#no matter how many times i record this it has this. weird flare on it

[ynfg-gifs]

Yume 2kki - Planetarium (Starry Night)

[symphonic-scream]

Fool Makoto AU; Goro Akechi, the Chariot, aka "Rogue"

Y'all voted and wanted to see Goro next, so here we go! If you're interested in this arcana swap feel free to send me asks about it, and check out the au tag Fool Makoto

Let's get this show on the road

Goro before the plot

Alright. So Goro's mom? Alive. She's been getting a bit of child support money from Shido to remain hush hush about him having a bastard son, and doesn't tell Goro for a while. They're not well off, and she struggles to keep a steady job as she raises him, but they're surviving. Things are pretty okay for a while

He doesn't have many friends. His worry for his mom and anger at his unknown dad for leaving them makes him stand out from the other kids, and he spends his time studying, doing stuff around their apartment, and walking with his mom to the 777 for a special treat when he brings home a good grade

By middle school, he's got one person he'd call a friend. That Haru girl, who everyone is weird about cause her dad is famous or something. They sit at the back of the class, and partner up for projects. That's, about the extent of their friendship

Soon enough, things start to crumble. Goro's mom falls ill, and they don't have the money for her treatment.

So, taking matters into his own hands, he rummages through her records without her knowing, and finds the name of his father. Shido Masayoshi. He goes to him with his "evidence", and demands he help his mom. He won't do it for free, of course, being corrupt and shit. Goro has to agree to become his little attack dog, one of his "interns". This is how he gets into Shujin.

While the other interns are mostly young girls and sons of other famous people doing copies and shit, Goro gets tasks like digging up dirt on his competitors, and other shady things. He doesn't tell his mom the details, just that he got a job working for his dad to pay for her treatment

Then, well, one morning in his second year, he's being driven to school by his dad after going to threaten an opponent early in the morning, only to get kicked out into the rain so his dad can harass the Okumura girl in his car, and he meets Makoto

Goro's Persona, Element, and Weapon

For his Persona, Goro has Fawkes, named for Guy Fawkes. One of the conspirators to take out one of the former English Kings. As for his element, Goro uses Curse, specializing in magic damage and giving the team attack buffs, and Crit buffs later on

His physical weapon is the one-handed sword, much like his hero sword from the games. I couldn't just not give him a sword again

Goro's gun weapon is the Assault Rifle

Goro's Phantom Thief Identity; Rogue

So as a Phantom Thief, Goro goes by Rogue. His overall theming is that of an Antihero, partially inspired by Robin Hood for the reference to his canon persona. Well, one of them

As such, his mask is like a strip of fabric, looks like it's tied behind his head, but he can pull it off just as easy as the rest of them. It's dark black

The main part of his outfit is a hooded dark grey jacket, with a high collar and a big cross over for the buttons. He has dark red leather straps over his torso, and flared, dark red leather gloves. The buttons and accents on his jacket are black. The design of the buttons on his jacket are pointed, like arrows. His trousers are the same dark red as the straps and gloves, tucked into tall black boots.

Goro's Social Link

For the majority of his Social Link, Goro and Makoto are teaming up to solve a case at school, since someone has been taking things from students' shoe lockers. Through the installments, Goro talks about how he ended up working for his father, how he doesn't know what to do with his life since he only did that for his mom.

He also mentions a fear that he'll end up like his dad. Cause, he mentions he was good at it, and what if that means he's doomed to become slimy and corrupt like him?

That's not the case though. Goro finds that the thing he's good at is looking into things, and digging up clues and secrets. His ninth level hangout is spent at the Takemi house, where he ends up being offered a proper internship with Criminal Investigator Sae Takemi (The Hierophant).

Makoto and Goro find the culprit of the thefts at school and Goro is slightly disappointed the case is over. But ye, he learns that he won't become like his dad as long as he cares not to, and that he's not alone and all that

Goro's outfits

So just like Haru (the Lovers) and Makoto (the Fool), his uniform is worn perfectly until after the first palace, Shido, is over. Once he no longer has to maintain a perfect look to not make his father look bad, he adds a little flair.

He keeps his blazer open, and wears a dark red sweater vest over the white uniform shirt. He doesn't really change that much else for the spring/fall/winter. For summer, he swaps the uniform shirt for his own short sleeved polo shirt, in a maroon colour

For his spring/fall outfit, Goro wears a black collared shirt and brown trousers, with a red and grey patterned sweater over it. He has the sleeves of his sweater and shirt rolled up neatly, and the collar over the sweater perfectly

For the summer, he has tan khaki shorts, pressed with a crease down the front, and a dark grey crew neck sweater, the sleeves rolled up and folded all nice. He still wears loafers shoes, which are in nearly all of his outfits, but he has socks in that red and blue diamond pattern he wears on that sweater in the canon game

And finally, Goro winter fit. He has a beanie hat, which fits him real well, and is dark red. His coat is like a short trench, dark beige, over a white collared shirt and cricket style sweater, black, silver, and maroon. His black pants are pressed and creased again, and he's got a dark tartan scarf and dark leather gloves

Goro in Strikers

So in the main part of the au, Goro is in second year at Shujin, but for Strikers, he's in his first year of post-secondary. Also, it's winter. I wanted a bit of a jump here ehe

He dresses much the same, still in neat outfits with that dark academia look, but he's got a few silver piercings. He went and got them done with his mom, when she was officially in recovery in his final year. His jewelry look like little arrowheads, like the buttons on his thief outfit

He's much more settled, and has been happily working under Sae as an intern investigator. He's getting his degree in criminal justice and a minor in criminal psychology, and he attends school in Tokyo, unlike Makoto and Haru.

-

I don't have any extra info or inspo images this time like with Haru, so I won't need a cut this time. I hope y'all like my Chariot Goro! Hes still a bit of a shit, don't worry, but he won't be as mad at the world. Still a little, but not to the murder extent.

I won't be running a poll for who's next since I still have the results of the last one, so I'll be working on that next post soon! As always, let me know what you think, and asks and comments are appreciated

[newhologram]

New's unexpected new diagnosis

A whole month after surgery, I finally got my results. Lots to talk about here.

Based on my symptoms and medical history, the surgeon said he went in fully expecting severe endometriosis with adhesions. He identified the cyst on my left ovary and removed it (kicking myself because I forgot to ask what kind of cyst it was). My uterine tubes were also easily removed, so sterilization was successful. I asked about my chart reading “unilateral oophorectomy” but he assured me that was a typo, they did not in fact have to remove one of my ovaries. Phew. (Also re: being sent home without pain meds, he was like WHAT. He pulled up the records and there it was, he had it noted that I was to be sent home with meds. So someone at the hospital messed up. He asked me, “but you eventually got meds, right?” Yeah, but it was oxycodone and that barely touches my pain. I told him when I go to the ER for flare ups multiple times a year, they have to give me hydromorphone every 2-4 hours because it’s that bad. So he’s sending me to a new pain doctor and pelvic PT, but we’ll see if my insurance even lets me.) But other than that, he didn’t actually see any obvious endometriosis implants. Not even adhesions that would indicate it either. Nothing was stuck together like he expected. But he did stress, and I knew this from research already, that just because he didn’t see anything obvious doesn’t mean I don’t have endo. This is pretty common for patients on the first surgery. Sometimes not much is seen because it’s really the specialists who know how to identify other less-obvious lesions or hidden pockets of endo. My surgeon is very knowledgeable and I really like him, but he’s not actually an endo specialist (I can’t access them with my insurance, and even if I did have better insurance the co-pay would still be many thousands of dollars). Here’s where he was genuinely surprised: When he checked the backside of my uterus, he said it’s just completely scarred up. Rough and damaged from inflammation. Which could still be superficial endometriosis but is a giant red flag for adenomyosis (though it’s possible to have both). Quick explanation for those who need it: endometriosis is when tissue similar (but not the same as) the lining of the uterus grows outside of the uterus. It can grow on the surface, the ovaries, the bladder, kidneys, bowel, liver, nerves, lungs, or even the brain. These lesions bleed within the body and cause a lot of damage and often infertility. People have lost organs and their lives from this disease being so mismanaged by doctors. It spreads like cancer so it’s diagnosed in stages the same way. Adenomyosis has a lot of the same symptoms but the process is different. The lining instead grows into the muscle of the uterus, causing damage and often infertility. Both of these diseases can be painful, debilitating, and disabling no matter what stage. Though the endometriosis is still uncertain, my surgeon has diagnosed me with adenomyosis. Just to be extra certain, he’s sending me for a pelvic MRI with contrast during my period so he can have a better look. I actually had an MRI 2 years ago that had me questioning if I had adeno because I thought my uterus looked weird and stained, just dark and splotchy and roughly textured but no one noted it (radiologists are not trained well in identifying these diseases). I was mostly focused on the ovarian cyst so I kind of forgot about it.

But yeah, this explains a lot, because the back of the uterus is up against the rectum, which is where my colitis is the worst. The inflammation is close enough to affect the organs around it. This explains why my colitis seems so unmanageable, yet every time I have a colonoscopy they tell me it’s mild and act like I’m just being dramatic. This explains why everything’s just been getting worse and worse seemingly every year. The anemia, intense fatigue, weakness, nausea, and pain that hardly any meds (that will be given to me) can touch. Frustratingly, he didn’t have the pictures to show me despite multiple people telling me he would have them. I called and emailed the hospital all day today and thankfully they’re mailing everything my way. Where to from here? The only cure for adenomyosis is hysterectomy. I was considering getting a partial one (saving my ovaries so I don’t go into menopause) in a year or two anyway if my condition doesn't improve. There's still a potential risk of ovarian dysfunction/failure after 5 years but I'm getting older anyway and I need to move on. I can go on HRT if needed. Surgeon is in full agreement that this is the best way forward to improve my quality of life. Though this won’t cure any endo that might still be hiding, it will be a dramatically different experience without this diseased organ constantly ruining my life (and no more periods! I can’t even imagine that freedom). I’m overwhelmed at having to start this process again to get a whole nother surgery that’s much more intense than what I just had, but I had also prepared myself knowing that this was only the very first surgery. It wasn’t meant to “fix” me but to finally get eyes on my insides. Hopefully it doesn’t take a whole year again between the consult and the actual surgery. Glad there’s no damage from adhesions we’d have to deal with either, so that simplifies things a lot. I’m so thankful to finally have actual answers and a clear path moving forward for future recovery. I’ll never be “normal”, I have so many other chronic illnesses that I’ll have to keep working hard at managing, but we can at least do something about this one. I’ll update more when I get the surgery pictures and the new MRI. Surgeon has officially cleared me to take baths again, so I’m going to go luxuriate for a while. Thank you to everyone for the support, the donations, and the kind messages.

[boytouya]

Can I get a male FTM cow reader who's in a relationship with dabi which he's constantly bullied for his appearance because he's not like a bull and he stays close to dabi nibbling on his shoulder when he's nervous. Or he likes to give out moos when he's very comfortable with his burnt bf at any chance

𝐄𝐚𝐭 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐮𝐭

Warnings: Blood, (poorly written) fighting, hinted transphobia/homophobia, bullying

When you collide with sturdy shoulders you automatically expect to hear nasty comments. You grew up hearing them from just about everyone. You were too weak, too ‘fragile,’ and some even made the effort to call you...creative nicknames. Growing up, you didn’t understand the hierarchy behind bulls and cows. It never mattered to you, and you didn’t have many friends because of that. As you got older societal changes pushed all of its weight onto you, and presenting as a cow crushed your reputation, not to mention being gay and trans. You found yourself being relentlessly bullied. You just couldn’t understand why.

Your boyfriend is a bull, with broad shoulders and scarred skin. His body is littered with piercings (you once laughed at his septum because of the irony) and modifications; when you first met him you assumed he would join along in bullying you. Perhaps that was your fault, falling into your stereotypical place as a meek cow. It was just a reflex, though. Who could blame you?

He found you under the fist of a rather large bull, about triple your size. Normally he minded his business, keeping his sharp gaze straight forward and large hands stuffed into his pockets. He couldn’t when he saw someone so powerful picking on an easy target. It made his blood boil, reminded him of the people he grew up with. You learned his name was Dabi (or at least that’s what he “currently goes by”), and he was just passing through. He claimed to have saved you only because you “looked pathetic,” but his ice blue eyes were checking you over for injuries.

You stayed glued to his side ever since.

Dabi lived in the city, staying in a small apartment sitting upstairs from a bar. His bedroom wall was littered with a few posters, but it was bare, like he was ready to leave at any moment. You only knew this because after a particularly bad fight you had to bite down on his belt and focus on the space on his walls. You didn’t know how Dabi knew how to give stitches, but you never asked. It seemed like a touchy topic.

Walking through the busy streets of the city was always a challenge. It was like no matter where you went there was someone out to get you. You knew you were different from others, but you couldn’t understand why it made them so angry.

As of now, you’re pressing your cheek against the sleeve of Dabi’s jacket while you walk back to his apartment. He took you on a date, but it was cut short by a pack of stubborn bulls. Dabi ended up earning a blossoming bruise to his right cheek. Crickets chirp, cars pass by, and passerbys quietly make their way home. The city was always so much prettier at night, and you wondered what everyone was doing with the night. There’s a bull coming your way, who smells of something familiar. You can’t quite place it, but it makes you uncomfortable. Your eyes flicker over to Dabi, who’s nursing a freshly lit cigarette between his lips.

“Things never go according to plan, huh?” He says to himself, his voice slightly altered by the stick in his mouth.

You tug at his sleeve, folding the fabric between your fingers, “Dabi?” Your voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s all you can muster out. It was an anxious tic, nibbling on your clothes or pulling at its loose seams. When Dabi noticed it he volunteered to “help with your weird fetish,” as he called it. You just had to make sure he was really okay with it.

Dabi doesn’t respond verbally at first, instead jutting out his arm to offer his sleeve to you. You nibble happily, letting out small moos of appreciation. God, you’re so cute. Dabi silently curses himself for not pulling out his phone to record. There’s a smirk tugging at his lips as you lean against him, and he can’t wait to get home. “Letting your worry get ahead of you, casanova?”

You nod along absentmindedly, but pausing to actually look at your boyfriend. He looks focused on something else, his nostrils flaring as his face scrunches up. He pushes you behind him with the same arm, and you can see his feet stutter as he kicks them against the ground. He's clearly agitated.

Watching bulls fight is never pretty. It’s always messy and reckless, there are always concerning sounds coming from their bodies and aggression that could send you into hysterics. You hated it, and yet you had to see it every day. Sometimes you wondered how Dabi was even alive.

It happens so fast, starting with one landing bone cracking punches into the other’s stomach and ending with budding heads until they both get nosebleeds. Luckily Dabi gets the first offense, and the smell of blood quickly thickens the air.

It was one of the bulls that interrupted your date, and you remember hearing him threaten to come back with more of his friends. His friends.

