#maybe for the Ruin Aftermath AU | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lovemni · 5 months ago

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“nerds don't date , right?” ⎯ how to lose a bet and your heart in seven days.

[ 정인 ] ✷ ‎. . things just get more interesting when you're fake-dating the hot nerd and are involved in a bet with him.

۫ 𖨂 𓈒 𝑛erdy!jeongin ₊ ‎ ‎ 𝑓em!reader ˙ . ꒷ g. fluff , humour , crack , forced proximity , classmates to lovers , uni au , fake dating , skz ensemble . 64OOw. ⎯⎯⎯ LiBRARY ⟢ cw. suggestive , as of now . ┆ 📹 ⋮ a y.jg mini series .ᐟ ֹ ₊

yani's note 𑁍ܓ hihi >< so like, part two hehehehhehehe. this turned out to be literally double the wc from the previous one..... oh and i just crossed 8OO followers???? what???? like two posts ago i crossed 7OO, oh good lord, thank you so much!! comments, likes, req./asks and reblogs are always appreciated !! send in a reply or an ask if you want to be in my mastertag, or my individual series' taglists. happy reading, love <3

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you had never seen jeongin this stressed in your uni year.

it had been barely a day since the dinner, and he was already acting like his life was spiraling out of control. not that you blamed him—you were a handful, after all. but still, the man looked like he was fighting for survival, while you?

you were thriving.

not only were you fake-dating him in front of his family, but thanks to him, you also had the perfect bet to keep things interesting.

and now? now, you were at the usual café on campus, sitting comfortably with your group—felix, ryujin, yeji, and minho—while absolutely basking in the aftermath of your deal with jeongin.

the blonde leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm. "so let me get this straight," he began, voice amused.

"you made a bet with the yang jeongin—topper, nerd, absolute try-hard—where you get to flirt with him for three whole months, and if he falls for you, you win?"

you grinned, stirring your latte lazily. "mhm."

ryujin raised a brow. "and if you lose?"

you waved a dismissive hand. "then he gets to ignore me forever, i guess."

yeji snorted. "as if he'd actually do that. boy’s definitely gonna lose."

minho, who had been silently observing all this time, sipped his americano before finally speaking. "you're really confident, huh?"

you flashed him a smirk. "min, have you met me? of course, i'm confident. i know he’s gonna fall for me. i learn from the best, you know."

felix grinned. "well, duh. everyone loves you."

yeji smirked. "hyunjin and jisung sure do."

ryujin laughed. "oh yeah, didn’t hyunjin say you were literally his type?"

you shrugged, fighting back a smirk. "maybe."

felix gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. "oh my god. is this why jeongin is acting so feral? is he jealous?"

"no, he’s probably just pissed that i exist."

minho scoffed. "that’ll change soon enough."

"exactly," you said smugly. "so, obviously, i’m winning this bet. there’s no way i’m falling first."

your friends exchanged looks, all of them barely holding back their very obvious amusement.

"sure," yeji said, lips twitching.

"of course," ryujin agreed.

minho sipped his drink again. "i totally believe you."

felix just grinned. "this is gonna be fun."

meanwhile.

jeongin had never been this mentally exhausted in his life.

one dinner. one stupid dinner. that was all it was supposed to be.

now? now he was fake-dating y/n in front of his entire family and locked in a three-month bet that would undoubtedly ruin him.

and to make things worse? jisung, seungmin, hyunjin, aeri, and yunah were not helping.

"bro," hyunjin was saying, leaning against the café booth with a stupid grin, "you’re done for."

"over. finished." jisung added, looking way too entertained.

jeongin shot them both a glare. "i am not going to fall for her."

hyunjin raised an eyebrow. "really?"

seungmin, ever the realist, merely sighed. "jeongin, have you met y/n?"

"yes, seungmin," jeongin deadpanned. "i have. unfortunately.*"

yunah giggled, twirling her straw. "she’s really pretty, though."

aeri smirked. "and hot. and cute. and bold."

hyunjin nudged jeongin. "she literally calls you 'hot nerd.' i would’ve folded instantly." he said, dramatically putting a hand on his heart while pretending to faint.

jeongin shot him a disgusted look. "you have no standards."

jisung snorted. "and you have no chance."

"i hate all of you." (and we're back !!)

"no, you don’t," jisung said, grinning. "you hate that you know we’re right."

seungmin nodded. "statistically speaking, you're screwed."

"oh my god," jeongin muttered.

jisung clapped his hands together. "alright! place your bets! how long do we think it’ll take for jeongin to fall first?"

"two weeks," hyunjin said immediately.

"a month," aeri guessed.

yunah smirked. "three weeks, max."

"one week," jisung announced proudly.

jeongin slammed his drink down. "i hate every single one of you."

almost a week later.

you found jeongin in the library, because of course you did.

dressed in an oversized cream sweater, silver-rimmed glasses perched perfectly on his nose, black slacks, and expensive-looking loafers, he looked annoyingly good for someone who spent all his time studying.

unfortunately for him, you were here to ruin his peace.

sliding into the seat across from him, you grinned. "morning, iyennie."

jeongin didn’t even look up. "no."

you gasped dramatically. "no? that’s all i get? where’s my 'good morning, beautiful?' my 'you look stunning today, y/n'?"

jeongin exhaled sharply. "why are you here?"

you leaned forward on your elbows, smirking. "to see my lovely boyfriend, obviously."

jeongin twitched. "we are not fake-dating at uni."

you shrugged. "doesn’t mean i can’t flirt with you."

jeongin dragged a hand down his face. "i hate this bet."

"you literally proposed it, genius."

his jaw clenched. "i hate you."

you batted your lashes. "no, you don’t."

jeongin physically recoiled. "oh my god."

across the library, hyunjin and jisung sat at another table, watching the interaction with matching grins.

hyunjin nudged jisung. "one week?"

jisung smirked. "one week."

. . .

“i’ve decided that i’m going to end you.”

jeongin barely looked up from his notes. “cool. try not to be too obvious about it.”

“no, really,” you said, leaning forward across the library table, resting your chin on your hands as you stared at him. “i’m going to make your life miserable.”

jeongin finally glanced up, adjusting his silver-rimmed glasses with the most unimpressed expression you’d ever seen. “isn’t that what you’ve already been doing?”

you gasped, placing a dramatic hand over your chest. “wow. that was hurtful, iyen.”

jeongin twitched. “stop calling me that.”

you grinned. “make me.”

his fingers curled around his pen, and for a second, you wondered if he was genuinely considering launching it at your forehead.

the library was quiet, aside from the occasional whispers of students flipping through books, the dull hum of the air conditioning, and the muffled sounds of footsteps against the carpeted floor. your table was nestled in the back corner, surrounded by towering bookshelves and dim lighting that gave the whole setting a very academic romance kind of vibe—not that jeongin would ever admit that.

and, of course, the two of you weren’t alone.

like said earlier, across from you, at another table, were felix, ryujin, yeji, and minho, watching with way too much amusement.

they can't miss good entertainment, right?

and a few tables away, jisung, hyunjin, seungmin, aeri, and yunah, were also watching with expressions that ranged from entertained to downright smug.

because, honestly? no one believed jeongin was going to win this bet.

not even jeongin himself.

"are you done?" he asked, voice clipped, flipping a page in his notes.

you smirked. "not even close."

leaning back in your chair, you crossed one leg over the other, watching him with open interest. he was dressed as he always was—annoyingly fashionable for someone who didn’t seem to care about fashion. a fitted black turtleneck, an oversized houndstooth blazer, tailored slacks, and his signature silver-rimmed glasses that rested so perfectly on the bridge of his nose.

his black hair was slightly tousled, as if he’d been running his fingers through it in frustration all morning (which, knowing you, he probably had).

"you know," you mused, tilting your head, "if you weren’t so insufferable, i’d probably have a crush on you."

his pen hovered mid-air, his lips parting slightly before he turned to glare at you. "what?"

you shrugged. "what? i’m just saying. you’re kind of my type. hot. smart. dresses well. severely grumpy. i like a challenge."

jeongin’s eye twitched. "w—"

"oh my god," hyunjin suddenly groaned from across the room, throwing his head back. "can you two just kiss already?"

jeongin immediately choked on air.

your lips twitched as you turned to hyunjin. "not yet, jinnie. i have a bet to win, remember?"

hyunjin smirked. "oh, you will win. no doubt about it."

jisung laughed. "he’s already halfway there."

"this is a library, hello?" the librarian hissed.

"but we're the only ones here, miss y-"

jeongin slammed his book shut, stood up, and turned to you with murder in his eyes. "we’re leaving."

you blinked innocently. "we are?"

"yes." he grabbed your wrist and tugged you up from your seat, ignoring the very loud, very obnoxious oooohhhhhs coming from both friend groups.

felix gasped. "look at him. so dominant."

"i didn’t know he had it in him."

"they grow up so fast."

seungmin merely shook his head, unimpressed. "he’s just running away."

jeongin glared at all of them before practically dragging you out of the library.

now playing, if you love me by colde

the late afternoon sun draped the campus in warm, honey-colored light, stretching long shadows across the pavement. the air was crisp but comfortable, carrying the faint scent of freshly brewed coffee from the campus café nearby. a few students walked past, caught up in their own conversations, but none of them paid much attention to the very mismatched pair walking down the sidepath.

jeongin was suffering.

because you were practically dragging him.

"y/n," he grumbled, his arm stiff as you held onto his wrist. "why are you like this?"

you hummed, pretending to think. "born this way, i guess?"

jeongin sighed, shaking his head. "no remorse. none at all."

"absolutely none," you confirmed cheerfully, still leading him forward.

he didn’t know where you were taking him. you probably didn’t either. but that didn’t seem to matter to you. it was just one of those things—where you decided something, and everyone else just had to go along with it.

he really should have thought this through before making that bet.

the sky was beginning to shift into soft hues of orange and almost blue when jeongin’s phone buzzed in his pocket. he pulled it out, glancing at the screen, and immediately stiffened.

his mom.

he stopped walking so abruptly that you almost crashed into him.

"whoa—" you blinked at him. "what’s wrong?"

he held up a finger. "be quiet."

you snorted. "like hell."

"y/n."

you grinned, unbothered, as he answered the call.

"hello?" jeongin said, his voice immediately shifting into something softer, more polite.

"oh, jeongin! how are you, sweetheart?"

you gasped dramatically beside him. sweetheart?

jeongin shot you a look. a warning. a plea.

you ignored it completely.

"hello, ms. yang!" you chirped before he could stop you, leaning in way too close to the phone. "how are you?"

there was a pause on the other end.

and then—

"oh, y/n, dear! how lovely to hear your voice!"

jeongin closed his eyes. no, no, no—

you beamed. "aw, you're so sweet. it's lovely to hear yours too!"

jeongin wanted to die.

his mother laughed. "such a charming girl! i hope my son is treating you well?"

you turned to him with the smuggest smile, tilting your head. "oh, he’s wonderful, ms. yang. so sweet. so attentive."

jeongin gave you a blank stare, deadpan. you? a menace.

his mother sighed happily. "ah, that's good to hear. oh! that reminds me—jeongin, darling, you haven’t forgotten about next weekend, have you?"

jeongin blinked. "uh… next weekend?"

you raised an eyebrow, watching him.

"the family gathering, jeongin!" his mom continued. "your uncle’s wedding anniversary celebration. you have to come. and of course, you must bring y/n!"

jeongin froze.

you?

you? (i'd be offended)

he turned to you so fast you almost thought his neck might snap.

you, on the other hand, were staring at him with way too much excitement in your eyes.

he cleared his throat, forcing his voice to stay neutral. "oh… right. that."

you leaned in, lips parted in interest.

ms. yang laughed. "don't tell me you forgot?"

jeongin exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to his temple. "i… might have."

you gasped. "baby!"

he glared.

"oh, don’t worry, dear," his mom said, brushing past his frustration entirely. "it’s going to be a lovely event! you must come with him, y/n! i won’t take no for an answer."

your grin widened.

jeongin knew that look.

it was the look of pure evil. the look of someone who had just won. (no he just read too many comics)

you placed a hand over your heart, feigning surprise. "oh my gosh, ms. yang, really? you’d want me there?"

"of course!" his mother said immediately. "you’re practically family now!"

jeongin almost choked for the umpteenth time that day.

you looked so pleased.

"well, in that case," you said sweetly, "i’d love to come. wouldn't want to disappoint a lovely lady like you, ms. yang."

ms. yang sighed, completely oblivious to his suffering. "wonderful! oh, i knew i liked this girl!"

jeongin shut his eyes, inhaling deeply. why him?

"alright, sweetheart, i won’t keep you two," his mom said. "make sure to text me later, okay?"

"yeah, yeah," he muttered, still trying to process what had just happened. "bye, mom."

"have a good evening, ms. yang!" you called cheerfully.

the call ended.

silence. and then—

"you evil, evil woman," jeongin muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

you grinned. "aw, is my baby upset?"

"don’t call me that."

"oh, but i must," you teased, tapping his arm. "we are dating, after all."

jeongin groaned.

you rocked back on your heels. "sooo. a family event, huh?"

"shut up."

"your entire family is gonna be there?"

"y/n—"

"and your relatives?"

jeongin exhaled slowly, praying for patience. "yes."

you beamed. "god, i love this bet."

jeongin stared at you. "why are you enjoying this?"

you shrugged. "because you're not."

his eye twitched. "i hate you." (.........yeah, yk the drill)

"you love me."

"shut up."

you giggled, nudging his arm as you started walking again. "come on, hot nerd. we have so much planning to do."

jeongin sighed, dragging a hand down his face as he followed after you.

he wasn't going to lose this bet.

he wasn't.

but, why did it feel like you had already won?

—

the city was beginning to glow.

golden streetlights flickered on, one by one, casting soft halos onto the pavement. neon signs buzzed to life in the distance, painting the skyline in hues of red, blue, and green. the cool evening air carried a mix of scents—freshly brewed coffee from a nearby café, the faint spice of street food stalls setting up for the night, and something softer, like rain on warm pavement.

and in the middle of it all—you and jeongin.

he was still following you, albeit begrudgingly, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat.

"are you actually planning on telling me where we're going?" jeongin asked, his voice laced with skepticism.

you only grinned, walking a little ahead of him, as you turned around, still walking backwards, facing him. "nope."

he sighed. "of course not."

as the two of you had left the campus a while ago, jeongin had expected you to stop at the nearest café, maybe a convenience store. but instead, you kept walking. past the busy streets, past the familiar landmarks, past the places where most students usually hung out.

and now?

now, you were leading him through quieter roads, where the buildings weren't as tall, where the sky was starting to open up above you, where the city lights didn’t drown out the stars entirely.

it was weirdly peaceful.

not that he'd admit it.

"you're too trusting," jeongin muttered, watching as you walked ahead of him without a care in the world.

you glanced over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow. "oh? and why's that?"

"you’re just… walking around at night, alone, dragging me—your supposed fake boyfriend—to some unknown location." he narrowed his eyes. "for all you know, i could be leading you into danger."

you let out a soft laugh. "oh, please. if anyone’s the danger here, it’s me."

jeongin rolled his eyes. "right."

"you think i'm scared of you, topper?" you smirked, nudging his shoulder. "you’re, like, the least threatening person i’ve ever met."

"good," he said flatly. "that means i can stop pretending to tolerate you."

you gasped dramatically. "so rude! and here i was, thinking we were bonding!"

"bonding?" jeongin scoffed. "you kidnapped me."

you hummed, tilting your head. "wouldn’t call it kidnapping. more like… involuntary adventuring."

"that’s literally just a fancier way of saying kidnapping."

"details, details." you waved a hand dismissively, your bracelets jingling softly.

jeongin shook his head, but there was a small—very small—curve to his lips.

for a while, the conversation drifted into comfortable silence. the only sounds were the rhythmic tapping of your footsteps against the pavement, the occasional passing car, and the distant chatter of city life.

"you come here often?" jeongin asked suddenly, his voice softer now.

you glanced at him, slightly surprised by the question. "hmm?"

"wherever it is we're going," he clarified, watching your expression closely. "you seem… familiar with the way."

you hesitated for a second, but then you smiled. "yeah. i do."

he studied you, noticing how your fingers fiddled with the strap of your bag—a small, almost absentminded gesture. "alone?"

"sometimes." you exhaled lightly, looking up at the sky. "other times, with my friends."

jeongin didn’t miss the slight shift in your tone. it was subtle, but it was there.

"and tonight?" he asked, glancing at you. "why me?"

you turned your head toward him, meeting his gaze.

and for a moment—just a moment—you didn’t say anything.

the city lights reflected in your eyes, turning them into something almost ethereal. the night breeze played with the loose strands of your hair, making them dance against your cheekbones. there was something unreadable in your expression, something jeongin couldn’t quite place.

but then— you grinned.

"because i felt like annoying you," you said simply.

jeongin blinked. and then scoffed. "wow. and here i thought i was special."

"oh, you are," you teased, looping your arm through his before he could react. "you're my favorite victim, actually."

he stiffened. "y/n—"

"you’re warm," you interrupted, pressing closer. "a human heater. i should keep you around more often."

jeongin let out a very long sigh, tilting his head toward the sky like he was asking some higher power for patience.

"you're insufferable," he muttered.

"and you are cute."

"shut up."

you giggled. "ooooh, that blush is telling me a different story."

jeongin groaned, refusing to meet your gaze. "i hate this bet."

"you love this bet."

he side-eyed you. "you know, i think you might be evil."

you only winked. "oh, honey. i'm very aware."

and the walk continued like that—small banter, stolen glances, the occasional brush of hands when neither of you were paying attention.

jeongin hated how natural it felt.

hated how easy it was to talk to you.

hated how, despite himself, he was actually curious about where you were taking him.

he didn’t get attached.

he didn’t, right?.

but with every teasing smile you threw his way, with every time your fingers lingered against his, with every moment you laughed at something he said—

he started to wonder.

maybe jisung had been right.

maybe this bet was a really, really bad idea.

the view you chose for me

the path sloped upward, curving gently along the hillside. the city behind you had slowly started to fade, the buzzing neon signs replaced by the soft hum of cicadas, the distant rustling of leaves, and the whisper of the evening breeze. the sky above stretched out like a painting, shifting from the last golden hues of sunset into the deepening blues of twilight.

jeongin slowed his steps, glancing at you. "are we almost there?"

"patience, iyennie," you hummed, walking ahead with a skip in your step. "good things take time."

he rolled his eyes, but a small, amused exhale escaped his lips.

then, finally, the world opened up.

the trees thinned, revealing an expansive hilltop that overlooked the city. a vast, open field of wild grass spread around you, swaying lightly in the wind. the horizon stretched endlessly, where the last golden threads of daylight kissed the deepening night. below, the city twinkled like scattered stars, a soft, pulsing glow of blues, oranges, and whites.

and above, the first stars had begun to appear.

tiny, glimmering specks against a sky that seemed endless. wisps of deep indigo melted into shades of violet, streaked with soft pinks from the remnants of the sun. there was something ethereal about it—something quiet, untouched, almost unreal.

jeongin exhaled, barely noticing how his breath caught for a second.

you, on the other hand, stretched your arms out with a dramatic sigh. "isn't it beautiful?"

he glanced at you.

the wind had tousled your hair, strands of it floating like silk against the dim light. your face, turned toward the sky, was bathed in soft twilight, the shadows curving gently along your cheekbones. your eyes reflected the distant stars, and when you smiled—

your lips curled into a slow, satisfied grin, and your eyes crinkled into tiny crescents.

something in jeongin’s chest lurched.

"yeah," he murmured before he could stop himself. "it is."

you turned to him, blinking. "see? told you it was worth it."

jeongin tore his gaze away, clearing his throat. "it’s… alright."

you laughed, nudging him with your shoulder. "wow. that almost sounded like a compliment, yang."

"don’t push your luck," he muttered, walking past you.

you grinned, plopping down on the grass before patting the space next to you. "sit. enjoy the view."

he hesitated.

then, with a small sigh, he sat down beside you, the grass cool beneath his palms. the air smelled faintly of earth and rain, the breeze gentle as it curled around both of you.

a moment passed in silence, the two of you simply staring at the sky.

you reached into your bag, pulling out a small snack box.

jeongin glanced over. "what’s that?"

"food, obviously," you teased, opening the lid. inside, neatly packed, were a few triangular onigiris wrapped in seaweed. "can't survive without snacking every moment,"

you picked one up and held it out to him. "here. i made these this morning."

jeongin blinked. "you cooked?"

"is it so surprising? i'm a good chef, i'll have you know." you frown, and wiggled the rice ball in front of him. "c’mon. try it. first time making them, so i need honest feedback, topper."

he hesitated, eyeing you for a second before reaching out to take it.

and that’s when it happened.

you looked at him—waiting, expectant, your expression filled with the kind of excitement that was so genuine it almost startled him. the soft glow of the evening light traced the edges of your face, highlighting the curve of your cheek, the arch of your brow, the slight parting of your lips. your lashes cast tiny shadows against your skin, and when you smiled, your dimples deepened, your eyes turning into crescents once again.

jeongin—

forgot to breathe.

for a fraction of a second, he didn’t care about the stupid bet. didn’t care about the fake dating, or the fact that he was supposed to be annoyed by all of this.

all he could think about—

was how pretty you looked.

and then—

you turned your gaze back to the sky.

the moment broke, like ripples in a pond.

jeongin blinked rapidly, forcing himself to look anywhere else. he bit into the onigiri, trying to act normal.

it was good.

really good.

but he wasn’t about to inflate your ego, obviously.

"it’s… okay," he mumbled.

you frowned, clutching your chest. "just okay?"

he smirked, raising an eyebrow. "i’m just being honest, like you asked."

you narrowed your eyes, then suddenly leaned in closer, way too close. "are you lying?"

jeongin stiffened.

you were right there, inches from his face, eyes locked onto his like you were searching for the truth. the scent of vanilla and something faintly floral drifted from you, and jeongin—

had to grip his knee to keep himself from leaning back.

"i—" he swallowed. "no."

you hummed, tilting your head. "hmm. suspicious."

then, before he could react, you grinned.

"well, i think i did an amazing job." you leaned back, stretching your arms behind you. "maybe i should become a chef. quit university. open a cute little café. i’d call it ‘y/n’s love bites.’"

"love bites?" jeongin actually choked on air this time.

"hey, careful!" your eyes widened, your hands immediately burying into your bag, pulling a bottle out. you hand it to him, after opening it.

"what? is it not a nice name?" you pout at the look he gave you after gulping down the entire bottle, still coughing.

"really though? love bites?"

"mhm." you laughed. "because.. love bites. and because i’m good at biting. and love. and actually, love b-"

"god forbid a man wants to have a snack in peace."

you burst out laughing. "jeez, relax, iyennie. i’m kidding."

"you’re really insufferable."

"and you are fun to tease." you winked.

jeongin groaned, looking away.

but his ears—

were very, very red.

—

the stars were out in full now, scattered across the endless stretch of the night sky. the city below twinkled in response, as if the lights of the world and the heavens were competing for brilliance. the grass beneath you both was soft, slightly damp from the evening air, but comforting in a way that made neither of you want to move.

the silence between you had settled into something familiar—not awkward, not tense. just there. a moment where neither of you had to fill the space with meaningless words.

but then again, you’d never been one for silence.

"so," you started, shifting slightly so you faced him, "i realized something."

jeongin barely glanced at you, still watching the stars. "what?"

"i don’t know anything about you."

he raised an eyebrow. "you know plenty."

"mm, do i?" you leaned back on your palms. "i know you're stinky smart. i know you have the ability to make even professors shut up with a single argument. i know you have the fashion sense of a pinterest model and the patience of a grandma stuck in traffic."

jeongin let out a dry chuckle. "that’s oddly specific."

"am i wrong?"

"…no."

"exactly." you grinned before tilting your head. "but i mean, i don’t know you. like, i don’t know what makes you tick. what makes you.. you. i don’t know what you wanted to be when you were a kid, what your childhood was like, what your favorite memory is."

jeongin stayed quiet, eyes flickering toward you briefly.

you rested your chin on your knees, watching him. "i wanna know."

"you’re way too curious."

"and you’re way too closed off."

he sighed, shaking his head. "you don’t need to know all that. we’re only dating in front of my parents. not here."

"yeah, well, i want to get to know you," you said simply. "and this is completely unrelated to the whole fake dating thing. it can be platonic, you know? i just think it’s unfair that you probably know way more about me than i do about you."

jeongin looked at you, thoughtful. "do i?"

"you tell me, topper."

his lips twitched slightly, and for a moment, he looked like he was considering something. then, with a small sigh, he leaned back on his elbows.

"alright. what do you want to know?"

your eyes lit up. "anything?"

"within reason."

you hummed, thinking. "okay. what did you want to be when you were a kid?"

jeongin let out a short laugh. "you’re gonna make fun of me."

"oh, now i really have to know."

he rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth quirked up slightly. "i wanted to be a detective."

your eyebrows shot up. "no way. detective yang jeongin?"

"yeah, yeah," he muttered. "i used to love mystery novels as a kid. thought i’d grow up solving impossible cases, catching criminals, the whole thing."

you grinned. "that’s actually kind of cute."

he scoffed. "yeah, well, then i realized i’d have to deal with actual crime, and i was like, ‘yeah, no thanks.’"

you burst out laughing. "you wanted to be sherlock holmes but without the danger?"

"pretty much." he shrugged. "so i settled for something else."

"which is?"

"business and english."

you made a face. "oh so we're almost twinning?"

"i thought you knew?"

"um no? we barely share any other sessions, only sometimes, business."

"well that's because we have different batches, genius."

"huh. when's yours?"

"at nine."

you clicked your tongue. "good lord, typical topper behavior."

he shook his head, a small chuckle escaping him. "alright, your turn. what did you want to be as a kid?"

you hummed. "i went through so many phases. i wanted to be a singer, a poet, an author, a fashion designer, a painter… i was all over the place."

jeongin’s eyes softened slightly. "you’re still kind of all those things."

you blinked, caught off guard, ready to fight. "excuse me?"

"no, i mean, you write. you sing. you compose. you’re always dressed like you just walked out of a magazine." his voice was casual, as if he wasn’t just casually complimenting you without thinking.

and for some reason—

your heart stumbled a little.

you quickly recovered, clearing your throat. "well. somebody is paying attention."

he smirked. "unfortunately."

you gasped, nudging his shoulder. "and here i thought we were having a moment."

"you should know better by now," he teased, but there was something gentle in the way he said it.

you huffed dramatically. "fine, whatever. but i thought walking out of a magazine was your thing?"

"i wouldn't mind someone appreciating fashion, darling."

"...moving on. next question. what’s your favorite memory?"

jeongin hesitated for a second. then, with a small exhale, he said, "when i was ten, my family took a trip to japan. we went during the cherry blossom season, and i remember standing under this huge tree, just watching the petals fall. it felt like…" he paused, searching for the word. "magic."

your lips parted slightly.

for a moment, you could see it—ten-year-old jeongin standing under a sea of pink, eyes wide with wonder, cherry blossoms falling around him like soft whispers of a dream.

"you still remember it that vividly?" you asked softly.

"yeah." he looked up at the sky. "some moments just… stick with you."

your chest ached a little at that.

you didn’t know why.

you shook off the feeling. "well. that’s a very wholesome memory."

he smirked. "what were you expecting? something embarrassing?"

"maybe," you admitted, grinning. "but i like this one, too."

a comfortable silence settled between you again.

"what about you?" he asked.

you blinked. "huh?"

"your favorite memory."

you smiled slightly, hugging your knees. "i have a lot of good ones. but, if i had to pick, maybe…" you trailed off, thinking.

jeongin waited patiently.

you finally spoke. "back home, we used to have power outages a lot. and whenever that happened, my mom and i would sit outside with candles, just talking. we’d make shadow animals on the wall, tell stories, and drink warm milk while waiting for the lights to come back."

jeongin listened intently, his expression unreadable.

"it was such a simple thing," you murmured, "but it always made me feel.. safe."

for a long moment, he didn’t say anything.

then, finally, he said, "that sounds.. comforting."

you glanced at him.

there was something warm in his eyes, something quiet and understanding.

and for the first time that night—

you weren’t thinking about the bet.

you weren’t thinking about how you were supposed to be fake dating in front of his parents.

it was just the two of you.

sitting under the stars.

sharing pieces of yourselves you never expected to.

and somehow— it didn’t feel fake at all.

it was peaceful.

you were still determined to learn everything about him.

not just for the bet.

not just for fun.

but because, if you were honest, he intrigued you.

and you always liked figuring people out.

so, after a few minutes of silence, you spoke again.

"so," you started, shifting slightly to face him, "we were talking about memories."

jeongin glanced at you. "we were."

"you know what we weren't talking about?" you raised an eyebrow. "your love life."

he scoffed. "love life? who said i have one?"

you gasped, pressing a dramatic hand to your chest. "wait, no way. don’t tell me you’ve never had a girlfriend before, iyennie."

"i literally told you i've never been on a date.. like on day one." he shot you a look. "also, don't call me that."

"i think you know that i don't believe that," you grinned. "also, i will always call you that."

he exhaled through his nose, clearly regretting ever agreeing to this conversation. "i’ve had one."

you perked up. "so you did!" your eyes lit up with curiousity. "so, one? as in, just one?"

"yeah."

"how long ago?"

he hesitated for a second. "three years."

your mouth dropped open. "damn, that’s—wait. that means you’ve been single since you were—"

"yeah, yeah," he cut you off, rubbing the back of his neck. "i just… haven’t really been interested in dating since."

"interesting," you mused. "so what happened?"

jeongin sighed, clearly debating whether to answer.

then, after a moment, he said, "she was.. nice. we just weren’t meant to be, i guess."

you narrowed your eyes. "that’s such a boring answer, yang. give me details."

he smirked slightly, shaking his head. "you’re really nosy, you know that?"

"and you're really secretive." you tilted your head, watching him. "it’s okay if it.. ended badly. you can tell me."

he was quiet for a beat, then finally spoke.

"it wasn’t bad, exactly. we just had different priorities," he admitted. "she wanted a lot more attention, a lot more time together. and i was…" he paused, exhaling. "i was too focused on school, my goals. she got frustrated. said i didn’t care about her enough."

you hummed. "did you?"

he frowned slightly. "i did care about her."

"but maybe not in the way she wanted," you guessed.

jeongin gave you a look, as if surprised at how quickly you caught on. "yeah."

you nodded, thoughtful. "so, you’re the kind of guy who expresses love in actions, not words, huh?"

he blinked. "i guess you could say that."

"noted." you grinned. "i’ll expect a bunch of favors and free tutoring sessions as proof of love."

he rolled his eyes. "we’re not in love."

"not yet," you teased.

jeongin let out a dry chuckle. "you really think you’re gonna win this bet, huh?"

"oh, i know i will," you said smugly. "face it, topper, you like me."

"i tolerate you," he corrected.

"that's what they all say," you laughed. "give it time."

for a moment, he just watched you, his gaze unreadable. then, shaking his head, he muttered, "unbelievable."

you turned your attention back to the sky. "alright, next question."

"you’re not done interrogating me yet?"

"of course not. i’m just getting started." you shot him a smirk. "so, mr. future ceo, what’s something you’re actually passionate about? like, not just academically."

he hesitated.

you raised an eyebrow. "you do have hobbies, right? you don’t just study for fun?"

"of course i have hobbies," he muttered.

"well?"

"…i like music."

you blinked. "wait, really?"

he nodded. "yeah. i don’t do it as much now, but i used to sing trot with my grandparents all the time when i was younger."

you stared at him, genuinely surprised. "you? music?"

"what’s so shocking about that?"

"i don’t know! you just seem like ‘i only study and occasionally judge people’."

"well, i do judge people." he smirked. "i also kinda life photography, for some reason."

"really? so he likes singing and photography? what kinds?"

"mostly landscapes. architecture. things that don’t move too much."

you hummed. "so, no people?"

"not really." he glanced at you. "though… i think i’d like taking pictures of someone if they were interesting enough."

you tilted your head. "like who?"

for a second, jeongin didn’t answer. his eyes flickered over your face, something unreadable in his expression.

then, with a small smirk, he simply said, "dunno. haven’t found them yet."

your stomach did a weird little flip.

you cleared your throat. "huh. well. you should show me your pictures sometime."

he shrugged. "maybe."

you nudged his shoulder. "that means yes."

"that means maybe."

"sure, sure." you grinned before shifting topics. "alright, what’s your biggest ick in a person?"

he smirked slightly. "besides you?"

"rude," you huffed.

he pretended to think. "probably… people who pretend to be someone they’re not."

you nodded. "yeah, i get that. fake personalities are exhausting."

"what about you?"

you didn’t hesitate. "people who can’t communicate."

jeongin raised an eyebrow. "that’s… a very mature answer."

"right?" you sighed dramatically. "like, if you have a problem, just say it. why do people make everything so complicated?"

jeongin chuckled. "agreed."

there was a pause before you added, "also, people who wear socks to bed. they scare me."

he burst out laughing. "what? why?"

"i don't know, it just feels wrong!"

"you’re insane," he said, shaking his head.

"maybe. but at least i’m not a sock-sleeper."

jeongin laughed again, and for some reason, the sound made your chest feel warm.

the conversation continued, shifting from childhood stories to embarrassing moments, from random questions to deep musings.

at one point, you found yourself just… watching him.

the way his dimples appeared when he smiled.

the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed.

the way his gaze softened ever so slightly when he looked at you.

and maybe, just maybe—

you were in trouble.

but you weren’t going to admit that.

not yet.

for now, you were just a girl sitting under the stars with a boy who was supposed to be your fake boyfriend.

and yet, somehow—

it didn’t feel fake at all.

mastertag ୨୧ @cosmicalily @hyunjiiza @modesttiger @woozarts @katsukis1wife @bddaramjis @reignessance @peskybirdysya @honeyybbuubblleess @ellemir2404 @4ng3l-ch1ld @urlocalmultigroupfan

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shimjake · 15 days ago

Text

flowers in december

pairing . jungwon x fem! reader (ft. sunghoon) about . 16.2k+ words, angst, unrequited love + hanahaki synopsis . jungwon doesn't think there's anything scarier than watching his best friend, who he's secretly been in love with his whole life, get married to another. however, as he coughs up blood and tries to ignore the ache in his chest, he starts to believe that maybe, there just might be something worse: death.

warnings . major character death, blood, throwing up, alcohol/drinking, cursing, themes of suicide and death overall, this is a hanahaki au so i cannot stress enough how much grief there is in this, miscommunication, heavy angst, depression, sickness, there's like 1 suggestive line, its barely implied reader is shorter than jungwon but it doesnt matter too much, if you are reading this hoping for a good time there is none ok

playlist . flowers in december by mazzy star, bonfire by wave to earth, no one noticed by the marias, romantic homicide by d4vd, space song by beach house, favorite crime by olivia rodrigo, beaches by beabadoobee

notes . first fic on this account hello!! also this was written for @hoonigiris i hope you enjoy my grad gift to u! (let's ignore how this was supposed to be done by last august.) also thank you to @sungbeam for dealing with me crashing out every single time and for beta-ing, i love u so much. genuinely writing this has ruined me i'm so sorry jungwon for putting you through this much pain but at least i finished the fic yknow 😭

The light that streams in through the blinds is unbearably bright today.

Usually, Jungwon can ignore it. He can reach over to tug the blinds shut or bury his face into his perfectly fluffed pillow. He can pretend he has no other obligations and surrender to the slumber that consumes him once more. At least, until his alarm rings, he can exist in a world of peace where his only soulmate is the quilted pattern of his blanket.

Unfortunately, though, he cannot replicate this sequence of actions today. Mainly because no matter how hard he tries, the ever-so-persistent buzzing of his phone doesn’t seem to quell.

Jungwon reaches for his bedside dresser unquestioningly, not wanting to open his eyes, which currently feel weighted down by dumbbells. His fingers fumble around the hardwood until they land on something smooth, and he grips his phone with whatever strength he has this early in the morning. With one eye, he peeks at his phone screen to see a flashing call appear on the glowing screen. With a grumble, he picks up.

