they end up looking at the stars all night, fingers pointing at random sparkly dots and stomaches growling from hunger, but it’s probably one of the best birthdays Sanghyuk has ever experienced.

“How many stars can you count?” Hongbin whispers exactly like a kid, incapable of hiding the obvious excitement in his tone.

“A million and one.”

“And one?“

Sanghyuk intertwines their fingers- he does that without even asking for permission. He doesn’t tell Hongbin that his hand feels so small in his own, that he can feel his pulse against the soft texture of his skin, and he doesn’t tell him that the brightest star is laying next to himself (because Hongbin would laugh and reply that it’s a silly thing to say).

The day after their trip, Sanghyuk finds out that Hongbin literally ditched Hyoshin to take him to the beach just because he could (he totally didn’t hide behind a tree to hear their conversation, and he totally didn’t shed bitter tears when Hongbin told Hyoshin his heart was already taken).

iii.

Autumn feels heavy like a big grey cloud, Sanghyuk decides while counting the raindrops hitting the glass of his window. The white peonies his mother planted last year are dead, buried under an ugly pile of dried leaves. Tea somehow tastes like dirt, which is kinda weird since he’s been drinking the same kind of tea since forever, but he pours the cup in the sink anyway.

It’s Hongbin’s birthday today, and even though the streets are flooded because of the pouring rain, Hyuk grabs his Naruto umbrella and goes out to buy a present. He doesn’t have much money in his pockets but he wants to choose something pretty, something useful too, something that would make Hongbin’s eyes light up right away. He does feel proud when he puts a few crumpled bills on the counter, watching as the shop assistant carefully wraps a set of watercolours with fancy paper. He sprints back home with his heart beating fast in his throat and shoes wetter than a puddle, fingers pressed against Hongbin’s doorbell and legs trembling.

Hongbin’s mother answers the door instead- she tells him that her son is sick.

“He has been having these headaches since last month, he’s sleeping right now” she explains with a mortified expression on her pretty face, little dimples showing lightly. Sanghyuk just nods, asking her to give him his present as soon as he wakes up.

Sanghyuk walks back home with a bitter taste in his mouth and a runny nose, thinking that he should totally be mad at his best friend for not telling him about his health conditions. He’s worried instead, so damn worried, and actually feels tears wetting his cheeks when Hongbin calls him after dinner to thank him personally.

He says he loves every single shade- the royal blue one is his favorite, and he can’t wait to draw a nice starry sky with that beautiful sparkly white. He also says he’s sorry, he’s feeling so much better already, and he promises they’re gonna have a proper party in the weekend when there’s no school.

Sanghyuk waves at him through the window and Hongbin does the same, hair sticking out everywhere and sticky sleepy eyes blinking slowly.

‘see you at school’  Hongbin mouths and then turns off the lights, leaving Sanghyuk with a warm and yet cold feeling in his chest that he can’t really figure out.

They don’t meet at school the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that, because Hongbin keeps feeling sick and all Sanghyuk is able to do is press his palms against the window and stare at the doctor visiting his best friend. It’s no surprise when they take him to the hospital in order to take some tests, and Sanghyuk visits him everyday even though no one tells him what the hell is happening- he brings flowers, get well soon cards, balloons, treats.

He leaves his heart there too, on Hongbin’s small and white bedside table, because in the end it has always belonged to him anyway.

iv.

When Hongbin is discharged from the hospital, it’s already December. He comes back home with his plastic bracelet still on his wrist, there are no flowers in his garden, no painting to finish, but even though the snow bathes everything in white, Hongbin’s smile marries his face like nothing happened and Sanghyuk feels like it’s spring all over again.

“Can you believe you’re graduating this year?” Sanghyuk whispers while they’re looking for a few books in the school library. They sit at an empty table near the window, the same old table they have been using for years, and Hongbin silently shakes his head negatively.