It’s almost like you’re invisible, as you punch and claw at the new pairs of arms that hold Dabi back and pin him down. There’s one, two, three punches to his stomach and ribs, but he doesn’t seem to audibly react. You can tell he’s seething, as his teeth are grit. Your breathing is shallow and rushed (damn, you really should’ve taken a break from your binder like Dabi said earlier), there’s sweat beading at your forehead and your heart is in your throat as you swing uncoordinated punches and throw yourself between the unfair fight. Dabi has helped you so much, it’s only fair for you to repay him.

You pack a surprisingly powerful punch, the forced adrenaline coursing through your veins as sirens wail in the far distance. Dabi’s weight drops on you briefly, but it quickly vanishes as he turns away from you and almost starts after them, the cigarette he had just a second ago crushed in his hand. He must’ve burned one of them. You pull him back, hot on your heels as the sirens steadily grow louder.

“Pretty weak.” You can't tell if he’s talking about himself or you, but you don’t have time to unpack it. Gripping your boyfriend’s bloodied hand, you hurry back to his apartment.

“Don’t make that face,” Dabi says, pressing a bag of frozen peas against his ribs. You hate seeing his healthy skin damaged, he only has so much of it. You just finished treating his busted lip. “I’m sure we’ll still have time to talk, and they probably have more bruises than me.”

Dabi readjusts his seat on his bed, pressing his back into the headboard. He pulls you over by the waistline of your pants and offers the end of his shirt. One of his eyes may be swollen but he can still see your nervousness.

He pinches your ear, steering clear of the bruising on your face. There’s a slow sigh flowing from his mouth, and he looks like he’s holding back some sort of emotional monologue. Instead he clicks his tongue, dimples forming on his cheeks as his staples pull at his flexing skin. He pulls you into his side, the coldness of the frozen bag making contact with your skin. Dabi uses his free hand to run his hand along your forearm, feeling out the goosebumps. His shoulders shake as you quietly moo with relief.

“You must throw a mean one.”

[queen-susans-revenge]

Star Wars Rebels season 3 recaps

"Twin Suns"

Maul is being unstable and Dramatic in the deserts of Tatooine, stalking Obi-Wan but pausing every so often to fall to his knees in the sand and whimper "will it end here, like this?" Spoiler: yes, yes it will.

But not...quite...yet. Maul is nearing the end of his journey, one filled with betrayal and destruction and pain. At every chance there was the opportunity to step aside, as there still is for him, even now—but all his willpower and hatred drives him forward, toward his own death.

There's a parallel here I think with Anakin's journey. Anakin showed us that no matter how much of a lifetime is spent devoted to the Dark Side, how much of a person consumed by it, there is always the opportunity to step away. Maul shows us someone who would not take such an opportunity no matter how many times it is offered. Obi-Wan has become his obsession, and as we know, Maul is the ultimate stalker ex. He will suffer anything for the chance of revenge. "I must draw Kenobi out. Tempt his noble heart. But how?"

On the Ghost, Ezra wakes late in the night to the sound of Kenobi's last message, recorded in Kanan's holocron. The holocron's in a weird state after the convergence event back in "Holocrons of Fate," where it merged with Maul's Sith holocron. For one thing it's cracked and it's now in pieces:

It seems to be glitching, replaying bits of Kenobi's last message over and over. Then it flares red and Maul's snarling voice fills the room: "Kenoooooo-!"

This is Kanan's room, right? I'd just like to point out that he's not in it. Clearly Kanan's in Hera's bunk, yeah? And Ezra does not find that at all unusual.

Cut to a meeting, presumably in the morning. "So what do you think it means, Kanan?" Hera asks.

Kanan's circumspect: "Holocrons at times take on a life of their own, but as to what it means..."

But Ezra knows, and jumps in. "It means Master Kenobi could be alive and in danger right now!" Wait, didn't you guys already figure this out back in "Visions and Voices"?

Rex gets a line here, to remind us that he fought with Obi-Wan: "Ezra, no one would like to believe General Kenobi's alive more than I would, but Senator Organa confirmed his death."

"Maybe he was wrong. We know Maul went looking for Master Kenobi." Yeah, see, you DID know that! You even already knew he's on Tatooine! Why did you guys wait this long to follow up? "This could be a sign that he's closing in on him."

For some reason, the others are skeptical. "It could just be a broken recording," Hera objects. Even Kanan points out that Ezra's hallucinated Maul's voice before. Yeah, right before Maul showed up in person! If anything that's evidence for taking Ezra's intuition seriously, not dismissing it. This is flat-out gaslighting on Kanan's part and I don't care that this is a Filoni episode, I think it's way out of character—and it makes Kanan look stupid and oblivious, when he's supposed to be all Wise Master now.

This scene is badly written and I said what I said. It's manufactured conflict just for the sake of conflict, not rising organically from character but instead requiring that characterization be skewed in service of scene dynamics. Again, the Rebels all KNOW that Maul at least is convinced Kenobi is alive, and is looking for him on Tatooine. Ezra wants to go straight there, and there's no real reason why he even waited this long to do it. Filoni's usually better than this about weaving a tight plot where the order of things makes sense and character dynamics are central.

Hera pulls Ezra aside and explains that the timing is bad now. She needs Ezra focused on the big attack on Lothal they're planning. Plus, she doesn't believe that Obi-Wan could be alive: "If he was alive, do you think he would be hiding on some backwater world instead of helping us?" I don't know Hera, let's think about where you found Kanan—oh, hiding on some backwater world?—and Ezra—hmm, backwater world, I'm sensing a pattern here.

But Hera's decided to go with the heavy handed guilt-trip of telling Ezra that Lothal needs him, and the Rebels need him, and that he'll be letting everyone he cares about down if he follows what he believes to be guidance from the Force. So he glumly trudges off and Kanan and Hera both look concerned. Yeah, that wasn't your finest parenting moment, guys.

So Ezra steals a fighter and heads for Tatooine. You know who figured out he was gonna do just that? Chopper, and like the bestest droid that he is, he sneaks on board too to keep an eye on the kid. "I didn't want any of you to be involved, not this time!" Ezra protests. Actually, you did, but Hera and especially Kanan inexplicably had to be written as clueless jerks for a scene to set this up, so here we all are.

Ezra's stolen two of those little holocron fragments we saw before and is using them to help him navigate. They lead him riiiiiiight into Maul's trap.

It's a whole convuluted and multi-layered plan involving betrayal, murder, explosions, Tusken raiders, mind games, illusions, and sinister whispers. In other words it's all very Maul. He succeeds in luring Ezra deep into the desert, and loyal little Chopper follows, grumbling all the way.

And see, all of THIS is brilliant because it shows us the characters so clearly. The base of Maul's plan is simply to make Ezra suffer, knowing that Obi-Wan will sense and respond to the suffering. All of the rest of it is complexity embroidered by Maul's hateful insanity. By the time that Chopper is out of power and Ezra is dehydrated and sandstorm-scoured and hallucinating, near death under the scorching suns, it's enough. Obi-Wan comes.

Ezra wakes in a little desert camp, under a vast field of stars. Both he and Chopper have been tended to. The hooded desert hermit calls him by name, gives Chopper a pat, and admits to being Master Kenobi. He tells Ezra the warning was unnecessary; he's expecting Maul, and though he had no intention of fighting him, "that seems inevitable now."

"You don't understand," Ezra protests. "You're the answer. The holocrons told me! They said you would be the one to help us destroy the Sith."

"Hmm," Obi-Wan says. "It's the first I've heard of it."

Ezra tries to recruit him for the Rebellion, but Obi-Wan tells him that "What you need, you already have. Unfortunately, you seem to be letting it all go...Maul used your desire to do good to deceive you, and in doing so he has altered the course of many things." This is fascinating? I wonder what things were altered by Ezra's trip to Tatooine? The most consequential one is the suggestion that Maul would have survived—because Kenobi would have eluded him forever—if his plan hadn't worked so well.

The episode strained itself to get here, but now that we're here there's real payoff. Those Star Wars feels are here in force: the wistful beauty of the alien desert, the old man's gently humorous wisdom, the talented young apprentice learning patience and calm. "The truth is often what we make of it," Obi-wan counsels. "You heard what you wanted to hear, believed what you wanted to believe. And now, the only one who has gained anything from all of this is..."

"Me," says Darth Maul, stepping into the circle of firelight.

Ezra wants to fight at Master Kenobi's side, but Obi-Wan gently tells him to go home instead, and he obeys.

And then we get the truly beautiful scene of Maul and Obi-Wan's final duel. Every element here is pitch perfect. Filoni has given interviews on his intentions with the scene and I don't have a lot to add. It's all considered, the choices are all meaningful, and it works. It works because every piece of the action is character-driven, and the resolution feels both inevitable and satisfying because it suits them both so well.

This is the kind of thing Filoni is very, very good at, which is why it's so frustrating when he's willing to take lazy plot shortcuts and bend characterization to get to the place he actually wants to go.

Speaking of, Ezra returns to Atollon empty handed, apologizes for running off, and is fortunately not immediately stripped of rank or grounded or anything. He's learned an important lesson a...bout...family? Sure, let's say family, that'll probably make Hera less mad. Roll credits. And go read the accompanying chapter of Fade to Red to find out why Kanan wasn't in his bunk!

[yan-twst]

Hello! May I request hc for the dorm leaders finding out that their female crush is only attracted to girls(female mc as a lesbian I stan-)? If you don't feel comfortable writing this then feel free to delete! I hope this was intresting ;-;

hell yeah lesbians rise up!!!! i included some of my own headcanons of how gay and lesbian stuff is in twst because i think it’s nice to have that there!

riddle rosehearts

riddle is immediately mortified- not because it turns out his crush is a lesbian, but because he’s now horrified all his “courting” may have come off as a bother or inappropriate. he’ll go beet red and apologize for that. he- he didn’t know! he didn’t mean to impose himself- argh!

is he heartbroken? a little. but he’s more worried that he may have come off as pushy. the queen of hearts may have been overbearing, but she never went out of her way to specifically bother anyone, and riddle feels the same way. he really really wants to make it clear he didn’t mean to bother her oh god-

once he calms down a bit, he’ll just, kinda... compose himself and apologize once more. if he had known, he’d probably not have made any advances (even though his “flirting” was more along the lines of inviting to unbirthday parties and sharing trey’s baking. it was nothing too invasive- hell, riddle’s crush wasn’t even aware he was flirting with her)

riddle will also bashfully ask if... well, even if he has no chance with her, he hopes that they can still remain friends. romantic or platonic feelings, he still really gets along with her- hell, everyone’s grown used to having her at the unbirthday parties, and trey already bakes extra for her every time.

he’ll take the title of being her friend with pride. riddle will quickly swallow down his heartbreak: this is something that has to be this way, and the fact that she likes girls simply means he’ll just be the best guy friend she possibly can have

leona kingscholar

leona “woman respecter” kingscholar takes the information well. he just kinda goes ‘oh’, nods, and takes a nap.

welp, there’s nothing to be done, so why get all sad and mopey? if the little herbivore likes girls, more power to her. welp, women are pretty and powerful. he understands why they like women. makes sense

leona is a bit sad, sure, but it’s only natural. he doesn’t dwell on it for long, though. if something can’t be changed, there’s no sense in thinking it over and over: he’s a man and his crush likes women, so that’s the end of that

despite it being so clear cut for him, he will take some time to talk everything out with her. he wants to make it clear: he was pursuing her romantically before, and he won’t anymore. he didn’t know she was a lesbian before, and now he knows

still, leona’s got a soft spot for the little herbivore. even though he might not be pursuing her anymore, it doesn’t change the fact he still feels like he’s gotta watch over her and help her. 

he’s just gonna be his usual grumpy self, really. he’ll still invite her over to practice magift, he’ll still tease them and call them “herbivore”. is he still in love? leona won’t ever mention it, really. does it matter? she’s his friend now, even if he calls her “annoying herbivore” whenever she wakes him up, and that’s pretty much all he could ask for

azul ashengrotto

fun fact did you know octopi have been seen displaying homosexual behaviours out in nature

which is to say, this isn’t anything new to azul. same-sex relationships are more common in his home than what he’s seen in the surface, but it’s not like lesbians are a new concept to him

oh don’t get it wrong he does cry when his darling tells him she’s not into men. he cries and then he lets her hug him until he stops. he then proceeds to be so mortified over it all he wishes he could go hide in his octopus pot

after apologizing for... that ordeal, azul will return to his usual composed self. it’s almost hard to tell he was a sniffling mess just a few minutes before if it weren’t for his puffy eyes

he composes himself quickly because, well... when he pictured himself getting turned down, it was always painful- old insecurities flaring, being told he wasn’t enough- but this was... not painful? it’s not as if he wasn’t good enough or something. his crush was just a lesbian! it’s not his fault, so it’s hard for him to feel sad over it

azul might even feel a bit bad for her. she’s... stuck in this all boy’s school, huh? the only girls here are probably the fae that control the weather... and the talking portraits...?

even though there’s really no girls for her to talk to, azul will still take on a protective attitude over her, giving the “if any girl breaks your heart tell me and the twins and we will avenge you” talk. azul doesn’t know why any girl would hurt her heart, because in his eyes she’s precious, but hey, he’s gotta protect his friend, right?

kalim al-asim

“wait you like women? oh me too!”

kalim takes it... so well. like, almost shockingly well? it’s like he processed the information in record speed, sorted out his own feelings immediately, and made peace with it all in a matter of seconds

kalim has many sisters around his age. one in ten people are gay. what i am getting at is kalim has lesbian sisters and so this revelation that his crush is lesbian doesn’t shake his world too much

he’ll admit it stings a little- love is a powerful thing, after all! but he thinks people who pursue others who are clearly not interested are scummy, and he’d never do anything like that

in his mind, it’s an easy ordeal. he trusts and likes her. she sees him as a close friend, and that’s the most he can be. so really, he should just be happy he’s as close to her as can be! he’s already at the top rung of being close to her, so he’s hit the goal, right?

kalim, god bless his heart, is that friend who will present his lesbian friends to any other lesbian friend he has. he has good intentions, but it might get a little tiring? and a bit overwhelming too when he brings up that he has sisters right around his age who are also into girls and suddenly he’s making plans for a big mixer party and oh god jamil please help and put a stop to this before it gets out of control please help he’s already planning a menu-

vil schoenheit

ooooh so she’s a lesbian ooooooh ok that makes sense. that makes sense. 

vil is like “oh! of course my incredible efforts into my appearance and into our friendship and in wooing her weren’t working. she is just not into men”

he’s almost surprised at how getting turned down like this just... didn’t bruise his ego at all. his efforts weren’t useless, he wasn’t doing things wrong, it simply couldn’t work! honestly, vil would have been more hurt if he’d put all this effort and his crush had been straight and still turned him down

hmm, so she’s into girls... then being here, in an academy full of men (who are, in vil’s opinion, horribly unrefined and ungraceful) must be rough.