“Hello?” he whispers. Only then does he register the dryness of his throat, that scratchy, aching feeling he gets after one too many vodka shots at the club.

“Jungwon, finally!” he hears from the other end. It takes him a little bit to recall your chirpy voice from the other end of the phone. “Do you know how many times I’ve called you? This is–”

“Y/n,” he starts, his eyes scanning the clock hanging across his room. “It’s seven in the morning. I never wake up this early. You never wake up this early.”

Jungwon hears a rustle of sheets next to him, a soft whine echoing out from his sleeping hyung. Jay’s tired eyes blink open, and he throws an arm over his eyes as if the light streaming in personally insulted him.

“Fuck, my head hurts. What time is it?” Jay mumbles.

“Seven.”

Jungwon’s headache makes its presence known on cue, and flashes of last night’s misadventures spring through his memory. He groans, already regretting tagging along with Jay to the bar near his house, the one with Jay’s bartender friend that always gives them half off on drinks. Nights like these are ones he always regrets, never too fond of the aftermath of a raging headache, but sometimes he just needs a little something after a long day of work.

“Are you with Jay?” Jungwon hears on the other end, and he hums softly. “Good, because I have something important to tell you both!”

Your voice is wispy, full of breaths and almost-stutters as if you landed in some sort of unescapable trouble. Jungwon’s heart picks up, worry pounding through him as he puts your call on speaker and climbs out of bed. He fumbles around the room, tugging on a shirt and searching for his keys as he responds.

“What’s wrong? Did you miss your bus again? I can come pick you up–”

“No, Won, nothing’s wrong.” Your breathing staggers on the other end, as if you were controlling every inhale and exhale, and he finds himself not believing your words.

“Are you sure?”

“Jungwon. Listen to me.”

He stops, pausing for a beat, and listens. He listens, just like he always does.

“He proposed, Won. Sunghoon proposed.”

And suddenly, Jungwon feels like he’s suffocating.

He doesn’t register much after that, only Jay expressing a small ‘congrats’ as you both continue talking. His knees buckle, and he’s forced to sit back down on the bed with his shirt half-on and shaking hands. He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he hears shuffling across the room and finds his tears staining Jay’s bare torso, pressing into his chest as Jay brings him in for a hug.

Jay doesn’t say anything at first; he just rubs circles into his back with a touch so delicate that it barely registers. When Jungwon cries harder, he breaks, whispering apologies into his ear as if they can do anything to crush the tidal wave of anguish that just swept over Jungwon.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” he repeats, over and over again like a mantra, but Jungwon doesn’t understand why. Did he do something wrong? Did you do something wrong? Is loving someone who isn’t him wrong?

Or is it he that’s wrong, loving you irrevocably despite your heart belonging to another? Loving you and lying to everyone about his true feelings with only a selfish desire to keep you close. Was it so wrong that he just wanted to be with you, even if it was as your best friend and nothing more?

All the memories of you suddenly resurface, handpicked moments where he could’ve confessed at any moment, but instead remained silent. Moments where he watched you chase your happiness, even if that didn’t involve him. A small, gnawing feeling in his chest makes itself known, crawling its way up his intestines and up his throat.

“Hyung,” Jungwon whispers. Jay pulls back, searching his eyes and anticipating any sort of grief-filled reaction that comes Jungwon’s way. “I… I think I’m going to throw up.”

Jay frowns, already reaching for the pink Hello Kitty bucket in the corner of Jungwon’s room, reserved for hangovers, rough nights, and maybe in rare cases like this, heartbreak. Jungwon’s eyes flutter shut as he heaves, and heaves, and heaves, all his yearning leaving through his mouth until nothing remains and he’s pulling the bucket away with a slight cough.

“Won, you need to rinse your mouth,” Jay starts, patting his back. Jungwon stares into the bucket, his face contorting into something of confusion.

“Won?” he hears again, but this time he rubs his eyes in disbelief, blinking three times before tilting the bucket towards his hyung.

“Look, hyung. Petals.”

White, curled petals, sitting against the baby pink interior of the bucket. A sight so unrealistic that it doesn’t even look real until Jay shakes the bucket and the petals flutter to the bottom. Jungwon can only stare in shock, almost in wonder, until he throws up again.

(He finds out later, after he’s calmed down and the tears on his cheeks have become one with his skin, that Sunghoon proposed to you on that mountain. The one that you and Jungwon discovered first together, back in high school when you ventured off the trail for your senior pictures and stumbled upon the view of a beautiful sunrise studded with pine trees. The mountain that you’d revisit with Jungwon every summer, dragging him, and later Sunghoon, along because it became something of a tradition, sitting at the top of the world with the whole forest spread beneath you.

You would stare at the view. Jungwon would stare at you.)

In retrospect, it’s not like Jungwon didn’t see it coming.

He’d anticipated it for a while now, or at least started expecting it after Sunghoon had pulled him aside during a house party months ago and shyly asked him for his photographer friend’s number, the one who specialized in weddings and surprise proposals. Sunghoon had stared at him so cutely from behind his thick-rimmed glasses that Jungwon had no choice but to ignore the sinking feeling as he forwarded his friend Riki’s phone number, tapping him on the shoulder and wishing him good luck.

(That sinking feeling that he’s always had when he sees you with Sunghoon, as if he doesn’t have a Pinterest album of his ideal wedding that he’s imagined you walking down the aisle in. As if he hasn’t daydreamed about sliding a ring on your finger since he was seventeen, mourning the distance between you two as you headed off to college without him. As if he hasn’t imagined how he’d get down on one knee in the midst of a rainy afternoon and ask to be yours forever.)

It’s just that Jungwon didn’t expect it to be this soon. He thought he’d have more time to bury his reverence for you, to pretend as though you really just were two best friends. He’d wanted to imagine himself cradled in your arms one last time before he lost you for good.

Instead, he has to settle for watching you from a distance. He glances at you one too many times today, admiring the flowy sundress you have on as you sit in the wicker chair next to Sunghoon. It’s like his body knows that you’re slipping from his grasp, because his eyes flicker over to you like it’s second nature, and he has to fight to regain his focus.

It’s the first time he’s seen you, physically, in a long while. You look different, almost as if you’re glowing, so giddy with every movement that Jungwon feels it radiate off you. Conversely, Jungwon feels as though there’s a storm cloud brewing in his stomach, twisting and turning and flipping over and over again as though he’s sick. The complementary croissant from the restaurant lies untouched on his plate, and he busies himself with his phone, reading through the influx of messages from Jay about what’s supposedly wrong with him and his newfound ability to throw up petals.

“Jungwon,” you start, abruptly enough that he almost drops his phone before his eyes glance back up towards you, “and Jake. Thank you for coming.”

“You’re welcome? What is this, an announcement?” Sunghoon’s best friend chimes in, stifling a laugh at your formal behavior.

“Sort of, actually,” Sunghoon responds, observing Jungwon’s confused expression. “We, um,” he clears his throat, the pink rising to his cheeks. “We’re getting married. In two months.”

Time seems to hate Jungwon. It trickles down at moments where Jungwon’s impatient, watching the clock tick as he taps his foot in rhythm, and it crashes through like a tsunami when he craves some peace and quiet. Time seems to slide through his fingers like sand from a broken hourglass, escaping through every crack as if it's running away from something. He never seems to have enough of it, either too much or too little, and right now, he wishes that it was more friendly to him because he knows that getting over you will take a lot longer than two months.

(Really, he’s had a lifetime to do this, but he’s deluded himself into thinking that getting over you is measurable. A process he can start once he needs to. It’s not. Getting over you is an immeasurable entity that he will be battling for the rest of his life. It’s not time that’s unfair to him; it’s himself.)

“That’s so… soon,” Jungwon finds himself saying lamely.

“Yeah,” Jake echoes. “Didn’t you guys just get engaged?”

“Sunghoon has a work trip early next year, so we thought it’d be best to tie the knot before he goes off,” you explain. Your ring glints from the soft sunshine as you meet Sunghoon’s gaze, like a cheesy romance scene in a movie Jungwon wishes he’d never seen. “And we’d like you both to be part of the wedding party.”

The swirling in Jungwon’s stomach intensifies.

“Like, I’d be your maid of honor?” Jungwon lets out, drinking a glass of water to calm the weirdness in his chest.

“Or like, a dude of honor,” Jake comments. Jungwon’s too preoccupied waiting for your reaction to notice Sunghoon’s eye roll.

“Yeah, basically.”

He can’t stop his brain from overthinking, trying any way to get out of something he’d regret. Something you’d regret.

“Are you sure about this? I mean, like, what about Wonyoung?” he asks, knowing how close you are with your college roommate. “She probably knows more about this wedding thing than I do. Or what about Ningning–”

“Won,” you interrupt, placing your hand over his. Your touch is delicate, like always, but he finds it scathingly hot today, as if you’ve set him on fire. “You’re my best friend. Why would I want anyone other than you by my side?”

Oh, how he wishes he could be by your side, not just as your best friend, but as your lover. Sometimes he thinks you know this gaping secret he’s hiding, choosing to say innocent little musings about him and you as if they have no effect on his sanity. He feels sick again, that same sickness from when he gripped Jay’s shirt tightly as tears cascaded down his face, and all he had was the overwhelming urge to get it out. He can’t necessarily do that now, though, not when Sunghoon’s stare is piercing into the side of his head, waiting for a response.

No matter how fucked up this all is, how you unknowingly take and take from him until he has nothing left to give, he still prefers this over not knowing you at all. So he agrees, just like he always does.

“You’re right. Okay,” he says numbly, watching your face light up in a grin as you clutch his hand a little tighter, as if his skin hasn’t been burnt off enough. Even though the whole table radiates with joy, infectious from your laughter, he feels like his heart is being ripped to pieces with every smile you throw his way.

He excuses himself to go to the bathroom a few minutes later, the urge to vomit becoming unbearable with every word he watches you say. He watches the petals float down into the toilet basin, scoffing as he slumps down on the gray tile and wipes his mouth. His hands are finding Jay’s contact before he can even register it, and he tries his hardest not to cry and make a fool of himself in front of you as the phone rings.

He wishes he could go back to a time when he wasn’t in love with you. When all you were to him was just another friend, when he didn’t feel guilty for staring at you a little too long or wanting you more than he wanted anyone else. He wishes he could go back to that time, even though he knows that it never existed, because all he’s ever known is how to love you. He knows he’s been put on this Earth to love you, and to wish otherwise would mean he’d cease to exist.

“Hyung,” Jungwon whispers when the call goes through. His throat is raw and scratchy again, aching just like his feelings for you.

“It’s called hanahaki disease, Won,” Jay whispers slowly, as if it pains him to say. “It’s rare, but it happens when you’re in love with someone who doesn’t love you back. You’ll keep coughing up petals until eventually you die from it.”

Jungwon laughs bitterly because somehow, death doesn’t seem that bad compared to losing you for a lifetime. In the end, death seems better than this sick and twisted fate of his.

Jungwon has always known that you wanted to get married in a garden.

He knows that it’s been a dream of yours to get married with the river flowing behind you and the dandelions peeking through the blades of grass. Early enough that the morning dew still prickles beneath your feet, but not too early for you to complain about your heavy eye bags from lack of sleep.

Jungwon hates that he knows little details about you like this. He hates that he has the ability to read you faster than he’s read himself, as if you’re a book filled with annotations and dog-eared pages from a life well-lived. If Jungwon were a mere acquaintance, crushing on you from afar, he thinks it would’ve been easier to distance himself emotionally. It would be easier to stop loving you without the weight of the world crashing down on his shoulders.

To his dismay, however, Jungwon is not a random nobody to you. He’s your best friend, your other half, the one who completes your sentences and ties your shoelaces. Jungwon knows you like to think of yourself as a star, a tiny, twinkling star that somehow found its place, but to him, you are the epicenter of every universe. A universe where he handpicked all the stars and galaxies, painted the darkness behind you with a soft brush as if it barely exists in comparison to your glow, because he sees you for all that you are. A universe where he settles for being a small planet that orbits you because he is bound to you by heart and soul, and he won’t be able to escape that, no matter how hard he tries.

Your relationship is so tightly knit that he’s the one helping you pick out flower arrangements today instead of Sunghoon. He adjusts uncomfortably in the too-smooth leather couch in the floral shop, watching your fingers flick through the guidebook and trying not to stare at the ring that has now become a permanent placeholder on your body. He subconsciously makes note of the flower arrangements that you linger on for too long, knowing that you won’t remember them until you retrace your line of thought.

(It’s okay, though. He’s always been there to remember things for you. Like the time you forgot your notecards for your sociology presentation, and he printed out spare just in case. Or when you forgot to ask for mango sago in your drink, so he pulled the cashier aside after to let her know. Even if you’re not aware of how much he does for you, he’ll still continue to do it just to see that glow on your face. That same glow that spreads slowly, the one that barely appears, but the one he still notices because he loves you.)

“They’re all pretty,” you murmur, flipping back and forth through a couple of different arrangements. “What about the petunias?”

Jungwon eyes the multicolored flowers in the photo, his brows arching skeptically. “You didn’t want flashy colors, though,” he reminds you gently, taking the book from your hands.

You sigh, slumping against the couch as if you’re over this whole ordeal, even though it’s only been thirty minutes. Jungwon flips to the next page, ignoring your disinterested gaze because even though your eyes glaze over, he knows how important this is to you, and therefore how important it is to him, too.

He scans the pages until his fingers pause, pressing indents into an arrangement with white colored flowers and pretty green springs. His heart rate spikes as his mind races with every intention to turn the next page, to forget about the same flowers that continue to plague him, but you’ve already noticed his silence and leaned in curiously to examine the page.

“Those are pretty, aren’t they?” you echo, your fingers tracing over the white crysanthemums. Even in the picture, they look delicate, as if one harsh gust could blow away the petals, and all Jungwon can think about is how much they remind him of you.

(They’re the same white flowers he wanted to ask you out with. He’d preordered the bouquet weeks in advance, waiting until the cherry blossoms bloomed to plan the perfect date. The collared shirt he picked out matched how pure the flowers looked in his hands, and he purposefully waited to get his hair cut because he knew you liked to run your fingers through the silky length.

The date never happened, though, because you told him about your crush on Park Sunghoon three days later. The cute barista who always drew hearts on your coffees and added extra boba to your tea. Jungwon smiled back at you as if every word didn’t pierce through his chest, and the bouquet stayed in his dorm, shriveling up until the color became unrecognizable.)

“They are pretty,” he whispers. “Are you sure, though? White flowers tend to wilt faster.”

“They’ll only be for the centerpieces, Won. Besides, the color is versatile enough to go with everything, so it’ll be easy to make a theme around it.”

He wants to tell you that he won’t be able to bear seeing you walk down the aisle with white crysanthemums, a pointed reminder of what could’ve been if you had reciprocated even an ounce of his feelings. He wants to tell you that he’ll die because of this very flower, that the petals he throws up because you don’t feel the same way are the same ones you want to center your entire wedding around.

He wants to tell you that white chrysanthemums mean death, not for you, but for him.

He can’t say any of that, though. Not when you speak so happily to the cashier, discussing logistics and deciding this is the one you want. He can never say no to you, because denying your happiness is like denying his whole existence, even if it causes every part of him to wither away until all that remains is a singular white petal.

The wind whips through Jungwon’s hair as he peeks his head out of the car window, but even that is not enough to stop the ever-so tumultuous feeling in his stomach.

His disease is getting worse. Initially, he’d only throw up after being close to you for prolonged periods of time, or when you sat a little too close for comfort, a little too close to even function. The petals were annoying, and it felt hard to breathe at times, but it was bearable enough that he could deal with it. He could pretend everything was fine when you stared him in the eyes or when your voice fluttered through his ears.

It’s harder now, though, because even the mere thought of you is enough for him to find solace in the Hello Kitty bucket again. There are more petals, too, stained with blood at the tips as if they really are a part of his body and not some figment of his imagination. He chokes on his words more often, always accompanied by a cough and wheezing. He’s gotten paler, enough that he has to apply copious amounts of foundation to resemble his usual self, and his lips are chapped from the number of times he’s had to throw up in the past month.

Jay has moved into his apartment indefinitely, treating him like a sick patient because, well, that’s what he is. There’s no cure, no medicine that can make him feel better, and he has to suffer with this terminal illness until he either dies or kills himself at your altar. Jungwon just hopes he dies after your wedding, while you’re blissfully aware on your honeymoon with Sunghoon. He hopes that when he dies, your last memories of him consist of nothing but happiness.

The Hello Kitty bucket joins him on the way to the cake shop, becoming a permanent fixture in his hands as Jay drives in the seat next to him. Jay’s fingers grip his thigh every time Jungwon coughs, but he manages to make it to the store in one piece.

At least, until he sees Sunghoon’s car parked outside, and all that he has tried to hold back spills out (all the secrets he has buried, one flower at a time).

“It’s okay,” Jay says, wiping the blood from the corner of Jungwon’s mouth, “I’ll be here. I’ll come up with dumb excuses when you need a break.”

The soft aromatics of the bakery waft through Jungwon’s senses as he steps out, and he just prays that he’ll be able to hold on for long enough today in your presence. He wonders how he’s supposed to survive your actual wedding if he can barely even make it through cake testing today, but he knows he’ll have to figure out a way without making you suspicious of what’s going on.

As much as he hates that Sunghoon loves you, it’s hard not to see why. You’re incredibly perceptive, even having noticed the lack of color in Jungwon’s skin despite his best efforts to try and hide it. You’ve seen how much he’s been coughing recently, even calling him more often to check in on him. You make him chicken noodle soup when he feels notably worse, and even if he doesn’t have the heart to see you, you deliver little gift baskets to his door with medicine. If anything, the question is, how could someone not love you?

The doorbell jingles when you walk in, and your eyes immediately light up when Jungwon walks in. Already, you’re skipping over to him and shoving some flavor of cake in his mouth. Knowing you, you’re probably on some sugar rush from all the sweetness, but if anything, it just makes you seem even more adorable in his eyes.

“Red velvet,” he says through bites and shaking his head, “It’s good, but it’s a hit or miss for a wedding cake.”

“Back to the drawing board,” Sunghoon sighs behind you, picking up another slice of cake and sliding it over to Jungwon. He shovels it into his mouth, already grimacing at the sour lemon taste and glancing over to see your reaction.

“God, I hate this,” you say, and Jungwon hands you the water glass before you can even reach for it. You thank him before taking a big swig, finishing the water in the cup, and you step aside to refill it with Sunghoon in tow.

“Can you be any more obvious?” Jay whispers from his side, and Jungwon quirks an eyebrow.

“What are you talking about?”

“Come on, man. You look at her with googly eyes. You have to be a little more subtle with these kinds of things before Sunghoon catches on.”

“Yeah, but,” Jungwon sighs, running his hands through his hair, “that’s how we’ve always been.”

“You have to understand that it can’t be like that anymore.” Jay rests his palm on Jungwon’s shoulder, gripping it to emphasize his words. “They’re getting married. You can’t take care of her forever because that’s Sunghoon’s job, not yours.”

Jungwon already feels it crawling up his throat before Jay can finish, and his feet fly towards the bathroom, locking the door behind him as he empties his stomach. Jungwon watches in horror as the once white petals are now blood-stained to the core, soaked in deep red as they make their way down the drain. One look in the mirror shows the blood coating his lips, and he tries his best to wipe off the residue so he doesn’t leave the bathroom looking like a vampire.

Loving you is destroying him, he admits to himself with a bitter laugh. He’s living in this sick, twisted version of fate where he’s punished for wanting what his heart desires.

(When in reality, loving you has always been a form of punishment for him. Watching you at your college graduation as Sunghoon pulls you in closer with your purple graduation stole, leaving featherlight kisses on your cheeks as if you two were the only ones to exist in this world. Knowing that, as he recorded you throwing your graduation cap high in the air, he’d never be enough for you. The sleepless nights when he’s agonized over you, haunted by being in your shadow because he’s simply not worth it, have already burned his soul to ashes. His heart is already a decayed, shriveled version of what could’ve been; he’s just too late to realize it.)

Jay is waiting for him by the door as he steps out. One look at his face, and Jay can already tell how much worse his condition has become, but he chooses not to comment on it as they walk back into the room.

“Are you okay?” you ask, scanning his face in worry as he walks over to you. “You were in there for a while.”

“Yeah. My stomach was kind of acting up from the lemon flavor.”

“I didn’t like that one either,” Sunghoon responds, eyes trailing over Jungwon before his brows furrow. “Hey, you have something on your lips.”

Jungwon’s thumb runs over the corner, pulling back to reveal a smidge of blood he’d missed in the bathroom. He pales, and Jay tenses up next to him, trying to think of an excuse so you wouldn’t overanalyze things.

“It’s probably from the dark chocolate raspberry, right?”

Jungwon laughs, dry and hollowed out. “Yeah! I had a lot cause it was pretty good.”

“I wanna try,” you say, scanning the tables for the flavor. Your fingers reach for the cup, and Jungwon watches your eyes light up as the fork disappears behind your lips. “This is pretty good,” you say between muffled bites, “not too sweet and not too tart.”

Sunghoon grips your shoulder, and you turn slowly, facing him with wide eyes. Your eyes lock, and he blinks once, twice, a silent exchange passing between you both before he pulls back to disappear behind the cake counter.

(Jungwon can’t help the bitter taste in his mouth that spreads when he looks at you. Once, that was you and he, sharing secrets between your eyes in a language you both could only understand. Now, he has to watch his form of love being exhibited by another. A love that he’s now a bystander in front of.)

“Thanks for the save,” Jungwon whispers to his hyung when the noise has settled down.

“Don’t mention it.”

Jay passes him a leftover cake slice, and Jungwon shakes his head. The back of his throat burns, and he can’t tell if it’s from throwing up earlier or the raw intensity of his feelings pounding through his chest every time he looks at you. And even though his heart echoes in his ears, he knows you can’t hear it.

He has always been on mute for you, just static background noise in a world where only you and Sunghoon exist.

Jungwon doesn’t like looking at his reflection in your mirror.

It’s not that he hates how he looks, per se (although he does look like a shell of his former self, vampirish with how pale his skin is and how chapped his lips are). He’s just constantly reminded of how out of place he is in your apartment, all long legs, floppy hair, and that constant nagging feeling that he doesn’t really know you anymore.

He feels a little more disconnected every time he visits. Even though he’s seen it evolve from beige walls and empty floors, even though there are remnants of him everywhere he looks, he’s always felt like an outsider looking in.

From the stain on your carpet when he spilled beer in a drunken stupor to the cat magnet on your fridge, which he’d bought at an Asian market years ago, physically, he knows you. However, Sunghoon’s things scattered throughout the apartment remind him that, emotionally, you are not the same person you once were. A casual hoodie draped over the bar stool is enough to make his stomach stir.

(These days, he has to focus on breathing. In and out. In and out. However, so many ins and so many outs cannot help him hide how left out he feels in your presence. He hates to bear witness to you and Sunghoon sharing glances, as if he is the only one that matters to you. He hates the thought of Sunghoon trailing kisses down your stomach, of whispering breathy words against your thighs like a poem made just for you. He hates knowing that no matter how much Sunghoon loves you, he could love you better.)

Jay was right. Your eyes don’t search for his anymore. They search for Sunghoon’s.

“Stop thinking,” Jay chastises. “I can practically hear your thoughts from here.”

He can’t, though. To him, you’re second nature, a permanent fixture in the back of his mind like an itch that won’t stop bugging him. It’s so irrevocably easy for him to think of you because he searches for you in everything. In every flower bouquet he passes by at the market, in every banana pudding recipe he finds on the internet, in every gray cat he sees running by on the street. Asking him to stop thinking of you would mean losing the very thing that’s been keeping him going.

He hears Jay sigh beside him, turning to place an envelope and a wedding invitation card in his hand.

“Focus on this first. You can think about her when you cry yourself to sleep at night.”

Jungwon nods, slipping the card inside the pocket absentmindedly. His heart is never really there during your wedding preparations, or really anything that has involved you lately, but he hopes you appreciate the effort he puts into trying to show up. It’s hard, especially when he feels the blood swirl in his stomach after seeing your name carved next to Sunghoon’s on the envelope, but he’d rather sacrifice his happiness for yours instead of being apart from you.

He’s gotten better at training himself, though. Focusing on his breathing and counting down from ten seems to do the trick most of the time. However, it comes with a heavy price tag. The blood gets worse when he holds back, and it almost feels like he’s hyperventilating once he does find a chance to empty his stomach. It’s always worse in your presence, too, but good thing you’re not here today, leaving your friends to mail out the invitations as you figure out the decorations.

“Jungwon,” Jake calls out from beside him, “do you think the white stamp or the gold stamp looks better?” He flashes both colors in front of Jungwon’s face, the lights glittering from the clear reflection of the gold one.

“Gold. She’ll like that it’s shiny.”

Subconsciously, his eyes flicker toward Sunghoon, looking at him for approval. He nods, not looking up from the table, and Jungwon’s eyes linger before turning back to his own task.

Jungwon doesn’t really harbor any resentment towards Sunghoon. He’s always viewed him through your eyes, always your boyfriend before anything else. It’s not like he’s done anything wrong other than being the unfortunate human being that you happened to be in love with, the person that took everything away from him. It’s hard to see why not, too, because Sunghoon loves in that silent, caregiving way that you don’t realize until you really get to know him. Sticky notes you find on the counter after you come home from work, dishes cleaned if you’re feeling particularly down, holding your hand in his jacket pocket because he loves deeply, not openly. In many ways, Sunghoon is everything Jungwon has ever wanted to be for you.

Jungwon has always wondered if Sunghoon knows about the extent of his feelings towards you. He always stares into Jungwon as if he’s reading his soul, with that piercing gaze that’s not harsh or unkind but rather, telling. They’re not ridiculously close, but they play video games together sometimes and share a cup of coffee after a long few weeks. Sometimes, late at night, when Jungwon gets roped into Jay’s drinking escapades and doesn’t want you to know, Sunghoon will pick him up and let him sleep over. He’s always gone by the time Jungwon wakes up, but he never leaves without leaving fresh hangover soup and painkillers on the bedside table next to him.

Sunghoon is not a bad person, which makes everything incredibly difficult. In fact, he’s the ideal boyfriend, and the guilt eats Jungwon alive whenever he interacts with you and Sunghoon stares a little too long.

“Jungwon,” he hears. It takes him a moment to register that he zoned out, staring at Sunghoon’s face. Sunghoon smiles awkwardly before asking him if he’s alright.

“Sorry– I was just lost in thought.”

Sunghoon hums, and he feels Jay’s stare burning into him as Sunghoon continues.

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about the orchestra arrangement.” He stands abruptly, beckoning Jungwon to follow him into the kitchen.

Already, Jungwon has that sinking feeling in his stomach because he knows this conversation will be about anything but the orchestra arrangement. He wipes his sweaty palms against his cardigan, and Sunghoon frowns.

“Look, Jungwon. We’re all excited for this wedding, and I’m sure you are too, but if it’s too much, we’ll understand, okay?”

Jungwon looks at him with a blank stare.

“I– I just mean, you just look exhausted, Won. And I know that,” Sunghoon sighs, running his fingers through his hair as if he’s bracing himself, “I know that I’m not exactly your best friend, but I’m here if you want to talk about it. I care about you, even if it doesn’t seem like it.”

Jungwon feels horrible. In his mind, it’s always been him and you, or you and Sunghoon, but he’s never really considered how Sunghoon thinks about him. Sunghoon is genuine, caring about Jungwon’s health, even though he’s five seconds away from ruining his marriage.

(Jungwon doesn’t deserve any of the good around him. Not Jay, who loves him more than he loves himself. Not Sunghoon, who has always tried to be there for him when no one else was. Not even you, who cares for him even when there is nothing left to care for.)

“I’ve just been feeling a little under the weather, hyung. I’m feeling a lot better, so don’t worry about it.” He coughs, and Sunghoon looks unconvinced. “I promise.”

“Are you sure, I mean–” Sunghon starts, reaching out with his fingers in an attempt to graze his cheek. Jungwon flinches, and his fingers pause midair. “Sorry, you’re probably right. I’m just overthinking.”

Sunghoon has that shyness to him, the one that makes his cheeks pink. He looks guilty, and Jungwon’s heart breaks.

“Thank you for checking up on me, though, hyung. It means a lot.”

Sunghoon smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Jungwon turns to leave before the room feels too suffocating, before the walls close in on him and taunt him for how much of a horrible human being he is, but he pauses once he feels Sunghoon’s palm on his shoulder.

“Wait, Jungwon, I–” he pauses, trying to find the right words. “I know, Jungwon.”

Jungwon stills.

“I know that you love her.”

It feels like his heart is decomposing, burning alive from just the mere mention of you. It hurts a little too much, and he doesn’t even register that he’s crying until he sees the droplets staining the floor. He’s not standing in your apartment anymore, crafting wedding invitations with his friends and debating what color looks better under your cheap lighting. All that he now knows is himself, the tears that slide down his face, and the weight of Sunghoon standing behind him.

“I’m sorry, Jungwon-ah. I’m so sorry,” Sunghoon chokes out. Sunghoon’s fingers grip his shoulder tightly, and Jungwon can distinctly feel the way he trembles underneath Sunghoon’s touch.

He can feel the cool metal of Sunghoon’s rings through his thin shirt. The tears fall too freely now, silently as if he’s afraid to make himself known, and a singular teardrop finds its place against the smooth skin of Sunghoon’s hand.

“Why are you apologizing?” Jungwon whispers so quietly that he’s not even sure Sunghoon hears it. His chest feels too tight, as if he’s curled into a cocoon. “I should be the one apologizing. It’s my fault.”

Jungwon has been hearing a lot of apologies lately. Apologies for loving too much, apologies for loving not enough. He doesn’t really know whether he deserves these apologies, if they really mean anything, or are just words that are intended to fill that gaping hole in his heart, but what he does know is that he’s sick and tired of hearing them. These apologies symbolize that there is something to blame, someone who is guilty, when really, there is only one culprit here.

When really, everything is his fault. Jungwon is the one who learned to love, and now he has to learn to forget. The apologies that fly around his head, whether of pity or sorrow, are worthless to him because, if anything, he is the one who should be saying sorry. Sorry to Sunghoon, sorry to Jay, sorry to you, and sorry to the universe for loving so much that it hurts even to mention it.

“I was too selfish,” Sunghoon whispers. The word sounds foreign in his voice, too unassuming and soft, as if Sunghoon doesn’t even know what it really means.

Jungwon laughs bitterly. Right then and there, he realizes exactly why you fell for Sunghoon and not him.

Sunghoon is too kind to the world. He cares about everyone and everything, from the little caterpillars in the weeds to the dandelion waiting for its dying wish. Jungwon is the opposite. His heart is blood-stained. He feels only for one person, you, and only you. His heart beats too fast because his love for you is like that, someone who feels too much and too intensely. Jungwon’s love is ruination, destroying everything along its path until it’s just the two of you in this universe.

Maybe Sunghoon is selfish, but at least he knows moderation. Jungwon’s love has no limits. He only knows how to take, to take and suck you dry until all you know is him.

“You’re not the selfish one, hyung. It’s me. It’s always been me.”

After he goes home, he throws up. Jay brushes his hair out of his face, and when Jungwon pulls back, all that meets his eye is dark, soul-crushing blood. No more petals. Just blood.

“Maybe you should tell her,” Jay suggests off-handedly as Jungwon drinks water. “It might be good to let it out of your system.”

He can’t, is what he tries to tell Jay. He can’t because admitting he loves you is like confessing the worst of his mistakes. Speaking it into existence will only force him to confront the horrifying truth that you always viewed him as a best friend, or worse, a brother, and he would rather live with the what-ifs and the daydreams than let you leave because of one stupid confession.

Instead, he finds himself nodding. “Sure,” he squeaks out miserably, with every intention of not doing what he’s told. And then he throws up once more.

Jungwon wakes up from a nightmare.

He doesn’t remember what exactly it’s about, only that he’s now dehydrated and his phone is buzzing on the counter next to him despite how late it is.

He sees your name flashing on the screen, and he’s already tugging on his jeans as he answers. It’s like clockwork to him, answering your calls, worrying about you even though you’re probably fine, but he still can’t stop his racing heart or his trembling hands.

It’s as if his brain is hardwired for you. Every beat of his heart, every blink of his eyes, every twitch of his legs, it’s all for you. Jungwon has never lived a single moment without being reminded of your existence in some shape or form. He has never lived a single moment without knowing how to love you.

“Hello?” he asks, almost tripping over his keys.

It takes him a few moments to recognize you crying on the other end.

“Where are you?” he whispers, gentler this time, so as not to scare you away.

“Practice room,” you mumble, so softly as if you don’t want to say it.

He finds you slouched on the ground as he walks into the studio a couple of minutes later, tears staining your light-washed jeans as you furrow into yourself. You’re not crying anymore, not visibly, but somehow knowing that this is the aftermath makes him feel ten times worse.

He’s never really heard you cry before. He knows you’re a private person, someone who likes to share your happiness but keep your sadness to yourself. So, the fact that he could hear your hiccups over the phone meant you were holding back too long, trying to do it all and ruining yourself to the point where you couldn’t hold back your tears anymore.

He hates that you never recognize he’s right here for you. All he’s ever wanted was to be the person you could lean upon, the chest you could curl into as you cried your heart out. He wants to be that person that you share your sorrows with, the one to take hold of your burdens and shoulder them himself, but you never let him do it.

(So it brings him, with sickening greed, a small amount of satisfaction to be the one that’s here for you tonight. Even though his mind tells him not to, even though his body physically forbids him to be near you, his heart only beats your name as he slides down next to you.)

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s stupid,” you mutter. Your fingers pick at the dry skin near your fingernails, and he can see the redness of your eyes as you look up at him. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“I won’t judge,” he says, repeating himself when you don’t respond. “Please.”

You sigh. “Hoon and I had dance practice today. You know, for our first dance. But I–” you laugh, wiping away the tears that make their appearance, “I can’t seem to do it right. He moves so effortlessly, and it feels like I’m stumbling and picking up the pieces. It’s dumb, but I can’t stop thinking about not being good enough.”

One thing Jungwon has learned about you, so subtle that he doesn’t even think Sunghoon knows it yet, is that you’re fragile. He knows you hold your heart in pieces, begging the universe to glue you back together, even though he knows it can’t. So, in lieu of the universe, Jungwon tries. You never give him direct liberty to, but he holds you. He holds you and your broken pieces, and even though it eats him alive that he can’t help you more than this, somehow, it works. It always works for you because he treads carefully, gently, never pushing too hard to keep you grounded.

Right now, as you stare up at him with glossy eyes and the world in your hands, Jungwon knows he has to prove to you that, truly, you are enough. Just as he always has, like when you failed your physics exam in ninth grade, or when you didn’t get that promotion at work even though you tried so hard for it. All he knows in this life is how to be there for you, even if you’re not there for him.

He takes your hand in his, pulling you up from the floor as he turns on the music. “Let’s practice. I’ll help you until you get it right.”

A soft melody floats through the air, spinning around the two of you until he’s clutching your waist. His touch is so light that he’s pretty sure you can barely even feel it, but already he’s regretting being in such close proximity with you as the blood swirls throughout his stomach. Your hands clasp each other behind, wrapped around his neck, and you can’t see the way Jungwon stares at you because your eyes focus on the ground with staggered steps. You stumble as he moves you left, and then right, and the concentration in your gaze wavers as you try not to step on his feet.

“I can’t do this, I–”

“Shh,” he whispers. Your arms loosen, and he grips your waist a little tighter. “This isn’t a performance. It’s just a dance.”

You’re still unconvinced, a frown working its way onto your face. One of his hands comes up to cradle your chin, tilting your face up so that you can meet his gaze.

“Just focus on me.”

You let Jungwon lead you, your eyes never leaving his as the music flows between you both. A slight blush makes its way across his cheeks, but he reminds himself to focus on the steps, back and forth, as if you’re not right in front of him. Jungwon moves like magic, flitting across the dance floor as if he has wings, and you quickly learn how to soar with him, to match his pace and create a rhythm of your own. He notices how relaxed you’ve become when he dips you, a little too low, and you just giggle and hold onto him tighter.