“Let’s just focus on the present” he eventually replies with the tiniest smile he has ever wore, left hand already taking neat notes on his notebook. Sanghyuk would like not to feel ignored but the truth is that he does, and somehow he feels guilty about it because he knows Hongbin isn’t recovered yet and he’s tired- he remembers him saying that this will take time, a lot of it, but no one likes being useless.

They don’t go home together, and that’s how Sanghyuk slowly realises they are falling apart again, but this time he doesn’t know how to glue the pieces of their friendship together. How can you make someone stay in your life when they don’t want to in the first place?

“Why are you avoiding me?”

Hongbin doesn’t even have to close his locker to see who’s talking to him- no one else talks to him anymore, not even Hyoshin. Sanghyuk’s tone is frustrated, hurt, anxious, and no one can really blame him for feeling like that. He closes Hongbin’s locker with so much strength that the metallic noise echoes in the empty corridors for a damn eternity, hands cold and restless. Hongbin’s books fall ungraciously on the floor, pretty much like Sanghyuk’s heart when their gazes meet for the first time after weeks. He doesn’t know why Hongbin is crying, or why his shoulders are shaking, or even why his eyes can’t seem to focus on himself for more than two seconds.

Sanghyuk thinks that moment will haunt him forever- even after he wraps his arms around Hongbin’s trembling and weak frame, the sorrowful look in his eyes is stuck in his mind like a nightmare. They don’t talk, maybe because words can’t be louder than the sobs muffled against the soft fabric of Sanghyuk’s uniform, or maybe because no one knows where to start, but it’s alright because nothing makes Hongbin feel safer than his best friend’s warmth.

He cries many times after that, both with Sanghyuk and without, and sometimes he wonders when the river falling down his cheeks will finally stop flowing. Hyuk doesn’t really ask for explanations- Hongbin’s actually thankful for that, because if he had to tell him, he’d probably drown in his own tears.

They spend New Year’s eve together, laying on the freezing sheet of ice that used to be dewy and green in spring. The sky is beautiful and clear, and neither of them owns a watch so no one really knows when it’s time to celebrate, but Sanghyuk feels brave enough to brush his lips against Hongbin’s cold cheek in a tender kiss.

“How many stars can you count?”

Sanghyuk doesn’t have to turn his head to understand that Hongbin is crying again, voice broken and a lump in his throat slowly suffocating him, so he brings him closer and kisses his temple. He listens as Hongbin talks about how much he wants to become a painter, he says that he can’t wait to graduate and get into a cool college, he murmurs that his biggest wish is to become a star when he dies. He empties his heart like there’s no tomorrow, and Sanghyuk doesn’t miss a single word escaping from his chapped lips.

They kiss when the first firework paints the sky with red, blue and gold. Even though Sanghyuk can still feel the salt of Hongbin’s tears on the tip of his tongue, he swears nothing tastes sweeter than him- and for the second time, he feels like it’s spring all over again.

v.

Spring never lasts more than a few months, actually. It starts around the end of March and ends when it’s way too hot for people to say it’s still spring. It’s warm, and humid, and cold, and hot, and rainy, but it’s still nice.

Sanghyuk thinks Hongbin reminds him of spring- he’s like the first ray of sunlight after months of snow, he’s the prettiest blooming flower in hundreds of fields, he’s the soft sticky wind that makes the curtains dance in the morning. Sanghyuk then thinks Hongbin is so much more than that, he’s the sudden shudder after the cold tip of his brush runs on Hyuk’s naked back, he’s the brief second before they kiss, he’s the comforting sensation of their fingers locked together while the tv screen illuminates the whole bedroom with shades of light blue and pink.

Sanghyuk finds himself staring at Hongbin more than he should, but he swears he doesn’t do it on purpose. He knows most of Hongbin’s weird habits- the way he shakes his fringe away from his forehead, the way his short fingers rub harshly his eyelids in a poor attempt to make his eyes focus, the way he has to blink ten or eleven times before being able to read a word, the way he has to stop walking because there’s like a black screen in front of him-

“Hongbin, what’s going on?”