just because he’s no longer trying to pursue a relationship with her does not mean that he’ll stop inviting her over for skincare or for trying on clothes. absolutely not. the fact vil even was attracted to her in the first place is because he saw her as someone with potential and that has not changed

he will immediately position himself as a big brother / best friend. just because he’s her friend doesn’t mean he’s gonna let her slack, though! he’s still gonna be checking she follows the skincare routine he set up for her, and that she’s eating and sleeping well- as much as he says it’s because he “wants to make her potential shine” or whatever, it’s just... overwhelmingly clear he just cares about her as a friend

idia shroud

out of all the ways he imagined getting turned down this has to be the one that he had NOT pictured and at the same time, it’s kinda the best one? crush was a lesbian so it wouldn’t work out, 10/10 turn down, didn’t make him go into a self deprecating vortex

once again, it’s the age old relief of “yes, i got turned down by my crush, but it wasn’t my fault, because it turned out she was a lesbian”. idia had ran so many scenarios of being turned down, of his crush being disgusted at him, that it all being resolved into her not liking men at all is... almost relieving?

and you know what. he gets it. when he sees his figurines and posters of his favourite idols and anime girls it’s like well duh of course she likes girls because girls are cute? 

he’s gonna have her rate his waifu tierlist. what? it’s not- it’s not weird, is it?! he’s just trying to bond, and- urgh, he kinda wants to know what her opinion on his waifus is. because his waifus are cute girls and she likes girls so ?? it makes sense? right? (idia might cry if she says his waifus aren’t That Good)

this whole ordeal might also result in the almost hilarious scenario in which ortho just straight up goes “Hey niichan, what is a lesbian?”

learning that his closest friend likes girls opens pandora’s box, the box being idia making his friend review every anime girl and gacha or visual novel girl that HE likes

malleus draconia

did you know reptiles are also quite gay? there’s even a species of lizard that’s just, entirely female. dragons are reptiles.

malleus, bless his heart, is not good at reading people. his crush will need to be Direct. trying to use metaphors like “I swing the other way”, or “I play for the other team” do nothing but further confuse him- when his crush finally cracks down and just goes “what I’m trying to say is I’m a lesbian” he finally, finally, understands what this is all about

malleus just... nods in understanding

he feels a little sad- it does sting, a bit, to know things can’t work out, but he’s also... happy. if she told him, that means she trusts him, right? 

malleus is happy enough to just have A Friend in general, even if he’d never admit he’s usually lonely. most people tend to run from him or be so intimidated they shiver when they hear his name. and yet, against all odds, he’s found a friend who likes being by his side, someone who didn’t know all the baggage that comes with his name. he’d be a fool to tear down that friendship just because he’s learnt it’ll stay platonic

also, as mentioned before, it’s not like homosexuality is some sort of taboo or odd subject. it’s actually quite common amongst the fae, especially those in Malleus’ kingdom. although he does say he can’t introduce her to any cute fae girls. he.... is not friends with any. (he just doesn’t have a lot of friends in general, but he refuses to say that because he... doesn’t want to sound “mopey”, lile lilia says he is)

[saanphoenix]

“Why do so many old-school FFVII fans think that Cloud took Zack’s memories?”

Alright, so first things first. We gotta start from the beginning. We gotta start with Jenova.

Jenova is the name given to the alien entity known as the Calamity. “Heaven’s dark harbinger.” This being, assumed to be female because of the body she was in at the Crater, was basically godlike in her natural abilities. Historically, she was able to shapeshift. She was telepathic. She had a nigh indomitable will. And she used her abilities to infect the race of human(oid)s that happened upon her crash site--the Cetra.

Now, Ifalna, within the English translation of the OG, states that Jenova turned the Cetra into monsters, nearly wiping them all out, and that the wee few that remained basically had to be sacrificed to seal Jenova away before she could do anymore damage to all life on the planet. The notes Sephiroth finds within the Shinra Mansion seem to corroborate this version of events, as he tells Zack that the Cetra chose to fight the Calamity while the other humans “hid”, thus being spared Jenova’s shenanigans, allowing them to become the dominant race on the planet, but ultimately being cowards unworthy to be the shepherds of any star, to quote Emet-Selch from FFXIV. Stay with me now.

We also know that the notes Sephiroth reads within the Shinra Mansion do not, in any way, call Jenova the Calamity. They still refer to her as a Cetra. Meaning that those notes are outdated, before the discovery of a living Cetra, a Cetra who is 2000 years removed from her own people’s history. Right? So.

(’Ah, but what about Genesis point-blank telling Sephiroth the truth? He knew what was up!’ Yes, because Hollander and Hojo found out from Gast’s recordings, and Ifalna herself, what Jenova actually was, and then Hollander told Genesis, who then said some stupid ass shit to trigger Sephiroth into looking into the wrong information, and now Nibelheim is not Nibelheim anymore and Cloud is missing one more family member than he was when he joined Shinra. Also, fuck Genesis. Anyway.)

HOJO, yeah? Hojo, in two separate novels written by Nojima himself, states to Aerith and Tseng separately that Jenova 1) will inevitably infect all life on the planet with her “cells” because of the very nature of the Lifestream and 2) turned the Cetra against each other via subtle manipulation and illusions of their loved ones, dead or alive, conceived from their own memories. She didn’t show up looking like the Eldritch horror with the eyeball nipple, she showed up looking like a run-of-the-mill Cetra. And she would further disguise herself as people a Cetra knew in order to gain their trust. And then, after she had gained that trust, she would say shit like, “Hey. Your friend over there hates you,” or, “Hey. Your friend over there wants to kill you.” And thus the Cetra, at the very least morally but probably also physically, became monsters and tore themselves apart.

You ever wonder why everything the Cetra had was booby-trapped and hidden behind riddles and self-sacrificial bullshit like their Temple? My guess is because Jenova made it so they couldn’t trust anyone, even themselves.

“Why did I read all that? What does that have to do with Cloud voring Zack’s memories?”

Because we gotta understand the mechanics of this bitch first so that we know what to look out for.

Now, we have an alien in stasis--presumed dead but definitely not--and a buncha scientists who really want a coveted spot sucking President Shinra’s dick as head of the Science Dept. who all think that taking the genetic material of a Cetra and splicing it into a modern-day human’s DNA will give them a Geiger counter to the Promised Land. Which they want to use as fuel because only some of them really understand what mako is and the others are just fucking stupid. Anyway, my guess is that they archeology their way to Jenova’s still-kinda-alive corpse and do some DNA testing and go, “Ah! We’ve found a Cetra. It has to be one! She’s by the crater, after all, and that’s where some of them were nuked by a Meteor! :) We’re geniuses!” And Jenova, in the Lifestream, went, “GOTCHA, BITCH!”

And through the power of dino DNA, out pops a lot of nonviable lifeforms, some monsters, and, eventually, a relatively normal kid with a flare for the dramatic who will become wholly obsessed with apples and very boring literature that he will insist on repeating every five goddamn seconds. As he was no Geiger counter to the Promised Land, out pops another relatively normal kid who will grow up to have dreams, and honor, and steal food from his neighbors because he was so damn honorable that he just could not ask for a handout.

With Hollander and Gillian’s experiments not producing anything of note other than children that need love and support, Hojo and Lucrecia decide to take a slightly different sample of Jenova’s cells and just start sticking them everywhere. They’re in Lucrecia. They’re in Lucrecia’s fetus. And...something strange starts to happen.

Lucrecia starts to feel the effects of Jenova. Lucrecia’s mind and body start to kind of deteriorate. Not the way that Genesis’ and Angeal’s do later on, but she is plagued by shit like severe depression and fatigue. She falls out on the floor multiple times. Her bodyguard is a little late on pulling the trigger of the gun aimed at her husband and, instead of doing anything productive about her husband proving he’s an amoral murderous fuckhead, she just decides to play doll with her kinda undead bodyguard, get even sicker, and then, finally, pops out a very strange looking baby. In fact, he looks a little alien.

“No, seriously, what does this have to do with anything?”

Genetics. How Jenova cells work. Whatever clump of cells they injected into Lucrecia, clearly different from those used in Project G, seemed to focus more on the mental fuckery aspect of Jenova than the physical, shapeshifting aspect of Jenova. I would also argue that one of the reasons Lucrecia was so adversely affected by the cells and Gillian was not is their mental well-being. Gillian, even when we meet her, seems very upbeat and doing pretty okay despite her husband having died from exhaustion a coupla years back. Lucrecia was depressed and very subservient even before she married Hojo. Losing her mentor--Vincent’s father--probably exacerbated that. And, later in Advent Children, that sort of mentality--hopelessness and despair--is what Sephiroth’s Geostigma feeds off of. That and thoughts of death/dying. But that is more speculation than anything.

So, Sephiroth’s cells are different from Genesis’ and Angeal’s, and they were all three bred differently, but they’re all kinda chimeras of Jenova’s. And once Genesis learns about his origins, it’s like the lightbulb goes off. This guy’s creating clones by infecting his 2nd and 3rd Class SOLDIERs with his own cells. And when he does that, their physical appearance becomes his own. As does their will. Whatever Genesis wants, the clones also want. And then he just grows a wing for shits and giggles. Once he tells his BFF Angeal the sitch, behold! He’s got monster clones--maybe because he realizes how fucked up overwriting a human being with yourself is--and wings, too. ...Why?

The power to do all of this shit was always there. It was genetically always there. They just had to be made aware of it, to have the puzzle piece put into place. When Sephiroth dies, that puzzle piece is put into place. And then he starts fuckin’ with shit. And turns into monstrous angels. And then dies again. And then comes back and finally grows himself his own wing. He did it, fellas. He’s a big boy now.

But we’re not here to talk about Sephiroth--ignore how much I talked about Sephiroth and his mommies previously--we’re here to talk about ZACK and CLOUD.

“What’s up with Zack and Cloud?”

First, what we must realize is that even though Hojo says that both Zack and Cloud are failed clones because they 1) didn’t take on any physical characteristics of Sephiroth, 2) didn’t seem controlled by Jenova (or Sephiroth) and, 3) didn’t exhibit the other signs of a Reunion impulse like the other clones in Nibelheim that does not mean that Sephiroth’s cells, Jenova’s cells, are not working on them.

As we’ve observed in other 1sts, abilities do not always manifest immediately or even noticeably. Clearly, Sephiroth’s physical appearance is a bit of a hint, but Genesis and Angeal look pretty damn normal and, if it weren’t for their mako injections, they probably wouldn’t be showing that much of an increase in physical capabilities. Theoretically. Maybe 10-year-old Angeal had biceps the size of a man’s head. I mean. Pff.

Zack’s tolerance to Jenova was strong due to his previous exposure in the SOLDIER program. Cloud’s mind broke pretty early on. Neither of these results matter to the fact that they both now have Sephiroth’s cells within them--just as Genesis’ and Angeal’s clones had theirs--and that their very wills are now going to be affected by Sephiroth’s. But they are also going to be a little bit like him in terms of power.

Zack’s hair, when ingested by a Genesis clone, a clone of a Type-G SOLDIER, transforms that clone into a monster. Zack doesn’t even have to do anything. The Jenova/Sephiroth cells within his body can just Do That, cause that change in another life form, of their own accord. I’m honestly shocked that, whenever they gave Zack these S-cells, HE didn’t turn into a monster. But that’s neither here nor there. I wanna talk about Cloud.

Cloud has mako poisoning, which the Remake describes as his spirit/soul being stuck between his body and the Lifestream. Weird. Anyway, he’s not fully aware of his surroundings at all times, and he clearly can’t control his body that much. He somehow has the ability to kinda get his feet shuffling, and I’m going to go on a limb and say he can chew whatever food Zack gives him, but most of the time, he’s a puppet with cut strings.

But he is also still recovering from a mind break caused by Jenova cells. The same cells that are just chilling in his body, like they are in Zack’s. And all the months Zack is dragging his ass across a continent, an ocean, and another continent, they and Cloud are listening to whatever the fuck Zack is saying. Cloud is also constantly in physical contact with Zack.

In The Kids Are Alright: A Turks Side Story, Kadaj has the power to not only read surface thoughts and memories just by being near someone, but he can also read deeper ones by making physical contact with someone. Because Jenova. And Sephiroth, whose cells Cloud and Zack have, in the OG demonstrates that he, too, can glean thoughts and memories from others. Because Jenova.

If this power is a genetic trait, as it is with Genesis and Angeal, then, sitting pretty underneath their skin, Zack and Cloud have this ability. Dormant. Snoozing. Kinda like the 1st Class Trio’s wings.

But Zack has a high tolerance and a high ignorance to Jenova and just what he might be capable of. Cloud’s mind is floating in and out at best. He’s not in control of himself. And when you have a situation like that, it is very, very easy to come to the conclusion that Cloud’s Jenova cells are passively absorbing the memories of Zack’s time in Nibelheim. That they are knitting these memories together with what little remain in Cloud’s head. That when Tifa comes across Cloud at the train station and calls him by name and remembers who he is that Cloud’s Jenova cells latch onto those memories in Tifa--as Sephiroth tells them they did--and they knit those memories with Zack’s and Cloud’s and the end result is the man we get at the beginning of the OG.

Because Cloud has visual memory of shit he never saw. It’s not just a visual medium telling a visual story. You wanna know how I know that for a fact? Because, in the Remake, Cloud remembers Sephiroth walking up to Jenova’s tank in the reactor from Sephiroth’s perspective. He is looking through Sephiroth’s eyes, through his memory, up at “Mother.” In that moment in the Remake, Cloud is Sephiroth. He’s not Cloud anymore.

Cloud sees Sephiroth delivering the speech of being an Ancient. Cloud wasn’t there. Cloud didn’t see that. Zack did. That is Zack’s memory.

The man writing the Remake is the same man who’s been at the head of MOST FFVII writing. He was on the OG, he wrote Advent Children, he wrote the novels, he wrote Crisis Core, he’s writing the Remake. He knows what these cells can do because he’s crafted this world-building for decades.

Cloud didn’t take all of Zack’s memories. He didn’t need to. Kadaj, in the novel, doesn’t glean everything from someone right off the bat. Because he doesn’t need to. Only when he needs to learn something else does he go digging. The same is probably true for what Cloud’s cells most likely did to be able to know what he knows. Hell! Kadaj gets punched in the novel and he ACCIDENTALLY picks up the emotions and memories of the guy who punched him. He didn’t want ‘em but he got ‘em!”

There is evidence within the OG, and even more within the Compilation, that lend weight to the theory that Cloud unintentionally read Zack’s mind when it came to the events of Nibelheim.

For years, people have wondered, “How the hell does Cloud know that if he wasn’t there?” For years, people have wondered, “How can he use the Buster Sword if he was just a little grunt that used a gun all the time?” The logical answer is, “Because of his Jenova cells. They can just do that shit.”

[moonbeambucky]

Hey Neighbor (Part 14)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader, Billy Russo x Reader Word Count: 6039 Warnings: fluff, light angst, mentions of cheating

Summary: You had a plan and then life came along with one of its own. With your future almost derailed you worked hard to get yourself back on track and finally everything seemed to be going right… that is, until your new neighbor moved in.