“Thought you were going to drop me,” you gasp after he lets you up. He shakes his head, twirling you around before bringing you in.

“Never,” he murmurs. “I would never drop you.”

He’s so close that he can see the texture on your skin and the light reflecting across your hair. Your irises seem to swirl, lulling him in, and your lips have the curve of a faint smile that he’s worked hard to bring back to your face. He’s so close that he could kiss you, so close that every inch of his curiosity could be satisfied if he just leaned in, but the music behind him slows to a stop as you pull away from his grasp.

“Thank you,” you say, breathless. Then, teasingly, “It would be easier if it were you up there with me instead of Sunghoon, right?”

And suddenly, Jungwon remembers his nightmare. It wasn’t really a nightmare, not something that was frightening enough for his heart to race in fear. Instead, it was a dream tinged with blurred lines and all his what-ifs, a dream of him kissing you after your first dance and how brightly you’d smiled. It was a dream tinged with his blood, a dream that could never be true because you would never think to look at him the way he looks at you.

You busy yourself with packing up your stuff, too focused to see the absolute pain on Jungwon’s face as he clutches the barre next to him. The world caves in around him, and he has to try his absolute hardest to wave goodbye to you as if he’s not crumbling on the inside. Of course, his feelings are nothing but a joke to you, as if they’re not the very reason he’s currently on his deathbed surrounded by a pool of flowers.

He wishes it were him, too. As the blood spills from his lips, dripping down his face, his arms, down to the very floor he stands on, all he wishes is that it could be him dancing with you, being in your arms legitimately, instead of yearning from afar as he twirled you around today.

Maybe, if it really were him dancing with you at the end, this wouldn’t be his last dance alive.

You look happy.

It’s the first thing he notices as you climb into the car, already a little tipsy from the alcohol you’d consumed at your pregame. Your friends, not faring much better than you, help you keep your balance as you buckle your seatbelt and motion for him to start the car. You look genuinely happy. Not just in the way a drunk person looks, but in the way that it’s infectious. You radiate with that kind of energy that makes him want to tug close and kiss the life out of you.

The streetlights twinkle through the window as he drives, filtering out the loud bass of your music and your friends singing along in the backseat. The club you’d chosen for your bachelorette party was a little far from your apartment, but your group doesn’t really seem to mind as they control the aux on his phone and queue another Britney Spears song. The air is charged with that upbeat feeling, the kind that has him drumming his fingers along to the music as he steps on the gas.

He notices your silence in the front seat, watching your head tilt out of the window and the wind whipping through your hair. Usually, you’d be singing along, especially after a little bit of alcohol in your system, but you seem lost in thought today, and it makes him a little worried.

“You okay?” he asks. He wonders if you even hear him over the loud karaoke of your friends, but you turn back to him with a soft smile.

“Yeah. It’s all just kind of hitting me right now, you know?”

“What, the alcohol?”

There’s a soft pause before you look back at the window, pressing the button and watching it roll up.

“No, the wedding,” you say, playing with your engagement ring absentmindedly. “It just feels so surreal.”

Jungwon chooses to say nothing, turning up the volume of the music instead. He feels your eyes on him, but he doesn’t know what to say as he grips the steering wheel tighter. He’s glad he chose to stay sober tonight because maybe he would’ve responded with something not particularly appropriate. Perhaps he would’ve decided to tell you that he does wish this wedding were just a figment of his imagination. Maybe, he would’ve told you that he’s scheduled to die soon because of your surreal wedding, your surreal love for Sunghoon, and his not very surreal love for you.

He doesn’t say any of that, though. He keeps his emotions in check and drives, watching the headlights of the car next to him race by. He drives until the bright neon lights of the bar flash through the mirror, and he barely has a chance to park before you and your friends clamber out, giddy with excitement.

The club has this dizzying sort of atmosphere, the flickering lights from the dance floor and the loudness of the music hitting him all at once. He feels like he can’t breathe, he really, really can’t breathe, and he’s already making his way to the bathroom before you have a chance to drag him to the center.

I can’t do this, he texts Jay. The multicolored ceiling tiles blur before his eyes as he slumps against the bathroom stall door. He hears someone throwing up next to him, and he wonders briefly that if everything were normal, that if he weren’t dying because you loved him back, maybe he’d be a drunk idiot throwing up in his Hello Kitty bucket too.

He’s not normal, though. Every time he inhales, it feels painful as if something’s stuck in his throat. His voice has become too raspy, and he swears he can feel the weight of his lungs through every breath, pounding against him particularly hard whenever he’s near you. Every ticking moment reminds him that you are genuinely content with all this. Content with Sunghoon, content with this wedding, and content living a life Jungwon may not even be in.

He doesn’t know how long he stays in the bathroom stall, pouring his feelings out, but he wipes the blood off with a tissue and leaves the stall. His eyes look bloodshot in the mirror, and his heart pounds with every beat of the EDM music reverberating through him. He hasn’t had a sip of alcohol, but this is the sort of effect you have on him, world-spinning and regret seeping through his every vein.

His eyes scan the dance floor for you, and he relaxes slightly when he finds you swinging your arms in the air to a Charli XCX song. You’re in your own little world as your friends dance around you, and Jungwon feels like he’s standing on the edge of it, one foot in and one foot out. It's as if he’s almost there, but not quite.

(Lately, though, he’s been choosing to stay out. Choosing not to get devoured by the force that is you, all-consuming and leaving him with no room to breathe. Once upon a time, he would choose to drown every time, to feel the burn in his lungs as he swam towards you.

Now, there is no more burning left in his lungs. There is no more you. It’s just him and his thoughts, floating endlessly in the ocean until the point of no return.)

He’s scrolling on his phone, slouched against the bar stool, when he hears two taps on the marble next to him. He looks up to find the bartender sliding over a glass of fizzy liquid, topped with a sliced lime and a salted rim.

“Oh, I didn’t order this,” Jungwon sputters, reaching to push it back, but the bartender clasps his hand and wraps Jungwon’s fingers around the glass.

“It’s on the house, and it’s non-alcoholic, so don’t worry about it.” The bartender smiles, a contagious sort of grin that makes Jungwon want to smile too, and he leans over slightly to speak closer to him. “You look like you need it.”

Jungwon thanks the bartender, sipping at his drink slowly and feeling the bubbles fizz down his throat. It’s a Sprite, mixed with something a little fruity, and already it has him feeling lighter than a couple of moments before.

“I’m Sunoo, by the way,” he hears. Sunoo’s nameplate flashes from the strobing lights, dancing from all the colors around him. “So, tell me, which girl is it?”

Jungwon coughs, the drink going down the wrong pipe, and Sunoo merely blinks, watching him.

“What? What girl?”

“The girl that’s you’re heartbroken over, silly!”

Jungwon sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “Is it that obvious?”

“You’re like a dejected puppy. Even a five-year-old could probably tell.”

Jungwon sips at his drink, carrying it while peeking back over his shoulder. His eyes search until they land on your figure, now at the far left near the DJ.

“That one, over there,” he says, pointing at you. “The one in the white.”

“She’s pretty,” Sunoo says absentmindedly, and Jungwon finds himself agreeing before turning back to face him. “Did she reject you?”

“No,” Jungwon starts. His throat feels parched, suddenly, despite his dedication to sipping the drink in his hands. “I– I never told her. She’s getting married next week.”

Sunoo’s gaze softens. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

The drink tastes bitter now, prickling in Jungwon’s mouth. His lips press into a line as his fingers play with the straw in his glass. He swishes it, around and around, watching the little cyclone that appears when he moves the straw too fast. He wants to tell Sunoo that it’s okay. There’s no reason to apologize, and he’s sick of every sorry that comes his way because it’s fine. In a normal world, Jungwon would have moved on, slowly but surely, and he’d have come back to this bar in the future as a healed person.

It’s not okay, though. It’s not okay because how can Jungwon move on when you make up every inch of him? How can Jungwon move on when the reason he lives and dies is because of you? You pour life into him and take it away from him all at the same time. You are the one to poison him and you are the one to heal him, and Jungwon just has to stand there and take it until he physically isn’t able to anymore. Jungwon will never be able to find someone who loves him just as much as he loves you, because he only has space in his heart for you and no other. So even if it means that Sunoo’s last memory of Jungwon is right now at this bar, pining after you from afar, he’s forced to accept it.

After all, there is no him without you.

There is only you without him.

Jungwon should be at the venue already. Instead, he’s lying against his mahogany rug, fingers twisting in the strings that are woven into it as he tries to reach for his phone.

He was having a good day, or at least, he thought he was having a good day. He woke up early to run some errands before work. His presentation proposal went spectacularly well, and there was barely any traffic as he sped home. He got a free hot chocolate today with the welcome of a new month, a new December, and he didn’t have to spend any portion of today hunched over a sink waiting for his guts to spill out.

He was having a good day until, well, everything started to go wrong.

He was searching for his keys as he straightened his suit tie and fixed that annoying strand of hair that kept falling in his face. He was on call with Jay, who had offered to drive him to the restaurant where your rehearsal dinner was being held. It was all fine.

He was fumbling around for his suit jacket when suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. He doesn’t know how he ended up on the floor, or how the sharp, radiating pain spread from his lungs to his heart. All he knows is that he’s crying, and Jay’s voice is somewhere distant, telling him to stay calm and to wait for him. He can’t respond, every hoarse attempt to speak failing miserably with a cough. His insides feel like they’re being burned alive, and distinctly he can feel the tears drip down his cheeks, or maybe the blood spill from his mouth.

He can’t seem to move, not when he tries to reach for his phone, not when Jay shows up and shakes him by the shoulders, not when the paramedics show up at his apartment and shine a bright light in his eyes. He can’t move when he’s hooked up to the oxygen mask, or when the ambulance shudders beneath him and Jay’s tears drip down his arm.

Somewhere along all of this, he fades in and out of consciousness, dizzy from the bright lights and the emergency siren. He can’t tell if the pain gets worse or if it gets better, but he tries to focus on the beeping of his heart rate and how grounded Jay’s hand makes him feel.

And throughout all of this, despite his best efforts to ignore it, he thinks of you. He thinks of how you’re probably at your rehearsal dinner right now, holding hands with Sunghoon. You’re probably talking about how you met him, how you fell in love with him, and how you will continue to love him just as he loves you. You’re probably talking to all your friends and family and serving your homemade banana pudding recipe that you worked hard to make. He knows you probably have that stupid little grin on your face, the one he sees in his daydreams of you and him, and other words that don’t belong together.

He’s still dreaming about you when he wakes up, barely registering the pain from the IV needle as he scans the room. His eyes land on Jay in the chair next to him, who’s already rushing over as soon as Jungwon’s eyes open.

“Where am I?” Jungwon says groggily. His free hand clutches his forehead, aware of the dull headache that rests on the sides of his forehead. “Is this the hospital?”

“Jungwon,” Jay breathes, cradling Jungwon’s face. “You’re awake.”

“How long was I out for?”

“Not long,” Jay says, pulling away and sitting on the edge of the bed. His fingers clutch Jungwon’s hand tightly, as if he’s still in disbelief over Jungwon breathing and talking right in front of him. “A couple of hours.”

“A couple of hours?” Jungwon shrieks. He tugs the needle from his arm, wincing from the sharp pain as it rips out. “We’re so late. So late. She’s probably waiting for me! I told her I was gonna help set up the decorations–”

“Jungwon,” Jay whispers, gripping his wrist. Jungwon sees the frown lines etched on his face and pauses. “I sent her a text about us being late. She never even responded.”

“No– that’s– she would never,” Jungwon scoffs. His fingers reach for this phone on the bedside table next to him, dialing your number before Jay can even stop him.

The line rings, once, twice, too many times before the sound of your voicemail filters in. He tries again, and again, and each time feels like a stab to his freshly wounded heart. His eyes fog up, and he can’t stop the tears that escape him as he dials over and over again. His tears fall on his phone screen, staining the glass until he can’t even click on the call button, and the phone slips from his grasp.

His body pulses in his hyung’s hold as he hugs him, heavy sobs erupting from him as he finally lets go. He lets go of all the pain and misery he’s faced from you, about you, like an asteroid that burns up when it reaches too close to the sun. No matter how hard he tries, it’s impossible for him to accept that he’s just another person in your orbit, fading in and out when you need him.

He remembers all the times he’s centered himself around you. Every moment when he thought he was wanted by you, even if it was just as a friend. Now, all he can see is how convenient, how easy he is for you. How pathetic he is to fall in love with you, to keep loving you even though he knew you would never love him back. And yeah, he’s always there when you need him, but even now, as he sits inches away from his death, you’re never there for him.

“You always put her before yourself,” Jay murmurs in his shoulder. “Even if she’s the reason you’re dying, you’re still addicted to her.”

“I can’t help it, hyung. I love her.”

Jay exhales, pulling away from Jungwon. Even though Jungwon is stupid, the never-give-up kind of stupid, he appreciates Jay for still trying to save him, even if there is nothing to be saved.

Jay reaches over to grab a folder from the table, the bright blue color matching the print of his hospital gown. He flips through a few pages before pulling out a black, semi-translucent slip of film, flipping it over for Jungwon to see.

It takes a few minutes for Jungwon even to register what he’s seeing. The scan is zoomed in on his upper half, centered on his lungs and vertebrae, but what’s in his lungs is anything but typical. Flowers bloom through every crevice of his lungs, sprouting, growing as if they’re meant to be there. They’re still small, but Jungwon can already see the buds and even tiny flowers that have sprouted. There’s not an inch of space left empty, every alveolus filled with a leaf or a stem or a flower.

“Is this what I was coughing up?” Jungwon asks, fingers tracing his chest where his lungs reside. “That’s inside of me?”

“Yeah. The doctors said that as the disease progressed, there were too many flowers to cough up, so they started growing in you.” Jay speaks with incredulity, as if he can’t even believe it’s real.

“What do you mean, progressed? Is it not still progressing?”

Jay turns to him, and only then does Jungwon register his bleary eyes and the tear stains that have dried on his cheeks. His fingers tremble as he holds the page, and he speaks so softly as if he refuses to solidify the statement’s existence.

“You’re in your final stages, Wonie. You have a week left at best until the flowers bloom fully and you’ll die of oxygen poisoning.”

Jungwon thinks that if he weren’t so adamant about making it to your wedding and seeing you at the altar, he would’ve killed himself a long time ago. Maybe the day you asked him to be your maid of honor, or maybe even as early as when you got proposed to. Killing himself would’ve rid him of all this yearning, yearning that presented itself in the form of this disease that takes and takes until his very last breath. This disease, that no matter how hard he tries to avoid, reminds him of you.

You with the soft fingers that he wishes he could intertwine his with. You with the eyebrow you always arch expressively when you dislike something. You with the back tattoo of a sparrow that’s a little chubby, just the way you wanted it. You with the soft voice that he’s blessed to hear through the little song covers you’d always send him. You who’d never notice the cherry blossoms that fell in your hair, the ones that he’d have to pick out imperceptibly every time.

You who he’s so irrevocably in love with. You, who despite having a heart full of love, have never loved him back.

And then, there’s him. Jungwon. That same Jungwon, with a heart full of love to give only to you. Jungwon, who stays by your side even if you never notice it. That same Jungwon, who worries about you when there is nothing to worry about. That same Jungwon, who kept a mental list of your favorite foods so you won’t feel indecisive at restaurants. That same Jungwon, who holds your hair when you drink a little too much and whispers that it’s okay in your ears, that it’ll all be over before you know it.

They say moles are marks of where your soulmate kissed you in your previous life. Jungwon knows where all of yours are: the one on your eyebrow, the two on your lower torso, the ones on your hands that he noticed when he interlocked fingers with you, and even the one on your forearm that he memorized as he watched you fall asleep during a sleepover. He doesn’t know if he was your soulmate that kissed those moles into existence in a previous life, or in any life at all, but he’s tried his hardest to be the one for you, even if you’re destined for another.

And even now, knowing that you two are never fated to be together in this life, he’ll still try. Because who is he, if he doesn’t even exist to love you?

And distinctly, he remembers the time he did confess to you. The time that he tells no one about because it’s a moment too pathetic to remember.

It was during break, the summer before his senior year of college. You and a couple of others, newly graduated seniors, were at a karaoke bar five minutes away from campus. Jungwon had to watch as you cozied up to Sunghoon from the other end of the couch, a little too drunk and a little too loose. His heart had simmered beneath him, tinged with jealousy every time Sunghoon had pressed a kiss to your cheek or pulled you closer.

He didn’t really mean to avoid you that day. He just didn’t want to third-wheel you and your boyfriend, especially since he was a little tipsy and didn’t trust himself to remain sane around you. You looked so happy, with a giddy voice and a bright smile, and he didn’t want to do anything to hurt your mood.

So, he stayed on the other side of the room. Even when you wanted him to join you in a karaoke battle, to that one song you always queued while he drove you around, he shook his head and remained in his spot. He didn’t drink too much, just enough to feel the buzz, but he still couldn’t shake off how pretty you looked in that dress, or how much you laughed as you curled into Sunghoon’s side.

After some point, the lights in the room and the loud bass of the music start to get too suffocating. He excuses himself for some air, grabbing the empty boxes from the food you’d ordered to throw them away. He doesn’t notice your eyes on him as he balances the carts and slides open the door.

The hallway is long and winding, and by the time Jungwon finds the trashcan and a water fountain, he’s a little out of breath. The walk has sobered him up a little bit, so he doesn’t feel as dizzy as he was when he walked here on the way back. He turns, wiping the corner of his mouth from the dribble of water that slid down, but he finds you standing right behind him instead, with a frown on your face and a bottle of Pink Whitney in your hands.

Already, he knows you’re more shitfaced since the last time he saw you. Pink Whitney has never treated you kindly, and as he sees you struggle to stand upright with your heels on, he knows you’ve passed that limit of tipsiness and charted into dangerous, drunken territory, the kind that he knows you’ll regret the next morning.

“That’s enough of that,” he says, grabbing the bottle. You protest weakly, attempting to snatch it back, but he holds it behind his back so you can’t reach. “Why did you leave the room? You can barely walk.”

“I missed you,” you hiccup. He notices how your tears pool in your eyes, as if you don’t want to cry but can’t really stop it. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

“What?” he breathes. He didn’t really think you’d notice the distance that he’d tried to maintain, assuming you were too preoccupied with Sunghoon to even care that he made no effort to talk to you.

“You refused to share your fries with me. You always share your fries with me.” You’re full-on sobbing at this point, and your fingers find home in his jacket lapel as you sniffle. “Did I do something wrong? Why do you hate me?”

His heart hurts seeing you like this, being the reason that you’re reduced to this mess. His arms curl around you, pulling you in closer so he can rest his head on your shoulder. Your fingers grip his jacket tightly, and he’s too focused on your feelings to notice how your tears stain his shirt.

“Why would I hate you?” he murmurs against your ear. “Don’t say stupid things like that.”

And he means it. Not one inch of his body could feel any sort of resentment towards you, no matter how hard he tried. He wishes it could, so he could hate you peacefully and move on from all the grief he’s been shouldering, but there’s some invisible string tied between you two that he can’t seem to break, no matter how far he goes.

“Then why haven’t you talked to me today?”

He sighs, thumbing the strands of your hair. “I was just giving you space since you were with Sunghoon.”

You pull back, and through your glossy tears, he sees your lips pull into a pout.

“But, I want you too.”

You say it so simply, as if it’s easy for him to accept how you still want him in your life, even though you already have the world with Sunghoon. So simply, as if it’s easy for him to admit that sometimes you love unfairly, and he doesn’t have it in him to seek anything otherwise. So simply, as if it’s easy for him to accept how you still want him even though you have no more love left to give.

Like a puppy on a leash, he glows after hearing those words, even if they hold no weight coming from you. He cradles your face, brushing away the tear streaks across your cheeks.

“You already have me,” he says honestly. “I’m already yours.”

You smile with your eyes closed. It’s the kind of smile that’s earnest, one that stretches across your whole face. Jungwon would run to the ends of the universe if it meant he could see it again.

“I love you.”

The confession slips out of his mouth, raw and unfiltered, as he stops breathing. He didn’t mean to admit it, especially not in front of you like this with your boyfriend a few rooms over. It was supposed to be a secret he carried to his grave, not some abrupt confession he said in hushed tones in front of a karaoke bar water fountain. He was supposed to say it on that day, the day when the cherry blossoms bloomed, and he wore that white shirt to match the flowers in his arms. He wasn’t supposed to say it like this, holding an uninhibited version of you and taking advantage of the fact that you’re not sober enough to process his words.

He stills, like a frame paused, in time waiting for your reaction. He knows you’re going to hate him, not want him anymore, even if it’s selfishly, and he knows this is the last time he’ll ever get to see you like this. His heart pounds against his chest, erratic as if it’s escaping, and he can’t seem to find the words to apologize or take it all back before you slip from his grasp.

You don’t do any of that, though. You remain in his hold, with his fingers holding you like a porcelain doll, and that soft smile. Instead, your hands wrap around his, your fingers sliding between the crevices as you open your eyes.

“I love you so much, too, Wonie. You’re the bestest friend ever. My best friend.”

His lungs release the breath he didn’t even know he was holding, but it’s not loud enough to disguise the sound of his heart breaking. You don’t hear it, of course, oblivious to the tumultuous storm that rages inside him, and you just pull him tighter as you hug him again.

He cries. He cries against you just as you cried against him, only stronger with the weight of all his unsaid confessions pouring out of him. It’s silent enough for your drunk self not to notice, but the droplets plink against your hair, and he has to wipe away the tears rapidly before you catch on. It hurts so, so much. It hurts more than anything else he’s ever felt because, while you’re the center of the universe to him, he means nothing to you. While you’re everything to him, he’s just a fleeting moment to you.

Unmistakably, he wonders if anything would’ve even changed had he confessed to you properly then. Or if anything would’ve even changed if he confessed to you now, mere days before your wedding. If maybe the pain in his lungs would’ve eased away, if maybe the flowers would’ve withered and died right inside him.

Deep down, though, he knows that confession wouldn’t have healed him one bit, because you have never felt anything for him in return. From the very first time he laid eyes upon you, sculpting castles in the sandbox alone, to now, he has always cared for you and your impression of him. Even when that impression is anything but what he really is, what he really wants to be, he still cares.

He knows that even if he confessed to you, the flowers in his heart would still continue to bloom, unconstrained without the very thing he desires from you: love.

The air is a little breezy today.

Not breezy enough that Jungwon feels cold (although his suit jacket provides him plenty of warmth already), but just enough to make the blades of grass sway softly, as if they’re dancing along to the faint melody of the music in the background. It’s early in the morning, a time when he can still hear the birds chirping and the sun rays peeking above the horizon.

On a regular day, he’d still be in bed waiting for his alarm clock to ring. Or maybe he’d be hungover from a long weekend with his friends, choosing to sleep in and ignore a headache. Today, though, he stands under the drapes of the altar, next to the podium where Sunghoon shifts nervously.

Waiting for you.

Jungwon’s fingers fumble with the flower in his pocket, a singular, white chrysanthemum against the black of his suit. Your bridesmaids have the same flowers as corsages, but Jungwon’s is different because the flower rests right in front of his heart, beating, echoing with every pulse.

And already, Jungwon knows today is his last day alive, because today is your wedding. Today is the day he’ll lose you forever, the day that you step out of every daydream of his and into another man’s. Standing here, as your man of honor, is the most twisted punishment the universe could make him face. On the day of his reckoning, instead of wishing him away with peace, you’ve decided to make him bear witness to the very act that caused his ruin.

Sunghoon stares at him knowingly. He can’t tell if it’s with pity, or even worse, with pride.

All Jungwon wants is to get this over with. He’s agonized over this moment for months now, from the beginning of autumn to last night as he wrote his man of honor speech. Once upon a time, he had hoped he would be able to accept your marriage with a healed heart. Now, as the music shifts into something slower and the audience hushes, he knows he will leave with nothing but pain. With nothing but pure, raw desire simmering through his heart and burning every flower that grows inside of him until he no longer remains.

He feels like he’s dreaming when he finally sees you.

You, in your long, white gown, with handwoven patterns of silk and thread stitched across the front. A dress with patterns of all kinds of flowers, patterns of every stem and leaf that glimmer against the white cloth. The flowers sprout against the exterior of the mesh, with petals that sway with every step as you make your way to the altar.

And beyond all that, you’re wearing that smile. That same smile that he’d give up everything for. That same smile he’s yearned for his entire life, from the very first moment up until now. That same smile that he’s now dying for.

He doesn’t recognize his breath staggering until he feels lightheaded, hands finding purchase on the decoration behind him as he steps back. I’m so close, not now, is all he can think as you step even closer to the platform. He starts to see spots in his vision, black circles dancing around, and he’s thankful enough that everyone’s eyes are too focused on you to see him stepping off to the side and rushing to the bathroom.

Jungwon doesn’t make it that far, though. His eyesight blurs around him, and his fingers grip some random door handle before he stumbles inside. Faintly, he can recognize the mess of your makeup room around him, but he trips over a spare piece of clothing and falls before he can fully register his surroundings.

Sharp, dull pain blooms on the side of his head, but he can’t seem to move his arms to feel for any blood that might’ve been triggered from his fall. The pain in his head is nothing compared to the strain on his lungs now, though, as if every breath of his is poison. His senses are painfully aware of the weird, cracking noise inside him, but he can’t seem to figure out what it’s from. His ribcage? His neck? His throat? Or maybe even everything? He feels like he’s choking on air as the blood spills from his lips. His speech, the man of honor speech that holds everything he wanted to say to you one last time, falls out of his jacket pocket, and blood drips across the corner as if it’s ink. He can’t move, he can’t breathe, he can’t even think anymore as his vision fades out into nothingness.

And even in his final moments, like this, he remembers you. This universe is so, so unkind to him, to his soul that hoped to see you like this one more time before he left forever. Oh, how he wishes he were still alive to watch you recite your vows. To hear what it’s like to be loved by you, to be cherished until death do us part. To hear what maybe, in another life, what was meant for him instead of Sunghoon.

As it all comes crashing down before his eyes, all he wishes is that you will find peace. He hopes the flowers that bloom in December will treat you kindly, and every white chrysanthemum will be a poignant reminder that you are always loved. Even if he is not physically present with you on Earth anymore, he will love you through the gentleness of the breeze, through the swaying of the grass blades, through the sun rays that appear before the horizon, and through the smiles of everyone you hold dear to your heart.

And with this clarity, he is able to let go. To let go of all that he’s known of you through every flower that blooms in his heart. To let go of a timeline in which you and he coexist.

To let go of you, and therefore, him. Because without you, there is no him. And without him, there is only you.

Jay has never understood love. Or rather, the unbecoming of it.

But he has never seen it ruin someone so wretchedly as it did Jungwon.

It’s Jay who finds Jungwon first, lifeless in a pool of his own blood and tears. The world blurs around him as he kneels down, shaking Jungwon’s shoulders in every effort, every plea for him to wake up. The words fall on closed ears. Dead ears. Jungwon is long gone, from misery only his heart could produce. He’s long gone from the flowers that surround every inch of him, buried in his own, sickly love for you.

His fingers clutch tightly onto Jungwon’s man of honor speech, one he refuses to read because he can’t justify that torture. It’s you who needs to read it, to recognize the consequences of your actions, of how greedy you were to have the most wonderful human being beside you and still yearn for another. He needs you to read this speech in all its glory, tear-stained, blood-stained, flower-stained, until you recognize the extent of how much Jungwon truly loved you.

Of how much he truly still loves you.

The funeral happens on a Tuesday evening. The once forgiving December now releases its inhibitions, pouring from the sky as if it has been holding back this entire time. The universe thunders with anger and rage, and every strike of lightning is a furious reminder of what’s all been lost in the process.

Jay stands before Jungwon’s coffin. He has no umbrella to shield him from the fury of the universe, but he doesn’t care. He deserves this form of retribution for not trying harder, for not being able to save him, even though there was nothing more he could do for him.

You stand next to him. Sunghoon holds an umbrella above your head, and it sways with the sudden wind gusts and cracks of lightning. You haven’t said a word all day. You haven’t said a word since you found your best friend dead, veins protruding and eyes rolled to the back of his head.

(Your fingers trembled as you brushed his eyelids shut, watching as they carried him out with a stretcher. Even with his eyes closed, he still looked like he was in pain, shouldering it all upon himself, no matter how hard you’d tried to get him to open up. You’d wanted to shake him open, for him to let go of everything he’d held back, but he stayed in place, eyes boring into yours as if he had nothing more to say. Closing his eyes felt like finality, like he was finally gone from every memory you’ve had together and every memory you were supposed to have together in the future.

Now, all that was left was the remains of him and his soul. You cried against the pool of blood he’d left behind, letting it stain the pearly whites of your gloves until you drowned in his essence.)

Jay watches as you grab something from Sunghoon’s hold, walking over to the edge of Jungwon’s grave. The freshly buried dirt sinks slightly under your steps, and you place a bouquet at the center before you walk back under the protection of the umbrella.

Jay cracks when he sees the familiar white chrysanthemums against the dirt.

“What the hell is your problem?”

Your head twists sharply toward him, not expecting him to say anything of that sort, or anything at all. The wind whips through your hair as you stare at Jay with bloodshot eyes, and it’s only then that you recognize the single tear that’s slid down his cheek.

“What? What did I do wrong?”

Jay laughs, sharp and twisting. You feel it through your bones, the hatred seeping through you until you, too, start to cry. Sunghoon stares at Jay from behind you, begging him with wide eyes not to say anything that could ruin you even more, but Jungwon’s unsaid confessions rush out of Jay’s lips like the roar of every lightning strike behind him.

“What haven’t you done wrong? Were you that fucking stupid to see that he died because of you? Because of how you never loved him back?”

His words hit you like a truck, slamming into you with the impact of the wind behind you. You stumble back, one, two steps before you’re rushing forward and grabbing the lapels of Jay’s jacket.

“What are you talking about? What do you mean, he loved me?”

Jay gives you a stare that is almost murderous, his voice dropping octaves as he responds. “He loved you. He’s been in love with you since the day you two met. He died from a disease caused by unrequited love, you fucking asshole!”

Your tears stain the edges of Jay’s jacket, and although he tries to push away from your grasp, away from you and everything you stand for, your grip on him remains tight.

“God,” he continues, laughing bitterly, “he loved you. He loved you so much that in the end…”

He can’t even finish his sentence because his voice breaks and he can’t breathe. And in that moment, he wonders if this is how Jungwon felt, if he was experiencing even a fraction of the hurt, the suffocation he had to endure on a daily basis.

“Jay, please,” Sunghoon echoes from behind him.

Your fingers finally release themselves from their grasp as you turn back to look at Sunghoon. His eyes never leave yours, and although he tries to lean forward to shield you from the rain with the umbrella, you push him away.

“Did you know about this?” you ask, even though you already know the answer. The rain seeps through your hair, wetting your eyelashes and streaming down your face, but even it cannot hide your cries as you sob in front of him. “Did you know he loved me?”

Sunghoon swallows so audibly that he doesn’t even have to say any more, and you start laughing. Ballistically, without any form or reason, you laugh with that crazed look in your eyes, your hands swaying against the wind as you turn back toward Jay.

“So you all knew about this and decided not to tell me?”

“You don’t get to act like the victim in this.” Jay’s words feel like a harsh slap in your face, but he continues. “How were we supposed to tell you months before your wedding? Oh, hey, by the way, Jungwon is in love with you, and he’ll die if you don’t love him back. Jungwon was an idiot for loving you, for sure, but he wasn’t stupid.”

He hates that he has to speak about Jungwon in the past tense now. He hates that he has to talk about Jungwon to someone who never reciprocated his feelings, someone who never saw him for who he truly was. He hates that he can’t put into words the extent to which Jungwon loved you, even if it meant putting you before himself and committing to death.

“What– what was I supposed to do?” you whisper. Jay has to restrain himself from telling you that you don’t have the right to cry, that you’re a murderer in his eyes, and he can’t even bear to look at you.

“You were supposed to love him back. All he ever wanted was to be loved by you.”

And, as if the universe is responding, the rain picks up. It drowns you, completely, as you stand in a sea of graves for the one person who maybe loved you more than anyone else ever could.

You remember meeting Jungwon for the first time. How he tapped your shoulder politely after watching you play in the sandbox alone, asking if he could build sandcastles with you, even though his other friends waited for him beside the playground. He always did that, putting you first before anyone else, and you can’t believe it took you so long to realize truly how much Jungwon really cared for you.

Even in all the little things, you’re reminded of him. From the buttons on your coat jacket that he thrifted to your shoes that he scrubbed clean after a long hike, Jungwon has always been that stagnant reminder that life keeps going. Even during your darkest days, when all you wanted to do was hide from the rest of the world, he sat beside you and nursed you back to health, piece by piece. It’s taken you so long to realize how Jungwon is your center, the gravity that pulls you back to Earth and keeps you grounded, the star that orbits around you in every universe.

How Jungwon has always been yours.

As Jay leaves, his footprints tracking through the dirt as a permanent reminder he was always there, he presses a slip of paper into your hands. The corner is speckled with blood, and your eyes flicker up to Jay’s gaze, already knowing what it is.

“Have fun on your honeymoon,” he mutters. He’s gone just as quickly as he came, the wind sweeping him away until he is no more.

As you sit in Sunghoon’s car, shivering underneath the heater from your wet clothes, you find your fingers opening the paper in your hands, smoothing out the crinkles from Jay’s rough grasp. And as you read, the warmth is not enough to stop the frigid cold that suddenly rushes through you, that crazed feeling that you can’t shake off, no matter how much time passes.

As you read, you cry. You cry for what lived, and now, for what you’ve lost, because this piece of paper represents all of Jungwon in his entirety, all of what’s left of the boy who paved the Earth so that you could walk on it. Of Jungwon, who sacrificed himself just to sustain a world with you in it, even while knowing that he and you are two parallel lines never meant to intersect.

Of Jungwon, who didn’t know what love meant if it wasn’t made of you.

Dear you,

First of all, you know I have performance anxiety. So, making my speech come last feels like some sort of specially-inflicted torture that you and Sunghoon designed for me (cue the audience laughter. I hope they laugh).

I wrote many drafts of this. They’re all sitting in my trash can right now, because coming up with a speech to summarize everything I want to say about my best friend just isn’t something that can be done in one sitting. No amount of words can describe the extent to which I feel for you, of how much joy you’ve brought into my life and everyone around us.

I should probably be talking about Sunghoon and how he’s perfect for you, which, I mean, he kind of is (let’s hope the audience laughs again). I should probably be wishing you a happy married life, where you get that gray cat you always wanted. And I genuinely do want to convey all that to you, and so much more, because you deserve everything good in the world.

But I wanted this speech to be about you. For you to realize how much I, and everyone in the audience around us, care for you. I’ve been your best friend since childhood, watching you grow from that awkward little kid to the beautiful person you are today. You have uplifted and supported me in so many ways that no one else has, and I think I speak for everyone when I say that we are so grateful to have you in our lives.

Sunghoon, you are so blessed to have the most wonderful wife in your life. Cherish her, adore her, lift her up with all your strength, and twirl her around until you hear that beautiful laughter and see that beautiful smile. It’s so worth it. So, so worth it. As her best friend, I resign all my duties to you, for you to be her new best friend and her life partner. Love her wholeheartedly, with every fiber of your being until it hurts, and then a little more.

And you. No matter what comes your way, never lose your energy, your resilience, your joy, and everything that makes you who you are. I love you, and I can’t wait to see where life’s journey takes you, one step at a time.

From your now ex-best friend,

Jungwon

#୨୧ . . . text #jungwon #yang jungwon #jungwon x reader #enhypen #enhypen x reader #jungwon angst #jungwon fluff #theres no fluff idk why im tagging this #kpop #kpop x reader #kpop angst #enhypen fluff #enhypen angst #sunghoon x reader

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ceilidho · 1 year ago

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take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (chapter 11)

first chapter >> last chapter

Your heart could very well have stopped beating and you’d be none the wiser.