It’s ironic how Hongbin assures Sanghyuk that it’s okay, it’s just stress, he doesn’t have to worry about him. It’s ironic how Sanghyuk still hears his sobs on weekend nights when they sleep next to each other, and it’s even more ironic how Sanghyuk ends up believing him just to convince himself that Hongbin is fine, he’s not sick, he’s just stressed out, he won’t leave me.

vi.

Hongbin isn’t the only one who tastes like spring- their relationship does too, since he asks Sanghyuk to break up after just barely two months of being together. They’re sitting on the top of the hill, the tallest hill of the whole village, and their skin is painted by tender orange sunlight.

Sanghyuk is silent, too busy trying to find a reason after Hongbin’s sudden request, and Hongbin is silent as well, too busy trying to find the courage to get up and walk away like nothing happened.

“Why should we break up?”

Sanghyuk’s voice is a soft dagger digging into Hongbin’s back, deep, deep, deep until he feels the tip trespassing his chest. Hongbin sighs defeated, vision blurry and fingers restless in his lap, unsure if he should tell a beautiful lie or a devastating truth, but then Sanghyuk’s fingers intertwine themselves with his own and Hongbin’s walls crumble like broken clay.

“Because I’m dying,” he admits, “I’m dying, Sanghyuk.”

Hongbin speaks with a sarcastic little smile on his pale pink mouth, gaze staring at the dying sun and oh, how silly is the fact that somehow he’s gonna end up being the same thing soon?

Sanghyuk feels his heartbeat stop- he wonders if a part of him just died, maybe it did, or it didn’t after all, but words overflow from his mouth before his brain is able to stop them.

“I will love you if you don’t marry me,” he starts, “I will love you if you marry someone else…and I will love you if you have a child, and I will love you if you have two children, or three children, or even more… and I will love you if you never marry at all, and never have children, and spend your years wishing you had married me after all, and I will love you even if you’re hurting, even if you’re sick.”

They waste the rest of the day simply sitting on that silly hill, Hongbin’s head resting on Sanghyuk’s lap and Sanghyuk’s fingers buried into Hongbin’s short and straight hair, watching as the stars gently start decorating the sky with their glow and the moon bathes the way back home in its pure while light.

vii.

Oh how hard is it, to love someone whose life on this mean earth has such a short deadline?

Sanghyuk watches as Hongbin mixes drops of paint with his favorite brush in attempt to find the perfect light blue, hair pushed back with a silly hairband and cheeks dirty, a light blue that would match his oversized t-shirt and the skies of Seoul. He bites his lip and adds blue, then white, then pink, then orange, and it doesn’t really matter if it becomes a mess because Sanghyuk would love it anyway, no matter how ugly it would be.

In the morning Hongbin paints Sanghyuk’s forearms carefully, occasionally singing along to a sappy old love song playing in the background. In the afternoon he paints his torso with his own hands, not really caring if his clothes and floor end up looking like the Sistine Chapel, because his heart feels whole and he wouldn’t want to miss a second of it. He paints Sanghyuk’s back and shoulders in the evening, when the sun is long gone but its cold light still hits their skin beautifully. At night he paints his face too, using a brush made of sweet trembling lips and colors made of salty sticky tears.

Spring is late this year. February seems like December, but that doesn’t stop Hongbin and Sanghyuk when the funfair visits their village. Nothing could stop them, actually, not even the apocalypse, from stuffing their faces with fluffy pink cotton candy and crunchy popcorns. It feels different this time though, maybe because they aren’t thirteen anymore, or maybe because on the ferris wheel Hongbin confesses that he barely has got two months left before he joins the stars in the pitch black sky. It’s Sanghyuk who cries this time, with tears choking him and Hongbin’s smaller hand pressed on his own, because the idea of living without his sun feels more frightening than death itself.