A/N: Major cringe warning everyone.. I can’t wait for your reactions! 😂 A huge thank you to my wonderful beta Sam @buckyofthemyscira​​​​ Feedback is always appreciated! 

PART 13 | HEY NEIGHBOR MASTERLIST

Bucky pulls off his headphones, pressing a finger to the keyboard to stop the music he’s reviewing, taking a moment to pinch between his brows. He gets up to stretch his legs, grabbing the empty beer bottle along with him for the short walk to the kitchen. He tosses it in the garbage with the rest.

He doesn’t like drinking this much but lately he hasn’t been feeling great. His music has been stagnant, devoid of life and energy. Thinking about it only makes him feel worse, a painful reminder that deadlines are coming up and what little he’s created is absolute shit.

The knob squeaks as he turns the faucet, letting the water turn to liquid ice before he runs his hands through them, splashing it up against his face. He hears the hiss of the pipes next door and his heart sinks.

It’s Y/N’s shower. He looks towards the wall wondering if she’s alone, quickly shaking the thoughts out of his mind. He shouldn’t care if she’s alone or not. She’s in a relationship and it shouldn’t matter.

Bucky tried really hard to not think about her. He promised himself he would get out there and find someone and well, it hasn’t exactly worked out. In the last three weeks he’s been on a dozen dates. Most of the girls could barely hold a conversation, while the others were less exciting than watching paint dry.

He fucked a few of them even though he said he wouldn’t. That wasn’t the point of these dates but Bucky needed the distraction. It was hard hanging out with everyone, it didn’t matter if Y/N was there with Billy or if they were not; Bucky wasn’t sure what was worse.

Over the last few days he has been messaging someone new who’s been doing a pretty good job of keeping him entertained. Bobbi, she works at a gym Uptown. She’s worked extremely hard for her body and flaunts it in most of her photos and sure, Bucky would love to hit it but there’s something more that keeps him drawn in.

She’s so direct, talking to him as if they had known each other for years. He loves checking his phone to see her latest message, a smile already stretching across his face when he sees a long text about something that happened at the gym. Apparently a lot of characters workout there and she has an endless list of horror stories she couldn’t wait to share with him.

They planned a date for the end of the week and Bucky was very excited to finally meet her. It was promising, the idea that he could be happy with someone just like… just like everyone else.

You hug yourself a little tighter as you walk down the block, feeling the cool breeze move right through you. Billy seems to be in his own world, his head gazing down to his phone as it had been through most of dinner. You didn’t voice your annoyance though because it would only make things worse.

Billy’s been in a bad mood ever since the Feds came knocking at ANVIL’s door. A few former employees were recently involved in a string of armed robberies and Billy was questioned about it. Word got out and he lost a big account as a result.

Obviously the situation is upsetting but it’s not just that, Billy’s been distant lately. You’ve been spending a lot of time together but maybe that’s the problem, the honeymoon period might be over. You know it’s a normal part of any relationship but the idea that things could change so drastically doesn’t make you feel great.

“Hey watch where you’re going,” an unfamiliar voice barked.

Your head turned quickly to find Billy getting in the face of the stranger he apparently bumped into.

“What did you say to me?” Billy’s dark eyes sharpened like a bird of prey closing in on its target. His nostrils flared as he snarled, staring down the other man until he backed away with his tail between his legs. Billy looked him up and down, a smug smile creeping across his face in silent victory.

A heavy arm fell around your shoulders as Billy pulled you closer to him when he began walking away.

“What the hell was that?” you asked after a long beat of silence.

He faced you with the same incredulity he gave the man before. “That was people knowing better than to get in my way.”

Your stomach churned with unease and that silent alarm inside you was going off. You needed to get away from Billy, for tonight at least. By the time you got to the front of your building you figured out an excuse you hoped would work.

“Hey so, I promised Elena I would head in early tomorrow. Paperwork’s been piling up and medical records have been on our case about it. So, can we raincheck this?” You smiled, using your best doe eyes to seem sincere about it.

Billy stared you down, looking for the slightest crack in your expression. It was something he had always done, reading people, checking for lies. You know it’s a product of his upbringing, with so many broken promises made by a faulty system.

“Yeah. Yeah that’s fine,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Remember I got us Knicks tickets.”

You nodded in agreement, gasping slightly when he caught you off guard by his kiss. It was the last thing on your mind but you gave in, opening your mouth to his forceful tongue. Anything to keep up appearances, for tonight.

Billy watched you enter the building and you waved back at him right before you disappeared for the hallway, finally able to take a breath. On the way up to your floor you wondered if you should talk to Wanda about what happened. It was kind of late though and even though she would want to hear everything about it you didn’t want to disturb her.

As you approached your door you looked towards Bucky’s. Maybe he could give some advice from the male perspective. Then again you didn’t want to bother him either. Bucky’s also been pretty distant lately and you’ve barely seen him in the past month. Maybe everything’s changed, your relationship, your friendships. Change is supposed to be good but this felt all wrong.

You couldn’t find a comfortable spot on your bed, tossing and turning, kicking off the covers, pulling them back up again. Nothing seemed right. There was too much on your mind and you couldn’t relax.

“Shut up brain, just shut up!” you begged out loud, grabbing your phone to find something to distract yourself.

Scrolling through your playlists you tried to find one that wouldn’t give you the urge to stay up and sing along, and then you stopped on the perfect one. It was Bucky’s playlist, Greatest Cinema Scores. Grabbing your headphones you laid your head back on the pillow as John Williams carried you to dreamland.

You groan, rolling over to one side. It’s still dark out. You don’t want to look at your phone but you give in anyway. Two in the morning. At least you still had a few more hours of sleep. Your stomach spasms forcing you to get up, hurrying your paces to the bathroom because the weird rumbling has you convinced you might not make it in time.

It’s five past two in the morning when all hell breaks loose. Hell translating to everything you’ve eaten this evening coming up and out of you from both ends. It’s not pretty. Tears are streaming down your face as you puke into the garbage can you’re rapidly filling, trying to catch your breath in between painful heaves. The other end isn’t much better, hot liquid expelling itself from your body; stomach cramps, body spasms all doing their part to add to the mess.

Ten minutes pass by the time it’s safe to leave the bathroom. Your throat burns with the remnants of vomit, your ass is on fire and you curl back into bed, brushing aside the tears from the corner of your eyes. Your reprieve is short lived as your stomach grumbles again and you rush across your apartment, giving yourself over to the porcelain throne.

More comes out of you than you’ve taken in and you wonder about the science of it all. When will it stop? Dinner was simple, a glass of wine, a small house salad, chicken parm and some vegetables that come out whole as you peer into the soupy garbage held out in front of you. A whiff of the stench makes you gag again setting off another round of vomiting.

Everything hurts. Tears burn hot against your skin as you cry alone, half naked and in need of a shower at this point to clean yourself up. Elvis died on the toilet, is that how you’re gonna go too? It seems entirely possible at this point.

By the time the sun begins to peak out through the large buildings you’ve exhausted your body of all its worth. You’re shaking as you change into clean pajamas, crawling back into bed, barely having the strength to raise your phone to your ear as you leave a message for Elena, telling her you won’t be able to make it in today.

Sleep doesn’t come easy, not when you’re still getting out of bed every hour to get rid of every part of your insides. Isn’t it out of you already? You think back to dinner and the slightly pink chicken you thought at the time was your imagination or bad lighting. Dammit.

You text Billy, telling him you have food poisoning, hoping his seafood and linguine didn’t leave him in the same position you were currently in. After the hundredth trip to the bathroom you opened up your fridge looking for something. You squirm as you look at the orange juice, however tempting it is the acid would probably burn through you. Your mouth waters looking at the forbidden food, aka anything that isn’t a plain cracker. Do you have any of those? Nope. How is it possible you don’t have a single thing you could possibly eat?

The trek across your apartment and back to your bed seems like it went on for miles and now you shake with chills, wrapping yourself up in the blanket as you text Wanda begging for her to come over with Gatorade, ginger ale and crackers.

You whimper out loud as you feel your stomach gurgling, it wants another round versus the toilet where you’re going to lose. By the time you come out again you’re sweating, shaking on weak legs as you cry yourself to sleep.

In another hour you’ve woken up, thankful for the returned text that she would come by before heading to work. After your latest round in the bathroom you trudge to the front door unlocking it, and move to your couch where you plop face down. You text Wanda, telling her the door is open, and try to shut your eyes until the inevitable happens. Because you know it’s going to happen again. For some reason you’ve been cursed and there’s nothing you can do about it but suffer.

You aren’t sure of how much time has passed but you hear your door opening, bags rustling in hand and the tiniest smile spreads across your face.

“Wandaaa, my butthole hurts,” you whined, lifting your head up off the couch slightly to groan even more. “It’s like a volcano that’s erupting hot brown lava. There’s so much of it Wan. It won’t stop. My ass is vomiting shit.”

“Wow Y/N, that’s quite a visual.”

Oh no. Panic surges through you when you realize that was not Wanda’s voice. A weak arm pushes you up from the couch where you turn around to find Bucky somehow looking at you in the eye after he heard your very blunt confession.

You’re stunned into silence, not knowing what to say because you had just said far too much than you ever wanted to. Suddenly you feel nauseous again but for a different reason.

Bucky shifted one of the bags he was holding into his other hand so he could send a small wave in your direction, trying not to burst out laughing as he said, “Hey neighbor.”

“B-Bucky, what are you doing here?” you asked, sinking back down onto the couch because you couldn’t support yourself anymore.

“Wanda texted me, said she wasn’t able to get these to you before work.” He set the bags down, walking closer to you and crouching down by the couch. “Are you okay?”

Your head shook a little before you answered. “No. I think I’m dying. I’m puking up my organs.”

“Oh yeah? Which ones?” he chuckled.

“My intestines, definitely my stomach… maybe a kidney or two.”

He cracked a beautiful smile that somehow made you feel better just by looking at it. Bucky reached the back of his hand out to feel your forehead. You were a little warm but you didn’t feel feverish.

“Well I’m here now and I brought all the good stuff you need. Will you let me help you?”

Tears filled your eyes as you replied, and Bucky smiled again. He emptied the bags in your kitchen, taking out a bottle of ginger ale, Gatorade, crackers and some instant white rice.

“How about a little ginger ale to settle your stomach, yeah?”

Bucky brought over a glass that was less than half filled. Sitting next to you, he helped you sit up and you waited for the room to stop spinning before you took a few small sips as he told you to. Your hand was shaking and Bucky took the glass from you before you spilled it.

You didn’t think a few sips of ginger ale would be a magical cure but you wished it would. You felt so shitty… which seemed fitting, but it really wasn’t funny. You leaned against Bucky, closing your eyes as you sighed in frustration. It was comforting to feel his arm around you, and hear his whispers that everything would be okay.

“Are you nauseous? Do you need to…”

“I just don’t feel good,” you cried against him.

Bucky pressed his lips into a thin line, wishing there was something more he could do for you. When Wanda texted him he had shot right up, threw on clothes and raced to the store. He wished you had asked him, that you were as close as you used to be but he understands why you might not have wanted him to know.

The briefest thought about Billy crosses his mind. Did you tell him? Was he going to come in and take care of you? Would you shove Bucky aside if he did? But Billy isn’t here, and Billy isn’t important. Right now this is about you and doing whatever he can to help.

“Hey doll, do you want to try and eat something?”

You barely process the nickname as you think about how your stomach is feeling. It’s still too early to try and eat so instead you ask for some Gatorade, hoping that might make you feel a little better.

Bucky brings it back, along with a wet washcloth he places on your neck, feeling your skin prickle at his touch as he moves aside the collar of your shirt. It’s a nice relief for the short while it lasts. You head back to the bathroom again but at least you didn’t vomit this time. You’re thankful since you’re really not sure you have the strength to even handle throwing up anymore.

Back on the couch you lay your head down on Bucky’s thigh, curling your body into a fetal position as he lays a throw blanket over you. You don’t realize when you’ve fallen asleep but you wake up at some time later to find the sky is lit in a golden glow of the afternoon sun. Bucky assists you with sitting up, helping you quell the dizziness with more sips of Gatorade and ginger ale.

You feel brave enough to eat, hoping that one single cracker will not send you back on the hell ride through your digestive tract. Bucky can’t help but smile as you nibble on the cracker slowly like a hamster.

“What did you eat that got you sick?” he wondered.

“New Italian place on 23rd and 8th. Bad chicken. I mean, I thought it was good at the time but I don’t think I’ll be going back again.”

“Good to know. I’m gonna cancel my plans tonight,” he said, digging his phone from his pocket.

“Yeah, definitely go somewhere else.”

“No, I’m cancelling the whole date.”

Your head spun as you turned it too fast to face Bucky. “You have a date tonight?”

His head shook before he began speaking. “Nope, not anymore. I want to stay here and take care of you.” You began to protest but Bucky insisted. “Y/N, I really want to do this. Please, let me help you.”

The fluttering in your stomach made you wonder if you needed to rush to the bathroom again but it didn’t feel the same as before. Instead you smiled softly, thankful to have Bucky’s kindness. It was nice to know someone wanted to take care of you.

In the moment you scanned the table for your phone, remembering the text you sent out this morning. Billy still hadn’t replied. Maybe he’s sick too or maybe… well you don’t have the energy to think otherwise at the moment.

Your mouth is watering, craving anything and everything that you can’t have. Even the drinks have to be sipped slowly otherwise you’ll set your stomach off again. It’s so unfair. Why is this happening? And why is every commercial food related?

“Bucky, can you change the channel?” you begged.

He switched it to a show about animals, that’s fine, that’s… not fine. The TV shows a raccoon eating delicious red grapes and you feel the tears begin to flood your eyes. You huff against Bucky’s leg, not bothering to change the channel because there was no point. You couldn’t eat and you probably never will again. Was that being dramatic? Maybe, but right now you’re not in the mood to think sensibly.

“I feel bad askin’ but is it okay if I order food? I know you can’t have any and I really don’t want to make this worse for ya.”

Bucky is staring at you with big blue eyes, hoping his small request isn’t too much of an offence at the moment. You almost wanted to say no but you couldn’t, it’s not Bucky’s fault you ate bad chicken.

“Pizza? Really?” you whined after he placed his order.

His eyes grew big with panic and he was about to call back and cancel his order before you stopped him.

“No, no. I’m sorry Bucky. It doesn’t matter what you eat, I’m gonna want everything so enjoy yourself.”

You pouted, grabbing the throw blanket to pull it over your shoulder as you adjusted your position of resting on his leg, shutting your eyes until he got up to answer the door when the pizza arrived.

“That smells really good,” you said, frowning as Bucky opened the box.

He was hesitant to take a bite, feeling guilty as you looked at him. “Can I make you anything? Think you could handle some rice?”