By now, you’ve experienced fear in all its varietals. The stomach churning and the latent, the languid; the swift moving silverfish slipping out of your grasp. The monstrous rising beast of it the day you turned around to find the master of the house turning the lock on the door and trapping you in with him. Then the delayed panic in the aftermath of bringing the bust down over his head and hearing his skull crack under its weight, the blood pooling around his body, almost aureole-like. Pondering the miraculous like, well, isn’t that just the devil of it. A halo for a man intent on your ruin.

The fear washing over you now is entirely new though. Like a rapid exhalation. Of course you were right all along . Right to expect the devil showing up on your doorstep. The weeks of silence had imbued you with a sense of confidence. An arrogant, undeserved confidence that whispered in your ear to let your guard down.

But you know now that the world is not large enough to hide in. It is a wasteland of false prophets and false directions. There are no second chances.

The only consolation is the silence from the man behind the counter as he studies the warrant. You imagine him standing there giving it a good once over, his face maybe scrunching up as it calls to mind the woman that just walked through his door. You wonder if they thought to add a sketch of your likeness, whether there’ll be a woman on the warrant that looks an awful lot like you.

You stay put behind the shelf though, not risking so much as a peep.

“Any information you might have would be much obliged,” Graves says, trying to coax an answer out.

After a few more seconds, the shop attendant answers with a rueful, “Can’t say I have, sir. You want me to leave this with the sheriff?”

Graves breathes out through his nose in frustration. “Now, are you positive about that? Take a closer look—I don’t mind waitin’ a bit longer for you to sift through your memories. I’m sure a town as big as this must get passersby from time to time.”

“No. I’m sorry, sir, but I’m certain. Never seen a woman fitting this description or name. Couldn’t even tell you the last time we had a stranger come through town and stay longer than a day.”

“I see.” It’s hard to tell whether Graves takes him at his word or not. The aura of menace that the man exudes suggests that anything said to him might rouse his suspicions. That they’ve already been roused, in fact. It makes even you second guess the man behind the counter, wondering if perhaps he knows and simply stays his tongue.

“Sorry I couldn’t be of more help. Still want me to pass this along to the sheriff?”

The floorboards creak under his feet when Graves takes a step back. “If you don’t mind. Been having the darndest time tryin’ to track down the man and, frankly, I’ve got other obligations. I do appreciate your time though.”

You stay hidden behind the shelf, listening to the sound of the spurs on his boots rattling as he leaves. The chime on the door jingles when it slams shut. You flinch at the sound. For a minute after his departure, you wonder if the door will burst back open and he’ll come crashing in, heading straight for the back to haul you out by your hair.

A minute passes and nothing happens. The floor beneath you still feels like it might give out at any moment.

When you take your first step, the nausea comes rushing up.

“Mrs. Price,” the shop attendant says, perking up at the sight of you coming out from behind the shelf. “I forgot you were still here.”

You feel like an automaton or a ball-jointed doll, your movements stiff as you approach him. Morbidly curious as to what you’ll see on the warrant spread out on the counter separating the two of you. When you look down, your breath comes shuddering out.

The sketch on the paper does bear a passing resemblance to you, but only if you squint. Nothing that anyone could point to and claim with certainty that it depicts you. Underneath the sketch, you balk when you see your real name. It’s jarring to even look at. Though you’ve gone most of your life answering to it, the past few weeks have disabused you of any connection to it. Now, you feel permeable, malleable—a substance that has been reshaped into something new. That girl on the warrant is gone now. Done and dusted. So detached from memory that even the sketch of her depicts someone else, proves false.

Still, you’re shaken by how close he’d gotten. Supposing Graves had come in while you’d been within sight. Supposing he’d looked you in the eye and asked you directly, and you’d stuttered under his sharklike gaze and drawn further scrutiny. You almost can’t believe how close it’d grazed you. The sharp edge of fate like a blade now sheathed again.

“Would you mind taking this to the sheriff?” he asks, not realizing the gift he’s given you. “I’m a bit tied up minding the shop.”

You nod wordlessly and take the folded up warrant from him.

It burns red hot in your hands when you step outside. You glance around nervously, unsure as to whether Graves had stuck around to question more people. You wouldn’t be surprised if he were still within earshot.

You waver in the street with the folded piece of paper tucked in your hands. A horse pulling along a cart laden with firewood creaks as it passes, rousing you from the trance you’d fallen into. You flinch, raising a hand to shield your eyes from the sun. It’s blinding suddenly. A clear sky, the clouds long since taken away by the wind.

John could be anywhere at this time of day. Despite the fear curdling in your belly, you can’t help the knee jerk reaction to go to him. That’s precisely what you don’t want to do though. You don’t want to be around the county sheriff on the day a bounty hunter came into town looking for you.

A crow sitting on the roof of a building across the street caws and flaps its wings, taking off into the sky.

You want to be anywhere but in town waiting anxiously for John to come find you. You don’t want to lay eyes on him and see that he’s found you out. The thought of John finding out about the man you killed back east is beyond contemplation. It nearly has you keeling over in the middle of the street. You can hardly bear the thought. How could you bear to live a moment beyond that, withering under his disapproval? His contempt?

You don’t think you can.

Every shadow fills you with dread. A barmaid comes out to toss a bucket of dirty water in the alley and you flinch like you’ve been caught. You keep your head down as you walk, eyes straight on the ground. Someone calls out your fake name and you ignore them.

Your instinct, as usual, is to run. Abscond from the scene of the crime. Even if the thought hurts. Even though you’d let yourself begin to hope that the times of trouble had passed you by. That perhaps you could’ve made a home out here in the middle of nowhere. You should have known that those dreams were just that. You should have known better than to want. These days, it is dangerous to long for anything.

It’s better if you fade from memory like a bad dream, you think when you spot Buttercup fixed to the post outside the sheriff’s office. Better if they think of you with a bad taste in their mouth and nothing more. A girl that came and stole their sheriff’s heart and his horse and then vanished into the night.

When one of her black eyes fixes on you, you still in your advance. A horse can’t possibly read your intentions, but you feel like she does somehow. Like she knows you intend to take her and flee. She shifts, hooves coming up and back down, and you swallow the saliva pooling in your mouth suddenly, nerves taking on. You won’t let yourself be ruled by them though. There are bigger things to fear.

“Come on, Buttercup,” you whisper, hesitating before smoothing your hand down her nose. You flinch when she nickers. “I just—I need you to help me, okay?”

It’s an outrageously bad idea. Even to you that’s obvious. You don’t have nearly enough experience riding solo or even with John trailing behind you on another horse to help offer correction if you falter on your own. You’re blinded by fear though, practically shaking as you undo Buttercup’s lead from the post outside the sheriff’s office.

You’re clumsy trying to hoist yourself up onto her without John to boost you up and hold you steady. It takes a couple of tries before you manage to swing your leg over, and you curse under your breath when your dress bunches up around your waist, exposing the bare flesh of your legs. There aren’t many people roaming the street, fortunately for you.

Buttercup resists at first when you tug lightly on the reins to guide her away. She stomps her foot when you try again, giving a light whinny. Panic seizes you, a coil in your belly. You’ve only ever ridden her before with John at your side; you wonder if she’ll even listen to you in his absence or if even she can tell you’re about to do something foolish and wants nothing to do with it.

“Please, girl,” you beg. “I promise—I’ll figure out some way to get you back.”

On the third attempt, she finally listens. The way she abruptly breaks into a fast trot nearly sends you toppling over. You catch yourself by clutching the horn, tight enough that your knuckles ache. Your forehead breaks out in a nervous sweat. Buttercup covers ground fast, and without John sitting behind you like a silent sentinel, you feel control slip out of your slippery hands, clammy with sweat too.

“Whoa, girl,” you breathe, trying to calm her by stroking a hand down her neck.

It does precious little to calm her down. You remember something John once said about animals smelling fear. They know it like your name.

You lose control of her fast. Almost in the blink of an eye, you go from steering Buttercup towards John’s house to holding on for dear life. Your body rocks with hers and you’re forced to tighten your thighs around her midsection when she breaks into a gallop, your hands still clinging tight to the reins. Her hooves kick up dust and dirt in her haste, sending it flying behind you.

“Slow down!” you shout, but the words are swept away by the wind, already behind you.

Not once have you ever ridden a horse at this speed. Your direction seems like more of a suggestion to Buttercup, and not one she’s inclined to take. The town rapidly vanishes behind you, the vegetation sparse for the first few hundred yards, arid scrubland scorched by the sun and fed off of by the horses and mules coming in and out of town. The sun beats down hot on your head, no hat to shield you from the heat.

You can’t imagine you would’ve been able to hold it down though, you think wildly, mind still in a flurry of panic. It would’ve flown right off ages before.

Your breath comes out in hitched pants as you clutch with all your might to the horn of the saddle, your hands soon transferring to her mane for better purchase. Buttercup moves like a rogue wave beneath you, like something sailors only speak about in hushed whispers. She takes a wide arc around John’s property, heading towards the mountains instead, and no amount of trying to steer her with your legs seems to work.

Your head whips back to watch the house pass, the dark shape of it sailing past you, and it nearly causes you to lose your balance. Looking back in front of you only makes it worse. Panic courses through you when you stare ahead only for the world in front of you to spin. Bile creeps up your throat. You swallow it back, but only just.

The half-formulated plan you’d had in mind is long gone. All you can focus on now is remaining astride the horse beating dirt under you. Any thought of bringing her to a halt dissipates. Even the thought of escape evaporates into thin air.

Only when you feel Buttercup slow to a trot do you peel open your eyes. The breath you let out as you look around is short, panic still churning in your guts.

Over the weeks since John married you and took you home, he’s taken you through the mountains a fair few times, familiarizing you with the land to the best of his abilities in such a short amount of time. But the wilderness stretches far and the terrain beyond John’s homestead is rough, treacherous.

When you look around, you realize that you don’t recognize this part of the mountainside.

The trail Buttercup takes you down is cut haphazard into the landscape—a crude, handmade path, not one seared into the ground from frequent travel. It feels distinctly wilder than where you’ve been before. Your head swivels around as you try to look for something that might jog your memory. The striated mountainside tells you nothing. The trees out this deep into the mountains are thicker and older, gnarled root systems bursting up from the earth and coiling around the nearby rocks like snakes winding around their prey.

You sit up a bit straighter, still shaking when you rub your hand down Buttercup’s neck. “You know where we are, girl?”

She puffs out a breath.

That tells you nothing, but she keeps going down the same path deeper into the woods. No amount of squeezing your thighs or patting her neck gets her to stop. You should be thankful that she’s at least no longer sprinting, that you can actually sit up and catch your breath now, but the fear from earlier is but a paltry shadow compared to that which is brewing in you now.

Every crick and snapping twig makes your head spin round. You stare intensely past the treeline, searching for the barest hint of motion. You don’t know much about these parts, but you know that this is no place for a woman by her lonesome. Even a man on his own out here might feel jumpy. This far out of the way, only cougars and bears take refuge, and the odd band of outlaws making camp for the night and taking advantage of the relative isolation this far out west.

“Come on, girl, we can’t be out here,” you whisper, leaning closer to Buttercup to hopefully muffle your voice. Even as low as you speak, it still seems to echo.

You don’t know where you’re meant to go though. In the flurry of panic that had come over you at Graves’ arrival, you’d bolted without thought. Without a compass or map, you’re as good as lost in the unsettled land deep in the mountains.

As that reality dawns on you, you realize that you haven’t had a drink of water in quite some time.

An hour must pass with Buttercup stubbornly refusing to listen to your commands to turn back. Maybe longer. She resists even when you pull on the reins. In truth, you don’t blame her. Your commands come feeble, no strength behind them. The fear of being bucked off her back makes you soft. John would be gruff, unyielding—you can’t imagine him giving into fear.

That somehow upsets you even more. You can’t help but wish more than anything that he were here with you.

The temperature drops as the sun begins to set. Without the sun beating down on you, you shiver in the cold air. There’s nothing to keep you warm other than the clothes on your back. Your lips smack when you part them, parched after hours without water. You haven’t stumbled across a river or stream in the hours since starting down this path.

Then, from behind you, you hear it.

The name that isn’t yours. You don’t catch it at first until it comes again, louder this time. When you look over your shoulder and down the path behind you, John’s furious face stares back at you, his lips worked into a flat line.

The way you gasp must spook Buttercup, because she abruptly breaks into a gallop, forcing you to hunker down and hold on. You want desperately to look back, torn between relief and distress, but you stare ahead instead.

The black horse he rides gains on you fast, legs pumping beneath its massive body. It’s not a horse you’ve seen before. Maybe borrowed in his haste to chase after you. You don’t let yourself digest that thought though, too concerned with remaining astride.

Despite its size, it collapses the distance between you two quickly, nearly on you now. Instinct has you leaning into Buttercup, trying to get as low as possible and let the air glide around you. Her gallop quickens into a sprint. You’re just holding on now, facing straight ahead, no chance of being more than a passenger on this trip.

John shouts at you from your rear to bring Buttercup to a stop. You squeeze your lips together instead of shouting back that you can’t. If you open your mouth, you think your stomach will come straight out.

Your body jostles around on top of your horse, on the verge of slipping off with every passing second. When she takes a turn too quickly down a trail leading up into the mountains and you slide a bit to one side on the saddle, only your foot in the stirrup catching you, your heart stops. Fear is ice inverted; poured over you. It drenches you in another layer of sweat that dries rapidly in the air whipping around you.

Hot and cold. The ground seems to come towards you every time Buttercup’s legs kick up. Always on the verge of falling and breaking every bone in your body. You suck your tongue to the roof of your mouth so it doesn’t get caught between your clacking teeth and bitten right off.

“Pull up on the reins!” John roars over the cacophony of stomping hooves.

A glance to your right finds him close enough to graze with your fingertips. Your heart jumps in your chest.

“Pull up!” he shouts again, but all you can do is stare uncomprehendingly.

You don’t know if he can see the terror in your eyes. It must be splayed clean across your face. He has to see the way his words mean nothing to you. Your panic effaces any meaning; all you hear is noise and anger pouring from his mouth, and trampled dirt and labored breath.

When his horse pulls up alongside yours, he gets close enough to lean over and snatch the reins out of your hands. He pulls firm, tugging Buttercup’s head back until she almost rears up and you scream, hands fisting in her mane.

Your body lurches forward when she comes back down, slumped over the saddle horn. It digs hard into your stomach. There’ll be a bruise there come morning, but nothing like the bruises that’ll bloom between your thighs. Even now the ache radiates down your body. You look up at the sound of John’s breath panting out like a bull, and he glares down at you with undisguised fury, the angriest you’ve ever seen him.

“What in the blazes were you thinkin’?” he booms. Even the horse he sits astride shakes its head at the sound. “There’s nothing out here but outlaws and predators!”

The hand fisted in Buttercup’s reins pulls her closer, and he guides both horses into a slow trot and then to a stop. You can feel the way Buttercup’s ribs expand and contract under your legs.

“Stop it— don’t touch me!” you snap when he reaches for you, smacking his hand away.

“Darlin’, if you get off that damned horse—” John warns, but you’re already swinging your leg over the saddle as the words come out of his mouth.

You almost trip over the stirrup when you slide off Buttercup’s back and take off on foot. You fist the skirt of your dress in both hands to lift it as you run, letting it swish around you with the force of your strides. A curse and grunt come from back behind you. The sound of John’s boots hitting the dirt is loud, and when he chases after you, his boots pound into the earth.

It’s a desperate last move, but all you can think is that you’d rather be anywhere else but in his arms. You’d rather take your chances with the wolves and bears in the woods, or with the bandits and brigands on the trails leading to the next town.

You barely make it past the next tree before he barrels into you and takes you both to the ground, the world spinning as you fall down. He angles his body to take the brunt of the impact, but you still cry out when your hip hits the ground hard. The way he pulls you into his chest just barely keeps your head from slamming into a rock.

“Goddamn it, woman,” John spits. “Where d’ya think you’re even going? There ain’t nowhere to run out here!”

Your head spins. When you open your mouth, all you can taste is rust and salt, sweat dripping off your upper lip. You can feel the heat of his chest against your back and he doesn’t give you a chance to gather your bearings before hauling you to your feet, tugging both of your arms behind your back.

“Let me go!” you scream, trying to wrestle out of his hold to no avail.

You know he doesn’t understand, but you can’t help the way you try to fight your way out of his hold. There’s no explanation that’ll make sense to him other than the truth, which you clamp tight in your chest. There's no telling if he already knows, if maybe Graves finally tracked him down or if someone else brought their suspicions to his attention, but you won't go spilling the truth yourself.

He’s a solid mass behind you, breath labored from hours spent tracking you. You wonder if he noticed mere moments after you took Buttercup and left or whether he came back to the sheriff’s office only to find the two of you gone.

John holds your wrists in one big hand at the small of your back and gives you a mean shake. “I don’t know what’s got you so riled up, but you better fix this attitude of yours and explain yourself before we get home or so help me God, I’ll take my belt to your ass.”

The mention of him belting your backside makes your hands go clammy, but you must have abandoned your common sense a mile back because your mouth keeps running. “I’ll gut you like a pig if you touch a hair on my head!”

“We’ll just see about that,” he grunts, and you can hear the raw edged smirk in his voice and the anger behind it.

When he leads you stumbling towards the horses waiting in the middle of the trail, you realize that capture had always been an inevitability in your mind. Maybe it even comes as a relief to know that the jig is up.

You just hadn’t realized that it would be someone else hauling you back by your hair.

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #price x you #price x reader #john price x reader #price/reader #john price/reader #captain john price #captain john price x reader #captain john price x you

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coolunspokenforname · 7 months ago

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The most interesting part of the FrankenStan au, at least in my opinion, is the aftermath, and its absolutely heartbreaking that so few people talk about it.

Imagine you're Stan. Your brother, that you thought hated you (and in some cases literally killed you), brought you back to life. Now you have to live with the knowledge that you died. You may not even be entirely you anymore, depending on how damaged your body was by the time he started piecing you back together. Imagine waking up with skin and organs and bones that aren't your own, and now you have a good idea about what happens after death, more so than even those who had near death experiences. You were cold. Your heart stopped pumping for weeks, months, maybe even years.

And now imagine you're Ford. You've spent all your time since your brother's death trying to bring him back to life. The man you thought ruined your life. The man who always was there for you, ever since you shared the womb. Your best friend. Your other half. His blood is on your hands figuratively and literally. You have all the time in the world to consider every mistake you've made, every choice that's led to him laying there on the metal table of your lab, cold as your heart on the day he was kicked out. But, after putting your blood, sweat, and tears into bringing him back to life, he's there. He's alive. There's so much you want to say. So many apologies you want to make.

And then you realize. He's alive, but the world is dangerous. It took your brother away once, whose to say it won't do it again? You've seen his blood, his organs. You know first hand how fragile his body is. The world isn't safe for him. You couldn't protect him once. That's not going to happen again.

#stanford pines #stanley pines #frankenstan au #gravity falls au #stan pines #ford pines #its the protective feeling that mutates for me #i love characters that are so afraid of losing someone again that it only causes more pain for everyone #that one part of bruno is orange is repeating constantly as i think about them in this au

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moongothic · 2 years ago

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Crocodad AU where immidiately after having left Dragon and his baby boy Crocodile finds an 11 year old Robin. And while he's 100% only recruiting her so they can make a beeline for the Poneglyph and Pluton in Alabasta by the two of them... Crocodile accidentally sorta kinda adopts Robin.

At this point Robin's been running for her life from the Government for three years so her deep trust issues and fear of betrayal are starting to take root in her little heart. Like perhaps they haven't taken fully over yet, and being still a child I'm sure Robin might've still had that genuine hope that she could find a safe place to stay in. But I'm sure the though of "what'll he'll do with me once he gets what he wants?" would be nagging at her at the back of her mind. Meanwhile Crocodile's struggling between the pain and hurt he's already gone through and given him his trademark trust issues, as well as the aftermath of The Dragodile Divorce. But he also has his Fresh Paternal Instincts and probably misses his baby. So when given a small, scared child who is running for her life, being chased by the very same Government that'll want his son dead if they ever find out about him... Yeah that might fuck with your brain a little

You know this post was supposed to be just that first paragraph and just a few footnotes from the following two paragraphs. And then I kept on Having Thoughts. And I kept on writing them down. And oh no what happened when did this post get so long (Look I was going to either kept on writing my Additional Thoughts in the tags or I just put them in the actual fucking post)

Like considder this: based on this one SBS, we can kinda tell that if Crocodile was given a chance to raise a child, that child would be a spoiled little shit, right

So in this scenario, where Crocodile's looking after lil Robin, would he be kind of torn? Unsure how to feel about her?

Because on one hand, this strange child would have the potential to not only ruin his plans, strip him of his Shichibukai Privileges by outing him and his plans to the World Government, but also put his son in grave danger by extension (if she found out about him having been involved with the Revolutionaries and/or having a child). But on the other hand, his paternal instincts could make him want to spoil this poor little girl rotten. But only because he needs to (perhaps literally) buy her trust so she'll behave. No other reason, he doesn't feel sorry for her one bit, no sirree. (But maybe he did feel sorry for her, since his son could very well end up exactly like her. Poor little thing) (Which is why he needs to nuke Marijoa out of orbit as soon as possible, no matter the cost, and this child can't get in the way of Crocodile protecting his son) (But also this is a child. Like how bad could she be. Besides all he really needs to do to win her trust is be nice and make her feel safe, right?)

Of course, while I'm suggesting Crocodile could have some parental instincts, realistically, he hasn't actually spent any time being, you know, a father to a child (looking after his newborn for an unknown though short amount of time aside), so it's possible he wouldn't even know how to parent Robin even if he wanted to, would he? (Like taking care of a newborn and an 11 year old kid aren't the same either) So if he was kind of just emotionally flipflopping between No Trusting Ever and It's Just A Kid for God's Sake, Crocodile trying to be nice to Robin to make her feel safe and then telling himself to stop being so soft and vunerable... Yeah that would make for an absolute mess of a relationship. (Not to mention, let's be real, dude's a scary motherfucker too, and a bloody giant compared to itty bitty baby Robin. He could keep on accidentally scaring the shit out of Robin (who would be On Fucking Edge To Begin With) by just Being Himself. Like for example, can you fucking imagine if he caught Robin trying to cheer herself up with a little "dereshishishi" only to tell her to stop because "it was stupid"? 'Cause I can imagine him doing that, and boy howdy would that make Robin feel bad)

Or who knows, maybe Crocodile was just Born To Be A Dad, maybe he just Fucking Gets It. Like Crocodile is canonically pretty good at manipulating people to do what he wants them to do (see: how he played Vivi like a fiddle), so knowing Robin's position and understanding how she feels, maybe he COULD completely nail how she needed to be treated. Not being too familiar but still making her feel safe and happy, knowing exactly when to be stern and when to spoil her, etc. Dude just goes off and wins the Dad of the Year Award while being a deadbeat dad himself. The only thing Crocodile would have to worry about then would be making sure HE doesn't get too fond of her. And certainly that could never happen, he's so in-touch with his own feelings and so grounded, he's not a softie, get outta here. Or maybe he does but never realizes until it's too late and good luck backpedalling on those emotions now dumbass

Alright so, the reason I went on that whole rmble is just that like. I'm so interested in the relationship Robin and Crocodile already have in canon. I'm so facinated and curious about how the two feel about each other, considdering they did spend 4 whole years of their lives together as criminal business partners, though neither ever trusted the other. A partnership that was only ended because Robin betrayed Crocodile, out of her own trauma. (God, I want to see these two "reunite" so bad, I want to know how they feel about each other now after the timeskip and Robin joining the idiot in flipflops who foiled Croc's plans)

My question here is just that... if they had met 13 years earlier, would things have been different? Especially if Crocodad Real? Because as I mentioned in the begining, Robin would've been on the run for only 3 years by this point, as opposed to 16 years before running into Crocodile. Simultaneously, this would be before Crocodile went onto spend an entire decade all alone, slowly losing his marbles in his emotional solitude. They'd both be emotionally traumatized, yes, but would it have been as bad in this scenario? Like I did start this post kind of joking about Crocodile adopting Robin, and for clarity's sake I don't think they'd have like a father-daughter relationship nececarily. But it would be a strange relationship still, because we'd have two broken people, both struggling to trust anyone. One who had lost her mother and her only friends, leaving her all alone and afraid while running for her life. The other a father who had just given up his son whom he probably missed dearly. Both having these holes in their hearts from loss of family, holes that could not be filled with replacements. But could they find comfort in each other anyway, because they still as people occupy similar roles to their respective loved ones? If they both could just get over those trust issues?

Okay I've been going off on the Emotional Side Of Things for this AU Concept, THERE'S PLOT TOO

So if Crocodile did pick Robin up like 19 years ago, that should be before he set up base in Alabasta, long before he had built is homebase and financial empire etc.

Now the thing is, while we don't know when, where and how Crocodile learned about the Ancient Weapons, Pluton specifically and how the lead on it would be in Alabasta... Considdering Crocodile did once upon a time aim to become Pirate King, it would make perfect sense if he had learned about Poneglyphs during his past adventures, as he would have needed to get the Road Poneglyphs to find One Piece. And while the World Government did bury the truth about why Ohara had been burned down and why Robin had been given her bounty (remember, the WG claimed it was because she had sunken a fleet of battleships, which she had not, it was because she could read the Poneglyphs), considdering this is a Crocodad AU specifically, you could totally make an argument Crocodile could've learned about what actually happened to Ohara from Dragon and co. So, just to make this AU work, you could just assume Crocodile learned about the concept of the Ancient Weapons from Dragon. And who knows, maybe he overheard the truth about why Robin had been given her bounty from Dragon too (maybe Dragon was able to get intel from Garp in secret) or while going to Marijoa himself to attend a Shichibukai meeting or something IDK.

Maybe he learned about Pluton being in Alabasta before finding Robin by accident, and maybe they made a beeline for Alabasta the second Croc recruited Robin. Travelling takes time and the guy would've most likely had to find an Eternal Pose to Alabasta just to get there (also canonically Robin didn't enter the Grand Line until her 20s so they should've met in West Blue probably, since that's where Ohara was) Or maybe Crocodile had to haul Robin around for a few months while looking for That Missing Piece of Information that would lead him to Alabasta. (Imagine the two travelling from like island to island, library to library, Crocodile trying to find that leads while Robin's just so excited about ALL THESE BOOKS (she's helping too with the research) (but to her, research is playtime, so she's just having the time of her life) (Also, notice how Crocodile's Theoretical Child is a fucking loser ass nerd? Yeah Crocodile would encourage Robin reading and studying, surely. And that would be fucking cute))

But like, once they set sail to Alabasta...

Sure, Crocodile could try to do it The Slow Way that we know he tried in canon, building trust and creating his little empire etc. But also, in canon, Crocodile couldn't have jumped into action head first because without Robin, even if he had found the Poneglyph he couldn't have read it and found the location of Pluton. Crocodile choosing to do it the slow way may have been partially because he didn't have much of a choise and it could've felt like the smarter move long-term.

But in this scenario, he already has Robin. Yes, he could do it the slow, secure way.

But what'd be there stopping him from infiltrating Cobra's palace and kidnapping him (in the night, when nobody suspects a thing), demanding Cobra to spill the beans lest Crocodile kills him and/or his pregnant wife* (*Vivi was born 10 months after Luffy so depending on how long it's been between Crocodad leaving Luffy behind and this scenario... Yeah either the wife is there, still pregnant, or there's a newborn Baby Vivi)

Like it'd be a risky move but depending on how ballsy Croc's feeling and how confident he feels in being able to kidnap the king without being noticed... Yeah he could probably do it. And I'm sure he'd have no problem killing Cobra either, if anything it'd be required if he didn't want the Government to find out he was out to find Pluton, and god knows Cobra would tell on Crocodile if left alive. I could see Crocodad being maybe a little iffy about killing Baby Vivi though (it's not like the newborn baby could report him to the WG anyways), but if nothing else, he just needs to be able to pull off the bluff of his life to convince Cobra to do as he's told. And we all know Crocodile's good at convincing people.

The only question is, how would Robin take that?

Watching Crocodile go into Full Murder Mode, hearing him say he'd kill a pregnant woman/a newborn baby if he didn't get what he wanted? Like yeah, I'm sure 11 year old Robin would be fine with that, that wouldn't make any alarm bells go off in her head at all, it'd be fiiiine. IT WOULD NOT BE FINE, SHE'D BE SCARED SHITLESS. That fear of "what will he do with me when he gets what he wants"? Well, Robin may not have found the answer to that question in particular, but she certainly found the answer to the opposite question, and it's not good

So say Cobra, kidnapped (perhaps with Baby Vivi) by Crocodile in the night, guides the two to the Poneglyph under the tombs. Crocodile puts Cobra out of his misery because he's not needed anymore. And he asks Robin to read the Poneglyph for him.

Robin, who has spent the last little while, be it weeks or months with Crocodile, him having become her "guardian", the thing keeping her safe. Crocodile, who has now shown how cold blooded and cruel he can be. Robin, who might be scared out of her mind. Of him.

And the Poneglyph says Pluton, the thing Crocodile wants, isn't there. It's in Wano.

What's she going to do?

EDIT: I wrote a sequel post, enjoy

#Moon posting #OP Meta #Sir Crocodile #Crocodad #Nico Robin #THIS POST WAS AN ACCIDENT. I DON'T KNOW HOW THIS HAPPENED. WHY DID I WRITE THIS. WHAT DEMON POSSESSED ME #I'm sure someone's written this already right #Right #Surely this fanfic already exists #Please tell me it exists #I dunno what to tell you I am not immune to a Juicy AU #Anyway on a more wholesome side of things: Robin accidentally calling Crocodile ''dad'' and he just inhales and swallows his whole cigar #Nearly chockes to death. Gets burns on his throat.#Robin feeling less alienated because of her DF ability because Croc has seen weirder AND is made of sand himself #If anything if they're literally by themselves then Robin being able to literally lend a hand to Croc at any time could be extremely useful #Like. In regular life situations. 'Cause Croc only has one hand. And Robin as many as she wants. Perfect duo.#(Also if they were travelling on like a small ship then it'd probably be built for a Tall Motherfucker like Croc right)#(Robin's ability would just make the ship more accessible to her and Croc would find that independence good)#Robin still gets a codename because Croc can't have anyone realize who she is. Maybe she even wears like a mask or summin' in public #If Crocodile's openly trans and the news of him transitioning recently broke out. Like. No avoiding that convo eh #Baby Robin's like ''...I read in a book once that some reptiles can change sex but I didn't know crocodiles could do it too''#''💦.../Humans/ can't do that normally either''#''Hmmmm. Weird. I don't think being a girl would suit you though'' // ''...I'll take that as a compliment''#I just. I think they could have really cute interactions if they warmed up to each other after a little while #And I'm Extremely Normal about that

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arafilez · 1 year ago

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੭୧ ⼂ LOWKEY ﹗

ー☆ㅤㅤ [ cs x fem!reader ] ㅤ੭𓂃 ㅤmature, mdni , smut, fwb, college au 𓏧 wine, sex and your friend choi san- the aftermaths of a party and the dealings of your heart ㅤ warnings vanilla sex, praise kink, alcohol ㅤ﹢ㅤ3.7k wc ㅤ𓏧ㅤ req

You sip lightly on the wine glass while sitting on the couch as a couple makes out beside you. You can’t care less as your eyes scan the party for the person who is supposed to be present at the party. A whiff of smoke comes in your sight and you whip your head at the familiar deodorant.

“Searching for him again?” your brother Mingi speaks beside you blowing another smoke before pressing his lips to a girl clutching onto him. You make a disgusted face and look away saying, “I am.” He looks down at you raising an eyebrow and you shrug finishing the wine that matches the dark red colour of your dress.

“Maybe you should just confess,” he replies over the squeals of a drunk Wooyoung who has suddenly come over to replace the girl and is now trying to smooch him. “Accept his kiss,” you laugh getting up and dodging his question as you walk towards the counter.

He sighs loudly and then walks towards you as Wooyoung’s girlfriend gets a hold of him. “Don’t ignore my question y/n,” he whines and you shush his deep and loud voice looking around in suspicion.

“Maybe not yell that in a party full of gossiping college students,” you hiss at him and he rolls his eyes and is about to retort when a smooth voice cuts him off saying, “The party is wild, Mingi-ya.”

Your ears perk up and you look behind your tall brother to see San’s smiling. Mingi grins doing their personal handshake and replies, “You are going to help me clean in the morning.” You groan at your brother being an ass while San looks at him bewildered and Mingi casually leaves, walking towards Hongjoong who is now trying to enter the waste bin.

“He is really straightforward,” San laughs and you shake your head, cursing your brother internally. San and you make small take before you take your leave, going to meet your friends.

Your back hits the soft mattress as a whine builds up in your throat. You grasp San’s hair with fervour and tug on it deepening the kiss and San groans in your mouth, feeling himself getting hard with each passing second. The light hint of smoke on his lips paired with the alcohol could only do so much as make you go absolutely feral.

You gasp as he parts for air and takes in your form- hair messy from his fingers running through them, lipstick smudged and breathless, lustful eyes watching him in hazy delight. People talk about the seven wonders but he will pay millions just to see you like this, beautiful and raw- just for him.

You drag your nails along his collarbone and look at him whining, “Do whatever you want with me Sannie.” You are ready to be fucked senseless by him, to spill his name until you feel your mind-numbing so his next action surprises you.

San presses his lips to yours in a soft kiss that makes your insides melt and you feel his hand kneading through your hair softly. A foreign feeling rises in your chest and you push it down as you run your hand along his shirt sleeves clutching on it. A light whimper accentuates the air as you part as the kiss deepens and you feel him breaking all rules of your arrangement non-verbally.

Because San isn’t kissing you like he wants to ruin you.

San is kissing you like you are his only source of warmth on a cold winter night.

“What are you doing?” you whisper to him as soon as you part and he breaks into a smile answering, “You told me to do whatever I wanted to. I want to take my time.” Your protest dies in your throat as you feel him press a kiss on the corner of your mouth and trail it down your throat.

Your body tenses at his actions and his fingers run along your sides resting on your waist and tracing light patterns on it. You relax instantly and you feel his smile against the base of your throat as he kisses it. Slightly sucking on the area he earns a light gasp from you as he applies more pressure and pulls out.

He presses light kisses along your arm and you squirm, a giggle threatening to spill from your throat as he reaches your wrist and presses his lips and then presses feathery kisses on each one of your fingers. You feel the sensation tug your heartstrings and his actions surface your deep-rooted feelings for him.

Feelings you aren’t supposed to explore at all. Feeling that grew each time you had hooked up with him. Feelings that you deny every time.

You pressurise your mind to focus on the pleasure but the more San kisses your body the more you lose it. This was not part of the deal, fuck and leave was the deal. You’re still technically doing that, you think and you push back the reason on your conscience far back in your mind.

“You are so beautiful,” his deep voice sends vibrations along your body as he kisses down your chest and attaches his mouth to your perked-up nipples. You arch your back, San’s name rolling off your tongue as he licks over it and bites lightly. His tongue feels so good that you barely notice San’s fingers hooking your panties and pulling them down in a swift motion.

A shiver goes down your spine as the air hits your clit and San moves down kissing along your stomach. He goes painfully slow, pressing his lips on every stretch mark and your heart does somersaults. San has never ‘taken his time’ before and the way he is treating you almost makes you believe you are a domestic couple.

San kisses along your waistline before he hovers over your clit, his breath hitting your sensitive region and you scream in pleasure when he collects your arousal and pushes it in you.

“So wet baby, only for me,” he says and you gasp as his mouth attaches to your clit. He sucks on hit and your thighs close in instinct but he holds them down as his tongue rapidly laps in your clit. He licks and stripes and his tongue hits the right spots.