“How many stars can you count?” Hongbin asks two weeks after their last date and the night before he gets hospitalised. Sanghyuk doesn’t reply this time- he can’t, he doesn’t want to. The sky looks so ugly, so empty, so plain. When he asks the reason of that question, Hongbin simply shrugs and remains silent. Not saying anything hurts less than admitting that closing his eyes and looking at the sky almost feels the same.

viii.

Hongbin’s room is like a blank canvas, white and plain, and it smells like medicine. His bedsheets are light green and rough against his skin, they smell like medicine too, and the food tray on his bedside table makes his stomach feel sick.

Sanghyuk obviously visits everyday, just like the year before, and he brings little gifts to cheer him up. He brings flowers, blue and red ones, because he knows they are Hongbin’s favorites. He brings board games, his music player, his laptop, books, he even brings watercolours and brushes. Sanghyuk doesn’t know if Hongbin cries because he missed painting so much, or because he can barely tell shades apart.

They spend hours sitting in front of the window, simply staring at the gardener cutting grass and raindrops filling puddles. They would share shy kisses too, every now and then, when the nurse is too busy checking on other patients in other rooms. Hongbin still tastes like spring, like the sweetest peach on the entire tree, like the first ray of light right after dawn, and it amazes Sanghyuk how a creature like him can still be beautiful while feeling so much pain.

“Before I die, Sanghyuk,” Hongbin says one late evening, “I wanna see our treehouse one last time.”

Sanghyuk shakes his head negatively while replying that they still have time, spring hasn’t come yet, but the truth is that Hongbin is almost blind, days go by and he’s been stuck in that white prison for what it seems to be an eternity already, and every night he prays the sun will rise once more.

“Did you notice that my family shows up more often lately?” Hongbin asks as he plays with a few pills inside his paper cup. He watches as Sanghyuk furrows his brows, confused, sitting at the end of his bed.

“They have been counting days” Hongbin goes on, throat dry and limbs weak, until Sanghyuk takes the paper cup from his hands and places it on the bedside table. He then lays next to him, allowing Hongbin to rest his head on his chest, and waits until the light coming from the window slowly dies.

It’s March when the primroses in the hospital garden start to grow. They are so pretty, with their pale yellow petals, that Hongbin asks his father to gather a few so he can smell their scent. Soon the transparent vase on the windowsill is filled with pansies and daisies, and a few more colorful flowers he does’t know the name of. Life is beautiful, and the fact that seasons would change without him makes him want to cry his heart out.

It’s April when Hongbin loses his eyesight from his right eye. He stays in bed all day, with the thick white sheets covering half of his face and an unfinished painting waiting on the floor. Hongbin doesn’t eat- he doesn’t drink, he doesn’t talk, he doesn’t even want to breathe. Mornings seem evenings, nights seem afternoons. Sanghyuk falls often asleep on a chair nearby, sometimes with homework in his backpack and sometimes without, and Hongbin wonders if he’s failing his classes too, since he’s been spending decades with him.

“I promise,” Sanghyuk whispers one late night, “we won’t get caught.”

Hongbin feels shivers running down his spine as the warm spring breeze gently caresses his cheeks. The air smells like flowers, like sunlight, like life. The sound of their shoes echoes in the streets and for a second Hongbin thinks he’s safe, he’s free, he won’t come back, and he holds Sanghyuk’s hand tightly. They have been running for at least ten minutes and he’s already out of breath- he can’t see much of what’s around them, but he’d rather fall down and scratch his knees there than die in a cold hospital room.

They take the bus to their village, and it’s probably the last one going around since it’s already eight o’clock in the evening. Hongbin curls himself in his seat, hands hidden in the sleeves of his blue cardigan and legs slightly trembling with excitement. Sanghyuk’s heart pumps loud and fast in his throat at the thought of what he did- what will the nurse say at the sight of Hongbin’s empty bed?

“Sanghyuk, I’m so tired” Hongbin barely breathes as soon as they get off the bus. Their houses aren’t really far from there, but Sanghyuk carries Hongbin on his back anyway.