Your head shook and you took out another single cracker, chewing on it slowly as Bucky sat down beside you with a few slices.

“I’m sorry Y/N. You’ll feel better soon, I promise. And when you’re up for it let’s get pizza. We still haven’t kept our promise.” Bucky’s mouth dropped open in response to your confused face. “Our pizza quest! Remember? Eat our way through the city to find the best pizza!”

“Oh yeah!” You smiled for the first time, bright and beaming across your face and Bucky was happy he was able to bring that out in you. “We definitely have to do that.”

The night continued with Bucky putting on Galaxy Quest for you both to watch. Halfway through the movie you went back to the bathroom, missing a call from Billy. Bucky couldn’t help but look over as your phone buzzed, seeing a picture of you and Billy smiling together.

A moment later a text came through and he knew he shouldn’t read it but he couldn’t help himself. Bucky looked towards the bathroom to check that you weren’t about to come out before he grabbed your phone, reading Billy’s text.

Billy: Wtf Y/N where are you? Did you remember the basketball game?

Bucky placed your phone back on the coffee table, remembering to unclench his jaw as your bathroom door opened. What an asshole. He didn’t even ask how you were.

“Your phone rang,” Bucky reluctantly said as you sat down again.

He watched as you read the text, typing back furiously. Another buzz and you were responding to Billy again, your face getting angrier the longer the back and forth messaging went on.

“I’m sorry, that was rude,” you said, tossing your phone on the table. “Let’s put the movie on.”

You got comfortable against Bucky, ignoring the buzz of your phone. The texts didn’t stop coming in and you tried your best to ignore it and pay attention to the movie but Bucky could clearly see you were upset.

“You can answer that if you need to.”

“I really don’t want to. Billy’s so concerned about wasting money on tickets, not once has he even mentioned the fact that I’m sick. Did he not get my messages?”

Bucky bit his tongue, not wanting to say something he might end up regretting, especially if this isn’t the end of you and Billy like he hoped. Why would he hope that? He’s dating now. Or at least he thought he was.

He cancelled his date with Bobbi tonight without hesitation, just so he could take care of you. She seemed cool about it, asking if he was free tomorrow and Bucky agreed to another date but the longer you stay curled up beside him the less interest he has in wanting to see anyone.

The warmth of your body against his lulled Bucky into a deep sleep. It wasn’t the most comfortable, slumped on the couch in a mostly sitting position but he didn’t want to move, not when you had fallen asleep before him. You were exhausted from everything you went through so your sleep was more important to him than the cramp that developed in his neck overnight.

You woke up, slowly opening your eyes, rubbing the sleep from them as you realized you weren’t in your bed but on the couch resting your head against Bucky. You watched the rise and fall of his stomach through the soft sweater he wore, the one that most certainly left tiny marks on your cheek from leaning against it.

Looking up at Bucky you smiled at the way his head was tilted to the side, eyes shut peacefully as small puffs of breath left his mouth. You thought about everything Bucky had done for you, what was supposed to be a simple task of dropping off ginger ale and crackers turned into his whole day being rearranged just to take care of you.

You wanted to do something nice for him in return, it’s something you’ll have to think about when your head’s not as light as it feels. Slowly you begin to sit up, taking a few sips of Gatorade from the bottle that was left on the table. You feel… better but still not great.

It’s daring but you aim to eat two crackers, hoping it won’t set off your stomach. It was grumbling with hunger but you knew better than to give in with actual food even though you were craving pancakes.

After sitting up for a while you didn’t think you felt dizzy anymore so you got up slowly. You felt the weakness in your legs as they carried you across the room but at least your trip to the bathroom was normal. A regular pee was a lot better than everything else that came out of you yesterday.

“G’morning,” Bucky said mid-yawn as you opened the door, seeing his sweater rise up to reveal a sliver of his toned stomach as he stretched his arms out.

“Morning Bucky.” You smiled as you made your way beside him again, reaching your arm across his stomach as you settled back against him, nuzzling your head on his chest.

Bucky loved this but absolutely hated that he needed to use the bathroom and therefore ruin the way you cuddled up against him. “I’m sorry doll. I’ll be quick,” he said, rushing up off the couch.

Doll. You liked that nickname. It was a little on the old fashioned side but it was endearing. Billy called you babe which was fine and all but it definitely didn’t have the same effect as doll. The thought of Billy made you roll your eyes. You would have to speak to him today but you really didn’t want to.

“Alright, where were we?”

Bucky’s voice rang out as he opened the door, walking back towards the couch. He moved his neck from side to side to crack it before he sat down again, letting you cozy up to him.

“How’re you feelin’ today?”

“Better. I think I might try some rice later.”

“Just let me know and I’ll make it.” There was no hesitation in his offer, just pure tenderness in wanting you to get better.

The morning was spent cuddling on the couch until Bucky’s stomach began grumbling worse than yours. He got up to make himself something while you insisted you weren’t ready for anything more than crackers and ginger ale yet.

“I’m gonna take your garbage out and head home for a quick shower. You think you’ll be okay? I’ll be quick.”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Thanks Bucky.”

He was thankful you didn’t tell him not to come back. You seemed much better than yesterday and you probably didn’t need him but Bucky really didn’t want to leave. Sure he had work to do but this was more important. He wouldn’t have been able to get you off his mind anyway so he might as well be useful.

During Bucky’s absence you debated talking to Billy, knowing it would probably end up in a fight but you didn’t have the strength to do that yet. Besides, you hadn’t done anything wrong so there is no need for you to be chasing him down.

With the little energy you had you decided to freshen up. While splashing your face with some water you noticed the broken blood vessels in your eyes, the result of straining so much to throw up. Fun stuff.

It was a bit of a struggle to get undressed and changed into new pajamas and you had to lay down in your bed before the room stopped spinning. Thankfully Bucky had come back and was able to help you.

He handed the glass of Gatorade to you, rubbing slow circles of comfort on your back that seemed so natural for him.

“You need to eat something Y/N. Think you’re up for some rice now?” he asked softly, gazing at you with concern as he awaited your answer. You gave a simple nod and Bucky leapt up to get it started.

The burn of tears rushed to your eyes as you thought about Bucky. He was so eager to make sure you were okay, taking out your garbage that was filled with various bags full of vomit without hesitation, spending every minute of his weekend just to take care of you. He even cancelled a date.

Something inside your stomach twisted at the thought of Bucky actually dating someone. It’s not like him sleeping with someone was a surprise to you but apparently in the last month you’ve drifted apart from him, unaware he had started to date people instead of just sleeping with them. You’re not so sure why this makes you feel so… well, you’re not really sure how you feel about it but you know you feel something.

None of this should matter though. You have been dating someone for two months. Someone you thought you loved but this past weekend has taught you a lot about Billy. Not only has his change in demeanor put you off but the fact that he hasn’t shown any concern for you over this weekend really makes you want to end your relationship.

Bucky happily brought over a small bowl of white rice. There wasn’t much in there to begin with but you could only manage a few teaspoons before you had to stop. The worst part of it all is that you were so hungry but you really couldn’t eat much, and certainly couldn’t chance upsetting your stomach anymore no matter how badly you wanted to shovel the rice down your mouth.

The afternoon was spent on your couch again, cuddled up against Bucky as you continued to watch movies. His arm was around your shoulder and occasionally you felt his hand rub up and down over the curve of your arm. You smiled against him, letting yourself enjoy however long you could have Bucky like this.

In the back of your mind you thought about him dating again. Whoever he ends up with would be the luckiest girl ever, to have someone as kind and caring as Bucky take care of them as he has been with you. You chew on your bottom lip remembering the shared kiss on New Year’s Eve. Yeah, it was safe to say you would be completely jealous of any girl that ends up with him.

While attempting to have a little more rice you watched Bucky respond to his phone that had gone off a few times. It was hard not to glance over at him, imagining what pretty girl he was probably talking to.

What you didn’t know was Bucky was talking to a girl, Bobbi, cancelling the plans they had rescheduled for today. He didn’t bother to reschedule again and Bucky knew it was stupid not to but somehow the weekend he’s spent on your couch made him lose all enthusiasm for dating someone. Logic tried to reason with him, remind him that you were in a relationship but it was hard to deny the way he felt about you, how he’s been feeling for a long time now.

Bucky can’t stop staring at you, watching as you finish up the rice from earlier. He’s hated seeing you in pain but being able to help you this weekend has been such an honor.

As the sun set you realized you were not at all prepared to go back to work tomorrow. You probably could use another day off but since you weren’t throwing up anymore you wanted to at least give it a shot. Besides, Tony had been relying on you a lot recently with the logistics of getting The September Foundation prepared and you didn’t want to disappoint anyone.

“I need to take a shower.” As you stood up you felt a little dizzy and Bucky had his arms around you just in case. After a moment of a few deep breaths you felt a little better. “I’m okay,” you assured him.

Bucky didn’t quite believe that so he poured more Gatorade and handed you the glass.

“I’m not leaving you.” Bucky wiped his hand down his face realizing how forceful that sounded. “I mean, I won’t leave until you get out okay? I don’t want you to slip and fall or anything.”

“I’ll leave the door unlocked just in case but now I feel like I’ve jinxed myself,” you joked. Having Bucky hear your vivid description of shitting was bad enough, you really didn’t want him to find you passed out in the shower.

Bucky lowered the volume of the TV to barely above mute, wanting to listen out for anything out of the ordinary. He heard the shower turn on and a minute later the curtain pulling as you stepped in.

A text from Sam pulled his attention away from listening and he opened the message, his jaw clenched as he scanned the photo attached. It was Billy, with his arm around another girl. She was short with dark hair pulled into a bun, dressed professionally and Bucky questioned if he was jumping the gun at thinking the worst. Maybe she worked with Billy or maybe it was his sister.

The next text that came through proved his theories wrong. Sam captioned the picture of Billy kissing the girl with “Asshole.”

Bucky: I’m with Y/N now. She’s been sick all wknd I don’t think she knows about this.

Sam: Do you want to tell her or should I have Wanda come by? She’s ready to rip his head off.

Bucky: So am I Bucky: Fuck. Bucky: idk maybe Wanda should talk to her?

There was nothing Bucky wanted more than to tell you what an asshole Billy was but he didn’t want to be accused of using it to his advantage in any way. Bucky would be there with everyone else to support you through this but as a friend only. You deserved better than Billy no matter who you ended up with.

“Bucky!”

The sound of your voice in distress makes him pop up from the couch. He runs to the door, fear coursing through his veins as he hopes you’re okay. Inside the steamy bathroom he finds your head poking out through the shower curtain, the rest of it pulled close to your body not to reveal yourself.

“I forgot to grab a towel,” you said, smiling. “They’re over there.” A bare arm slick with water points behind him and he grabs a towel from a shelf. “Thanks,” you said, taking it from him, watching as he nods awkwardly before shutting the door.

Bucky’s cheeks are flushed from the brief humidity and the sight of seeing you in the shower. Well, not that he saw anything but just the idea of it has his heart racing.

Ten minutes later and you were out of the bathroom, changed into new pajamas, these ones covered with a cute cactus print, brushing through your still wet hair.

Silence filled the room as you finished your post shower routine of putting on a variety of moisturizers and facial sprays and Bucky felt like he had overstayed his welcome. You were winding down even though it was still early, and truthfully he had a weekend’s worth of work to catch up on.

“So there’s more rice on the counter, plus an unopened bottle of ginger ale too, and if you need anything else you know where I live.” He chuckled uncomfortably at his bad joke. “Really though if you need me please call me okay? I’ll come running.”

He didn’t mean to sound so desperate but it was true.

“Thank you so much for everything Bucky.” You threw your arms around him for a hug, melting deeper into him as he wrapped his arms around your body.

Neither of you realized the other didn’t want to let go but you made the move to reluctantly pull apart. Bucky had spent his whole weekend doting on you, you didn’t want to force him to stay any longer.

Bucky smiled as he gazed upon you, the way your eyes shifted down before staring back up at him. He leaned in slowly, pressing his lips to your forehead and a surge of electricity went racing through you. His kiss lingered and the longer he made contact with your skin the more you wanted to press your lips to his.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he said, walking away slowly towards the door.

Your heart was caught in your throat as you locked it behind him, letting out a deep, longing sigh, and the realization that you might have feelings for Bucky.

PART 15

[novantinuum]

Fandom: Steven Universe

Rating: T

Words: 1.3K~

Summary: His family’s not present, the third time he runs away. They never see the creature he becomes.

Early corruption AU.

I’m back! Future updates are likely to be slower as I am starting a new job soon, but at very least I have now settled into my new home. I share some writer’s meta on the AO3 version.

If you read this and enjoy, I’d greatly appreciate your support through reblogs here, or kudos/comments on AO3 as well. Thank you! <3

____

“So, I’ve been doin’ a lot of thinking,” Amethyst begins one day, propping her chin against the raised lip of the lava pool as she lounges on the floor at the center of the temple’s burning room, which they’ve started to use as their meeting space again.

Pearl— standing beside one of the lower branches of crystal pipes— tiredly glances her direction, nodding for her to speak. Even Garnet’s head tilts in interest, which is quite an accomplishment given her recent uncharacteristic silence. She suspects that she’s been busying herself scouring through whole galaxies of possibilities, although she’s not sure what good that will do without any reasonable intel to guide that vision. It’s been well over a week and a half since Steven’s gone missing, and beyond the existence of what they suspect is a corrupted Gem and footprints leading towards the water, they have no further clues. No inklings as to where Steven might have disappeared to, no hits from Greg’s posters, not even any leading tips from Homeworld or any of the outlying Gem-inhabited planets. And as for this particular creature... they’ve only met a single eyewitness. A human, who briefly caught its silhouette against the backdrop of sunrise. Perhaps if it ran further inland it would’ve tripped one of their old corrupted Gem surveillance sensors, but they never placed any in the oceans. They barely have any means to survey the oceans.

“I’ve been talkin’ to all sorts of people the past few days, right?” Amethyst says, widely gesturing as she rolls onto her back. “All Steven’s friends. People in town who knew him pretty well. And pretty much everyone agrees that he was actin’ pretty weird these past few months. Sadie described him as overly-tense. I called up Lars on his ship, and he kept saying that he was genuinely worried about his mental health, or whatever. Greg told me the same thing. And Connie. And basically everyone else.”

Pearl rhythmically flexes her fingers in and out of a fist against her side, her features rapidly curling into a scowl. “And what does that have to do with his disappearance?”

“Uh, potentially everything?” she snips back, throwing her hands in the air above her. “Y’guys, you’ve been making so many assumptions, but we barely know anything! You can’t just blindly throw out the idea that the whole corrupted Gem thing and Steven are linked without at least considering it.”

She grimaces, not even bothering to filter out the full intensity of her bitterness in the audience of such a ridiculous, illogical notion. “Amethyst, we’ve talked about your little ‘theory’ already. And everyone agreed that it’s impossible.”

“And yet it’s true that Steven has defied the impossible before,” Garnet comments suddenly, adjusting her visor.