And elicit moans leave your throat and you feel like seeing stars as San’s tongue works wonders. Soon you feel the familiar coil in your stomach and it snaps. A string of his name leaves your mouth and San sucks in every one of your juice like it is his last meal. His eyes glisten as he looks at your panting state and kisses you right away.

You groan at your taste in his mouth and he pulls away angling himself over you. He rolls off a condom and pressing his lips to you again pushes himself in. A half-gasp, half-moan rips along your throat as he inches deeper and deeper and his feather-like kisses all over your face accentuate your feelings for him more and more.

“You taste so damn sweet love,” his late admission makes your throat constrict and he takes his sweet time exploring you with his cock. He hits the right spots and you moan into his neck, your nails digging into his skin with his every thrust.

“So beautiful and perfect, just for me,” he whispers in your ears, pressing a trail of kisses down to your throat and his words haze your mind, tipping you over the edge.

His thrusts become harder and faster as he realises you are close before his hips shake in pleasure. You feel your arousal approaching and whisper it out and you hear him say, “Let go, darling.” His voice and his loving gaze make you come undone and San follows soon after with a groan of your name.

His lips find yours and press on them, encasing them in sweet pleasure. It isn’t rushed or high from energy, instead, it is slow and sensual and it tugs your heartstrings more as you take relief from the post-coital bliss. San smiles as he leaves your lips and pulls himself out falling on the bed beside you.

His sentences from before roam around in your head as you feel him get up probably to leave like you guys had planned some months ago. Of course, he will do that.

You are so beautiful.

So beautiful and perfect, just for me.

The deal- fuck with no strings attached. You two had simply decided on it after you two couldn’t find suitable partners and good sex. So five drinks, an accidental hook-up with each other and a pounding head the morning after you two decided on it. Have good sex, never stay the night for aftercare and the universal rule- never fall for each other.

You have been actively breaking rule three for some weeks now. You have fallen for him, like him so much that it physically hurts you when he is with any other girl. It makes your heart clench when he flirts with others, lingers his touches more than usual and laughs in that beautiful voice of his at a stupid joke a girl makes to impress him.

But you guys had decided on this, you two can date whoever you want, this arrangement is only for pleasure purposes. And the sex you just had was nothing but one of his experiments you had consented him to. But the way he touched you, kissed you, whispered to you didn’t feel like fucking.

It was like love.

And you hated yourself for it. San’s hands on your knees jerk you back to reality as he makes a motion that he is leaving and you nod lightly. All the rules in the deal were settled by you, and San had simply agreed to them. So breaking them when the person who got roped into this is following it isn’t the ideal scenario.

And thus you have to get rid of these feelings.

You wake up the next morning and go to the living room to see Mingi already starting the cleaning. An empty glass of hangover juice is sitting alone on the countertop and piles of other utensils and cutlery are in the sink. Your brother has already mopped the floor and you admire him for his tenacity. At least something happened under the influence of Seonghwa.

“Where’s San?” you roll your eyes at the rhetorical question and don’t bother to give him the satisfaction of an answer. Mingi watches you as you pick up the lint roller and start cleaning the other half of the room he hasn’t touched.

“It’s so frankly annoying and stupid that you two try to deny everything between you two,” he sighs loudly and it works as your head whips in his direction. “How much delusional are you? We have nothing within us,” you reply nonchalantly but the tinge of sadness in your tone betrays you.

“Sure, that is exactly why he was so pissed yesterday and about to break a guy’s nose for calling you a ‘slut’,” he deadpans and you look at him in shock before quickly blinking and composing yourself, “Well at least they person’s nose is okay.”

“Nope, I broke it,” he states as if he did something as simple as eat cereal in the morning and your eyes widen as he shrugs. “But this is not about me, this is about San, do you know how many girls he has tipped off with the excuse of your ‘arrangement’? As far as I am aware you guys can date anyone despite the fucking.”

You look away from your brother’s penetrative eyes and try to focus on the cleaning. But your mind is anywhere but cleaning as Mingi’s words play over in your head. Your twin kicks your shin and you jerk in surprise. “When did you-“You get interrupted by him saying, “Stop pretending like you can’t hear me and do something about these unresolved feelings. They are so obvious that even the boy I tutor is catching up.”

“Right, of course, the boy you tutor, Hyunwoo, who comes to our house just one day every week. Do you not know eighth-graders are full of shit and hormones? He is obviously tripping,” you fake scoff three times before stopping as you feel his judgemental eyes boring into yours.

“Whatever sails your ship, y/n,” he says in a sing-song tone earning another eye-roll from you before you both get back to work.

You stare in distaste at your closet as most of your party outfits are in the laundry. You curse Wooyoung in your head for throwing a third party in the same week right after you send your outfits in the wash you pick up your phone. Your hand hovers over your call list and rational thinking is never an option before you are dialling San.

He is still a friend!

San picks up in a heartbeat, something Wooyoung calls “desperate” but you call “efficiency” and you hear his smooth tone over the line, “Hey y/n.”

“Hey San, I was wondering if you want to catch up for coffee?” you ask casually and you hear him chuckle over the line, “After or before we buy you a dress?”

“How did you know?” you ask and he snorts, his light laugh sending your heart in a frenzy. The warm sound over the line feels like a rush over your muddled brain as you smile looking at your feet.

“I always know, when it comes to you,” he replies and you bite your lips. The small, rational part of your brain telling you to stop is pushed far behind and you reply, “Being a bit too obsessed with me, are we now, Choi?”

“I can be obsessed with you any day,” he smoothly adds over and a half-snort half-giggle leaves your mouth which would be embarrassing if you already didn’t have heart-eyes in a voice call. The familiar day-dreaming returns as you imagine San kissing you, not for merely sex, but for the shy giggles, or him hugging you with his face into the crook of your neck or him tracing down-

“So I will pick you up?” he asks breaking you out of your love-sick trance and your ears feel warm as you reply with a ‘yes’ praying it wasn’t as shaky as it sounded in your head. “Great, see you in fifteen,” he replies and you hum before the call disconnects.

Your brain racks for the casual outfit you should wear now, should you go with the white flowery jumpsuit? Or maybe the yellow dress till your knees? Or just simply go for jeans and a cute top? Or a light cardigan? Stop it. It is not a date. Your mind kicks back in place as you blink lightly from your trance before getting ready.

A car’s honk resounds after a few minutes and you go to the door only to see San holding a bouquet of flowers and smiling at you. His eyes form a crescent moon shape under his hair, a few bangs touching his forehead lightly and you gasp.

“The florist shop was on the way, and I picked some up,” he says adding a casual shrug and then adding, “Figured you can just keep them in the apartment.”

Friends give each other flowers, right? Right!

“Oh, uh, thanks,” your voice becomes smaller with every word as you take the bouquet from his hand and keep it inside. You contemplate whether you should arrange them now but decide later since it won’t be too long.

“You look pretty,” San comments as you go out making you even more flustered and you stutter out a “Thanks.” He hums as you get in his car and drives over to the store he knows you usually buy from. He notices your look of confusion and asks, “Do you want to buy from somewhere else?”

“No, but how?” you ask gesturing him lightly, too much at a loss for words. “I am your friend, of course, I know it,” he smiles, his dimples popping out and you have to physically restrain yourself from leaning over and kissing his dimples. A tinge of red appears on his cheekbones and spreads lightly to his neck as he notices you staring at him and he tries to play it off by mildly coughing.

Choosing some dresses is a smooth process, occasionally San pitches in his choices, which you take for a few, and you get inside the trial room to finalize one.

After trying some and discarding them you pick up one San has recommended before putting it on. The zipper is in the back, unlike the others which had it in the side and you need help because god forbid you aren’t that flexible.

You don’t even hesitate and call for San since you know the boy will basically help anyone with anything without any malicious intent. Your mind slightly turns over the fact that your friends-with-benefits relationship is also because of his willingness to help, and you push it back further down. You do not need it in your mind right now.

“Yes?” San peeks through the door and you smile sorrowfully saying, “Can you please help me pull the zipper?” He nods, throwing in his dimpled smile and you sigh to yourself. If a smile can turn your insides to mush, hell you don’t know what you will do with his wordless rejection.

San's hands on your back make a stark contrast to your skin, and you feel heated up at his menacingly slow pace of pulling the chain up. You blame the confines of the trial room for feeling hot and bothered as his fingertips dance on your skin. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the chain is up and you look in front.

You look stunning and you have to give it to him to know your exact tastes. The lines between reality and dreams blur as you feel his head dip down, lips lightly encasing on your shoulder pads as he whispers, “You look absolutely gorgeous.”

You may have stopped breathing altogether and your heart feels like bursting at any moment as you lock eyes on him, and feel like you have seen a different emotion, other than pure lust and desire. You see love, like last night.

Your stomach churns in an unfamiliar manner and you abruptly push off him and murmur, “No, fuck we can’t do this.” Your skin feels cold with the loss of his touch and your eyebrows furrow in confusion, and searching your eyes for something. Anything, to lead him on.

“San, we can’t,” your breath falters as you look at his perfectly sculpted face and reply, “We can’t continue this, our arrangement, our every single thing, just no!”

“Why?” he asks and you stare at him incredulously and scream lightly, “Why? San why? Because I broke our third rule okay? Because I fell in love, and that is just me. You are exactly where you were some months ago, my friend, that is how you see me, so to save us from my idiotic feelings, we need to stop.”

“Friends give each other flowers?” San asks and you shut up looking at him, gasping from being slightly breathless. You watch his face contort into something undecipherable as he continues, “Just friends don’t offer to pick each other up, in every possible situation, just so they can look at each other. Just friends don’t give two shits about remembering every small detail about each other, just friends don’t look at each other like we do. Just friends don’t feel like ripping someone’s heads off when anyone else flirts with each of them, and just friends for fuck’s sake, do not have sex as if they want to make love.”

You look at him, eyes wide at his face as he runs an impatient hand through his hair, and in one short stride, he is hovering over you. He looks at you, locking your eyes and a beat passes before you whisper, “Then what are we?” “Whatever you want us to be, love,” he replies, his eyes flickering with every emotion, because it is all so damn confusing when it comes to you.

When it comes to you, his mind clams and he has no idea what should be done.

“Then let’s be the corny boyfriend and girlfriend,” you giggle but it dies as his lips fall on yours in a second. His hand traces along your waist and his kiss is just like you imagined it to be. Only better! The gentleman touches with a hint of craziness as you two lock your lips like the perfect puzzle piece. You run your hands through his hair lightly making him smile into the sweet kiss.

He pulls away, taking a second for your appreciation before his lips are on you again. This time, it is hot and heavy, full of passion, and you tug on his shirt, a soft whine leaving your mouth as he holds your cheeks and manoeuvres his mouth into yours. The kiss is messy and full of tongue and when you break for air he whispers, “Let’s get out of here.”

Mingi enters your apartment and immediately halts as he sees you and San cuddled up on the sofa, watching something on the television that neither of you is paying attention to. In fact, you are both too busy giggling and pecking each other to even notice Mingi. He smiles at you two, glad that you both came to your senses before clearing his throat.

“What?” you ask, the sound coming out muffled since your mouth is full of chips and San laughs pecking the side of your lips. Your attention returns to San and you giggle looking at him making Mingi gag. He is already so tired of this.

“Well, I am home, thanks for asking, sister,” he comments, his voice edging on the ‘sister’ making you scoff at him. He continues, “Glad you two are together now, saves every one of us from your blind misery.”

“Shut up,” you stick a middle finger in his direction and he doesn’t even bother to look before asking, “Hey what dress did you buy anyway for Woo’s party tomorrow?”

“Shit!”

“Fuck!”

ー☆ㅤㅤ [ ara's notes ] ㅤ੭𓂃 ㅤwanted it to be so perfect because it's my friend requesting, deleted drafts and re-wrote so many times TT hope you like it ㅤ𓏧ㅤ libraryㅤ atz shelfㅤ navi

੭ 𝅄ㅤ ꒰ TAGLIST ꒱ ㅤ⏤ㅤ @haneagerr ㅤ𓏧ㅤ fill this or comment or ask to be added

ㅤㅤ(ㅤㅤ© arafilez on tumblrㅤㅤ)

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kingkruell · 2 months ago

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PULSE MEMORY | CHOSO KAMO

SYNOPSIS - in the aftermath of the shibuya incident, a researcher finds herself sifting through the remnants of cursed bloodlines, her focus now fixed on the death paintings. under the watchful gaze of choso kamo, the last of his line, the weight of history presses against them both. as the layers of the past unfold, so too does something quieter, more fragile: a bond between two souls bound by secrets— a bond created between the crevices of the mundanity that blurs into something soft, slow, and inevitable.

CONTENT- researcher!reader x post-shibuya arc! choso, post-shibuya au, canon divergent au, very slight angst, insecure choso, found family-type, intimacy, mutual pining, friends to lover, lingering trauma, hurt/comfort, soft choso, awkward choso in love, major fluff.

WORD COUNT 5335

[read in dark mode]

now playing: risk-deftones, i'm not in love-10cc

LATE DECEMBER

cursed energy lingers like mildew.

that’s one of the first things you learned as a junior field researcher working under the tokyo jujutsu tech archives division.

not a sorcerer, not even a grade 4 semi-trained assistant; just one of the “non-combat staff,” as they put it. the ones who combed through bloodstained scrolls and transcribed fragmented oral histories from battered curse victims. you studied patterns. names. and the way those names persisted.

your current assignment isn’t just an anomaly, it’s practically sacrilege.

you're assigned to the death painting wombs.

or what’s left of them.

after the shibuya Incident, what began as basic post-conflict documentation turned into a high-level classified program under a new special division, one that suspected the death paintings were more than just failed cursed womb experiments.

you were the youngest non-sorcerer granted access.

and choso kamo, the only one left alive, was placed at your side.

“he won’t talk much.”

that’s what ijichi told you, escorting you through the ruins of the old auxiliary training center. It was converted into a temporary lab space, walls still warped from residual cursed energy. the makeshift archive/research room isn’t built for comfort. the air is cold, stale, and smells faintly of old blood. shelves lean with age. cursed scrolls line the walls in crooked rows. each one hums with a faint, leftover energy — like a breath held too long.

you walked in expecting a monster

you found him instead — choso.

the request actually came from yuuji’s end: someone to assist with lingering questions about the death painting wombs. your job, as far as anyone can explain, is to help verify claims that a fourth womb — never accounted for — may have existed. you’re not even sure you believe it yourself.

arms crossed. eyes dull like old ash.

he didn’t look at you when you introduced yourself. didn’t move when you explained your research: tracing the cursed bloodlines used in the death paintings to determine the origin of their hybrid nature.

you’d expected hostility. Instead, you got apathy, and you don’t know if that is any better.

“there might be a fourth womb,” you said after the deafening silence, voice barely louder than a whisper, “unrecorded. or sealed. somewhere they didn’t want anyone to find.”

cursed wombs aren’t born.

they’re built.

that’s what your research implied. a jarring contradiction to what most jujutsu records claimed: that the death paintings were failed organic hybrids of human and cursed spirit cells. you dug deeper.

noritoshi kamo had created the first three wombs using the blood of women impregnated by curse energy-infused embryos. a violation in every sense. but what you had found in the sealed texts was stranger.

there were four original subjects.

one disappeared from the records mid-process. redacted. scratched out in black ink, even in the most secret archives.

at that, his eyes flickered, just for a heartbeat,and he shifted his weight. “i’d know,” he said, voice flat and low.

you tilted your head, brushing back a strand of hair. “maybe not,” you replied, offering a small, sympathetic smile. “they didn’t want you to.”

for a moment, he seemed about to retreat into silence again. instead, he uncrossed his arms, hands opening at his sides. “i have fragments,” he murmured, gaze drifting upward as if recalling a distant memory. “dreams that aren’t mine. faces i can’t place.”

you leaned against a battered table, chest hollow with curiosity. the flicker of lamplight traced the curve of your cheek. “that’s why i think you’re resonating with something,” you said gently, tapping your pen against your notebook. he blinked slowly. “resonating?”

you nodded, warmth creeping into your tone as you explained. “in cursed memory theory, when an object or being is near a fragment of its origin, the memory responds—like a tuning fork.”

his lips parted, as though he wanted to argue, but the pause stretched into silence. finally, you asked, doubt threading your words, “and you think if we find the fourth, I’ll remember?”

his shoulders loosened fractionally. he met your eyes, and for once, there was something in them beyond ash. “no,” you added softly, letting the words settle between you, “i think you’ll feel.”

BLOODLINES, TEA STAINS, SOFTNESS

he doesn’t talk much, not at first. you spend your days parsing through old scrolls, obscure court records, kamo family history — most of it half-burned or politically redacted. he stands nearby, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded. You’re not sure if he’s observing you or guarding you.

then it becomes a routine.

you spend your days bent over ink-faded scrolls, tracing the jagged lines of kamo genealogy with a trembling fingertip. he stands just behind you—silent sentinel—arms folded, every muscle coiled like a spring. when a passage trips you up, you clear your throat and read it aloud, voice echoing against the chipped concrete. sometimes he hums under his breath, the note low and uncertain, as if testing how sound lingers here. other times he simply watches, eyes softening ever so slightly at the curve of your concentration.

one evening, the lamplight blinks out mid-sentence. your eyelids flutter shut before you can register the darkness. when you wake, your cheek is glued to the spine of a cursed register, and the room’s edges glow faintly in the after-hours lights. a paper cup blooms warm against your elbow.

“you were drooling on the 19th-century register,” choso says, voice hushed like he’s reluctant to break a spell.

you sit up with a soft groan, brushing crumbs of parchment from your sleeve. he’s cross-legged on the floor across the table. candlelight flickers across his face, revealing the barest lift at one corner of his mouth.

“you stayed?” you manage, voice thick with sleep and something like relief.

he shrugs, eyes shifting to the steaming cup. “didn’t want you to freeze.”

you tuck the scarf around your shoulders, careful not to disturb its pristine folds.

is this his scarf?

a gentle warmth settles in your chest, part gratitude, part something you don’t understand yet.

in daylight, you begin to fill that space with small curiosities. one afternoon, you twist in your seat and ask, “do you like sweet tea, or should i steep it longer next time?” your lips curve in a hopeful smile.

he glances at the scribbled teacup chart you taped to the wall—your makeshift flavor guide—and presses his lips together before answering. “sweet. just enough.”

you mark it down with a flourish, humming in approval.

another morning, you find him folding parchment scraps into neat piles. you lean over his shoulder, brushing a loose strand of hair from his braid. “what do you do when you’re not… here?”

his breath catches, as if surprised by the ease of the question. he pauses, fingers stilling on a corner of brittle paper. “train,” he says quietly. “or—” he hesitates, then adds, “think.”

you chuckled in amusement, , eyes bright. “thinking can be hard. sometimes it helps to talk it out.”

he doesn’t meet your gaze. you keep talking anyway, describing the way the sun falls across your favorite reading spot, the taste of your grandmother’s rice crackers. eventually, he looks at you again, each syllable of your stories turning the angles of his face a little gentler.

and then one afternoon, you offer him one of those rice crackers — golden studded with sesame seeds, cupped in your palm like an offering. he studies the simple snack, brows knitting, before lifting it to his lips and tasting. his shoulders loosen as he crunches softly, and a spark, uncertain but genuine, flickers in his dark eyes.

in that moment, the room feels smaller, warmer.

THE MOUTH OF FEAR

you don’t rush the research. you take your time. you go through the files together. on the nights it gets too heavy, choso makes tea without being asked. you cook plain meals and leave half out for him, knowing he probably won’t eat until hours later.

choso, on the other hand, is terrified, paranoid.

choso doesn’t sleep much. when he does, it’s never for long. he dreams of blood, mostly. the kind he understands: spilled, dried, humming with the memory of violence. it coats his hands, his mouth, his lungs. sometimes he wakes up choking on it, the taste of copper on his tongue. but lately, something’s changed.

the dreams are shifting. still fragmented, still dreamlike, but warmer. quieter. a thread of gentleness instilled through the carnage. there would be images of hands that cradle rather than crush. voices not screaming, not commanding, just… saying his name like it means something.

and always, he wakes feeling worse.

“i think your discomfort near certain artifacts isn’t coincidence, but resonance.” it was in the middle of the afternoon, another day in the research room.

he stares at you, pulse flattening under his skin like a drum caught in mid-beat.

“you think my body remembers things i don’t?”

you look at him then. steady. not like you’re trying to solve him, but like you already have a few pieces of the puzzle, and you're simply being patient with the rest.

“i think your soul does,” you say, voice careful but clear.

he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t let it show that the word hits like a curse.

he wants to laugh. wants to sneer. wants to disappear into the walls. but you’re still watching him, not flinching, not mocking.

soul. like he has one. like what’s left of him could be more than muscle and memory stitched together by blood and rage.

he crosses his arms, not out of defiance, but defense.

“you think i’m incomplete.”

it’s an accusation and he means for it to push you away.

but you don’t retreat. you soften.

“no,” you say, and it’s gentle in a way that guts him. “i think you were never given the full story.”

he looks at you, really looks — and for the first time, choso feels seen.

not as a cursed object. not as an echo of noritoshi kamo’s violence. but as a being caught between memory and blood.

and it terrifies him.

you terrify him

he tries not to watch. fails.

he tries not to listen. fails again.

he tells himself he’s just observing — staying alert. just in case.

but that’s not the truth. not even close.

the truth is: something about you terrifies him.

not because you're dangerous. but because you aren’t.

because you look at him like he’s more than a weapon. like he’s a question you want to understand. like he’s not beyond saving.

then, he starts walking you home.

it’s not official or discussed. it just begins one night after the cursed spirit incident; when it cornered you near the station, and you froze, and he stepped in like it was instinct. because it was. and ever since, something in him refuses to let you go alone.

you’d tried to laugh it off at the time, said it wasn’t a big deal, that you had it under control. you’d said it with your head tilted up like you believed it, but your hands had told a different story. shaking, tucked into your sleeves. he noticed. he notices everything.

he couldn’t sleep that night. not because he was afraid of more spirits or some unseen threat. no, what kept him awake was how his hands had trembled, not out of fear for his own life, but because something had snarled in your direction and he hadn’t been fast enough.

he didn’t know what that feeling was. not then. but it unsettled him more than anything else had.

so now, he walks beside you.

you argue the first few times, lightly, like it’s routine. “you really don’t have to do this,” you say with a little wave of your hand. “i’m not made of glass.”

“you’re not a fighter,” he replies, blunt as ever.

“you’re not a babysitter.”

the third time, you roll your eyes and say, “this is overkill, you know.”

the fifth time, you mutter, “you’re going to get bored of this.”

the seventh time, you sigh and say, “you could be doing anything else.”

you expect that to make him leave.

it doesn’t. he shrugs, barely looking at you, and says nothing more. but the next night, he’s there again, waiting at the same spot near the back exit of the research room. he’s always there now.

you get used to it faster than you expect. you even start adjusting your pace so he doesn’t have to slow down as much. sometimes you fill the silence with odd facts you picked up during the day. sometimes it’s a story about a cursed object someone mishandled or an old scroll that smelled like vinegar and regret. and sometimes… you don’t talk at all. just walk together, your steps syncing without effort.

he listens more than he speaks, but when he does speak, it’s real. not empty filler. when he hums in agreement, it’s because he’s thought about what you said. when he corrects you on an old name or a bloodline detail, he does it gently, never to embarrass, just to help.

he’s never been good with softness. not with receiving it, and definitely not with giving it. but it’s different with you. slower. quieter. and it scares the hell out of him.

tonight, it’s colder than usual. you blow into your hands and mutter something under your breath about forgetting your gloves again. he hesitates, wants to offer you his, but doesn’t. not because he doesn’t want to, but because he’s not sure what it would mean if you accepted.

you walk slower than normal, and he matches your pace without thinking. when you reach your apartment building, you dig through your bag for your keys, muttering about how you always lose them at the bottom. he waits beside you, silent.

and then, without looking at him, you say it—like it’s nothing. like it doesn’t land sharp between his ribs.

“you don’t have to walk me every time, you know.”

he doesn’t hesitate.

“i know,” he says. “but i want to.” he looks away, blushing.

you go still. fingers frozen on your keyring. you don’t look at him, but your breath catches just slightly, and he catches it. he always does. you unlock the door, but you don’t go in right away. your hand lingers on the knob. just for a second. maybe two.

he says nothing. he doesn’t ask for more. but when the door finally swings shut behind you, he lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

then he turns around and walks back into the dark. his hands are shoved deep into his coat pockets, shoulders hunched slightly forward, like he’s bracing against the cold—but it’s not the cold that unsettles him. it’s not fear the way he used to know it. not the kind that comes from danger or death or memory.

no, this fear is quieter. it waits behind his ribs and curls around the edges of his thoughts.

it’s not the fear of being haunted anymore.

now, it’s the fear of wanting to stay.

CHANGES AND THE SHAPE OF QUIET THINGS

they've shut down the fucking research.

all that time and energy was for nothing, wasn't it?

when they shut down your research, you weren’t surprised. not really. you'd been waiting for the day someone told you to stop digging.

they didn’t even try to hide behind bureaucratic pretense. not fully. the committee’s statement had been thinly veiled, draped in language like “too dangerous” and “ethically irresponsible.” some claimed it disrespected the dead. others said your work “blurred the line between reverence and obsession.”

but you weren’t naive. you knew exactly what this was.

it was political.

it wasn’t the theory itself that scared them. not the part about residual memory or cursed bloodlines. no, it was what your findings implied. the idea that choso and his brothers were not aberrations, not tragic footnotes, but the intended outcome of something far uglier. something deliberate.

they didn’t want to rewrite history. didn’t want the sorcerer world questioning what it meant to be “man-made.”

you were supposed to pack it all up. leave quietly. pretend it had been an academic misstep. write something more palatable next time. something soft and unthreatening.

instead, you found yourself standing in front of choso in the archives, holding out a worn, overstuffed folder.

“i have nowhere else to take this,” you said, voice low, hands steady. “but i think you do.”

he didn’t take it right away. just looked at the folder like it was burning in your hands. like it was both too heavy and too familiar. his eyes were hard to read — they always were. not because he was cold, but because he had learned to keep his grief folded inside, like a letter he didn’t dare open. but you’d been around him long enough to know the silence wasn’t disinterest. it was consideration.

finally, he said, “you’re coming with me.”

you blinked. “sorry?”

he looked up then, brows drawn. not annoyed, just confused, like he couldn’t understand why that needed clarification.

“you know too much,” he said. “they’ll come for you. you’ll need someone to protect you.”

you opened your mouth to argue, to tell him you could handle yourself, that you’d lived among cursed records and forgotten truths for years without needing a bodyguard. but the words didn’t come. because the truth was, you hadn’t felt scared until now.

on that night, you packed what you could into a duffel bag and followed him.

he didn’t rush you. just stood by the door, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, eyes somewhere distant. not impatient — just alert. like he couldn’t let himself settle until you were out of that building, and out of their reach.

the apartment he brought you to was in the outer edges of shinjuku — the kind of place no one paid attention to. third floor walk-up. rusty balcony. cursed energy traces so low you had to actively search for them. the front lock stuck if you didn’t jiggle it just right. the water pressure was terrible.

choso didn’t say much as you unpacked. he stood near the door like he’d only just arrived too, arms folded, eyes scanning the walls like they might shift. like he was still waiting for something — someone — to come crashing through. even in stillness, his body braced for violence. you didn’t mind the silence. you filled it carefully, humming under your breath as you shelved your books, folding clothes into corners, trying not to disturb the odd peace that hovered between you.

your mind is going insane. you don't know how you had agreed to this living situation; to a guy you know you are weak to. you're used to being calculated, never taking chances impulsively. but with him, it feels like everything will be alright. it's because of him.

just like you, he wasn’t used to sharing space. but somehow, it worked..

choso didn’t crowd. didn’t hover. didn’t ask why you sometimes left notes in the margins of your own research like you were talking to yourself. he just started sitting at the edge of the table while you worked, arms draped over the back of the chair, watching the way your brow furrowed when you were deep in thought.

sometimes he’d pick up a page and study it in silence. his fingers were gentle with the paper, as if it might bruise.

“what does this part mean?” he’d ask, voice low, thumb resting on a line like it mattered.

you explained patiently, even when you were tired. even when the words felt too big or too broken. he listened like listening was a form of worship. like your theories were scripture and he was trying to relearn the world through them.

you started noticing the little things.

the way he always washed his cup after using it, even if it was just water. the way he swept the balcony without being asked, even though no one could see it. the way he never slammed a door. like loudness made him ache.

and slowly — clumsily — he started trying.

one morning, there was a piece of fruit on the counter you hadn’t bought. another night, a pair of slippers had appeared beside yours. he never mentioned them. just looked away, a little too fast, when your gaze lingered.

one evening, as you sat hunched over your notes, your head aching, he returned from a grocery run and set down a small, beat-up box in front of you. inside: a cheap heat pack, a pack of those terrible-but-comforting convenience store cookies, and a bottle of green tea.

“you were frowning yesterday,” he said, like it explained everything. “i thought maybe this would help.”

it was stiff. awkward. but...painfully sincere.

you just looked up at him and smiled — soft and slow.

“thank you,” you said.

he blinked. then nodded. once. briskly. like he wasn’t used to the words being for him.

after that, he got bolder. in his own way.

a hand resting on your back for a second too long when he moved past you in the kitchen. a folded towel left on your desk after you spilled tea on yourself. once, when you fell asleep on the couch with your notes still in your lap, you woke up tucked under a blanket that wasn’t yours.

he pretended not to notice when you smiled at him the next morning.

you didn’t push. didn’t name it. love, for people like you and choso, had never come loud. it arrived in pauses, in half-gestures, in the space between breath and language.

and choso — for all his quiet, all his grief — began to soften.

not all at once.

but slowly, gently.

like winter learning how to become spring.

he said goodnight once. whispered it when he thought you were already asleep. the word caught in the air like it had startled even him.

you heard it. didn’t move. but the next morning, you left him half a mug of coffee, black, just the way he drank it.

he didn’t say anything. just drank it quietly. and stayed close the rest of the day.

you stopped keeping your research in piles. started keeping it in a single binder marked with both your names. he noticed. didn’t say anything. but you found him flipping through it that night with the softest expression on his face, something like reverence, something like fear.

the apartment was still falling apart. the ceiling still leaked when it rained. the wind still howled through the thin walls like a curse waiting to return.

but when you looked over at choso, shoulders finally unbowed, eyes soft with something he hadn’t named — it didn’t feel haunted anymore.

it felt like home.

spring has came, but still, the nights felt almost as cold as winter.

you’d been living there for weeks now. maybe months. it was hard to tell. time moved differently when survival wasn’t the first priority.

choso had softened in increments. it didn’t come easy, not when he was built from grief and blood and the weight of too many memories that weren’t entirely his. but he tried. in his own way.

he brought home groceries when you forgot. set your favorite mug on the table when you looked tired. asked if you’d eaten, but only when you weren’t looking at him. and sometimes in the rare, quiet moments, he’d sit across from you at the table and just… be there. in the same room. breathing the same silence.

you, on the other hand, had grown louder. not obnoxiously so but lighter, easier with your words. you joked more. nudged his shoulder with yours when he was being too serious. sometimes you sang under your breath when you were cooking, just to see if he’d react.

he never did. not really.

tonight, the draft through the cracked bathroom window had gotten worse, and the space heater choso kept in the corner of the main room clicked uselessly when you tried to turn it on. the landlord didn’t respond to messages. not that either of you had expected him to.

still, the apartment had taken on a strange kind of warmth, not from anything mechanical, but from the rhythm of two people learning how to be around each other without armor. your socks drying by the heater. his jacket hanging by the door. mugs left out on the counter in pairs, not one.

the living room had become a shared space, half cluttered with your research, half overtaken by whatever scraps of domesticity you both allowed yourselves to claim. choso never said it, but you’d caught him fixing a broken table leg once, muttering under his breath. he still refused to take the bed. insisted the couch was “fine,” even though he barely fit on it.

you didn’t argue anymore. not with words, at least.

and still — still — it ached. the feeling you’d been carrying. this soft, constant wanting. the kind that didn’t ask for permission. you’d grown used to the sight of him, tired and thoughtful and quietly kind, but never enough. he’d brush past you to reach a book, and your breath would hitch. he’d glance at you during breakfast like he wanted to say something, and your chest would tighten.

you loved him. you knew that now. and you weren’t sure when it had happened — only that it had rooted itself in you like a quiet, stubborn bloom.

tonight, the power flickered once, then died entirely.

you lit a few candles and found the emergency blanket. choso was sitting by the window, arms folded, staring out into the dark city. the glow hit the side of his face in soft orange, and for a second, he didn’t look like a weapon. he looked like something quieter. something tired and beautiful.

“no update from the grid,” you said, settling down beside him on the floor. “could be out for hours.”

he grunted in response.

you sat in silence for a moment. the kind that wasn’t awkward, just heavy. full of all the things neither of you had said.

then, after a pause — “come here,” he murmured.

you blinked. “what?”

he didn’t look at you. “you’re freezing.”

you hesitated. then crawled under the blanket he’d opened, tucking yourself beside him. your knees touched. then your thigh. you felt his breath falter the second your shoulder pressed to his.

you didn’t move away. neither did he.

you turned to look at him, your face too close. his eyes flicked to your mouth for the briefest second — so quick you almost missed it.

“you’re shivering,” he murmured.

“no shit,” you replied, but it came out softer than you meant it to.

and maybe that was it. maybe the softness was what broke something open. because the next second, his hand rose, tentative, slow and brushed your cheek.

his fingers were cold. and you leaned into them anyway.

“you don’t have to—” he started.

“i want to,” you said.

the look he gave you then made your stomach twist. like he’d been holding his breath since the first night you showed up with a duffel bag and tired eyes. like he was scared touching you might undo him completely.

you kissed him first.

it was clumsy. a little too fast. his nose bumped yours, and your teeth clicked, and you laughed against his mouth because of course he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

but then he kissed you back and everything slowed.

his touch was reverent. unsure. like you were something he’d found, not something he could keep. he held you like a question he didn’t know how to ask.

but you answered it anyway.

you tangled your fingers in his hair, pulled him in again, and felt the way he exhaled like he’d been waiting years for this.when you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. quiet. breath warm against your skin.

“you’re still shivering,” he said.

you smiled. “then maybe we should get even closer.”

his ears turned red.

choso sat stiffly beside you, arms still tight around himself like he didn’t quite believe what had happened. like he was worried you’d disappear if he looked at you too long.

“you okay?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

he nodded once. then again, like he had to convince himself. “yeah. just… thinking.”

you let the silence stretch.

he was always like this, heavy with thought, cautious with words. you’d learned to read the quiet between his sentences. to wait. so you did.

he shifted a little, turning toward you, eyes flicking to your face and then away again. he was blushing, you could see it even in the dim light, the faint red creeping over his cheekbones like warmth he didn’t know how to hold.

“i’m not good at this,” he said suddenly. “this—” he gestured vaguely between you. “being close to people.”

you smiled gently. “you’re doing fine.”

he huffed. a little sharp. but not annoyed ,embarrassed. “you say that, but you’re… easy to be around. and i’m—”

“a little weird,” you teased.

he blinked. then, to your surprise, he laughed. soft and low, the sound curling in your chest like a match catching flame.

“yeah,” he admitted. “a little weird.”

you nudged his shoulder. “i like weird.”

his smile faltered, just a little. and when he looked at you again, something unguarded flickered across his face.

“when you first moved in, i thought it’d be temporary,” he said. “that they’d come after you. that i’d have to protect you, then… send you somewhere safer.”

your heart clenched. “and now?”

he hesitated. swallowed hard. “now i don’t want you to leave.”

the words landed with a kind of softness you hadn’t expected. just honest.

he ran a hand through his hair; nervous, a little twitchy. “you make the apartment feel different. lighter. like… i don’t know. like it’s not just a hiding place anymore.”

you felt your chest tighten.

“you make me feel different,” he added, quieter now. “less like a curse. more like—someone.”

your fingers reached for his without thinking. he didn’t pull away. just stared, wide-eyed, as your hand slid into his.