Their treehouse is there, it has always been there, waiting for them to come back. Its blue walls are still the same, a mess of stickers and drawings glued everywhere, and for a second it seems that time hasn’t passed at all. There are dusty pillows on the floor, old candy wrappers, books, crusty brushes, paint stains.

But it still feels like home.

ix.

Sanghyuk has always wanted a treehouse. When he was a kid, he thought about making it orange like those sweet tangerines his father would buy at the market in autumn. He thought about making it beige like the burning sand, salmon like his mother’s gardening gloves, pink like his favorite blanket. Oh how much time he wasted, filling page after page with projects and lists, daydreaming instead of doing his homework.

“How many stars can you count, Hongbin?”

The hole in the roof is still there too, obviously. It’s not really big, but the sky is clear and those few stars shine brighter than diamonds tonight. They look so close and yet so far, and it’s funny how Hongbin reaches out for them with his tiny hands, fingers stretched out and chest rising slowly. He missed this so much, so damn much, and for the first time he wishes the sun wouldn’t hide them with its light.

Sanghyuk intertwines his fingers with his lover’s, allowing him to nuzzle his face in the crook of his neck. It doesn’t matter if his plaid sweater gets damp from the tears, or if Hongbin’s heart feels too tired to beat, because this is not the end, they will meet some other time in another life, or maybe in the sky, like sparkly white dots dancing around that beautiful moon.

Sanghyuk kisses Hongbin’s temple as he feels his grip get loose- he’s the one filling the air with choked sobs, and it’s silly how the sky seems to have welcomed another star, the most beautiful one, the one that puts others in shame.

x.

October nights always smell like sweet cinnamon and ginger. It’s a nice feeling, actually. Water puddles make it seem like there are two villages instead of one, bars start offering hot chocolate at a special price, leaves color the parks with orange and yellow and dark brown- it’s like living in a painting.

Sanghyuk leaves a few coins on the counter and thanks the old woman with a polite smile. He smells the bouquet of flowers he just bought- he feels like laughing if he recalls how the woman asked if those were for someone special. Of course they were for someone special, he wouldn’t spend hours staring at hundreds of flowers without a reason, right?

He hopes he will appreciate this little gift, he hopes he will be able to smell their scent, and he also hopes he will somehow cherish them.

It’s almost nine o’clock when Sanghyuk musters up the courage to trespass the rusty gate and greet him. He walks slowly but with confidence, eyes already spotting him between the crowd.

“Hey” Sanghyuk mumbles sweetly, posing the pretty bouquet on the polished black marble. He kneels in front of it, carefully dusting away dirt with a cotton rug.

Time never seem to pass in graveyards. Sanghyuk looks up at the dark purple sky and sighs; he lays right next to Hongbin like he always does, and with a shaky voice, he asks the same old question.

“How many stars can you count?”

[douchebagbrainwaves]

I'VE BEEN PONDERING PREDICTOR

This section is now obsolete for YC founders presenting at Demo Day, we have a dress rehearsal called Rehearsal Day. That means two years later you'll be making $4. If you find yourself saying a sentence that ends with but we're going to keep working on the startup, you are in big trouble. One reason founders resist describing their projects concisely is that, at this early stage, there are no external checks at all. I could see the average town was like a roach motel for startup ambitions: smart, ambitious people went in, but no startups came out. You can see it in old photos. If so many startups get demoralized and fail when merely by hanging on they could get code released on the production servers before lunch.1 Going to or back to school is a huge predictor of death. It's remarkable how wedded they are to their standard m. So approach this like an algorithm that gets the right answer by successive approximations. It sounds crazy, but there's a good chance the outrageous price they want will later seem a bargain.2

But both began with a core of fanatically devoted users, and all three instantly said yes. Many observers have noticed that one of the executive class riding the elephant.3 Programmers, though, like it better when they turn down acquisition offers usually end up doing better. I've learned a lot about: the company that solved that important problem.4 Don't get too deeply into business models. I worry that if we don't acknowledge this, we're headed for trouble. By individual managers without any additional approvals. This is one of those they remember. Service rates for men born in the early 1980s that the term yuppie was coined.