“Are you defending her?” Pearl gasps, turning towards her old friend with her mouth agape with shock.

She crosses her arms, evidently unbothered by the weight of her subtle betrayal as she lounges back against the entryway. “I’m not defending nor rejecting, merely acknowledging a possibility.”

“Yeah, see?” the younger Gem chimes right back in, quickly pushing herself to her feet to rise to her full height. (Which blessedly— if she’s aiming for intimidation— isn’t much.) “Garnet gets it! Steven’s different than us. Always has been. His powers just do what whatever the hell he’s feeling, right? He feels happy, he floats. He feels spooked, bam! Bubble. He feels like an old man, he literally turns into one. And recently, it seems like he’s been feeling pretty crappy, which probably wasn’t helped by us getting all up in his business after he crashed the van.”

She squints. “Is this going anywhere?”

“Yes,” Amethyst stresses, peering right up at her, her eyes flaring with an urgency and passion Pearl admittedly hasn’t seen her wielding in quite some time. “Because I also talked to Jasper the other day. And she gave me the last piece of the puzzle I needed.”

The quartz steps back to address them both, hands nervously fidgeting with the frayed stitching of her missing sibling’s wool jacket.

“I gotta admit, this isn’t easy news, but it has to be shared.” She inhales tightly, briefly closing her eyes as she does so. “I’m pretty sure the reason Steven had her in the bathroom is that he was trying to heal her with the diamond essences he keeps there. Because he shattered her, in a duel.”

Pearl freezes. The kinder reality she’s stubbornly nurtured within her mind ignites and burns to cinders in an instant, hard light thrumming through the thin circuitry of her extremities at such an unimaginable pace that her form barely manages to keep up with the strain. She nearly crumples to her knees upon the sheer anguish of the revelation, only narrowly catching her fall to remain upright. Across the room, Garnet appears to be on the brink of splitting apart. She... shards, her primary instinct screams for her to violently discard every last bitter tasting word Amethyst has spoken into the furthest recesses of her mind, to rot and decay there for the rest of this cursed eternity, and yet still her picture perfect memory chooses to taunt her with details of the recent past... with the hauntingly damning fact that— when she checked the bathroom after watching Steven warp away, the last moment any of them laid eyes on him— the bottles of diamond essence had indeed been sloppily spilled into the bathtub.

“Her words, mind you, not mine,” Amethyst continues, no amount of stabilizing calm in her tone able to mask the slight tremor under the surface. “You can ask her yourself, if you want.”

“No,” she whispers, hot tears budding in her eyes as she presses her hands to her mouth. “That’s not what happened, it can’t be...”

“So, returning to my theory, you have a kid who’s already feeling terrible, someone whose powers do whatever he’s feeling. A diamond. And then he makes the worst possible mistake: he shatters someone. Accident or not, it don’t matter. Because maybe then... he starts feeling like a monster. Becomes a monster.”

“No,” she shakes her head vehemently. “No, no. Corruption doesn’t work that way, you—“

“Like, think about it!” Amethyst interrupts, striding towards her again. “Really think about it! All we know for sure is—“

“Amethyst, you have to STOP, this—“

“—corruption was caused by the Diamonds, but besides tha—“

“—you have absolutely no idea what you’re talking abo—“

“—how it actually works is like a total mystery!”

“NO!” she explodes, plunging the room around her into a dreadful silence. “You weren’t there, but I WAS!!” The burdens of her personal history grow heavier still as she jabs a decisive finger square at the center of her chest, continuing her impassioned tirade with water trailing down her cheeks in thin rivulets all the while. “I watched as that horrid corrupting light slammed against the surface, nearly obliterating any living Gem in its path, I watched as my friends and allies lost all control over their forms and became a twisted shadow of their former selves, I watched all of that!! So you don’t get to tell me what I do or don’t know about corruption!”

Amethyst’s expression sobers considerably in the audience of her outrage. Pointedly, as if expecting rescue, she turns her gaze to Garnet, who has her arms hugged around her middle as if holding herself in one piece. Quite honestly, after the horrid news they’ve just become privy to, she probably is.

“We should move on to a new subject,” the fusion states frankly, once again avoiding any clear stance on the topic. “This is clearly making Pearl very upset.”

The quartz’s eyes alight in clear indignation. “Y’know what? Fine,” she spits, shoving her hands in her pockets and storming towards the doorway. “If both of you are gonna be that sensitive, I’ll take my ideas somewhere else. But just for the record?” she says, whirling back to face them mere inches before passing through the temple’s threshold. “The reason Steven keeps running away is staring back at us in the mirror. You just refuse to see it. And that’s not my problem.”

[crimson-dxwn]

AT ODDS 6 (Kal Skirata x F!OC)

Summary: Tea gets spilled at Kyrimorut. Ordo gets involved. Ori makes a choice and a new enemy.

Warnings: Mando profanity, pregnancy, SPOILERS for Republic Commando books (all but the last one), medical shit, surgery, fucking SADS

As always, so many thanks to @detroitbydark who lets me screech about my weird fic and Kal and Ori! Also this is barely edited be kind, I’m on my psych rotation and barely scraping by. 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kal realizes he’s slipped the figurine into the pocket of his bodysuit semi-consciously in his hasty retreat from the apartment. Knotted Jonah wood whittled smooth forms two stylized figures, one large and one small, their hands joined between them. 

He barely registers the ride back home and comming Mij. They need a plan, and they need one fast if they are going to find her. He knows little about how the Empire treats their prisoners compared to the late Republic, but he isn’t about to have any illusions of honor or fair play. After all, he doesn’t play fair himself. But there’s a hydrospanner thrown into the mix. What he doesn’t know is how the Imps treat prisoners with … unique health conditions. Or if they even give half a bantha’s shebs. Odds are they send men and women alike to those osik’la camps he’s gotten word of. Yeah, the Empire was equal opportunity like that. 

If Mereel can’t slice into the system remotely, they were going to have to do an old-fashioned infiltration. He’d ask his ad’ike if they were up to task, there’s no way he could ask to put them in danger, not after the entirety of their lives being war. It hurts him to even think about asking. But he has to do this, even if it’s just his sorry shebs. 

He tries to put on a good Sabaac face when he’s back in the karyai, discreetly gathering up all the surplus weapons they have that he finds might be useful for an infiltration into a heavily armed and fortified position. 

Mereel of course, catches on within minutes. 

“You’re going to find her,” Mereel interrupts. Kal yanks his head up out of the gun locker to look at his son. “And you didn’t even think to ask for backup?”

His son’s tone is accusing, edging on hurt. That he did not expect.

“It’s my fuckup, son,” he replies, “I’m the one who needs to fix it. I can’t ask you to do this.”

“What’s so special about this doctor?” Mereel slams the door of the locker shut. It’s obvious his ad’ika is protective. They all are. 

“She delivered your ba’vodu’ad, Mereel. I’m pretty sure she saved Parja’s life.” Kal says, keeping his eyes on his work, cleaning the weapons, arranging the ammo he needs. Sharpening his father’s three-sided knife. 

“And that’s enough to go up against the Empire? ”

He’s going to have to spit it out. Mereel is looking at him expectantly, sure that he’s going to change his mind, see reason. 

“She’s pregnant, son.” Mereel, who has been away for the events of the last few months, just stares back at him in a puzzled fashion, brows slightly furrowed. Looking at him like he’s lost his damn mind. Maybe he has. 

“It’s yours, isn’t it?”

In comes a second voice, and the accusatory tone startles him enough that, when added to his baseline urgency and anxiety, causes his hand to slip and nick itself as he sharpens his knife. 

“Osik,” he hisses, holding pressure to the cut as blood wells, looking up to the figure in the doorway. Ordo. Mereel stares at his brother, unsure whether he is joking. Kal sighs. He should know better, trying to keep things from them. The last time he was successful at that was when they were four. 

“Does it matter?” 

“Maybe,” Ordo replies, just this edge of indignant, “is she carrying my vod?” 

A strange and protective piece of him flares at Ordo’s tone and Kal stands, still holding the cloth to his cut hand. 

“Most likely.”

“Then we need to get her back.” Ordo meets his eye finally and Kal nods, satisfied, and starts gathering ammo from the safes. This time Mereel moves to help, still in a rare state of stunned silence. 

By the time they’ve gathered what they need and loaded it into aayhan, Mereel has a willing team assembled and what they know of the building schematics up on a datapad in the karyai. Fortunately for them, the team won’t be breaking into any prison blocks, which are bound to be heavily guarded. 

“All we have to do is get into the information security room that houses the main terminal,” Mereel starts confidently. “We can stay far away from the security blocks and the bucketheads.” 

“Though it would be fun to bust some vode out of there,” Scorch adds. 

“Not our mission,” says Mereel, regret plain in his voice, “we’ll have to get them another time.” The realization that they were leaving prisoners at the mercy of the empire sobers the group even more. It was becoming more and more apparent that more planning was needed before they could root out the Empire on Mandalore. Meanwhile, Kal had set Uthan to the task of trying desperately to make their own homebrew vaccine. 

---

It’s been many many years since he’s fastroped. Lately, he has been finding that it’s been years since he’s done many things. Fastroping, underwater diving...fathering kriffing kids. He swallows, hard and regroups himself. Every single one of them needs to be focused if they’re gonna pull this job off. 

Yes, he’s fast roped before. But he’s never liked it. Where his sons get twitchy when confined to tight spaces, he finds himself sweating more than usual under his beskar the more stories they climb. Right now, they’re about ten stories up, far above the sensors of the garrison and way above his tolerance for heights. They have about a minute to pull this off before the Imps realize this transport is lingering too long in their airspace. 

Mereel, Sev, Scorch, and Kal are in Aayhan, hovering silently above the Keldabe imperial garrison in the inky black late summer night. The humidity sticks his tactical garments to his skin, making it itch and crawl in addition to his surging adrenaline. That was one thing that never changed, no matter how old he got, no matter how many missions he’s finished - that nauseating spike of pure fear and bliss. 

He gives the signal to move move move and soon he’s roping down, strong north Mandalorian wind whipping around him, soaking through his underlayer. The four of them land silently on the roof of the compound, and Scorch starts laying a strip charge along the floor to create a hole leading below, straight into the admin offices. Four sets of Mando armor gleam lowly in the moonlight. It’s a perfect night for an op like this, whipping wind obscuring any slight noise they did make and the faint whine of aayhan’s engines. The charges detonate with a controlled bang and flash of bright light that briefly blinds his HUD. Kal switches to night vision.

*His child*. It’s barely a concrete concept in his mind yet, but an instinctual piece of him knows the truth. The timing is too perfect for him to be wrong. The way Orla had looked at him in the med center…

The stakes are too high to fail, and distracting thoughts get men killed. Mereel leads the way through the door, rifle at the ready, and Kal banishes his musings to the back of his mind, pushed away by a fresh rush of adrenaline. It’s a stealth mission, and they navigate by night vision, as silently as their boots will allow. 

They stalk through dark quiet hallways lined with innocuous office doors until they reach the end, what is presumably the CO’s office, with its durasteel double doors and obviously larger size. 

Mereel starts in on slicing the door panel while Sev shoots out the camera in the hallway corner while the rest of them listen for any approaching patrols. It was only a matter of time before someone noticed they were there, whether it was the hole in the roof or the blacked out camera. The double doors open quietly and they head inside. Vau’s boys guard the door while he and Mereel crowd the desk in the middle of the room. 

“I need a few minutes to get into this,” Mereel says, eyes locked onto the screen before him. One of his slicing tools is between his teeth.

“You’ll get it, son. We’ll take care of anything that tries to get in our way.” 

So far it looks like no one has noticed them. The imps must really be confident in the plan to neutralize Mandalore with so few guards and patrols. Sweat drops trickle down the back of his neck and into his bodysuit.

Mereel studies the datapad stripping the system for a few more moments and turns it towards Kal. There’s a concerned look stretched across his handsome face. Together the watch the recorded scene on the screen before them. 

There’s Orla, still in her work clothes, talking with an Imp who’s behind this very desk, flanked by two stormtroopers. He knows those gestures - she’s spitting mad, barely containing the fury that was directed toward the man behind the desk. Without audio he can only guess as to the contents of their conversation. The Imp behind the desk gives a short reply and nods curtly to the right-hand trooper who, without hesitation, raises his blaster rifle and cracks her across the face with the butt end. She doesn’t even see it coming. Even in the shades of blue from the holoprojector the blood is obvious, trickling down the side of her face. 

Kal is livid, trembling so finely it’s barely visible, and he almost forgets where they are for a moment. Deep in enemy territory, with hostiles incoming any minute. 

Mereel makes a disgusted noise from deep in his chest as they watch her be pushed to the ground. They follow the video feed where she’s led to a cell. His breath catches. There’s a chance she’s still here. His hope is tempered, however, when an alarm starts to sound from within the garrison. A patrol must have finally found their breach point.

“Sarge?” warns a voice from outside the door. It’s Sev, by the gravelly tone. 

“Almost finished,” he shouts, over the screeching din. Mereel continues to work furiously, his bulk hunched over the console. He’s able to parse through incredible amounts of data with immense precision; Kal can practically feel the concentration rolling off him. 

“Wait,” Mereel says. Kal looks over at the screen. They’re centered on a video feed again, this time outside. The sheer amount of prisoners in line for the transport is shocking enough, but the fact that none of them are in armor is even more appalling. The Imps are slowly stripping their culture away, plate by plate. 

“She’s not on the manifest for this transport, even though the records say she leaves.” 

It doesn’t make sense. Unless… Kal knows Mereel must be thinking the same as him. Judging by the brutality of the footage they’ve watched, the stories from around the planet, he wouldn’t put it past the Empire to take care of a pesky problem in the easiest way they knew how. It wasn’t something that supposedly peaceful, orderly governments liked to keep records of. His dread and guilt intensifies, leadening his limbs already weighed down by heavy beskar. 

He chokes the words out. He has to know. “Is there any footage of…” Kal can’t bring himself to say them. It doesn’t need to be said, Mereel knows what he’s looking for. He’s been in a war zone long enough to know that armies aren’t sentimental. 

“No, no footage. Just them leading her away.” The alarm continues to blare. It could be minutes, seconds before they have to blast their way out. 

“Here.”

Kal steels himself to watch. It’s his fault, he reminds himself again. Two more fresh marks in his ledger. His arm reaches automatically to his son’s to steady himself. He feels Mereel’s slump ever so slightly, whether it’s in relief or defeat, he can’t tell. 

“I have what I need,” he says, “time to go. Debrief can wait for later.” Distant footsteps start to echo towards them, modulated shouts following close behind. They were about to be grossly outnumbered, by the sound of it. Kal shoves his helmet back on, heading through the doorway and signaling Sev and Scorch to follow. 