“you are someone, choso,” you said. “you always were.”

he looked down at your joined hands. blinked slowly.

then, clumsily, awkwardly, he said, “i think i like you. i mean, i know i like you. but it’s not just that. i think about you a lot. not in a weird way. okay, sometimes in a weird way. but not bad-weird. good-weird. like… i want to make you tea before you wake up, kind of weird.”

you snorted. actually snorted.

he groaned and dropped his face into his hands. “fuck. that was so bad.”

“no,” you said, laughing now. “that was...adorable. you want to make me tea before i wake up?”

“not anymore,” he grumbled into his palms. “now i want to evaporate.”

you leaned into him, rested your head on his shoulder.

he froze.

but only for a second.

then slowly, carefully — he tilted his head until it rested against yours. not perfect. a little stiff. but real.

“i like you too,” you said softly. “even when you talk about tea like it’s a grand confession.”

he let out a shaky breath. “it kind of was.”

you smiled into his shirt. “i know.”

outside, the wind howled down the narrow alley. the broken heater clicked once and gave up again.

but inside, everything felt warm. maybe not from the blanket. maybe not from the tea he swore he’d never make now. but from him. from the way his pinky hooked around yours. from the way he pressed the tiniest kiss into your hair like it took everything in him to do it.

and from the quiet that followed: not awkward, not tense.

just full.

like a silence you could live inside.

and maybe you would.

89 notes · View notes

sowerpatch · 28 days ago

Text

unfold [chapter five - recalibrate]

Summary: Paige Bueckers didn’t expect to lose the WNBA championship. She also didn’t expect to find comfort in a bartender who spoke more with her in guarded silences than most people did with words.

Author's note: this is an AU where Azzi doesn't play basketball but works as a bartender.

*CHAPTER LIST HERE*

Chapter Summary: Azzi isn’t sure if letting Paige back in is worth the risk. She’s still hurt, still guarded, but Paige keeps showing up and trying in ways that matter.

While Azzi questions if reconnecting is worth the uncertainty, Paige is quietly making personal and career choices that reflect what healing looks like for her as she rediscovers herself.

Word count: 4,401

Morning came soft and unwelcome. Thin light spilled through the sheer curtains of Azzi’s bedroom, touching the edges of her walls with a silver wash. Her eyes had stayed open through most of the night, blinking slow beneath the weight of too much thought. She hadn’t moved much, curled into herself on one side of the bed, pillows stacked like a quiet fortress she didn’t know what to do with.

The stillness pressed against her like a question she couldn’t answer. Her phone rested on the nightstand, face down. She didn’t check it. If Paige had messaged, she would find out eventually. If she hadn’t, well—she had learned how to sit with that too.

She lay still, eyes open, breath caught in the quiet aftermath of the night before. Her thoughts moved slowly, sifting through every moment like turning over shards of glass. Paige had stood at her door when she drove her home after the game, unsure and steady all at once. She had asked to talk. She had smiled, small and cautious, as if speaking too loudly might ruin the fragile thing between them.

Azzi didn't know how to carry that kind of softness.

Anger had once been easier. Back when everything was raw and fresh, when silence felt like justice instead of uncertainty. It gave her something solid to hold. A reason not to reach out.

Being ignored left a scar Azzi couldn't quite name. The silence between them hadn't simply lingered. It had settled, thick and unforgiving, like frost clinging to every word left unsaid. It wasn't even betrayal. It was the hollow, echoing pain of missing someone who had once understood the language of her soul without needing translation.

But Paige had never worn her sorrow on the surface. Azzi had seen it. The way her shoulders hunched under invisible burdens, the way her eyes flinched away from comfort. That silence wasn't rejection. It was fear, raw and ragged. It was a sadness so deep it built walls out of self-preservation.

And still, Azzi understood. Maybe too well. Because sometimes caring for someone wasn't loud or brave.

Understanding didn’t erase the hurt. It just made room for both.

There was a knock at the door.

Azzi sat upright in bed, arms resting over the blanket as her breath slowed. The room was quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic slipping past the windows and the faint tick of the clock near her dresser. She remained still for a moment, blinking against the soft light seeping between the curtains, letting the air settle. The knock hadn’t been loud, but it had weight. It lingered in the space between her ribs, unshakable, familiar.

A second knock followed. Gentler this time, as if the person on the other side hesitated. As if they knew they were stepping into something fragile.

Azzi pulled herself from the bed with slow, deliberate movements. Her limbs heavier than usual. Her bare feet touched the cold floor, and she pushed the sleeves of her shirt down over her wrists. Her chest tightened the closer she got to the door. She didn’t need to ask who it was. There weren’t many people who knocked like that. That rhythm, that caution. It only came from someone who had something to lose.

She opened the door without a word.

Paige stood in the hallway, her hoodie pulled on over a wrinkled t-shirt, hair slightly damp like she had rushed through a shower and forgotten to finish drying it. In her hands, she held a paper bag and a drink tray, balancing both with a practiced steadiness that couldn’t hide the tension in her shoulders. Her eyes lifted the second the door opened, and though her smile flickered into place, it didn’t stretch too far. It was the kind of smile that asked for permission to stay.

“Hey,” Paige said, voice soft, almost cautious. “I brought breakfast.”

Azzi didn’t respond right away. She leaned against the doorframe, folding her arms over her chest, the fabric of her shirt bunching under her elbows. Her gaze dropped to the tray. Two drinks. One black and steaming. Her usual. Paige had remembered.

“You didn’t have to,” she said, her voice flat, not unkind but restrained.

“I know,” Paige replied. “I just figured you might want something before class. And I was already starting my day. Thought I could drive you.”

The words hung in the space between them, light on the surface but anchored in something deeper. Azzi watched her closely, eyes narrowed not in suspicion but in a quiet effort to understand.

Her chest ached in a place she couldn’t protect. Part of her wanted to shut the door, to retreat to the quiet she had barely gotten used to. But another part, quieter and steadier, noticed the wrap of Paige’s fingers around the tray, the way she stood back from the threshold as though she knew she had forfeited the right to step forward.

“There’s a spinach wrap in the bag,” Paige offered, her voice gentler. “And the mushroom one, just in case you changed your mind about what you liked.”

Azzi didn’t answer. She reached forward and took the drink. Her fingers brushed the side of Paige’s hand, and the contact sparked something small, something painful and familiar.

“I haven’t decided anything yet,” Azzi said. They both know she was not talking about the sandwiches.

“I'm not in a rush,” Paige replied.

The restaurant murmured with life, a low current of clinking plates and quiet conversations folding into the corners. Paige sat across from Azzi in a booth tucked near the back, her hands resting on either side of her untouched glass of iced tea. Her sleeves bunched around her forearms, the soft cotton faded from too many restless nights.

Dinner had been Paige’s idea. It wasn’t exactly a date, just her picking Azzi up after school like usual. Fast food didn’t sound appealing to either of them at the moment, so they ended up at a quiet Italian restaurant, Azzi’s choice.

Azzi had barely touched her food. Her gaze lingered on Paige instead, watching the subtle shift in her expression. The way her shoulders didn’t quite relax. The weight she seemed to carry in silence.

“I think I fell out of love with it,” Paige said. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the noise around them. “After the championship. Or maybe even before.”

Azzi’s fingers tightened slightly around her fork.

“I kept telling myself it was temporary. That I just needed time. That losing would light a fire under me. But it didn’t. It was different this time. I didn’t want to touch a basketball. I didn’t want to look at the court. I didn’t even want to think about it.”

Her fingers drummed once against the side of the glass before stilling again. “It felt like everything I had poured into the game just disappeared the moment the buzzer went off. And what was left wasn’t anger. It wasn’t motivation. It was nothing. I hated that.”

Azzi stayed quiet. She let the words settle.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to move forward,” Paige continued. “How to stop letting that loss define everything I am. I don’t have all the answers yet, but I know I want to take the next step. I want to try again. Not just with the game, but with everything.”

Her eyes finally lifted. “With you.”

The sentence didn’t ring out with drama or desperation. It landed with a quiet kind of courage. Paige sat there, exposed and unsure, her heart sitting plainly between them.

“I’m sorry I shut you out,” she added. “You didn’t deserve that. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I just couldn’t admit how lost I felt.”

Azzi’s chest tightened. Every part of her wanted to stay guarded, to protect the ache Paige had left behind. But sitting across from her now, seeing the effort it took to be honest, to speak through the vulnerability rather than around it, made it hard to hold on to the anger.

“I don’t need you to have it all figured out,” Azzi said. Her voice was soft, but steady. “I just need to know that you mean it. That you’re serious about this.”

“I am,” Paige said. “I’m scared, and I don’t know how to get everything right. But I’m showing up. I want to try. With you beside me.”

Silence hovered between them, warm and full. Azzi let herself breathe into it. She thought of all the days she had waited without knowing if Paige would ever come back. She thought of how her heart hadn’t stopped reaching for her, even when it hurt to hope.

Paige hadn’t promised perfection. She hadn’t promised to be the same person Azzi once knew. But she had shown up with truth in her hands, and that was enough.

Azzi leaned back in her seat and let herself look at Paige without walls. The pieces between them were still fragile, but they were here. Present. Repairable.

“I’m still mad,” she said. “Still hurt. But I never stopped caring.”

A flicker of relief passed over Paige’s face, small and real. The rest of the dinner went calmly, like the storm already passed by and a rainbow starting to show.

They walked side by side, quiet in the comfort of full stomachs and unfinished thoughts. The dinner sat warm in Azzi’s belly, a pleasant contrast to the cooling air. A park opened ahead, its benches tucked beneath amber-lit trees, the path empty except for them.

Paige nudged her gently with a shoulder, motioning toward one of the benches. Azzi didn’t say anything, just followed and sat. Gravel crunched beneath their shoes as they settled into the worn wood, the night air curling around them.

“So,” Paige said, resting her elbows on her knees. “How’s school? Still drowning in papers and caffeine?”

Azzi smiled faintly. “Basically. I have a few essays to finish, and my thesis is slowly killing me, but other than that I’m surviving.”

“That’s progress,” Paige said, glancing her way. “At least you’re still upright.”

“Barely,” Azzi replied, rolling her eyes. “My advisor keeps changing her mind about my outline, and every time I think I’m done with a chapter, I’m back at square one.” “Vault still keeping you on your toes?” Paige asked, voice light, almost teasing.

Azzi smirked without looking at her. “Yeah. Still behind the bar, mixing overpriced drinks and pretending the same five songs haven’t been on loop since August.”

She glanced at Paige out of the corner of her eye. Her silhouette was familiar. It felt surreal, this normalcy. As if the last week had unfolded in a blur and somehow landed them back here again, like nothing had broken in the first place. But it had. Azzi still felt it.

She hesitated, chewing lightly at the inside of her cheek before speaking again. “Tom asked about you last week.” “Tom?”

“The bouncer,” Azzi clarified, her tone amused. “He said it’s been too quiet lately. Thought it was weird there wasn’t a six-foot blonde eyesore waiting for me in the parking lot anymore.”

Paige let out a breathy laugh, tilting her head. “Eyesore? That’s harsh.”

Azzi glanced at her sideways, lips tugging into a smirk. “You weren’t exactly low profile.”

“Sounds like Tom missed me.”

Azzi shrugged, but a faint smile tugged at her lips. “Maybe more than I did.”

Paige faced her. “You missed me.” It wasn’t a question.

Azzi’s eyes dropped to the fallen leaves nearby. Her pulse stirred beneath her skin. Admitting it felt like leaning off a ledge, and yet part of her wanted to.

She looked up with a small smirk. “Maybe a little less than Tom.”

Paige chuckled under her breath, but the humor didn’t linger long. The air between them shifted, heavier now. She tucked her chin slightly, voice dipping with a seriousness that hadn’t been there before.

“I shouldn’t have gone quiet on you.”

“You just left,” Azzi said softly. “One minute you were there, the next you were gone. Like none of it mattered.”

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” Paige said, her voice low. “I was in my own head. Too much. And I’m very sorry for that. Right now, I only want to be here. With you. If you’ll let me.” Azzi stared ahead, her thoughts slowing under the sound of distant crickets and rustling leaves. Her voice broke the silence gently, as if trying not to fracture what little they had rebuilt.

“I wanted to be angry,” she said. “I was, for a while. But it faded. And I realized I still cared, more than I probably should have. That’s what hurt the most.”

Paige said nothing, just looked at her with an openness that felt rare. There was no urgency in her gaze, only something patient and raw, something that asked for understanding without begging for it. Azzi held it for a moment, the silence settling thick between them, but without tension this time. Paige’s remorse did not come dressed in excuses. It came in honesty. In the way she didn’t try to fill the space with hollow comfort.

Azzi’s voice came low, but sure. “I’ll give you the chance. But only if it means something to you.”

“It does,” Paige answered, almost in a whisper. “All of it does.”

They grew quiet again. The kind of quiet Azzi was starting to understand meant something was building. There was no tension in it, just weight. A pause before something honest. When Paige finally spoke, her voice carried that same care.

“I went to Connecticut,” she said, eyes tracing the grain of the bench beneath them. “Saw Geno.”

Azzi blinked, unsure what to say to that. Paige didn’t give her time to ask. She continued, words slower now.

“I didn’t know where else to go. He always had something to say, even when I didn’t want to hear it.” A soft breath left her, almost a laugh but not quite. “He told me if I really wanted to move on from the loss, I had to stop letting basketball take up every part of me. Said the game will always matter, but it should never be the only thing keeping me upright.”

Azzi stayed still, letting the words unfold around her. Paige’s shoulders curved slightly forward, her hands resting between them, fidgeting in her lap.

“He told me to find the one thing that keeps me alive in the middle of all this,” Paige said. “And hold on to it.”

Her fingers inched toward Azzi’s. Hesitant at first, brushing against her knuckles before curling gently around them. Paige didn’t look up when she said it.

“I told him it was you.”

Azzi’s breath caught. The air thickened between them, not heavy with pressure, but full of something tender. Paige finally raised her eyes. They shimmered without breaking, steady and searching.

“I’m tired of trying to be someone I don’t even recognize anymore,” she said. “I want to just be Paige. The girl who sits through boring criminal law lectures she doesn’t understand, who eats greasy takeout from a styrofoam box in the car, who wears rival jerseys just to get a reaction, and who drives across the city just to pick up the girl she likes from work.”

Azzi didn’t move. Something inside her had. A shift that loosened the ache she’d been carrying in silence. The pain hadn’t vanished, but Paige’s words reached into it, offering something warmer than apology.

The girl beside her wasn’t trying to be perfect. She wasn’t asking to be forgiven just because she said the right things. She was offering something more honest than that. Herself.

Azzi turned her hand over, fingers threading between Paige’s. This time, she held back nothing. -

The cursor blinked on the muted Zoom screen, a quiet rhythm against the tension hanging in Paige’s kitchen. Her elbows rested on the cool marble counter, posture relaxed but gaze unwavering. A half-finished coffee sat beside her, its warmth forgotten as the call shifted from greetings to stakes.

The screen showed six people.

Stewie and Phee, their faces steady and attentive. Then there were the three executives, their looks unreadable, pens poised above notebooks. Paige’s agent sat alone, offering a small nod, waiting for her to begin.

Paige exhaled slowly and sat up straighter.

“I’ve thought about this for weeks,” she began, her voice steady. “And I came to a decision that I know some of you may not agree with.”

Eyes lifted toward the camera. She met them without flinching.

“I’m skipping Unrivaled this year.”

One of the executives shifted in his chair, lips parting, but Paige continued.

“This isn’t about walking away from the league. I believe in what we’re building. I’ve fought for it. But stepping into something this important with half of myself would be a disservice. To everyone. To the fans who believe in the vision. To the players who are ready to give everything. To the game itself.”

She paused, letting the words root where they needed to.

“My body is still healing, and my head... I’m working through the loss. The finals hurt more than I expected it to. And I realized I cannot play like it didn’t. I cannot pretend to be present when I feel fractured.”

One of the executives finally spoke, measured and firm. “You understand there are penalties. Financial costs. Contractual obligations that require fulfillment.”

Paige nodded. “I do. My agent and I already talked about that. I’ll take responsibility. I’ll pay what needs to be paid. I’m not here to fight those terms.”

She reached for her coffee but left it untouched, hands curling around the ceramic as if the contact might hold her steady.

“But I need to put myself first this time. For once. That means stepping back. That means making space for something that isn’t performance, or pressure, or damage control.”

She looked into the camera again, softer now.

“I still want to support the league. However I can. If there are ways I can promote it, share it, talk about it, I will. No fees, no conditions. I want Unrivaled to thrive. I just can’t be on the court this season.”

The call went quiet. No papers rustled. No pens clicked. Only the low hum of her refrigerator filled the room behind her, a mundane contrast to the weight of the moment.

Stewie blinked slowly, then gave a small nod.

Her agent unmuted, voice calm. “She’s prepared for the outcome. We’ve already reviewed the terms.” And that was it.

The moment the main call ended, Paige didn't reach for the logoff button. Her fingers hovered above the keyboard. She typed a few short words, just enough to ask Stewie and Phee to stay behind. A quiet plea wrapped in digital ink.

One by one, the other participants left. Their windows blinked out like stars fading into daylight, until only three squares remained.

Stewie sat in soft, lived-in cotton, shoulders relaxed. Phee cupped her favorite mug, steam curling up beside her cheek like a signature.

Paige didn't speak at first. She simply looked at them, letting herself breathe in their presence. They weren't just mentors. They were constants, the kind that stay long after the noise fades.

When she did speak, her voice was soft, but steady. "Thank you," she said, curling her fingers around her half-drunk coffee. "For staying. For listening. For making it feel like this isn't failure."

The screen seemed to settle with her words. Stewie's expression shifted, her voice low and sure.

"You’re choosing yourself, Paige. That takes more strength than people know. Especially when everything around you tells you to keep going, even if it hurts."

Phee nodded slowly. "So many push through, hoping the cracks won't show. But you stopped before you shattered. That kind of decision is rare. And it matters more than you think."

Their words pressed against something hidden inside her. She hadn't realized how tightly she’d been holding herself together until their voices made space to let go. Her shoulders eased. Her breath deepened. For the first time in days, the storm in her chest felt distant.

"You've both always been there," she said, her voice catching around the edges. "I don't take that for granted. I need you to know that." Neither Stewie nor Phee rushed to respond. They didn’t have to. The quiet understanding in their eyes spoke volumes. The silence lingered, not heavy with tension but full of something unspoken, something steady.

Then Stewie leaned back, giving the moment its space before letting the tone gently turn.

“So, that jersey last Thursday. A choice, for sure.” Stewie’s voice cut through the quiet with a sly lilt, her expression resting somewhere between amusement and mock betrayal.

“Bold move, really.” Phee lowered her mug slowly, her eyebrows lifting with exaggerated offense. “Trojan red on national TV. I had to do a double take.”

“What?” Paige blinked, innocent in tone, though the corner of her mouth betrayed a knowing smile.

“Geno probably aged a decade the moment he saw you on screen.” Phee leaned in, voice low and dramatic, as though delivering terrible news.

“He sent me a single text. One period. That’s how I knew he was spiraling.” Stewie spoke with mock solemnity, though laughter edged every word.

“I was just messing around. Stirring the pot a little.” Paige shrugged, her tone too casual to be believed. Her grin widened as they pounced.

“Stirring the pot? Girl, you flipped the entire stove.” An evil grin forming on Stewie’s face. “And you were glowing. Don’t think we missed that. Smiling like someone whispered sweet nothings behind the camera.” Phee pointed, accusation laced with affection. Her smile pulled wider.

“Suspiciously happy. Radiant, even. That wasn’t game-day adrenaline, Bueckers.” Stewie added.

Paige dropped her head into her hand, laughter slipping through her fingers. The color in her cheeks deepened, but she didn’t deny a thing.

Phee sipped her coffee with the exaggerated poise of someone holding court. “No judgment. Just patterns we’ve observed. Professional curiosity. Plus, she’s very pretty. Good choice Paige!” “To reckless jersey choices and to simping on Trojan women.” Stewie raised her glass of juice like a toast, all softness beneath the grin.

Paige lifted her gaze slowly, eyes full of warmth and something quieter. She didn’t need to explain. Their teasing was like a nail to the coffin confirming they were not upset with her decision.

Phee's smile was gentler now, softer in the way only true care can be. "If that brings you back to yourself, hold onto it with both hands. Don't let it slip through."

“I won’t.” Paige softly declared, more to herself.

"You're late."

Azzi’s voice met her before anything else, followed by the sharp tug of fingers curling into Paige’s jacket. The apartment door swung open before Paige could raise her fist to knock, and suddenly she was being dragged inside, feet barely catching the welcome mat as the door slammed behind her.

"I didn’t even knock," Paige said, half-laughing as she shrugged against the grip on her collar.

"I heard you stomping down the hallway like an elephant," Azzi muttered, already halfway toward the living room.

Paige shrugged out of her jacket and kicked off her sneakers. "You always say you like it when I walk loud.”

Azzi turned just enough to narrow her eyes, one hand already reaching for the remote. "That doesn’t excuse being twenty minutes late."

Paige raised a brow. "It’s Netflix. It doesn’t air live. How can I be late to something we literally control?"

Azzi scoffed, draping a throw pillow over her chest like armor. "Because I queued it up and waited like a chump. I even did the snack prep. I watched the intro alone. It was traumatic."

Paige’s laugh bubbled up, warm and teasing as she made her way to the couch. "You’re so dramatic. This isn’t cable in 2006."

"Do I look amused?" Azzi asked, lifting the pillow just enough to peek out at her. Her voice softened, losing the edge but gaining something else. "I wanted to watch it with you. That’s the point."

Paige’s smile faded into something gentler as she dropped beside her, their knees brushing under the blanket.

"You’re really mad about it?" she asked, quieter now.

Azzi didn’t answer. Her fingers toyed with the seam of the pillow, her eyes stuck somewhere between pout and plea.

Paige’s fingers brushed lightly over Azzi’s hand, tracing each knuckle as if memorizing the shape of her. Then, without a word, she lifted it and pressed a kiss to the back of it. Slow. Careful. The kind of kiss that asked for nothing but somehow gave everything.

Azzi froze, but only on the inside. Her body leaned into the touch, into the care, while her mind raced to keep up. The kiss was tender. Intimate. Almost too much in the best possible way.

Then Paige’s voice came, softer than anything else in the room. "I'm sorry for being late, baby."

The endearment hung there. Simple. Casual. Sweet. And yet it unraveled something in Azzi. Her heart stuttered, as if it didn’t know whether to melt or panic. She wasn’t used to being called that, not by Paige, not by anyone who meant it like this. Her mind tried to brush it off, tried to play it cool. But the warmth had already bloomed in her chest, stubborn and glowing.

She told herself not to read too much into it. But her fingers curled tighter around Paige’s anyway, needing something to hold on to.

Paige gave the smallest tug, and Azzi followed without resistance, letting herself be drawn closer until her head rested against the curve of Paige’s shoulder. It felt like giving in, and maybe that was okay. Maybe she didn’t have to hold everything so carefully all the time.

Her cheek pressed against soft fabric. She could feel Paige breathing. Slow, steady, grounding. The kind of rhythm that made her believe they could stay like this for a while. Azzi’s voice barely made it out. “You’re an idiot.”

Paige let out a gentle laugh, smiling into her hair as her arms pulled her in a little tighter. One hand reached for the remote, the other stayed exactly where it belonged.

#paige bueckers #paige buckets #paige x azzi #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #pazzi fic #pazzi #paige bueckers fic #paige bueckers fanfic #uconn wbb #azzi fudd fanfiction #azzi fudd #pazzi fics #unfold series

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bittersuitejacobs · 1 year ago

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• an unhealthy obsession •

{Nate Jacobs/Original Character}

Ophelia is no stranger to wanting. For most of her life it's all she'd been allowed to do, trapped on the outside looking in, window shopping for normal experiences. Ophelia is also no stranger to obsession. Books, movies, TV shows; a terribly ill child who never even had the chance to make a real friend, she took what she could from fiction. All she'd ever wanted growing up, the thing she obsessed over, was someone who could save her, from her life, from herself. Someone who could make her feel alive.

So when her attention is caught by a beautiful, awful boy with a saviour complex, Ophelia vows not to remain a stranger to him either, no matter the cost.

Ophelia may no longer need to be saved, but Nate Jacobs makes her feel so damn alive, so she will turn herself into the kind of girl he wants, needs, and obsesses over too.

• in which Ophelia and Nate are somehow not the worst things to ever happen to each other. •

Warnings: Explicit Smut, Mutual Obsession, Stalking, Manipulative Behaviour, Possessive Behaviour, Infidelity/Cheating, Drinking, Violence, Non-Consensual Drug Use & Sexual Assault, Childhood Parental Abuse (Medical/Psychological/Emotional). Chapters will contain specific warnings.

{ fic playlist }

+ IN PROGRESS +

[ Season One ]

1. spectacle

2. the slate cleaned

3. knight in shining armour

4. according to plan

5. unexpected ink

6. daddy's angel

7. a week of turtlenecks

8. like and subscribe

9. dirty little secret

10. praise kink

11. deja vu

12. little black dress

13. fight flight fawn freeze

14. the aftermath of violence

15. boot theory

16. i quite enjoy ruining your day

17. mutually assured destruction

18. detriments of the modern age

19. justly serv'd

20. sanctuary

21. paper stars

[ Season Two ]

22. resolutions

23. bpm

+ ...

[ Alternate Universe ]

cool for the summer

Nate's been best friends with Lee Chase for as long as he can remember, and Lee's little sister Ophelia has always been... there. The best thing about her is how easy she is to ignore.

But everything changes between them when Lee and his dad go to Fiji for the Summer before their Junior year, and Nate and Lee's moms decide to spend that time holidaying together up the coast, taking the rest of their children with them.

So now, much to Nate's chagrin, he's forced to share a bed with his best friend's sixteen year old sister, who he's barely even had a full conversation with before in his life. But he quickly realises that she's bolder than he gave her credit for. Maybe it's a good thing her brother's on the other side of the world.

Warnings: Explicit Smut, Possessive Behaviour, Underage Drinking, Ongoing Parental Neglect/Emotional Abuse, Compulsive Over exercising as a Form of Self Harm, Mental Healthy & Unreality Struggles. Chapters will contain specific warnings.

1. Reintroduce

2. Reinvent

3. Recontextualise

4. Reconfigure

5. Realise

6. Revitalise

7. Reiterate

8. Reconnect

9. Restring

+ ...

Posting of completed chapters for the main fic will begin in the next few days.

Posting of the AU will begin after Chapter 10 of the main fic and will alternate.

THE TAGLIST IS ALWAYS OPEN !

(just message or comment to be added; I'll add you to the taglist for both unless you let me know you only wanna be tagged for updates from one)

#nate jacobs x original character #nate jacobs x oc #euphoria original character #euphoria oc #nate jacobs imagine #nate jacobs x reader #euphoria x original character #euphoria x oc #euphoria imagine #euphoria x reader #nate jacobs fanfic #nate jacobs fanfiction #oc ophelia chase #bittersuite words

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mapsthewanderer · 5 days ago

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Plated IX

The knives are sharp. The heat’s real. Love has no place here—so why does it keep showing up?

Synopsis: In a heat-soaked kitchen where pressure simmers and perfection is law, you stand shoulder to shoulder with a team of brilliant misfits—each carrying their own scars, secrets, and fire.

From Caleb’s controlled intensity to Sylus’s velvet power plays, Rafayel’s chaotic beauty, Zayne’s surgical focus, and Xavier’s quiet steadiness, every shift cuts deeper than the last.

This is a story of tension, taste, and slow-burn hearts—where trust is plated, feelings are forbidden, and love might just be the most dangerous ingredient.

Details: 6500ish words. Non MC! reader. 18+ harem drama in The Bear AU. There’s romance. There’s grief. The best fictional men you’ve ever known—shining and burning in their own way. Xavier, silent and soft-spoken, a star that steadies instead of blinds. Raf, all drama and devotion, mourning with flair and velvet edges. Zayne, held together by precision and pride. Caleb, reckless with feeling, trying to make something whole out of the wreckage. And Sylus—still a storm in a suit, but now stripped of his crown, learning how to live without the empire he built. And you? You’re in the middle of it all. Not untouched—but maybe the one who knows how to stay when the heat rises.

Chapters: pilot, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight

Tags: @gavin3469 @animegamerfox @beaconsxd @lemonwithstupidity

Ashes of a Kingdom | Chapter 9

The yellow tape flutters like a warning.

Or grief.

It’s hard to tell the difference today.

You stand in front of what’s left of Plated. The air smells of wet ash and cold steel. No more smoke—just aftermath. A silence that feels loud. Like the building is holding its breath for you. For all of you.

You’re in the middle of them. Five men, each a different kind of ruin. Sylus stands to your right, arms crossed, dressed like the fire never touched him—but something beneath the surface still smolders. His jaw is locked. His stillness? Terrifying. Caleb flanks your left, hands in his jacket pockets, face unreadable except for the tight line of his mouth. His eyes haven’t left the soot-black rubble. Xavier lingers just behind you, shifting from foot to foot. Zayne is a statue. Arms crossed, bracing the ruins upright through willpower alone.

And Raf…

Raf stands closest.

He’s dressed like grief took a styling appointment in Paris and refused to hold back. Charcoal wide-leg trousers. A slim black overcoat, cinched with intent. Black gloves. Oversized sunglasses that conceal just enough. No veil—but god, he could’ve pulled it off. Almost seems like a missed opportunity. Because if heartbreak could vogue, it would look like this.

He hasn’t said a word since the flight. But his shoulders rise and fall in quiet, stuttering sobs.

You reach for his hand, and he laces his fingers with yours. And that’s when memory slides in—

Before takeoff. Engines humming low. Cabin lights dimmed. The runway blurring into dusk.

Rafayel curled beside you, knees drawn up. He wore his travel set—the soft knit one he claimed wasn’t loungewear, even though the boxer lining peeked out where the waistband dipped as he shifted. Hair more ruffled than usual, but still—somehow—perfect. Red-rimmed eyes. Voice barely above breath.

“It hurts,” he said. “Because it’s where I had some of the happiest moments of my life.”

You turned toward him.

But he wasn’t looking at you. Just the headrest in front of him. Eyes glassy, mouth softened by memory.

“The first time I stayed late. The first time I plated something I didn’t hate. The first time I kissed your cheek without knowing if I was allowed to.”

Your breath caught.

Then, even quieter: “I’m grieving a place that made me feel like I could be loved.”

And just like that, he fell asleep. Head on your shoulder. Fragile. Unmasked. Unbearably soft.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Barely breathed.

And beside you, Sylus didn’t look up.

Collar uncreased. Tablet glowing. Thumb scrolling through insurance reports and investor spreadsheets like they were gospel. Earbud in. Voice low. Negotiating deadlines and structural assessments like the cabin wasn’t half-full of heartbreak. He didn’t sip the champagne. Didn’t blink.

Just worked. Composed. A monument built to keep floodwater out.

The plane lifted.

And for hours, none of you spoke. Silence settled like ash.

Raf didn’t cry again. Not until the wheels touched down. Not until the brakes kissed the runway and the ground beneath you was Copenhagen no longer.

That’s when his breath caught. Sharp. Shaky.

And the tears came again—quiet, hidden behind sunglasses—as the plane taxied toward the gate.

As if grief had waited to land with you all.

——————————————————————————

The tape snaps in the wind again. Raf lets out a breath. He presses the heel of one palm to his eyes beneath the sunglasses, but it doesn’t stop the tears.

Sylus mutters something under his breath. Caleb exhales like a man trying not to punch a wall.

You all just stand there. Unmoving. A lineup of heartbreak in couture, denim, and ash.

Plated is gone.

But you’re still here.

And the weather gods don’t care.

The first raindrop lands like punctuation.

Sylus doesn’t flinch. He just tilts his face toward the sky—defiant, even now—and lets the water trace a clean line down his cheekbone. It could be a tear. Almost is.

But he wipes it away like it’s nothing. Just a glitch in the atmosphere. An interruption. He breathes in once, slow and precise. Then, in that low, worn voice: “Figures. Even the sky’s got good timing.”

The rain picks up. Not a downpour—just a steady, cold drizzle. The kind that soaks by patience, not force.

Raf steps forward and exhales, the sound catching in his throat.

“I—It’s like the building’s crying,” he murmurs.

“No,” Sylus replies. “The building already screamed. This is the part where it exhales.”

You all begin to turn away. Your boots crunch wet ash. You reach for Raf’s hand again—but before your fingers meet—

Xavier’s hand closes around your wrist.

Not tight. Just… present. A grounding touch. He holds you as if to keep you from drifting into memory.

“Hey,” he says, voice low. Quieter than usual. Almost shy. He searches your face, really sees you. “You okay, Second Set?”

A flicker catches in your chest. Not quite painful. But… there.

He hesitates. Then: “You need somewhere to hide? Nap? Pretend the world’s still turning? I don’t have dry storage anymore. Or the wall behind the back entrance.”

His thumb brushes your wrist—barely there. “But I do have a tea place. Favorite one in the city. Smells like books and bergamot. We could… just sit. Not talk.”

The offer is quiet. Sincere. And it cuts through the cold as warmth from a long-lost stove. You nod once. Not enough to commit. Just enough to be known. And if there were one shoulder in the world you could still cry on, it might be his. You’d missed him when the news broke in that glittering Copenhagen reception—missed the calm of him, the way he never rushed a silence.

Before you can answer, Raf’s voice pipes up.

“Wait—tea? Can I come?”

You glance back. He’s pushed his sunglasses up slightly, red-rimmed eyes, but suddenly his voice holds something brighter. Caleb stands beside him, arms folded, expression unreadable—but his brows lift. “Yeah,” he says. “I could go for some bergamot-based silence.”

And then—

Zayne.

Still as ever. Rain catching on his lashes. Hair beginning to cling to his temples. Eyes fixed on the ruins. Without looking at you, he murmurs:

“I’ll come too. If there’s space?”

No emotion in the tone. Just the question. And somehow, that’s louder than anything.

You start to move with the others—

But pause. Because behind you—

Sylus is already mounting his bike. Helmet dangling from two fingers. No words. No glance.

You hesitate. Then say, simply: “You too.”

It isn’t a plea. It’s an anchor.

He stops. Looks at you—long and hard. Rain softening the angles of his jaw, making him look almost undone in the gray.

Then, with quiet precision, he dismounts. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. Just falls into step beside you.

——————————————————————————

Xav was right.

The tea place smells like honey, bergamot, and old paper—crumbled books left too long in the sun. A candle flickers in the center of your table, barely taller than your thumb. The wax has begun to pool. Time, here, moves like steeped molasses.

None of you really speak.

Zayne’s cup sits untouched. Sylus finished his ten minutes ago and hasn’t moved since. Raf has his forehead resting against your shoulder like you’re the only solid thing left. Xavier sips his genmaicha slowly, as if it might hold the secret to softening the silence. Caleb’s the only one pretending the tea’s any good—he keeps swirling the cup like it’s a potion waiting to reveal something.

It doesn’t.

Eventually, Sylus rises. Rolls his shoulders, trying to shrug off hours of weight. “I’ve got calls,” he mutters, already pulling out his phone. He’s halfway to the door before he stops—not a dramatic pause. Just a breath. A very human one. He glances over his shoulder. His voice low.

“…This was good.” Then, sharper. Back to business. “I’ll update you if the investigation turns anything up.”

He doesn’t wait for acknowledgment. Just nods once, and disappears into the wet blur of the city.

Zayne stands a beat later. Each movement quiet, coiled with restraint, every step the echo of choices he never wished to make. He reaches for his coat—then stops.

Turns.

His eyes land on Caleb.

“Don’t you have better things to do,” he says flatly, “than sit here and watch us fall apart?”

The table stills. Even the candle leans sideways in the draft from the door.

Caleb looks up, slow. Calm. Cold.

“Excuse me?”

Zayne doesn’t raise his voice. He never does. But the precision in his posture is laced with something volatile.