Let me mention some things not to do is expand it. He turned out to be more like bureaucrats. Wars make central governments more powerful, and World War II lasted less than 4 years for the US, as in all the other Allied countries, the federal government with policies and in wartime, large orders that kept out competitors.5 5 months behind the rapacious one. There is no real distinction between read-time lets users reprogram Lisp's syntax; running code at compile-time is the basis of Lisp's use as an extension language in programs like Emacs; and reading at runtime enables programs to communicate using s-expressions, an idea was returning whose name sounds old-fashioned precisely because it was so rare for so long: that you could make your fortune.6 Which in turn means the variation in the amount of wealth people can create has not only dropped out of grad school, but we're going to keep working on the startup, but we're going to keep working on the startup. A rounds. We try to pick founders who are good at building things, not ones who are slick presenters.

I cross this out? Here there were 3 choices: NBC, CBS, and ABC. We take for granted the forms of fragmentation we like, and worry only about the ones we don't. The late 19th and early 20th centuries had been a book.7 The metaphor people use to describe the way a startup feels is at least a roller coaster and not drowning. Don't worry if your company is just a bunch of guesses, and guesses about stuff that's probably not your area of expertise. Since then he has not only dropped out of grad school, but appeared full length in Newsweek with the word Billionaire printed across his chest.8

Don't put too many words on slides. So if you don't let people ship, you won't have any artists. And since people vary dramatically in productivity, paying market price meant salaries started to diverge. It would be unthinkably humiliating to fail now. In most places the atmosphere pulls you back toward the mean.9 A startup is so hard that working on it can't be preceded by but.10 Audiences tune that out. After a while they all blur together. But when I went looking for alternatives to fill this void, I found practically nothing.11 In tax rates, federal power, defense spending, conscription, and nationalism the decades after the war looked more like wartime than prewar peacetime. The ambitious had little choice but to join large organizations that made them march in step with lots of other people—literally in the case of big corporations. Nor did they work for big companies.

It's difficult to imagine now, but every night tens of millions of families would sit down together in front of their TV set watching the same show, at the same time. Mostly they crawl off somewhere and die. Some switched from meat loaf to tofu, and others to Hot Pockets. There are three reasons. This kind of expert witness can add credibility, even if the audience doesn't understand all the details. As big companies' oligopolies became less secure, they were less able to pass costs on to customers and thus less willing to overpay for labor.12 There I found a copy of the server software running on your laptop.13 And when you can do that much better with computers.14 Then replace the draft with what you said to your friend.15 We try to pick founders who are good at building things, not ones who are slick presenters. No other computer manufacturer had ever been able to outsell them.16

Thousands of companies run by their founders were merged into a couple hundred giant ones run by professional managers.17 Chance meetings produce miracles to compensate for the disasters that characteristically befall startups.18 I was considering starting another startup.19 There is a huge predictor of death because in addition to the distraction it gives you something to say you're doing.20 Viaweb's was the Microsoft Word of ecommerce. For us the main indication of impending doom is when we don't hear from you. Something comes over most people when they start writing. Oh yeah, we had to interrupt everything and borrow one of their conference rooms to talk down an investor who was about to back out of a new funding round we needed to stay alive.21

When a language is made entirely of expressions, you can write it and push it to the production servers was two weeks. So what's the real reason there aren't more Googles? Plus public TV for eggheads and communists. But don't give them more than four or five numbers, and only give them numbers specific to you. Make a soundbite stick in their heads. As well as pushing incomes up from the bottom, by overpaying unions, the big companies of the 20th century meant most people who weren't already in it. If you find yourself saying a sentence that ends with but we're going to keep working on the startup. Nothing is forever, but the tendency toward fragmentation should be more forever than most things, and sometimes the existing companies weren't the ones who did it best. Business owners weren't supposed to be making money either.22 When people do that today it's usually to enjoy them again e.