They wind through the garrison, avoiding both patrols and squads of stormtroopers sweeping the building. It’s laughably easy compared some of the other heists they’ve pulled - except he speaks too soon. As they make their way out of the back door of the garrison onto the Keldabe streets, one squad catches up to them. Ordo has aayhan back at Kyrimorut - earlier they had decided it was too risky for the four of them to fly home and possibly expose the homestead. So instead their plan was to run the winding streets and strategically borrow a transport. The problem is that Kal is pushing sixty and the other men are - physiologically at least - still in their early twenties. They’re a lot kriffing faster than him, even with his ankle fixed. 

The streets and alleys twist and turn, switching from ancient cobbles to smooth duracrete without warning. Easy enough to get lost if you’re a local, they are impossible to navigate as aruettiise. Soon the four are panting, ducked into an alcove off a cobbled alley. Finally, it seems they’ve dodged the patrol. Only time will tell if they were recognized. Kal finds he doesn’t much mind if they know his face. In fact, he hopes they do. He wants to meet that garrison officer. 

-------

Imperial Rehabilitation Center

Weeks later

19 BBY

Life isn’t all doom and gloom. They are kept...occupied. Like rats in a maze. Ori shares a bunk with another Mandalorian, the only other there. Taren is a kid really, small and slight except for her distended belly. It’s obvious she’s used to wearing armor by the way she walks, how upright she holds herself, arms swaying slightly away from her body. And how she closes in on herself when she realizes it’s not there, when it’s nighttime in their room and thinks Ori can’t hear her sob breathlessly into her pillow every night. 

It’s almost childish, the way they’re herded from room to room. Chaperoned and on a schedule, like one would handle a naughty child needing extra discipline. It was how she imagines Coruscanti boarding schools some of her medical school classmates attended - polished stone floors and crisp uniforms, all strict routines and synchronized repetition. It’s meant to numb the mind, making days run into weeks. She suspects they’re kept intentionally disoriented. After all, most of them are still political prisoners, and many she’s found have important connections on their respective homeworlds. 

They’re at lunch, scattered around their assigned tables. Generously, they are allowed to converse during meals, though their seats remain assigned. The ‘rehab center’ has proven to be much more expansive than she expected - some rooms are swallowingly large, like the one she is in now, and some are as small as a broom closet, connected by narrow winding hallways. The building itself could have been any number of things in a past life - a school, factory, or prison. She supposes it doesn’t matter much now. Today there’s a newcomer, sitting quiet and sullen at a back table with the Corellians. Time would tell if she was one of them or if she hailed from a different world. 

An arm jostles her, hitting her square in the ribs. It successfully knocks her out of her analysis of the newcomer. 

“-did you hear what I just said?” Taren says, mouth full of tasteless nutritional paste. It’s far from delicious, but you ate what they give out and she is hungry *all the time* nowadays. A fleck lands on Ori’s face and she wipes it away with a raised eyebrow.

“Sorry, al’verde.” Commander. Her eyes roll automatically. She knows she doesn’t deserve the title. Discreetly, Ori shushes the younger woman - they’re lucky the stormtroopers here don’t understand Mando’a. 

They put together kit for new stormtroopers, morning and night. It’s another endurable humiliation. She stabs at the cubes bitterly with her spoon, scattering crumbs across the table. They’re not allowed forks or knives, not after Taren’s first week. A tiny smile flits across her face as she thinks on the memory. 

 Ori feels like a geriatric compared to the spry warrior, though they’re less than ten years apart in age. She’s seen things in that time, lost people, buried dreams. Though Taren is looking older and older by the day, cooped up in this place. 

“Theera is gone,” Taren says, “she wasn’t at breakfast either.” 

Looking around and finding no sign of the woman, Ori hums an agreement. She’ll be gone for good soon, and her baby as well. Every time someone delivers it sends a sense of unshakeable dread down her spine and into the pit of her stomach. All of them are marching slowly towards that finish line. 

The artificial hierarchy into which they are forced has made the two Mandalorians de facto leaders, despite Ori being one of the newer inmates and to cement her as *alverde*; her medical expertise makes her invaluable. 

The room hushes as Dr. Loesch sweeps down to the cafeteria, all business in crisp grey scrubs, so confident in his admiration. He insists they call him ‘Doctor L’ like he’s a popular lecturer at a university. He’s the worst kind of hut’uun, just as bad as the rest of the Imps she’s met here. Loesch is in charge of their medical care, all 100-some of them, including herself. Loesch towers over most of them, even herself. 

As a physician, Ori is personally insulted at his complacency, the fact that he is perfectly content in his post and cemented in his belief that what he was doing is just, his complicity. She stabs at her cubes some more to try and make herself feel better. 

As a woman, she’s decidedly less surprised. Men like him are everywhere, tall and handsome, handed success on a silver platter, born into families of privilege and power. Taking and taking with no thought of the carnage they leave behind. 

He saunters his way over to their table and sits with a charming smile. 

“Beviin,” he starts, “I heard through the gossip chain that you were an obstetrician before you came here?”

It’s physically painful to keep her retort in hand. She’s been here long enough to see women sent to solitary. And to see them come back, changed indefinitely. 

“Mmm,” she mumbles affirmatively through a mouthful of cubes. She swallows. “Yes.” Keep it simple, that’s easy enough. 

He smiles sardonically. “How ironic,” he adds, obviously pleased with the revelation. Expectantly, he looks around the table to gauge his joke, and they catch on, laughing softly, nervously, afraid of what might happen if they don’t. Even Ori joins in, the butt of the low blow, though her simmering rage ratchets up another level.

They finish the rest of their lunch largely in silence and Loesch pulls her away when she files out with the others. 

“Ms. Beviin,” he says conspiratorially, “I know it must be difficult for you to be here.” 

The man over her, face too close for comfort, his voice deep and low. Alarm fills her as the other people in the room dwindle until it’s just the two of them and the scattered troopers on the upper level. All Ori can think about is where the nearest exit is located when she realizes he’s still speaking to her. 

“...what do you think?” He waits patiently, a benevolent expression in his face. He blinks too little, she thinks, and his eyes are devoid of expression, shining with an amused sort of malevolence. They’re a strange shade of brown...no, green? The little noise he makes in the back of his throat brings her back to their conversation.

“Ah...sure?” she replies weakly, stunned and frozen.

“That’ll be nice for the other inmates,” he says. Incredibly white, straight teeth flash as he smiles down at her. “I think it will give them comfort to have you there. I’ll have the guards collect you when it’s time.” 

——

Three nurses eye her from across the suite. They wear sweet matching hospital uniforms, in the same soft fabric as hers except in a delicate petal pink. With a pang, she misses her fellow nurses and doctors on Mandalore. Who knows how many had fallen ill? Been arrested? The way they clustered in a little group reminded her of her schoolmates, when they found out she didn’t like fighting, whispering rumors from across the room. That she thought she was better than them, that weird girl who was more concerned with grades than winning fights and impressing boys. Now they stand across the room from her like a little bunch of flowers in their coordinated outfits, identical and perfect. She’s an other in their world, someone to be feared and hated, pitied at best. 

Orla stands awkwardly, waiting for the show to start when her stomach flips. The scrub top she has on stretches across her middle awkwardly, pulling at the seams and the soft shoes that cover her feet are obscured by her bump. The strange sensation returns, a little differently this time, just the barest flutter, deeper down than that nervous feeling. Her baby. She lays a gentle palm over the swell, as discreetly as she can, still feeling the scrutinizing looks of the women across the room.

Another nurse wheels a bed into the room, complete with Theera shivering atop it, her hair and gown drenched in sweat. Orla rushes to the head of the bed as she’s prepped for the operation. Theera is dazed, too exhausted to make much sense of anything right now, glassy eyes focused on the ceiling. She smoothes back the sweaty hair from Theera’s forehead. 

“Hey cyar’ika. It’s Ori,” she says softly. The woman’s eyes focus a little, just enough to meet hers. She bumps their foreheads together. It was as much to comfort herself as much as the other woman. Non-mandos typically didn’t understand the meaning behind the gesture. She can’t squeeze her hand like she wants to - it’s being hooked up to IV tubing.

“I’m cold,” she mumbles. Some of it is adrenaline, some from fear, and the rest from the icy operating room temperature to keep the surgeons comfortable. Drenched as she is, it’s no wonder Theera is shivering. 

Ori asks the wary tech for a warm blanket, terrified of overstepping and getting her shebs kicked out of the operating room. She’s promptly ignored in favor of his work. Dr. Loesch enters the room and the nurses titter around him while he ensures everything is prepped to his liking. Ori settles for as much skin to skin contact as she can get with Theera, trying to warm her, mumbling comforting nonsense into her ear as Loesch starts to work. A warming bassinet waits ominously against the wall for its prize. 

A thin cry interrupts their mumbling and Theera’s eyes sharpen at the noise. Loesch holds the little thing over the curtain separating them indulgently, just for a moment. A boy, he says, and she and Theera find themselves mesmerized by the bloody little thing and his tiny squished face and flailing arms, already so angry at the world. He’s held up for a second, allowing Theera a cursory glance and then whisked away by the nurses to the bassinet. His mother is still paralyzed on the table and it makes it all the more unjust that she isn’t even allowed to touch her son, see him up close. The nurses at the bassinet laugh and coo, oblivious to Theera, who starts weeping pitifully. Fat tears slide down the side of her face, wetting the starched white sheet beneath her head.

Ori is in the middle of the absolute emotional chaos around her. Theera crying, Dr. Loesch talking with his assistant about weekend plans, and the nurses with the baby, who have turned back at the sound of crying to glare at them judgementally. She can practically hear them now. Serves her right, their looks say. She deserves it. The rage congeals around Ori, settling itself in her throat. This feeling is exactly what had put her in this place to begin with and she knows she has to control it, use it somehow. She watches them place a little bracelet around the infant’s ankle and scan it into a datapad. They don’t bother with Theera. It dawns on her then that if she’s lucky - incredibly lucky - she can use the Empire’s obsession with order against them. 

She makes her way over to the bassinet under the ruse of joining the indulgent cooing that is going on, trying not to throw elbows before she’s kicked out of the room. The little boy’s leg is caught for a heel stick an she gets her chance. The number on the leg band is just visible, only for a second. She sends a prayer up to the Manda that she gets it right. 

Taglist

@clonewarslover55 @simping-for-fives @808tsuika @jedi-mando @cherry-cokes-world @nelba @fractiouskat @passionofthesith 

[onecanonlife]

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 8,205

Chapter Warnings: swearing, referenced past suic.ide

Chapter Summary: In which Wilbur tries very hard to hold a productive meeting, and does not quite succeed.

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Seventeen: ‘til the work is done

In retrospect, it’s not his best idea. He seems to be full of those, lately. Not-great ideas. This one is foolish simply for the fact that he is already tired, and gifting energy to Schlatt is a strain on his already depleted reserves. It takes about twenty minutes for him to get dizzy, and another two after that before spots start drifting across his vision, and at that point, he has to admit defeat, cutting himself off mid-sentence and breaking their connection. Schlatt swears as he loses his tangibility.

“Fuck, that felt weird,” he says. “What the fuck was that, why’d you stop?”

He wets his lips. It takes longer than it should for the words to formulate.

“I told you, we’re essentially sharing a lifeforce, Schlatt,” he says. “There’s only so much I can give you.”

Schlatt starts hovering in the air again, regarding him with a dark stare. And then, his expression clears.

“Oh, I see, so you’re being a dumbass,” he says, and Wilbur wants to protest, but he can’t get a word in edgewise. “Why the fuck are you giving me shit you can’t afford to lose, then? Jesus Christ, Wilbur, would you sit down?”

“There isn’t time for that,” he replies. “I’ve spent too long up here already. I need to go and meet with the others.”

Schlatt stares at him for a long moment. He’s not sure why. And when he speaks, his voice is—strange.

“I was right about you,” he says. “You really don’t change. Not when it comes to yourself. You’re just as stupid and self-destructive as you always have been. And now that coating of paint you try to put on over it? That’s flaking off. The only question is how many people you’re going to bring down with you this time.” He shakes his head, and his eyes narrow, expression hovering somewhere between a dark satisfaction and something else, something difficult to interpret. “You’re wearing yourself thin. I see it, everyone else can probably see it. But you can’t. Or you do, but you can’t accept it.”

(you put on a smile for the masses an upbeat tone for your friends but you’re a sinking ship and you know it, and you think it might be easier to let yourself drown even though you know you won’t, because you cannot allow yourself to fail because you are leader you are president and this is everything you fought for so it is a fault in you if you cannot handle it so you push through you make yourself and you scream into your pillow and cry yourself to sleep because at the end of the day your self-loathing clings to you like cobwebs and secondhand smoke)

He inhales.

“I don’t see how me needing to have a meeting with everyone else has led you to that conclusion,” he says, tone frosty, “but you can think what you want. And besides, you can hardly talk. We’ve had a conversation like this already.”

He turns on his heel, letting his coat flare out behind him; though, it’s still damp, so the motion isn’t nearly as satisfying as it usually is. But Schlatt follows along with him, and he grits his teeth, letting each of his footfalls resound with purpose, with confidence that he is struggling to truly find.

This was definitely a bad idea. Engaging with Schlatt always is. He should know this by now, should know that a welcome distraction can turn unwelcome at the drop of a hat.

“I never said that I was any better,” Schlatt says, “but that’s the difference between you and me, Wilbur. I know exactly what I am. You don’t know who the fuck you are, so you hide behind labels because that makes it easier for you to think about.”

(general president exile villain and round and round it goes and there is truth to his words because he scrambles for stability scrambles to fit the old roles but the fact of the matter is that he is something new and he is floundering because for all that he wants to be better he has never known how so it’s casting a coin in a wishing well and hoping)

“I know exactly who I am for the moment,” he says, “and that’s someone who’s going to get rid of the fucking Egg and pummel Dream’s face into the ground. For now, that’s more than good enough.”

He gets to the stairs again, and takes them two at a time on his way down.

“Fine, then, just don’t come crying to me later,” Schlatt says. “So, what’s the deal with Dream anyway? How the fuck did he get out of prison?”

That actually gives him pause for a second.

“I’m not actually sure,” he says. “A question for the warden.” One that he does intend to ask, if only to know how, exactly, Dream made what was supposed to be a secure prison seem like child’s play to escape. Was he waiting for the right moment all along? He’s not sure he likes the implications of that,

(especially since he deemed the right moment to be after Wilbur’s return, during the implementation of a plan that he helped to form, and it sickens him that he might have played any role in Dream’s decision making, that he might have led everyone into these circumstances, eyes wide open but blind all the same)

but it would make sense, considering everything that he’s learned, considering what he now knows of the rot that’s woven  itself into Dream’s very being. The corruption that lends him power.

“How much have you even been here for?” he continues, glancing at the ghost out of the corner of his eye. “Do you have any idea what’s been going on, or have you just been fucking around since the last time I saw you?” When you ran away from Tubbo, he does not say, and he wonders if Schlatt catches it anyway.

There is a beat, and then, “I—know that Dream’s out,” Schlatt says, the words reluctant, and he suppresses a bark of laughter.