“You’re staging. You’re booked. Press, events, new kitchens. You’ve got all the freedom in the world.”

He stares at Caleb, jaw tight.

“So what the fuck are you still doing here?”

It hits like a thrown pan. Zayne rarely curses. Not even when the fryer exploded and Xavier had to body the extinguisher off the wall while flames licked up the backsplash. Raf had walked in, taken one look at the smoke, foam, flour—and turned on his heel without a word.

Caleb had nearly combusted. It was tempura night. Orders were in queue. The panic tasted metallic. And Zayne? Not one expletive. Just teeth clenched, voice flat: “Xavier, nozzle. Clockwise.”

So this—this sharp, bitter “fuck”—lands harder than any flame ever did. This “fuck” is a flare.

Across the table, Caleb sets his tea down. Too gently. A soft sound against the ceramic, but deliberate. A counterweight to the fire rising in him.

“I’m not as heartless as you think,” he says, even.

Zayne scoffs. Quiet. Dangerous. “No. You’re worse. You want to play martyr and savior. You want to mourn with us like you didn’t help build the pressure that cracked the floorboards in the first place.”

Caleb’s chair scrapes back.

“I gave everything to Plated.”

Zayne doesn’t blink.

“No. You gave what you wanted. How you wanted. When it suited you.”

Caleb snaps: “And what did you give, huh? Besides your disapproval and perfect goddamn julienne?”

Zayne lifts a finger. “I gave consistency. I gave silence when I wanted to scream. I gave my back to carry all your brilliance. For years.”

Caleb’s voice spikes, sharp as broken glass. “Oh, fuck off with your consistency. You were jealous I lit up the room while you just kept the mise clean.”

Zayne doesn’t flinch. His voice stays low, but it cuts sharper than a boning knife. “You always brought it into the kitchen. The mess. The feelings. You treated the line like a confession booth.”

A beat.

Then quieter—just barely: “It was supposed to be the one place we kept clean.”

Caleb exhales through his nose, jaw tight. “You think the kitchen saved you. But you used it to hide.”

Zayne stares at him. And then, like something in him finally unhooks—

“And you… You burned out from it,” he says, voice rough now. “Almost managed to do it again. With your cheap tricks and VIP nights and whatever performance you were running—trying to headhunt and build some version of a fantasy restaurant that only existed in your head.”

Caleb steps forward now, fire flickering in his eyes—not just anger. Grief. “You call it a performance? Fine. Maybe it was. And if I burned too hot—”

His chest rises. Falls.

“Then at least I was burning for something.”

Zayne exhales through his nose, hard. Then: “Yeah. Maybe you got lucky. Maybe you got exactly what you wanted.”

A pause. Long enough to ache.

“Just ashes and freedom.”

“Freedom?” Caleb snaps. “You think this—” he gestures vaguely toward the direction Plated once stood tall, like the ruined walls and silence and ghosts might answer for him “—was what I wanted?”

His voice rises, cutting.

“I gave everything to that place,” Caleb says, voice cracking sharp around the edges. “My name. My fire. My fucking life. I built myself back up in that kitchen—after burnout, after silence, after everyone thought I was done.”

His hand cuts through the air, not at Zayne, but at memory.

“I made Plated mean something. I built that menu like a map out of hell. And yeah—maybe I got lost again. But don’t stand there and act like I was the one holding the match.”

He raises a finger to Zayne’s face, shoulders squared.

“You think I wanted this to fall? Just so I could walk away clean?”

A beat. His jaw tightens. Softer—more dangerous:

“Don’t confuse being burned with being the one who struck the flame, Sous.”

Zayne’s fists curl.

You can almost hear it before it happens.

Not the words. The shift. The heat that rolls in before a kitchen implodes.

Because Zayne knows exactly what lights the fuse in Caleb: being told what to do by someone armed with rules and truths that are technically correct. It doesn’t matter how Zayne says it. It doesn’t matter how much he means it.

To Caleb, it’s always humiliation.

And to Zayne?

It’s grief. Dressed in control. Because maybe—just maybe—he used to believe it. That if he kept his knives sharp and his emotions dull, he could hold it all together in the kitchen.

But the kitchen is ash.

And there’s no place left to tuck the feelings away. No more pass to stare into like it could quiet what’s breaking. No more kitchen to pretend in. The kitchen is gone.

And the feelings are spilling out.

Just like this.

Just like now.

And the two of them were always a bad match for aftermath.

Zayne looks at you—not with accusation, but something harder to name. Wrapped in something protective. Something worn thin by silence. A thousand unsaid shifts between the three of you. And then he breathes:

“You really don’t get it, Caleb. You lit the room up—and then burned everyone inside it.”

The words hang. Brutal. Final.

“You break things. Yourself, the people around you,” Zayne says. “And you call it passion. But it’s not. It’s selfish. You use people. You leave. And I—”

He swallows. The next part costs him.

“I stayed. I showed up—every time. I never needed the spotlight. I stayed true. To the kitchen. To the people in it. To myself. And I’m the one without a job. Not you.”

It isn’t theatrical. Not loud. Just truth. Spoken like a blade laid gently on steel. And Caleb—Caleb looks like he’s been hit in the ribs.

Rafayel, who’s been too quiet for too long, shifts in his seat. One hand stretches across the table—open, unsteady. His voice is low, strained. Tight with grief, brittle at the edges. “Guys,” he says. “…Plated’s already gone. Don’t tear down what’s left of each other too.”

Neither of them moves.

It’s sharp now. Taut. A moment made of glass about to snap.

Then—

Thunk.

A half-eaten cookie arcs through the air and smacks the center of the table.

Everyone freezes.

Xavier, still seated, doesn’t even look up. Just wipes his hands on a napkin and says—flat, impossibly calm: “You ruined the tea.”

A pause. No one breathes. Then he stands. Reaches for you with one hand. Grabs Raf with the other. Doesn’t wait for agreement.

“We’re leaving,” Xavier says. No room for argument. “You two can fight outside in the rain if you need to.”

Raf blinks, startled. Then scrambles, coat flaring. He looks your way—pointed, urgent—his eyes saying let’s go before his mouth can form the words.

You grab your coat. Fingers trembling.

At the doorway, as the bell above the shop door gives a soft chime, you pause. You look back—at Zayne and Caleb, still locked in silence, still radiating that same stubborn, aching brilliance.

You don’t speak.

But your glance says it all.

I hoped this could be different.

I hoped you could grow—together.

But truth curls inside your chest, quiet and final. You’re not sure they can.

And then you’re gone. The door closes behind you.

The rain is waiting.

And the tea has gone cold.

——————————————————————————

It’s been days.

Since the tape. Since the ruin. Since the tea place with broken cookies and broken boys. Since Sylus didn’t meet your eyes as he left. Since Caleb and Zayne turned from tension to standoff—like magnets losing polarity. You haven’t heard from them.

Except Caleb, of course.

He’s started slipping back into your life—not loudly. Not dramatically. Just—

Quiet gestures.

A coffee at your door at 7:36 AM, always with the syrup ratio you like. A silent text:

Caleb: Oven mitts are for cowards :P

Followed by a meme of a pug in chef whites. Once, you saw him jogging past your building, earbuds in, head down like it meant nothing. Like proximity was just coincidence. Like he wasn’t hoping you’d notice.

It’s familiar. Too familiar.

Like culinary school, minus the dorm fridge and sous-vide bets. But this isn’t school. There’s no safety net of youth or naivety. No certainty. Just a man who once left you behind—trying now to edge his way back in.

Not with apologies.

Not with promises.

But with hope. With patience.

And maybe that’s the problem.

You can’t trust that kind of patience. Not now. Not when you’ve lost everything you built with your bare hands.

Your menu.

Your kitchen.

Your notebook.

God. The notebook.

You still wake from cold-sweat dreams of it—pages gone up like smoke signals to nowhere. Graphite ghosts of recipes that only lived once. You dream in scattered mise en place. Your fingers twitch in sleep for something that doesn’t exist anymore.

And when you think of the notebook—the one thing you guarded like a heartbeat—you always end up thinking of him.

Sylus.

Plated. His office. The wine collection. Zalto glasses. Decanters, notes, his vinyl library. Once cathedral-quiet—disciplined, sacred. Now? Rubble and soot. The walls where his diplomas once hung. The gleam of stainless steel now dulled by ash. His first chef’s coat, framed. The polaroid of him and Xavier—furious, golden—at their first restaurant.

Gone.

So you text him.

You: Hey. Just wanted to check in. How are you holding up? Saw the article. You looked like you hadn’t slept in a year… congrats. No pressure, just… miss hearing from you.

Nothing. Hours. Then—

Sylus: Insurance is dragging. Building assessment today. News wants another quote. No updates on the investigation. Will follow up Monday.

Sterile. No trace of him in it. Nothing beyond logistics. The kind of reply you send to a colleague. Or worse, to no one at all.

And so the grief shifts. Not sharp. Not searing.

Just ambient.

Like humidity.

Like breath.

Like something woven into you now—threaded so quietly you forget it’s there until it tightens.

——————————————————————————

Xavier’s been around. Helping you “clean” though your apartment’s never been tidier. Cooking with you, even though he can’t always tell when something needs acid or when the heat’s too high. He tastes everything carefully—slow nods, quiet hums. Never pretends to know more than he does. Never tries to fix it.

Just offers presence.

Patience.

A silence shaped in those impossible blue eyes.

And then—later, when the kitchen’s dark and the lights are low—he turns around like he’s trying to undo it all. Like he knows how grief gets trapped in the body and wants to pull it out, one breathless, burning touch at a time.

Now, you’re sitting at the bar—two stools side by side in the hush of early evening. Just the two of you. Low light, no music. A single pot behind the counter still radiates gentle heat, the last breath of a long braise. Xavier rests his chin in one hand, watching the light catch your collarbone as if it’s more interesting than anything he’s ever tasted.

And for the time being, it’s enough. Him. This. The stillness that doesn’t ask you to perform. A perfect way to fill time that would otherwise turn sharp.

His elbow brushes yours as he lifts his fork.

You watch him taste the dish you just plated—osso buco, braised low and slow in white wine and veal stock until the meat yields on sight, folding back toward the bone in soft, trembling petals. The marrow glistens, still intact, delicate as a promise—barely held in place, its surface lacquered with the reduction, molten and waiting.

At the very top: a gremolata so finely minced it borders on a paste—lemon zest, confit garlic, and flat-leaf parsley balanced in proportions so exacting it feels like an equation. The acidity is purposeful. Clean. A perfect strike of brightness over all that depth.

And still—your heart skips before he even swallows. Because you already know: it’s all correct. But it doesn’t land. It’s beautiful, but it doesn’t bloom.

And when he sets his fork down, softly, you know he felt it too. He doesn’t make a face. Just lets the silence sit. Then, in that steady, unreadable voice of his:

“You don’t know what you’re cooking for.”

It’s not cruel. Not even sad. Just a truth.

You blink. “What?”

He turns slightly to face you, hands folded, expression still kind. “It tastes like someone trying to remember why they started. And missing it.”

You want to defend it—the technique, the balance, the hours spent adjusting heat by instinct alone. But there’s no fire behind your words tonight. You pick up your own fork. Taste it.

Properly seasoned. Technically perfect.

But hollow.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It’s fine.”

He nudges his knee against yours. “It is,” he says, almost fondly. “It’s still good. Just… not yours.”

You don’t answer right away. Just lean forward, arms folded on the bar, chin dipping toward the counter, eyes half-lidded.

“You’re right… I don’t know what I’m cooking for,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “Not anymore.”

Xav doesn’t say I know.

Doesn’t say you will again.

He just sits there beside you, holding the moment the way he always does. Then—softly, with just a flicker of teasing affection: “You need something,” he murmurs. “A reason again.”

You exhale. “Like what?”

“Dunno.” He nudges your hip, gentle and warm. “You’re Second Set. That’s your whole thing. You don’t just survive—”

“I anchor,” you finish.

He nods, wipes his hand on a nearby tea towel, and slides closer. His hands find the back of your neck, thumbs brushing the edges of your jaw. When he kisses you, it’s unhurried—warm, grounding. It tastes of lemon and honesty.

And then it hits you.

Like lightning through the ribcage. Like waking up in the middle of a dream—with the answer already waiting.

Your eyes fly open. “Wait—”

Xav leans back half a second before you pull away, brows furrowing.

You gently extract yourself from his touch, press a kiss to his cheek, and mutter, “Sorry. I have to act before it disappears.”

He blinks. “Uh. Okay. So that was… an idea?”

You’re already on your feet, grabbing your phone, rifling through your bag. “A big one.”

He adjusts his seat with a soft groan, one leg folding under him. “Right as I was getting excited.”

But there’s no bite to it. Just fondness. Curiosity. You barely hear him. Because you remember it now—sharp as cracked domes on porcelain. That night mid-service, Raf, sugar-stained and bruised by Caleb’s intensity, had laughed and said:

“We should form a splinter kitchen, Flame. You, me, the whisperer, and the king of wine aka daddy deep pockets. No rules. No menus. Just vibes.”

You call him.

He picks up after one ring. Breathless.

“God, finally,” Raf says. “I thought you ghosted me because I’ve been a sad Victorian widow.”

You laugh. “What are you doing tonight?”

“You, if I get a vote. But go on.”

“We need to talk.”

“Please tell me you’re pregnant with a terrible idea.”

You press the phone closer, grinning.

“Worse. I have a plan.”

——————————————————————————

You say goodbye to Xav—sort of—but he insists on tagging along.

“You’re emotionally compromised,” he says. “And you’ve been talking to the loud one. I’m just here to supervise. Just making sure you don’t start a cult.”

Raf’s place is a fever dream.

Floor-to-ceiling windows. Pastry molds on every surface. The ghost of cardamom in the air and cigarette smoke curling from the balcony like a rebellious garnish. The lights are dim. The music’s loud. And he’s barefoot.

You glance toward the smoke. Rafayel lifts both hands, mock-innocent. “Not mine. I’m merely coexisting with someone else’s bad decisions.” A beat. A wink. “Though it does look dramatic, doesn’t it?”

You pace.

Rafayel lounges on the kitchen island—half-buttoned shirt, collarbones out, hair tied up messily like he’s five seconds from inventing either genius or war. It’s barely long enough to warrant the tie, which only makes it funnier. A stubby little fountain of chaos.

He knows it, too. Smirks when he catches you staring. “What? I’m in my inventor era.” A beat. Then, deadpan: “Very Edison. Very electrocuting-elephants chic.”

Xavier, leaning against the fridge, glances over without blinking. “It’s giving undercooked samurai.”

Raf gasps. Clutches his chest. “Betrayed by the whisperer.” Then, with a wink your way: “Fine. I’ll let the brilliance speak for itself. Revolution first, hair second. Now, hit me, Flame.”

You exhale. And drop the plan like a match in dry brush.

“Not a restaurant,” you say, breath quick. “Not yet. A ghost kitchen. No name. No press. No investors. Just movement. Us. A supper club in motion.”

“In the ruins,” Raf says, eyes sharp.

“No,” you say softly. “Beyond them.”

He’s already standing. “Illicit gastronomy,” he breathes. “Ruined sanctuaries. Temples. Rooftops. Church basements. Kitchens born from impulse.”

“Guerrilla dining,” you echo. “Food as defiance. No stars to lose. No menu to chain us. We cook what we need. What we feel.”

Raf looks at you like you just gave him back gravity. “You absolute psycho,” he murmurs. “You beautiful, flaming, brilliant psycho.”

He grabs you. Hug first—tight, fast, grateful. Then—he kisses you. Hands cupping your face, mouth urgent and alive. It’s not calculated. Not careful.

It’s electricity with teeth.

And it stuns Xavier. His voice cuts the air—low, even. Too calm to be casual.

“Is this… something?”

You and Rafayel both turn.

Xav’s brow lifts. Just a little. “I mean, is this new? Or spontaneous?”

Raf clears his throat, steps back, wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist like he forgot it had just been on yours. “That was…” he exhales, still flushed, “my emotions. Running wild.”

He glances at you. “You okay?”

You nod. Still breathless. Still trying to remember what planet you’re on. Xav doesn’t look mad. Not exactly. But there’s a weight to his stillness. Quietly filing this under unexpected developments.

Then Raf turns, grin sliding back. “Come oooon. Don’t pout. I know you don’t share well, but she’s not the type to be kept.”

He winks—just for you. Knowing. Infuriating. Perfect. And it stuns Xavier again. Not because it’s wrong.

Because it’s true.

Xavier folds his arms, gaze flicking between you both—but there’s no retreat in him. Just a slow, resigned exhale. “Well,” he says, dry as cracked sea salt, “at least tell me I’m still invited to the supper club.”

You reach for him without thinking. Grab his hand. Anchor him.

“Absolutely,” you say. “Wouldn’t make sense without you.”

And for the first time in minutes—he smiles. Just a little. Just enough.

Rafayel grins at both of you, already stepping toward the window, phone in hand, texting someone—probably a priest with a ruinous church and really good lighting.

And just like that—

The first kitchen is already being built.

Not with walls.

But with fire.

——————————————————————————

You leave Raf’s place with adrenaline still buzzing in your chest. The night’s cool—not cold. Crisp like spring, but already melting at the edges into summer. You’re already texting.

You to Zayne and Caleb: Meet up later? Got something I want to talk about. Something… new.

You haven’t decided if Caleb’s part of this yet. And Zayne? Who knows if he’d even touch a stove in a church basement. But something in your gut says: don’t leave them out. Not yet.

Caleb responds first. A few dots appear. Then disappear. Then return.

Caleb: New as in hopeful or new as in dangerous? Either way, I’m in. If you want me in…

You almost smile.

Then—

Zayne.

His reply comes in as text, but it reads like a sigh:

Zayne: Where and when. I’m not promising enthusiasm.

Then, a beat later:

Zayne: But I’ll show up.

And that’s all you need. Not certainty. Not permission. Just the promise that they’ll come. That they’ll try.

You try Sylus.

You text. No answer.

You call. Voicemail.

Of course.

You’d only ever seen him outside of Plated on hills—behind him on the motorcycle, wind clawing at your jacket, standing at the city’s edge. Always above it all. Always slightly out of reach.

But something tells you he’s not on a hill tonight.

Plated is still cordoned off in yellow tape and memories. The air smells like soaked wood and ghosts. A single spotlight from across the street flickers through the dust, painting shadows over what once was brilliance.

You find him anyway.

Alone.

He’s standing where the front pass used to be—half a wall remains, charred and cracked. His shoulders are straight, but his hands are in his pockets. The pale silver of his hair catches the only light in all the ash and soot, unnaturally bright against the wreckage. Something celestial stands in the ruins, forgotten by the sky it fell from, stranded in a world too changed to remember where it once belonged.

You lift the tape. It snaps softly in your hand, brittle with ash and weather.

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t say a word.

You walk to him slowly. The sound of broken tile underfoot. Your breath in the crisp air.

And then—you reach for his hand.

He lets you.

Not immediately. But after a moment. Like he has to think about it. His fingers are cold. Stiff. But they close around yours.

Still, he doesn’t look at you.

So you speak first.

“I—… Didn’t want to text again,” you say softly. “Didn’t want to ask how you were and get another update about insurance quotes.”

Silence.

The wind moves through the bones of the building.

You squeeze his hand.

“I wanted to see you.”

His breath catches—just once. Almost inaudible. Then, hoarse: “I didn’t think anyone would come back here.”

You glance around at the ruin, the quiet, the echoes.

“I had to, Sylus.”

His jaw flexes. You feel it more than you see it.

“You’re not alone,” you add, gently.

And finally—finally—he turns. Not all the way. Just enough. So you see the flicker in his red eyes, the hollow ache he’s been hiding behind businesslike texts and headlines.

He looks at your joined hands. Then at you. And says, quietly:

“I used to know what came after. Now all I see is ash... I can’t even find the horizon.”

Your thumb brushes over his knuckles.

“Then let me show you.”

You walk together. Through the bones of Plated—charred beams, half-fallen arches, ash settling like dust on broken dreams. Your steps are slow, careful. The air still smells faintly of smoke. Of endings.

You don’t stop until you reach what used to be his office. The walls are fractured. One corner still holds part of a built-in shelf. A warped chair. A glint of gold, half-buried in soot. You turn to him, gently. “This kind of talk deserves your office,” you say, soft but certain.

He hesitates at the threshold. Something unreadable flickers through his expression. Then he steps forward—like a man walking into memory. His shoes crunch over broken tile and glass. He stops near where his desk once stood, then nudges a chunk of collapsed ceiling aside with the toe of his shoe.

A short, almost-laugh escapes him—more breath than sound. Not quite amusement. Not quite disbelief. Just… a shape trying to find its edges.

Then you speak. No pleasantries. No more soft openers.

“Sylus... Let’s build something… maybe not new. But different. Mobile. Temporary. Rootless, even. Just us. No suits. No investors. Just food. Risk-free joy.”

He doesn’t answer right away. You can see the wheels turning—risk, logistics, headlines, image. He’s doing the math. So you give him the one thing math can’t calculate.

“It’s not forever,” you say. “Not a statement. Just a tether. Something to hold us together while we figure out what Plated becomes. A way to heal without pressure.”

He looks away then. Wipes under one eye.

Fatigue? Or…? You don’t press. You just step forward. Close enough to feel it: that ache in him, stretched taut across posture and silence.

And then you hug him.

Hard.

Like you mean it. Like it hurts to mean it.

His breath catches. You feel it in his chest, the air knocked out of him. For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move. Then—slowly, almost uncertain—he wraps his arms around you.

And he holds on.

Tightly.

You speak into his collar, voice muffled. “Are you okay?”

It takes a moment. Then—his voice, low and hoarse: “I built this place like it was untouchable,” he murmurs. “And now I’m standing on top of its ashes.

He exhales. A bitter breath. “So no—I’m not okay.”

Then, with the barest trace of a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes: “Does that answer your question?”

Your hands tighten in the fabric of his clothes. He doesn’t pull away. “But…” he breathes in, shaky. “I’m… breathing. And you’re here. And maybe that’s enough.”

You pull back enough to look at him.

“What if you stopped being a boss,” you ask, “just for a month or two?”

His brows lift. Not quite a joke. Not quite an answer.

“What if,” you say, “you found your old knives. Took off the title. And let joy lead the way for a moment?”

His mouth opens. Closes. You see the flicker behind his eyes.

“Grief will fill every corner if you let it,” you whisper. “But joy—joy changes the shape of things.”

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. You just stand there, holding on—his arms around you, your breath caught in the collar of his coat. The air is cold. The building is broken. But the silence between you feels steady.

Your heartbeat finds his. Or maybe his finds yours. It doesn’t matter who leads. It just syncs—something timeless remembering how to begin again.

Sylus exhales. Looks down at the ruined plaque at his feet. A once-shiny gold nameplate lies cracked beside it. He kicks it aside. Then—he nods. Once.

“All right,” he says quietly.

You start to speak, but he lifts his gaze—and something shifts. His voice is low. Even. Almost unreadable.

“Not your boss anymore.”

A beat.

“Which means I’m out of excuses.” Another breath, slower:

“And I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.”

It’s a collision. Of grief and adrenaline and something long-held back. His mouth finds yours like it’s a promise undone—firm, searching, and so achingly soft beneath the hunger. Hands find your waist, slide higher, slow over your ribs—learning every inch of what’s still real.

His body is warm and sharp against you, there’s soot on both your sleeves and ruin under your feet, and it shouldn’t feel like romance.

But it does.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice low and taut, “how good power tastes on you.”

He lets his eyes trace you—memorizing the version of you that rose from the ashes. “It suits you,” he continues, quieter now. “The clarity. You move like you’ve finally stopped asking permission.”

His gaze drops to your mouth. Lingers.

“I knew you’d burn brighter than any of us. Brighter than we could handle.”

Red eyes meets yours. Quiet with truth.

“But I could only dream of being close enough to feel the warmth.”

He says it like it costs him nothing to admit—and everything to feel. And the way he’s looking at you now—like he sees not just who you are, but what you’re becoming—it’s too much and not enough all at once.

“I’d dream of your warmth as you blazed your way forward… and wake cold every time. So… If this is a dream...”

His thumb lifts, slow with awe, and brushes beneath your eye—like he’s afraid to disturb the light. As if he can’t quite believe you’re real. As though the world held still just long enough for wonder to reach out. Until the ruins beneath your feet remembered something—and answered with your name.

Your heart hammers.

And god—you want him. Right here, right now. Against the cracked frame of what used to be his office, underneath the sky that doesn’t yet know how to hold what you’re building.

Sylus breathes you in, tilts your chin up with his fingers. Eyes searching yours. They already know the answer—but he looks anyway.

“Say it again.”

You blink. “What?”

He leans down, forehead brushing yours.

“The part,” he murmurs. “That word. Say it like that, just once more.”

“…Joy.”

And Sylus chuckles—low in his chest, rough with something softer beneath. “I’ll come with you, Chef. We’ll build whatever needs building. Besides… I’m pretty sure your training’s still incomplete. But first—”

A thumb finds your chin—gentle, assured.

“I need to taste that promise on your lips one more time.”

And when he kisses you, it’s not urgency.

It’s everything he never let himself ask for—until now.

——————————————————————————

Chapter 10 tbc

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: Yeah… I did it. Three kisses from three different dudes in one chapter lol. What other soundtrack could possibly match that energy except the one I linked below? (Spoiler: it’s i like the way you kiss me, obviously.) So many threads tightening, unraveling, and tying into something new. Each of the boys carries their grief differently. And Sylus… Sylus surprised me. Writing his scene in the ruins didn’t feel like writing at all—it just came. Quiet, true, unforced. Like something that had been waiting. It was one of those moments where I felt completely in sync with the story, the characters and the vibe. I hope it landed that way for you too. I’m leaving it here for now, but Chapter 10 is already humming under my hands. Thank you, as always, for being here—for reading, for feeling, for loving this story the way I do.

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lovelymindescape · 5 months ago

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Crazy Thanos x reader idea here! (fem reader if that’s alright <3)

I’ve seen the Ghost!Thanos AU everywhere and I was wondering if you’d be able to do an x reader around that? Maybe the reader sees him before the guards take him away and the she goes to Namgyu to take some of the drugs he stole. After that, she keeps “hallucinating” Thanos and having conversations with him and such. Except it’s not just a hallucination, he’s actually haunting her because he left too much unsaid before he died

Haunting Shadows (Ghost!Thanos x Fem!Reader Fic)

pairing — ghost!Thanos(choi su-bong) x fem!reader

Summary - Years of Friendship and secret mutual feelings for eachother are ruined, when he couldn’t keep his mouth shut and started a fight , which ended deadly. And now you're living with the consequences.

warnings - Nam-gyu being a various drug dealer (in this he has more than just the ones in the cross), a little ooc Thanos (he for once was quiet and unspoken but sadly about his feelings). Violence and Death , so typical squid game. Major Character Death. Paranormal Themes. Psychological Horror. Drug Use. Mental Distress. Cold/Unsettling Imagery. Emotional Angst. Maybe a little Fluff

author’s note — I made it just one significant moment , where he haunts her. But I think you can tell that the memories are haunting her mind before , thats why she takes the drugs, then the haunting becomes more prominent , ignore typos, English is not my first language

The dorms were suffocating.

The air was thick with sweat and the lingering stench of unwashed bodies. The makeshift beds crammed together, the restless turning of players who couldn’t sleep—it was all too much. But it wasn’t the heat, the exhaustion, or the looming fear of the next game that had you on edge. It was the silence.

The silence where his voice should have been.

Thanos was gone.

You hadn’t seen the guards take him away. Not completely. But you’d caught the aftermath—the bloodstains on the floor, the way the other players whispered his name like a ghost story.

You’d stood frozen, your hands curled into fists at your sides, your mind refusing to comprehend what had just happened. He was dead. And you didn’t even know his last words. The thought was unbearable. That was why you found yourself sneaking through the dimly lit hallways, slipping past sleeping bodies and keeping to the shadows. You weren’t sure what you were looking for.

Solace? Distraction? No.

You knew exactly what you needed. Your feet carried you to the bathroom, the only place in this hellhole where the guards didn’t watch as closely. The flickering fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting eerie shadows across the cracked tiles. And there, leaning against the sink with a smirk that could cut glass, was Namgyu.

You had known where to find him. He always lingered in the bathroom late at night, giving out stuff to players who needed something. And tonight, you were one of them. "Well, well," he drawled, eyes scanning you up and down. "Didn’t think you were the type to come looking for me."

You crossed your arms, keeping your expression unreadable.

"I need something". Namgyu tilted his head, his grin widening. "Don’t we all?" You clenched your jaw. "I'm serious."

"I can see that."

He pushed off the sink and took a step closer.

"What are you looking for, sweetheart? Something to take the edge off? Something to make you forget?"

Your stomach twisted.

Forgetting sounded dangerous. Forgetting sounded wrong. But remembering was worse.

"Something strong," you murmured.

Namgyu raised an eyebrow. "Strong enough to knock you out, or strong enough to make you see God?" You hesitated. You didn’t want sleep. Sleep meant dreams, and dreams meant reliving the moment Thanos was taken from you.

"I don’t want to sleep," you admitted.

Namgyu studied you for a moment before chuckling under his breath. "Ah. You want the fun kind, then."He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small packet, holding it up between two fingers.

"This should do the trick."

Namgyu’s grin widened.

"Pleasure doing business with you."

He pressed the packet into your palm, his fingers brushing against yours.

"Enjoy the ride, sweetheart."

You didn’t say thank you. You just turned on your heel and walked out of the bathroom, clutching the small packet like a lifeline. You didn’t care about the risks.

You just needed to stop feeling.

The pills hit fast.

You sat on the edge of your bed, your head spinning, the world around you warping at the edges. The dorm was a blur of muted sounds and shifting shadows.

You welcomed the detachment, the feeling of floating just above reality. But then—Then, something changed. The air turned cold. Not the usual damp chill of the dorms, but something deeper. Something unnatural.

And then—A whisper.

"Did you think I would leave you so easily?"

Your breath caught in your throat.

That voice.

Low.

Familiar.

Impossible.

You turned your head, expecting to see nothing but shadows. But then—A flicker. A figure standing at the edge of your vision.

Thanos.

Your heart stopped.

He stood in the darkness, his form flickering like candlelight, shifting between presence and absence. His eyes—piercing, burning—locked onto yours. He looked exactly the same. The same intimidating stance, the same quiet intensity. And yet, there was something different. A weight to him, something heavier than death itself.

"You're not real," you whispered, your voice trembling. Thanos tilted his head. "Is that what you think?" Your breath came in shallow gasps.

"This is just the drugs."

"Is it?"

He stepped closer, the air growing colder with every inch between you shrinking.

"You've been running from this," he murmured. "From me."

Your hands gripped the thin blanket beneath you. "You’re dead."

"And yet, here I am." He was close now.

Too close.

You could see the faint shimmer of his form, the way the dim light of the dorm flickered through him. He wasn’t solid. He wasn’t whole. But he was here.

"Why?" The question barely left your lips.

Thanos studied you for a long moment before speaking.

"I left too much unsaid."

Your chest tightened.

"You don't have to do this," you whispered. "You don’t have to haunt me."

A ghost of a smirk flickered across his lips.

"I’m not the one keeping me here."

You inhaled sharply.

"You are."

"I’m not the one keeping me here. You are."

Your chest ached.

You wanted to argue, to deny it, to tell him he was wrong. But the truth was bitter and undeniable—you had been holding onto him. Clutching at the memories, the lingering warmth of his presence, the things you never got to say.

And now, even in death, he was still here.

"That’s not fair,"

you whispered, your voice barely audible over the hum of restless bodies in the dorm. Thanos didn’t look away.

"Neither is dying before you can say what matters."

Your fingers curled into the thin blanket beneath you.

"Then say it."

Something flickered in his expression, something softer, almost hesitant.His gaze burned into yours, and for the first time, there was no barrier between you—no games, no danger, no pretense. Just the truth you had both been too afraid to face.

"You mattered to me,"

he said, his voice quieter now, rougher.

"More than I ever let on."

Your breath caught in your throat. He had always been guarded, always careful with his words. You had spent so long wondering, second-guessing, overanalyzing every moment between you.

But now, there was no room for doubt.

"You mattered to me too," you admitted,

the words tumbling out before you could stop them. Thanos exhaled, something unreadable flashing across his face.

"I know."

You swallowed hard.

"Then why didn’t you say anything before?"

A bitter smile ghosted his lips.

"Because I thought we had time."

Your vision blurred.

But you didn’t.

You never did.

And now, it was too late.

Except… maybe it wasn’t. Slowly, cautiously, you reached out, your fingers trembling as they passed through the space where his hand should have been. A cold shiver ran through you, but you didn’t pull away.

Thanos stared at your hand, then back at you.

"You don’t need to hold on anymore," he said gently.

Your throat tightened.

"But if I let go, you’ll—""I’ll be free."

The words were heavy, final. But there was no sadness in them.

No regret.

Just peace.

Your breath trembled as you looked at him, memorizing every detail, every piece of him that you had been so afraid to lose.But he was already gone. Not in body—not yet—but in the way he stood, the way his form flickered at the edges, lighter than before.

"You were never alone," Thanos murmured.

"Not then. Not now."

Your chest ached.

You nodded, even though it hurt.

"I know."

His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say more. But then—The flicker grew stronger. His form shimmered, breaking apart like smoke in the wind. The warmth in his gaze lingered, even as his outline faded, even as the cold dissipated.

And then—Silence.

Final this time.

You exhaled shakily, your head falling forward, your hands curling into the blanket.

He was gone.

And yet—You weren’t empty.

The weight had lifted.

The ache remained, but it was different now.

Less suffocating.

Because for the first time since he left, you knew.

You knew he had cared.

You knew he had loved you, in his unspoken way.

And that was enough.

That was peace.

For him.

And maybe even for you.

The End.

Divider: @cyberangel-graphics

#squid game 2 #squid game #choi subong #choi su bong #thanos x y/n #thanos squid game #thanos x you #thanos x reader #Thanos x reader angst #thanos angst #thanos fluff #squid game x reader #squid game x you #squid game x y/n

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diminuel · 8 months ago

Note

In the fun little Roger/Garp idea (AU?), if they are the parents of Ace, would Ace know who his mother is? Would that impact Garp and Ace's relationship? Would Dragon still end up his little brother as a son?

Delightful question, thank you! Pondering this kind of insanity is just what I need!

I think we need to figure out what the setting for this is.

Let's go with a scenario where Garp (who I assume is a woman, since you mentioned her being Ace's mom) is unable to deny Roger his preposterous dying wish of leaving a legacy in the world. She'd already be pissed because they have Dragon, is that not enough? Roger's going to die and the thing he's worried about is legacy? But she can't say no to him no matter how frustrating the bastard is. She doesn't want him to go with regrets.

But then the asshole goes and causes a new age of piracy and suddenly Garp's life is going to be a lot more complicated.

As a marine, Garp has her hands full. She's already worrying about her oldest making bad choices in the aftermath of his dad's death and now there's a hunt on for any potential blood that Roger might have, any women connected to him, any children he could have fathered.

And for some reason Dragon was flying under the radar, she was flying under the radar (maybe Sengoku was running interference, you never know) but this kid? Something tells her that the child that Roger wanted to be his legacy is not going to be so lucky, that the burden of his will and his name is going to be Ace's ruin.

Hiding the kid is probably going to be the best course of action. And maybe Dragon doesn't know about Ace and doesn't find out until he seeks a safe place for his own child. Garp might just recognize this as some strange turn of fate. If Dragon wants to risk raising this kid with his warlord wife/husband? Well, here's another one. Good luck. (Dragon would be used to his mom's brand of insanity so this doesn't even shock him too much and since he didn't tell her about Crocodile and Luffy until he absolutely had to, he can't even be grumpy with her.)