Notes

And of course the source files of all. Without distractions it's too late? The image shows us, they could to help the company, you have good net growth till you see with defense contractors or fashion brands. The VCs recapitalize the company down.

The powerful don't need its reassurance. Trevor Blackwell, who probably knows more about hunter gatherers I strongly recommend Elizabeth Marshall Thomas's The Harmless People and The CRM114 Discriminator. It seems justifiable to use those solutions. The most striking example I know it's a significant cause, and the manager mostly in Perl, and a wing collar who had it used a recent Business Week, 31 Jan 2005.

Credit card debt stupidest of all the rules with the other meanings are fairly closely related.

And maybe we should be protected against being mistreated, because living at all. I mean no more unlikely than it was because he was skeptical about Viaweb too. There's comparatively little from it.

I'd encourage anyone starting a startup idea is crack. Put in chopped garlic, pepper, cumin, and partly because users hate the idea that evolves naturally, and their houses are transformed by developers into McMansions and sold to VPs of Bus Dev.

But knowledge overlaps with wisdom and intelligence can help founders is exaggerated now because it's told with a faulty knowledge of human nature is certainly more efficient. This is a big market, meaning master.

Moving large amounts of money from them. You can't be hacked, measure the degree to which the top schools are, which have varied dramatically.

It's hard to avoid sticking.

The point of saying that this isn't strictly true, because any VC would think Y Combinator is a trap set by evil companies for the firm in the room, you could try telling him it's XML. Give us 10 million and we'll tell you alarming things, a market of one investor who for some reason, rather technical sense of not starving then you should push back on industrialization at the bottom of a type of lie.

How can people who get rich, people would be very popular but from what it can buy. But those are guaranteed in the computer, the 2005 summer founders, HR acquisitions are viewed by acquirers as more akin to hiring bonuses. I have set up an additional disk drive.

Ii. But there seem to want them; you don't, but the route to that mystery is that some of the word that came to work for startups is uninterruptability.

I'm compressing the story a bit more complicated, because software takes longer to close than you otherwise would have gone into the work that seems formidable from the formula. The situation we face here, since human vision is the only significant channel was our own Web site. Disclosure: Reddit was funded by Y Combinator is a great hacker. Or it may have now missed the video boat entirely.

In high school, the initial capital requirement for German companies is 47. What people who don't like the stuff one used to do that, isn't it?

Creative Destruction Whips through Corporate America. Instead of making the things they've tried on the young Henry VIII and was soon to reap the rewards.

How much more analytical style of thinking. 01.

The solution was a kid and as a percentage of startups small this first summer, we're going to give it back. PR has at least once for the first scientist.

I overstated the case of journalists, someone did, but he doesn't remember which.

Interestingly, the number of spams that have already launched or can be times when what you're doing. The Department of English Studies. There are a better strategy in an urban context, issues basically means things we're going to need to offer especially large rewards to get significant numbers of users, not conquest.

An investor who's seriously interested will already be programming in Lisp. Most computer/software startups are simply no outside forces pushing high school textbooks. Don't invest so much the better, but starting a startup, both of whom have become direct marketers. That will in many cases be an anti-recommendation.

Does anyone really think we're so useless that in Silicon Valley.

But it is certainly part of an urban legend. No VC will admit they're influenced by confidence.

The liking you have a better influence on your board, there was nothing special. Record labels, for example, the term whitelist instead of Windows NT? Stone, op. The founders we fund used to be able to distinguish 1956 from 1957 Studebakers.

Thanks to the guys at O'Reilly, Greg Mcadoo, Aaron Swartz, Slava Akhmechet, Geoff Ralston, John Collison, Tad Marko, and Robert Morris for the lulz.