And maybe if Ace and Luffy grow up together Garp is granny to Ace too. Though I think Ace would know? And it probably wouldn't make him feel great. Dragon was one thing - Roger probably wasn't even a pirate by the time Dragon was born - but Ace's mom made the decision that he should be born into a world that she knew would hate him. And once he was born she didn't even want him. I think it could really mess with Ace. And no amount of supportive (adoptive) parents would fix it properly. And Marineford would be a hot mess, even worse than it already is now. >w<

And of course we can go with a sillier version where things aren't that dire. Garp could be chaotic and just drop the child on Dragon with a "I'm too old for this, it's time for you to stop your stupid revolutionary fancies and start being a responsible family man!!" (And maybe Roger is alive too in his version. Ace would find both of them very annoying. Garp would always be very offended - in an exaggerated way - when Ace would call her grandma, refusing to call her mom. They'd just be Grandma and Roger to Ace even though Dragon would always make sure to call them mom and dad to maybe get Ace to pick it up, but no. Ace decided that Dragon is his dad and Luffy is his brother, he will not hear anything else. Maybe once he meets Whitebeard he's gonna find another dad and then Dragon would be offended. Crocodile would also be offended because he objects to WB on principle X'D)

#heroes-legacy #Diminuel replies #*gigglesnort*#Roger/Garp

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airas-story · 1 month ago

Text

Tony Stark Bingo — Masterlist

Tony Stark Bingo ended at the end of May and I managed to get a blackout! (PLUS two adoptables!) I'll definitely participate if it happens again next year, because it was super fun, but probably won't aim for a blackout. ...we'll see. But at least for THIS time... SUCCESS! List of stories beneath the cut!

If the relationship isn't specified, it is IronStrange. ...I'm sure this is entirely a surprise.

S1 - Image: Iron Man painting - Matched Pair

Summary: It was bad enough that there were people making art of him—and yes, the art was very flattering and so yes, just maybe, Stephen sort of liked it—but that didn't mean Tony needed to go around buying it!

T1 - Polyamory - Coin Flips, Casserole, and Conversation

Summary: An easy date night between Stephen, Christine, and Tony in their developing relationship.

-_-

“If you brought groceries I’m kicking you out,” Stephen told Tony as he opened the door to his apartment.

Tony held up his empty hands. “Grocery free,” he said. “Christine already threatened me."

Relationship: Christine Palmer/Tony Stark/Stephen Strange

A1 - AU: Flower Shop - Hidden Meanings and Secret Things

Summary: At no point in Stephen's life had he ever expected to be working in a flower shop. From neurosurgeon, to sorcerer, to... part-time florist?

And who thought it was a good idea to make him do customer service!?

R1 - Desert Island - The Reforging of Broken Things (sequel to Loops in the Chain)

Summary: Stephen has broken free of his bonds, has escaped the chains of time.

Now... now what he needs is time. Time to rest. Time to heal.

K1 - Afghanistan - Defiance of the Desert

Summary: Tony's one goal had been to get out of that cave. It had been his act of defiance.

The desert, however, is not so easy to defy.

No Relationship

S2 - My Best Suit - Well Suited

Summary: In the aftermath of Titan, Tony's dreams of his future shatter. Someone helps him build new ones.

Five times Tony’s suit gets ruined, plus the one time he doesn’t need a suit at all.

T2 - Science and Magic - Date Night: Haunted House Edition

Summary: “You’re cleansing a haunted house,” Tony said. “And you’re not inviting me!?”

A2 - 1990s - Bingo Collab: To New Beginnings

Summary: Tony Stark plays piano in bars sometimes. It helps with the stress of his day job, though if he never has to play "Piano Man" again, it'll be too soon.

When a group requests Christmas songs on New Year's Eve, Tony makes unexpected new friend that maybe leads to something more.

Relationship: Tony Stark/James "Bucky" Barnes

R2 - Image: Tony and Obadiah - An Eye for the Forecast

Summary: Obadiah had always been good at taking opportunities when they presented themselves. Howard might not see the potential of molding Tony, but Obadiah had always had more of an eye for business and success than Howard had anyways.

Relationship: Tony Stark & Obadiah Stane

K2 - Painful Reminders - Donna's Pie

Summary: Sometimes healing looks strangely like making a viral TikTok video with the people you love.

S3 - AU: Wings - Bingo Collab: The Right Guy for the Job

Summary: Tony needs some help on a super-secret project and interviews someone who looks like a good prospect, despite his checkered past. That said, Tony knows a little something about second chances.

No Relationship

T3 - Robots - Up for the Challenge

Summary: “I’m charming,” Stephen said, keeping his voice light. “People can’t resist me. Apparently that includes U.”

Tony rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at his lips. “I hope you mean her and not me,” he said. “Because the jury’s still out on my ability to resist you.”

Stephen hoped that by the end of today, that wouldn’t be in question any longer. “Of course I meant her,” Stephen said. “What do you take me for?”

A3 - Free Space - If You Love Me...

Summary: If you love someone, you fight for them. Right?

If you love someone, you let them go. Right?

Stephen loses his memories and refuses to bring them back, Tony loses Stephen and doesn't know how to bring him back. There is no manual for this.

Sometimes there are no right answers.

R3 - Didn't Know They Were Dating - Right In Front of You

Summary: Stephen approved of Tony trying to be normal. He really did. It's just... sometimes it came at the expense of Stephen's shopping trip.

K3 - James Rhodes/War Machine - Hold On

Summary: They were all wrong. Tony was out there. James and Tony both just had to hold on long enough. It was just a matter of time before James would find Tony. Except, time was something he was steadily running out of. His breath caught in his throat, choking him with fear he couldn’t escape.

General Forrest had made it clear that this was James’ final stretch. That the resources to find Tony would be redistributed to other needs.

Needs above that of just one man.

“Come on, Tony,” he whispered, the words hoarse as they forced their way past his lips. “I need that signal. We’re running out of time, here.”

Relationship: Tony Stark & James "Rhodey" Rhodes

S4 - IronStrange - 10 Reasons, If You Need Them

(yes, I laughed too, given almost ALL of these were IronStrange)

Summary: Despite what people think, Tony always has a reason for the things he does.

This time he's got several.

T4 - Playing Nice - Bingo Collab: September Round Robin

Summary: A strange pile of what looks like ashes has mysteriously appeared in Tony's suite -- leading to time travel, saving the world and an undeserved punch in the nose.

No Relationship

A4 - Time Loops - Loops in the Chain

Summary: Time had once been Stephen's friend. Time had stood with him as he fought Dormammu. Time had shown him the way when Thanos came.

Now, now Time was nothing more than the chain around his neck and the dark depths within which he drowned.

R4 - Infinity Stones - Future, Past, Present (and on into the future)

Summary: Because bringing everyone back had consequences no one could foresee.

This isn't a future worth keeping.

Relationship: Tony Stark/Stephen Strange/Wong

K4 - Peter Parker - Exes with a Past Tumblr Series

Summary: Stephen and Tony haven't seen each other in years... and then a certain spider accidentally instigates a reunion.

S5 - Screaming - Bingo Collab: No Pie for Justin Hammer

Summary: It's just a little get together over dinner to enjoy good food and good company... in Delaware. It was a 4-hour drive, but sooo worth it.

The real question though is whether or not they'll come back. They sure will if Tony has anything to say about it!

No Relationship

T5 - Image: Comic of Tony drinking while in Iron Man suit - Dying of the Light

Summary: Tony was dying. What better way to go out than with a bang? At least this way he could tell himself he was in control. That it was his choice the how, the when, the why.

Stephen understood. Technically. Conceptually.

But for himself, he just wanted one more night with the man he loved. He would always want just one more night.

A5 - Fake Relationship - Then Comes Grief

Summary: Stephen returns from a mission in another dimension, exhausted and confused. But at least he's coming home to his happily ever after... right?

R5 - Dares/Bets - Is That a Bet? series

Summary: There's a love affair in Stark Industries... Tony and Stephen make a bet.

(JARVIS is the one who collects.)

K5 - Image: Tony in a room with kittens - Bingo Collab: You've Gotta Be Kitten Me

Summary: When Tony Stark wakes up to one helluva headache and three kittens, he has no idea 1) where he is, 2) why he was sleeping on the floor or 3) where all these kittens came from.

No Relationship

Adopted 1 - Metallurgy - On the List of Things that Can't Be Done

Summary: “You can’t just throw a few metals into a forge and ‘poof’ you’ve got a relic," Wong said, irritated.

Tony and Stephen both sent him scathing looks. “Obviously,” Stephen said, tone derisive, an implication in his voice that Wong needed to stop underestimating them.

Wong wasn't underestimating them. He was estimating just about right. When this blew up in their faces, he was going to laugh.

Adopted 2 - Election Day - Bingo Collab: When Guardians and Asgardians Collide

Summary: Seldom in his life had Tony seen a more thoroughly-trashed post-party room. Then again, he supposed Loki had something to celebrate, which, apparently he was doing with sudden, random shapeshifting....

No Relationship

#ironstrange #fic #bingo masterlist #tony stark bingo

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flightfoot · 1 year ago

Text

Adrien Angst Fics and Series that finished in 2023

So I love some good Adrien angst and hurt/comfort, and I figure a bunch of other people do as well! Hopefully these fics scratch that itch! They're all from the collection I set up earlier for the fics from 2023 that I recommend! I've got 31 fics in here. It's a popular genre that I like a lot, there are a lot of fics for it!

home is where the fight is by @rosie-b

Nadja Chamack’s voice greeted Adrien as he sat up straight, wiping his clammy hands on his pants and ignoring the black kwami floating by his shoulder. “—shocked to see our heroine fall in battle today, taking a direct hit from the akuma just as she detransformed. Parisians are torn between blaming Hawk Moth and Cat Walker for their roles in this tragedy, which ultimately revealed the civilian identity of Ladybug, Marinette Dupain-Cheng.” Adrien turned off the TV and lowered his head as his vision blurred. Written for Ladrien June Day 7: Injured

I adore this fic! Which shouldn’t be a a surprise, it’s no secret that I love Sentiadrien Enemies AU. Adrien’s so worried about Marinette getting hurt, and wishes that he could help keep her safer, could tell her what’s really going on or get rid of the ring or something, but he can’t. Still, he IS able to find clever ways around some of his father’s more problematic orders. Loopholes for the win!

---

Guilty by Association by @rosie-b

Marinette respected Adrien’s strength and courage more and more every day. No matter how many times people threw nasty words or literal tomatoes at him; no matter how many companies refused to work with him anymore; no matter how clear it was becoming that he would never be forgiven for his father’s crimes, he chose to greet new people with a smile and hope that this time, someone would recognize the kind heart hidden behind his hated name. She wished she’d had the chance to meet him before she’d accidentally ruined his life. Written for the Ml Writers Guild September event ‘back to school’

I love how Marinette keeps reaching out to Adrien, trying to protect him, even if it doesn’t always work. To let him know that she’s in his corner at least. Hawk Moth had to be taken down, but the consequences for Adrien… she never wanted anyone to get hurt in the process.

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oh, look now, there you go with hope again by @ladyofthenoodle

After the defeat of Hawkmoth and his accomplice, Chat Noir, Marinette is ready to return to her normal life, but she can’t escape Adrien Agreste, who was sentenced to a fate many consider worse than prison: public school. Specifically, her public school. Still, that doesn’t mean she has to interact with him, does it? Except, if she doesn’t… who will?

I love a good enemies au, and seeing the aftermath of an enemies au… that’s rare. She’s wary of Adrien, but with how he’s being bullied, and how he’s just taking it in the hopes of being accepted, she can’t help but reach out to him.

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Disintegrated Pancakes by @scribeofrhapsody

Adrien had started expecting the family breakfasts. He had NOT been expecting his father to collapse in the middle of one.

I’m shocked I haven’t seen more of this sort of thing, with Adrien finding out his father’s Monarch via seeing the Cataclysm wound. I love that Alya gets involved in this, being the person Adrien runs into after fleeing the room, and then Adrien getting to talk things out with Gabriel and Nathalie. Thankfully Gabriel is at least not completely incapable of being reasoned with here, or things could have gone worse than they did. It’s a nice little read, though with an ambiguous ending (at least at the time when I write this).

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with this ring by @thelibraryloser

She thought “you and me against the world” had sounded like lopsided odds before, when she hadn’t even dreamed “you against me” was a possibility. Or maybe she had dreamed it, but at least in those dreams he’d had cold blue eyes and a stark white mask. The villain she’d fought today had looked at her through her partner’s own bright green eyes. It wasn’t meant to be this way.

Short and sweet Sentiadrien enemies canon divergence fic here! I adored Marinette finding out why her kitty seemed to have “betrayed” her, and the righteous anger on his behalf once she figured out that it wasn’t of his own free will. Her comforting Adrien about it was just… really good. It’s a Hawkmoth Defeat fic too, so the immediate aftermath gets covered as well. Adrien needs a hug.

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Nothing Else Matters by LiquefiedStars

Marinette couldn’t figure out Chat Noir. He was supposed to be her partner, but instead ended up working for Hawk Moth. Still, her heart betrayed her and when a strong connection forms between them, Ladybug goes to Chat looking for answers, finding out more than she bargained for.

Sentiadrien enemies AU fic! He never wanted to fight against her, but Gabriel caught him before he could transform for the first time, and with his father using his Amoks against him, he had no choice.

I like that there’s a solid explanation for why Fu let Adrien keep his Miraculous even though he’s been working against Ladybug, I don’t often see explanations for that that I’m satisfied with.

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Slowly Fading (from my misery) by @wehadabondingmoment

“You’re looking awfully deep in thought today, minou.” Ladybug’s gloved hand stroked over his hair and Chat Noir closed his eyes with an unstable breath. He got like this sometimes. Lately, it had been getting worse. Or: Gabriel likes using the rings to order his son around. After a while, it starts having effects on Chat Noir as well. (The more often Gabriel commands Adrien to act a certain way, the more it gets ingrained in his mentality. He suffers because of it.)

This is a gorgeous fic. Adrien’s been puppeted around, forced to obey orders for reasons he doesn’t understand, for so long, so often that a lot of times his own body doesn’t even feel like his. A lot of residual orders keep on bubbling up and stopping him from doing what he wants to do, and he just… doesn’t understand why. Considering how Adrien looked in Pretension when Gabriel forced him to go to his room so he could talk to Marinette alone, and how desperately Adrien tried to head back there but couldn’t make himself open the door, how terrified and confused he’d seemed, I think his feelings here, his mindset, is pretty close to canon.

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all of your flaws and all of my flaws (are laid out one-by-one) by @coffeebanana

Ladybug and Marinette have both been acting strangely since Monarch’s defeat, and Chat Noir would give anything to know why—to be able to help them. He just…didn’t expect his answers to come when Ladybug drags him to his father’s statue in the middle of the night along with a bag full of spray paint.

If you felt unsatisfied with Adrien being left in the dark about Monarch, with Ladybug lying about Gabriel being a hero, this is a great fic to read. Marinette’s breaking down keeping this secret, seeing people treat Gabriel as the hero she told people he was, until she finally snaps and has to do SOMETHING, has to tell SOMEONE the truth.

Which Chat takes pretty well! He knows how persuasive his father could be, and he’s mostly just relieved at finally hearing someone say that Gabriel wasn’t a hero. It’s still a lot to cope with though.

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Falling (sick) with you by @chocoluckchipz

Nothing would be easier than taking a pair of earrings off an unconscious Ladybug. Doing so would bring his mother back and end their decade-long strife. He shouldn’t be hesitating when a chance of a life time presented itself to him. He should not be looking for excuses and reasonings as to why spending another twenty or so years fighting this woman rather than pleasing his father and giving his mother another chance at life was not such a bad idea after all.

Ah, I love a good enemies au! Even when they’re enemies, Chat is unwilling to hurt Ladybug. Though honestly, he makes himself out to be more of a villain than he actually is, it’s pretty obvious to everyone that he’s not trying as hard as he could to get her earrings. There’s very good reason for that.

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adrien agreste and the consequences of tweets making fun of yourself by Anonymous

Well, Adrien thinks, what’s the worst that could come from a few poorly thought-out tweets lightly ribbing his own civilian identity?

I love the focus here on how people just assume what Adrien’s thinking and feeling and act on his behalf, without actually waiting to see what HE wants, and Adrien’s growing frustration. How they create a version of him in their heads, but don’t care to check with reality to see whether he actually wants their “defense”.

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what makes a human (am I?) by GraceM_TheStoriedLife

Adrien comes to Marinette’s out of nowhere. Usually Chat is her rock. Tonight, it’s her turn. (Or, in which Adrien discovers some secrets he’s not prepared for and Marinette is as Marinette-y as always.

So Adrien discovers he’s a sentimonster and immediately runs to Marinette for support. It’s as cute and angsty as you’d expect. She is, of course, very supportive of him. Also some discussion of Gabriel being abusive, since both she and Nino had been trying to get Adrien to see that. Especially with how, exactly, Adrien found out he’s a sentimonster. He can relate a little better to Felix’s experiences now than is healthy, I’ll just say.

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Vengeance Noire by @phiellydinyia

After a horrific argument with his father, Adrien escaped from the mansion with his heart in pieces. In hindsight, it made sense why an akuma was sent his way. He shouldn’t have let his emotions get the better of him. But he never expected Plagg to be even more upset than he was. He never expected his own kwami to be akumatized. To become the threat of a city he swore to protect. And what’s worse is the fact that Chat Noir can’t jump in to save this one. But Ladybug can. And that’s why he has to find her as quickly as possible, suit or no suit.

I love some good Adrien angst, especially with a delicious side order of Plagg and Adrien’s bond with each other. Even as Adrien’s barely functional, though, he’ll do everything in his power to save Plagg, even if Plagg wishes he wouldn’t go quite that far.

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This Distance Between Us by @coffeebanana

After defeating Monarch, the search for the Peacock Miraculous brings Ladybug and Chat Noir to a hotel room in London. But it’s hard to enjoy the victory when Ladybug can’t figure out why Chat’s been so quiet, why he seems so sad. How’s she supposed to help if she has no idea what’s wrong?

This is a great Sentiadrien fic, with Chat freaking out about it and feeling like he’s not worthy of Ladybug’s affections, but not telling her what’s actually wrong because he thinks she won’t want him anymore if she knows. Of course, he’s wrong about that.

Also there’s a pretty intense confrontation with Felix, pissing Chat Noir off is a bad idea.

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Rocking the Cat-Eyes by @buggachat

“I like being a girl.” “That’s the alcohol talking,” Marinette snorted. “I’ve always been a li’l jealous,” Adrien admitted. “… Of what?” “That you get to be a girl,” Adrien murmured, “and I don’t.” — When Marinette and Adrien host Girls’ Night at their apartment, Adrien is easily welcomed to attend as “one of the girls”… but has a bit too much to drink. Some drunken confessions are spilt, some assumptions are made, and most of all… Adrien is confused.

This is a great Genderfluid!Adrien fic. Marinette actually figures out that Adrien’s not entirely cis before he does, and tries to let him know she’s supportive… but unfortunately Adrien comes to some incorrect conclusions…

Anyway it’s a lot of fun, and Adrien rocks a dress and makeup!

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Family by @unecoccinellenoire

“You know,” Nino grins, “if you need advice on being a big brother in a year or two I’m sure I could help.” The bottom of Adrien’s stomach dropped out. — Adrien struggles with the concept of his father and Nathalie having children.

So this is a world where Adrien and Marinette managed to defeat Gabriel, taking his Miraculous, with them giving him an ultimatum: they won’t out him as being Hawk Moth so long as he doesn’t cause any more trouble and does right by Adrien. Gabriel does, in fact, move on finally to Nathalie, giving Adrien a lot of mixed feelings to deal with. He still loves them both despite everything, but he’s also angry at them and he definitely does NOT want them to have children, both because he thinks they’d like any biological child they had more (he’s also harboring guilt from indirectly being the cause of his mom’s death), and because frankly, they screwed up too much with Adrien for him to want them to inflict that on another child.

And then there’s also Adrien dealing with the realization that he’s a Senti on top of that and wondering why he and Felix look the way they do, what Emilie’s reasons were.

It’s mostly just Adrien getting to talk things out, navigating this emotionally fraught situation he finds himself in now that the dust is settled.

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When Secrets Come Undone by SortaArtsy

Ladybug promised not to tell Adrien… but she never promised not to confide in Cat Noir. What happens when Ladybug unintentionally vents to the one person who wasn’t meant to know any of it? ****MAJOR SEASON 5 SPOILERS WARNING! **** May not be season 6 compliant when it comes out.

This is a “Adrien finds out what everyone’s been keeping from him post-S5″ fic, and I think it’s handled really well! He feels very hurt, betrayed, and disbelieving initially about being a Senti and his father being Monarch (…mostly being a Senti, it ain’t that hard to believe that Gabriel was a supervillain), and is angry at everyone who kept it secret from him, but he still handles it well, going and talking to the people involved, getting their reasoning and perspective.

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Wanted: Catnap by SortaArtsy

Adrien Agreste has barely been sleeping, trying to be everything expected of him. What happens when he spreads himself too thin? Sick!Adrien/ Cat Noir

Adrien’s just pushing himself so hard, trying to do his regular duties, until his illness forces him to rest. I love how concerned everyone is over him - even GABRIEL eventually relents and wants him to rest. It’s just cute and nice and fluffy.

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a winter so warm by @rosekasa

winters were hard for even the best of vampires, but at least adrien had marinette to keep him warm with her cuddles. december was going to suck without her. so it was only to be expected to get extra cuddles in before she left, right? (well, not really, considering those heating supplements he was taking, but she didn’t need to know about that).

This one’s mostly just cute cuddly adorableness! It’s basically like all those “Marinette gets the Ladybug trait of needing to cuddle up to someone for warmth”, but with Adrien instead. And of course featuring Marinette being a very talented witch who just wants to help Adrien stay warm when she isn’t there XD.

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and I thought I heard you sing by @into-september

When Hawkmoth has been defeated and unmasked, Marinette is left with two problems and no solutions. First, that Adrien is further out of her reach than ever before, and no-one can tell her how to get to him. Second, that Cat Noir is far more troubled than she knew, and the only thing she can do is wait for him at the place they agreed to meet.

It’s your classic “Hawkmoth’s defeated and taken into custody but that means Adrien’s in for a rough time” sort of fic. Everyone’s worried about Adrien and wants to give him what comfort and support that they can, but he’s being hidden away from everyone (which I mean, honestly that’s a good move), so that’s not really possible. Plus, Ladybug’s noticed that Chat’s having a tough time in his civilian life, which worries her.

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Betrayal by @jennagrinsoverml

MAJOR EPHEMERAL SPOILERS!! Ladybug planned to use Viperion’s power of Second Chance to get Chat’s identity to Su-han without Chat knowing or agreeing. Of course, then the world went crazy, and she didn’t go through with it. But when an akuma exposes Ladybug’s plan to Chat, he doesn’t know that. He just knows that his Lady betrayed him. He deals with his feelings in the best, most mature way he can think of. He disappears.

So I, like a lot of others, wanted more follow-up on Ephemeral, and particularly on the betrayal of trust it was for Marinette to try to trick Chat Noir into giving up his identity to a third party without his knowledge or consent (I wrote my own take on that at the time, called Transcient, that I’m proud of). This fic did a good job of exploring that, with Adrien reacting in a manner that made sense to me (repressing his negative feelings about the situation as much as possible and trying to justify it to himself, but still feeling terrible despite his own best efforts), and how Marinette realized that she messed up, since Luka keeping it secret that he knows hers and Chat’s secret identities caused her to be upset as well. It did a great job of exploring those negative feelings and letting everyone talk things out, explain their viewpoints, and rebuild their relationships afterwards, which is something I really value.

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I’ll give myself a name (something stupid and pretentious) by @bbutterflies

Nino looked at the number and didn’t recognize it. Usually he wouldn’t answer, but he had nothing better to do – and could still really use a distraction – so he did. “Hello?”

“Hey, Nino.”

Nino stood up quickly, chest tightening. He knew that voice. He’d been waiting to hear it again for over two years. “Adrien?” he whispered.

“Yeah. It’s me."

When Monarch is defeated (and revealed to be Gabriel Agreste), Chat Noir immediately goes missing. Adrien disappears not long after. When Adrien finally shows up in Paris again, Nino would do anything to make sure he doesn't disappear again.

Ah this is lovely, Adrien’s been in a lot of emotional turmoil since Monarch’s defeat, convinced that everyone would hate him, SHOULD hate him, for not realizing that his father was the villain, and should hate him even more for disappearing like he does. But slowly Marinette and Nino get through to him, convince him that they just want him back.

And also Adrien and Nino smooch. Multiple times. So that’s a bonus XD.

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Two Steps Back (One Step Forward) by @buggachat

Sure, Adrien hadn't been texting her as often as he used to. And sure, Nino noticed it too. But just because Adrien had struggled with depression in the past, didn't mean he was struggling now. Surely, he'd tell her if something was wrong. Right?

Marinette just missed him, and she had a tendency to catastrophize. Surely, he was fine.

But if he wasn't... well, she wasn't above hopping on a flight back to Paris to make sure.

—————

Marinette's at an internship in New York, and Adrien has a depression relapse.

Once again buggachat comes out swinging with a fic centered around Adrien being super depressed and his friends charging in to help him, despite him not wanting them to because he feels like a burden. It’s not easy and Marinette goes through a lot of emotional turmoil, especially since his apartment is in bad enough shape that it can’t be changed to something that a human should be living in without also going shopping, but gradually she helps drag Adrien out of the hole he’s gotten himself stuck in. The emotions are on point and just... if you want to read a hurt/comfort fic with Found Family helping one of their own who’s struggling and doesn’t think they deserve it, this is a great fic to read.

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If only I could break free by megetstoread

It started with Adrien being upset about going away, but led to a lot of revelations.

Another Sentiadrien fic here! After telling Adrien that he’s being sent to London, Gabriel takes advantage of Adrien being distraught to akumatize him. Luckily Ladybug’s right there and deakumatizes him before he can even do anything, but it shakes both her and Chat, leading to her allowing him to tell her a lot more about his home life than usual, and for her and Adrien to investigate to see whether there might be more to Adrien’s inability to stand against his father than just psychological abuse.

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Dr. Walker & Kitty Hyde series by @pearl484-blog

Summary of the first fic, Rain Falls, Everybody Lies:

Chat Noir loves the rain. He loves the danger. He loves the excitement, and he especially loves how much Catwalker hates it.

Jekyll and Hyde AU

Adrien AUGreste Entry 3: Rain

So like the summary says, and the title indicates, this series is inspired by the popular conception of Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde - not how the book actually goes, but how it’s portrayed in popular media, with Jekyll splitting himself in two, with a “good” side and a “bad” side.

During Kuro Neko, instead of just changing his appearance through changing his mindset, Adrien took more extreme measures, sealing off his “undesirable” characteristics, his anger and sadness and all his sharp edges, into the ring so he could assume a more placid, genial persona that’d be more accepted - Cat Walker.

But Chat Noir’s still there, taking over whenever Adrien gets too testy, and desperately trying not to be pressed out of existence entirely. With embodying Adrien’s sealed anger and snappishness and rebelliousness, he’s not too kind to the other heroes - he already felt looked down upon and ignored before this, and seeing them accept Cat Walker while he’s fighting for his life doesn’t endear them to him either.

The series isn’t unfair to them - this isn’t a case where one party is entirely in the wrong and another’s entirely in the right. Marinette, Zoe, Nino, and all the others - they did wonder about what was going on with Chat, but he wasn’t in a position where he could see it, and he did have legitimate questions about how much Ladybug would budge on things, if he’d told her what he was going through. It’s a series that emphasizes characters hurting and lashing out in some terrible ways, but that hurt still being respected, and working things out, trying to get everything to a better place.

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The Parable of the Caller by @nemaliwrites

A week after Hawk Moth’s identity has been revealed, Adrien finds himself with nowhere to go, nothing he can do, and worst of all, strange gaps in his memory he can’t explain. In a stroke of luck, he stumbles upon a burner phone filled with voicemails from one of the Saviors of Paris: Chat Noir himself, who disappeared following Hawk Moth’s arrest.

But with each new voicemail Adrien listens to, he’s forced to confront the fact that there might be some kind of connection between himself and Chat Noir — and discovering it might leave him more broken than before.

I absolutely adore this fic, it’s a fantastic character study for Adrien! Basically in this universe, Ladybug and Chat Noir talked about who should be Guardian, with Chat eventually convincing her that he should be the one to take it on, primarily due to the whole “the Guardian gets amnesia about Miraculous-related matters” situation, and wanting to protect Ladybug from that. Then he finds out Gabriel is Hawk Moth, they take him down, and he relinquishes the Miracle Box and his guardianship to Su Han - all without having a Reveal with Ladybug, since well, he’s not in the greatest shape mentally at the time.

It’s a real treat to see Adrien’s thoughts and feelings about one of the Heroes of Paris leaving him all these voicemails, treating him like this close friend for reasons he doesn’t understand, and just seeing Chat Noir as this outside person. He’s got a very different viewpoint on Chat when looking from the outside than he would from the inside, with being able to see his heroic and good qualities far more easily when he doesn’t know that he is Chat.

Also Marinette’s struggling in the background of the fic with the loss of her partner and guilt over sending Adrien’s father to prison. It gets touched on at various points, and you can tell that she’s having her own story off to the side that we’re just not entirely privy to, what with this tale being told entirely from Adrien’s perspective.

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call it even by @anna-scribbles and @sha-nwa

After a year of dating, there is one thing Marinette knows for certain: it's her and Adrien against the world. Through it all, Adrien is kind, patient, and endlessly understanding—even as she tries her best to keep her secret superhero identity hidden from him along with the rest of the world.

Nothing could ruin it, not even the supervillains of Paris: Hawkmoth and Chat Noir.

(adrinette dating // ladynoir enemies au)

This is one of those fics where Adrien and Marinette are REALLY going through it emotionally, with them starting off with wildly different perceptions of each other when untransformed, and then reckoning with the person they love the most being someone they think of as a villain, with all the betrayal and doubt that involves. Especially with Adrien having been lied to extensively by his father, and not knowing who or what to believe.

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drowning (in plain sight) by @buggachat

Everybody had expected Monarch's defeat to be a moment of triumph. Nobody had expected Gabriel Agreste, unmasked and mind frayed from continual abuse of the miraculous, crying out to all who would listen and making Paris certain of one thing:

His son, Adrien Agreste, is one of his sentimonsters.

And now he's missing.

Nobody can find him— not even the superheroes, and not even his closest friends. But Marinette, Nino, and Alya aren't ones to give up so easily. They'll find him, no matter what it takes.

(But, geez, would it kill Chat Noir to lend a hand?)

I’m sure everyone saw this one coming. If there’s one thing buggachat’s good at, storywise, it’s capturing raw, tumultuous emotions, frantic breakdowns as the characters desperately try to navigate bad situations. This was a real treat to read, as I’m betting most people reading this will agree, given just how popular the fic has been. It also has a ton of fanart, both by buggachat and by random fans, if you go looking for it (there’s a drowning in plain sight tag which I’d advise perusing).

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Eventually by @lucid-ao3

Adrien’s life has been dictated by rules, monitored, and controlled for years. He has learned to compartmentalize. It’s not that bad. It always gets better, eventually. Doesn’t it?

Recovery can be an unexpected obstacle when you didn’t realize you were being hurt in the first place.

OR: How Adrien lives and copes with the emotional abuse inflicted on him over the years, and how he ultimately could overcome it.

If you want a good “Adrien doesn’t realize how abusive his father is but slowly buckles more and more under his tyranny, until things come to a head, and he actually gets the HELP HE NEEDS” fic, this is a good one!

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Not a Monster at All by @book-sandwich

Adrien Agreste overhears a conversation he shouldn't, and a revelation sends him falling onto the terrace of the only person he can trust: his good friend (?) Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

Takes place sometime after the first two episodes of season 5!

As you can probably guess from the title, this is a Sentimonster Adrien, Monarch takedown fic. Adrien’s going through a tough time, and Marinette’s just trying to be there for him as his whole world’s collapsing around him. Unfrotunately, they still don’t know what the object is, or how likely Gabriel would be to control Adrien if he hinted that he knew the truth, which leaves Adrien in a precarious position - still not having done an identity reveal doesn’t help matters.

It’s a really solid fic for the genre, though since it started up before the later parts of season 5, there are a few things that don’t match up with the canon information we obtained later on.

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Awaken by InkyIbis

The previously white butterfly, now oozing black and purple as a conduit of the butterfly miraculous powers, flutters softly within the silvered-gloved hand.

It sits there for a long time.

"Go, my akuma," The soft sigh pushes the butterfly, the akuma, out towards the despair of a love not returned. The same ache within his chest. On a level so great that he's willing to sacrifice the city to mend it.

It's okay if he's the villain for now. He'll force the miraculous of creation and destruction to be revealed, and once he gets his hands on them, none of this pain, none of his loss, will ever happen.

This is essentially a canon rewrite for Miraculous (specifically seasons 1 and 2, with a bunch of the events mixed around) that focuses primarily on Adrien, with his relationship with Nino being the main driving relationship of the fic. (Don’t worry, Marinette’s still treated fine, she’s just not the focus). This is the best “rewrite Miraculous with more of a focus on Adrien” type fic I’ve seen, with it reworking the plots of the episodes so that they’re different enough to be their own distinct thing - it’s not trying to just rewrite the canon episodes but from Adrien’s POV, there’s a lot of lore changes going on as well, and things occur in different orders.

Like lorewise, Chat’s given a more important role in cleaning up the mess the akumas leave, with his power helping to cleanse akuma victims and he and Ladybug needing to use their powers in tandem in order to cast Miraculous Ladybug. There’s also no Miracle Box holding the kwamis. Instead, Chat sometimes surpasses his limits and ends up summoning kwamis, which is dangerous to him, but very useful.

What really makes this fic great though, is its focus on Adrien’s emotions. You really get a feel for Adrien’s insecurities, especially when it comes to not feeling like he’s good enough for Nino, with not wanting to bother him when he absolutely should, with feeling like he’s not a good enough friend to him, and then there’s dealing with all of Gabriel’s usual abuse on top of that.

Speaking of Nino, this is an Adrino fic (though several characters get crushes on Adrien, Nino’s the one who matters most for this), though a slowburn one. Nino’s clearly head-over-heels for Adrien, but Adrien has like, no context for what a romantic crush feels like and is basically viewing Nino the way he viewed Marinette in canon prior to season 5. He clearly cares for him a lot, including romantically, he just... doesn’t get it.

Anyway, if you want an interesting canon rewrite fic from Adrien’s perspective with Adrino as the main pairing, this is a good story to pick up!

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one does not love breathing by @wackus-bonkus-maximus

All of Paris watched as Hawkmoth murdered Chat Noir, taking the Black Cat Miraculous for himself. Ladybug swears revenge, but her enemy—and every miraculous in his possession—disappear without a trace.

Six years later, a new team of villains launches an attack for the last remaining Miraculous: Volpina, armed with new powers; Queen Bee, with questionable loyalty; Argos, the new holder of the Peacock Miraculous; and Cat Walker, who Ladybug hates the most.

Takes place after S4 - Strike Back.

This is a simply phenomenal fic. You get to explore a lot of different perspectives, like Felix, Kagami, Marinette, and Adrien’s, just to name a few, and see their different thought processes and plans and priorities, and how it can cause their plans to collide with each other, even when they all ultimately are aiming for a good outcome for everyone. The characters are pretty complex and can mess up at times, even when they’re doing things (or not doing things, looking at you Luka) with the best of intentions. It was a joy to read and a real nail-biter the whole time, I actually wrote a fic for it halfway through just to resolve some of the tension for myself, One Does Not Love Shadows.

It also features the version of Luka I’ve connected best with to date, as he feels like Luka, but also is a lot more fleshed out, and can make some major errors while simply trying to avoid missteps. It’s helped me get a better handle on a character who I’ve generally had a lot of problems with really understanding.

It is an M-rated fic, though I think Wackus is being overly cautious on that front. There’s no sexual content and I wouldn’t put the violence or gore above a T-rating, so I wouldn’t let the rating scare you off.

#miraculous ladybug #ml fanfic rec #adrien agreste #angst #adrien angst

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