“So, you know jack shit,” he says.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“You know jack shit,” he repeats. “That’s fine. Stick around, I’m sure you’ll get caught up to speed.”

“Oh, great, yeah, that’s exactly what I want, hanging around you chumps some more,” Schlatt mutters. “What a good time. God, I need a drink. Or you know what, I’d settle for a fucking protein shake. You got any of those around?”

He doesn’t respond. It takes some effort, but anything he could say would only rile him up further, and any indication of actually, you do not need a drink, and I am going to make sure that you don’t get one literally ever is sure to set him off, which is exactly what he doesn’t need right now. So he lets Schlatt complain as he backtracks to the entrance hall, and then to the throne room where he assumes everyone else is.

His assumptions are proved correct the moment he draws close enough to hear everyone’s voices. Talking over each other, tones fluctuating. It sounds anything but peaceful.

Eret has moved their throne aside, he notes as he stops in the doorway. Most of the room is now taken up by a large wooden table, clearly meant to be a place for meeting. He appreciates the gesture, or would, if anyone seemed to be using it. His eyes find Techno and Phil first, next to a cluster of torches; Techno is still wringing water from his hair, looking very put out, but his posture is tense, on guard, and Phil looks about the same, even as he helps Ranboo get the last of his armor off without flicking himself with water.

(it is easy to forget that his family is among enemies there, that at least a few of these people would like to see them dead)

He finds Fundy next. He’s standing by himself, ears flat against his skull, and every now and then he twitches toward Eret. But the main spectacle in the room is the ongoing argument, and he narrows his eyes, trying to pick out the participants and their stances. There’s Quackity—and that’s an interesting scar on his face, though with what he knows of the man’s combat ability, or lack thereof, he was bound to gain an injury like that sooner or later, with the server being what it is—shouting at Sam, who looks like hell, frankly, and Puffy next to Sam trying to defend him, maybe, and Sapnap by Quackity’s side trying to calm him, and then there’s Eret, who appears to be trying to mediate with little success.

“—don’t fucking care,” Quackity is saying, and he sounds near-hysterical, words spat out at a record pace, even for him, “I do not fucking care what the rules were, I do not fucking care, just, fuck, Puffy, stop trying to defend him, if he’d kept Dream locked up like he was supposed to, like his job was, like we all trusted him to, we wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place, just, I don’t fucking understand how you could’ve let that happen, Sam, I don’t—”

He keeps going, and at the same time, Eret’s voice overlaps—“We’ve been through this already, Quackity, and I don’t see how this is helping.”—with Puffy’s—“You’re the one who needs to fucking stop, it wasn’t his fault, so stop yelling at him!”—and Sapnap’s—“C’mon, Q, please, I know, but you think tearing into each other is gonna help right now?”—and Sam himself is just standing there, taking it, eyes dull.

On the other side of the room, Tommy and Tubbo appear in the opposing set of doors and draw up short, Tubbo placing his hand on Tommy’s shoulder to pull him back, face settling into what might be resignation. This isn’t the first time, then.

Schlatt whistles. “Damn,” he says. “Something about this is familiar.”

“I do not want to know that,” he replies, eyeing Quackity. “Don’t tell me anything about your relationship, I categorically do not want to know.”

“Wait, what the fuck do you think I’m talking about—”

He meets Techno’s gaze. Techno raises an eyebrow, pointedly squeezes his hair with a towel, and inclines his head, as if to say, You deal with this. He glares back, trying to convey, Fuck off, I am not in charge of corralling these fuckers, and Techno rolls his eyes, the arsehole, because of course, he knows that that’s a damn lie, and actually, he kind of has put himself in charge of corralling these fuckers.

(something about this is familiar indeed, and these could be earlier days if he takes a step back and squints, looks at them all through blurry vision, and this could be a nation risen up around a drug van if he tilts his head just right, and he could be in charge of leading them, because the original members are all here, him and Tommy and Tubbo and Fundy and Eret all here, except the arguments are sharper and lined with more desperation than any of their original squabbles, before the war became real, before everything, before it all fell apart for the first time, before it was never meant to be, and he can lead, can pretend that it is all like it was then, but it would be unwise, perhaps, to forget that it is not like then at all)

So he steps further inside, notes with some displeasure the way that no one has marked his presence yet, and says, as loud as he can, “What the fuck are you all shouting at each other for, then?”

Quackity cuts off abruptly, which solves eighty percent of the noise problem, and Puffy stops after he does, which solves another fifteen percent. Quackity wheels toward him, not quite shocked, but still surprised, perhaps.

“Holy shit,” he says. “They said you were back, but—wow, Wilbur, you’re looking good. For a dead guy, I mean.”

“Thank you, Quackity,” he says, nodding. He strides up to the table, though he doesn’t sit, and splays his hands against it. It would probably be more picturesque if he weren’t still dripping a bit, but he made his choice to forgo towels and that’s the hill he’s dying on, apparently. “You’re also looking good. It’s nice to see you.”

“Tell him he looks sexy,” Schlatt suggests, and with a great amount of fortitude, he ignores him.

“So,” he continues, “is any of this arguing actually something that needs to be happening right now? Or can we move on to arguing about different things?”

Quackity’s face twists. “I’d say we do need to be arguing about it, actually,” he says. “Look, Wilbur, I know you—you left a while ago, right, so you’ve missed a lot, so I’m not sure how much about this you know. But Sam was supposed to be in charge of the prison. He had one job, and that was to keep Dream in his cell. And now look at where we are. So, yeah, I’d say it’s something that needs to be happening.”

(people keep saying that, that he left, and that’s not quite right, because leaving is slinging a bag over one shoulder and waving goodbye and leaving implies going somewhere when he wanted to go nowhere at all, and leaving is a sanitary way to phrase the desperate exit he made and perhaps they don’t know better or perhaps they do but don’t want to confront it but either way something in him recoils whenever they say he left because that is not the word is not the word at all and if they’re going to bring it up he wishes that they would actually bring it up rather than dance all around it dance in quicksteps that serve nothing)

“I agree that it’s important,” he says. “I would like Sam to explain what happened. But I also don’t see that recriminations are where we need to be directing our energy at the moment. Considering that what’s done is done” —He meets Quackity’s gaze as steadily as he can, meets his gaze and brings all the weight of their history to bear, from the debate floor to the podium and the stage to the dark caverns of the rebellion— “and going through all of the ways that everyone in this room has fucked everyone else over hardly seems like the best use of our time.”

He knows the statement won’t land like it should. He knows that he of all people has no right to ask for this. But the longer he stands here, the more aware he is of all the bad blood in this room, the more aware he is that this particular group of people is like a powder keg set to explode, that they could all turn on each other and do Dream’s job for him at a poorly placed jab or threat. The air is thick with the complicated web that binds them all.

(betrayals and lives taken and homes destroyed and even the bedrock of a once stable foundation shaken and torn up)

“Well, that’s kind of a convenient stance to take,” Quackity shoots back, and it’s precisely the response he expected “considering what you did.”

“I’m aware,” he says, drowning out the way that Tommy audibly starts to protest. “I think my point still stands, though. Unless you really think now is the time to air out everyone’s dirty laundry. I’m sure Dream would find it entertaining, at least.”

(the words taste like ash and he feels like a hypocrite but he can’t let them see how off balance he is can’t let them know because a leader is needed and he could step aside and let someone else take the position but that has always been a weakness of his, his need for control, so even when the control is slipping he grasps it with both hands and hangs on to it with all his worth whether it’s wise or not because someone needs to lead and he does not trust himself but he trusts others even less and he has always been one to take on the responsibility even when he ought not to even when)

Quackity breathes in and out, eyes narrow.

“Alright,” he says. “No, you’re right.” He steps up to the table as well, pulling out a chair for himself, though he doesn’t yet sit. He also, Wilbur notes, does not apologize to Sam, but that’s not a requirement, even though the way Puffy is glaring suggests that she would like it to be.

“Wait,” someone says, and Wilbur starts, looking to—George, and how did he not realize George was here, too? Perhaps because he’s been quiet. Quieter than the norm, though he can’t say that he’s ever known George all that well. Or perhaps it’s just a surprise to see him around. “Is he in charge?” George continues. “Why is he in charge?” He sounds genuinely confused more than upset, but he still feels his hackles raise.

(he is placing himself in this position and it feels natural and right and feels wrong and unsteady like his footing is slipping like he’s on the edge of the cliff face and below the rockslide is starting but he can do this, he can, he can lead this, it’s just one meeting and he can do it because if not him then who else will and he can do it)

“I’m not ‘in charge,’” he

(lies? he doesn’t know doesn’t know)

says. “I’m just trying to get a meeting started. We’re all here, aren’t we?”

“Everyone we were able to find is in this room,” Eret says softly, and then, to everyone else. “And I agree with Wilbur. We need to plan out our next move. And seeing as a meeting table has been provided—” They gesture, rather pointedly, and Puffy is the first to nod, pulling out a seat and all but collapsing into it, running a hand through her hair. Sam is next, and then Tommy and Tubbo enter fully, situating themselves directly to his right. Phil is the next to approach, followed by Techno and Ranboo, and he does not miss the way Quackity’s eyes track Techno’s movements.

Before long, it’s just him and Quackity standing. A concession might be needed here, or at least, a show of one; he doesn’t actually want to cause too much conflict with the man, if it can be avoided, not right this second, so he tilts his head slightly and sits in a chair of his own, though carefully, so as not to slump into it. Sitting seems to make him realize just how tired he still is, and the urge to let himself sag is strong. But the ploy works; Quackity seats himself, Sapnap on one side and George on the other, and really, this has to be one of the strangest collections of allies to have ever existed.

It reminds him of the final days of the rebellion, a little bit. The way that so many flocked to their banner to depose Schlatt. It’s difficult to look back on, but that aspect of it, at least, is not entirely tainted. There was a sense of camaraderie among them that is not quite present here, but he doesn’t miss it for himself; in those days, too, he held himself apart, struggling to resolve himself to what he was going to do, knowing too well that the traitor they all feared existed was him.

But there’s people here who weren’t here then. And people here then who are missing now.

“Who couldn’t be found?” he asks, and it is Puffy who answers first.

“Niki,” she says, and his heart skips several beats, unprepared for that answer, though its truth is undeniable. “I tried, but we only had so much time, and I have no idea where she’s been staying these days. There also wasn’t time to get to Foolish, but he lives a long way out, so he’s probably fine.”

It is a struggle not to react outwardly. Niki. He hadn’t even thought to—

No. Now isn’t the time.

(even though he wronged her, too, wronged her as he wronged everyone else and she deserved so much better than what he could give her and she is a dear friend so dear that even Ghostbur always remembered her but it seems that in the midst of everything else he might have failed her again and she deserves a thousand apologies and all the atonement he can offer but now he may never get that chance, may never and now is not the time to focus on it but oh gods Niki)

“Jack Manifold, too,” Tubbo chimes in. “He was staying in Snowchester, but I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“Karl’s gone,” Quackity says. “But he does that a lot, so that might not necessarily mean anything.” His voice is too strained to be causal, and Wilbur has to make an effort not to react to that, too, though for an entirely different reason. He’s not sure how much Quackity knows. Not sure how much he should say, if anything at all.

(but he has seen Karl bargain with a god has seen the universe cling to him has seen the way he sidesteps in and out of reality and through time to the places inbetween and he would not have thought it of Karl of all people but perhaps that is the point)

“Hannah,” Sam offers, and nothing else. It’s not a name he knows.

“That might be everybody, though,” Sapnap says. “Alyssa and Callahan are long gone, and people like Vikkstar and Lazar haven’t been around for a while, now. Or, wait, actually, I have no idea where Hbomb is.”

“And there’s Purpled, too,” George says around a yawn. “No clue what he’s been up to these days, but he was always pretty close to Punz.”

“Oh, yeah, and the vines were all over his UFO,” Puffy agrees. “Um, and we might want to add Skeppy onto that. I have no clue where he is, but I’d be surprised if he weren’t Team Egg, since Bad is.”

There is a moment of silence.

“Is that actually everybody, then?” George says. “That’s more people than I thought.”

“It could be worse,” Phil says. His head is tilted back, eyes tracing the ceiling, though Wilbur knows him better than to think he’s actually relaxed. “We know about Dream, and BadBoyHalo, Antfrost, Ponk, and Punz. It’s a maybe on Niki, Jack Manifold, Hbomb, Skeppy, Karl—”

“Not Karl,” Quackity insists, and Wilbur is inclined to agree with that much, at least, even while Phil presses on.

“—Purpled, and—Hannah, did you say? And possibly Foolish, since we don’t know, but I’m inclined to agree with Puffy that he’s probably alright. So absolute worst-case scenario, that’s twelve, maybe thirteen people we’re up against. Pretty even odds.”

Phil’s definition of even odds, he thinks, is slightly skewed.

“Yeah, except you’re forgetting that the Egg is a demon. Dreamon, whatever. And Dream is also a demon, kind of,” Sapnap says. “That doesn’t sound even to me.”

“He’s still homeless,” Techno murmurs.

“The fuck does it matter if he’s homeless?” Quackity snaps, and then visibly quails when Technoblade looks at him, even though it’s also obvious that he’s trying not to. History there that he’s not privy to, perhaps, and he’s hardly going to bring it up right now.

“Well, I mean, we’ve already—” Fundy tries to speak up, but he’s drowned out by about four other people trying to weigh in on whether Dream’s homelessness has any bearing on the conversation, and Wilbur takes a second to frown at Techno for the hornet’s nest he’s kicked up, and by that time, Puffy’s speaking again.

(it’s fine, it’s still under control, he has this under control, it’s fine, and so what if he’s running on too few hours of sleep and so what if he wants to set his head down on the table and stay there, because he’s not about to actually do that, and it’s fine, he’s fine, it’s all fine)

“What about you guys?” she says, and everyone else falls quieter. “You were looking for dreamon-related stuff, right? Did you find anything? Honestly, we weren’t sure that you guys would be back this soon.”

“Is that where you went?” Schlatt asks. “How the fuck did that lead to you antagonizing a god?”

He ignores him, still. It’s the only option, really. “We went through as many of the stronghold’s” —There are several exclamations at that, at the fact that they know where one of the server’s strongholds is, as well as a sigh from Phil, no doubt an objection to spreading that tidbit around, but he continues— “books as we could, but we didn’t find anything. I did attempt to provoke a god into helping us, so we’ll see if that pans out at all, but I wouldn’t call it a wasted trip. I also managed to confirm for sure that the Egg is a dreamon, but I think we pretty much knew that.”

There is another moment of complete silence.

“I’m sorry, you did what now?” Quackity asks, and from where he’s drifting behind him, Schlatt starts cackling, loud and extremely irritating, a wheezy undertone to it that makes no sense considering that he does not need to breathe.

“I attempted to provoke a god into helping us,” he repeats. “I’m not sure whether I succeeded or not—in the helping area, at least. They were very provoked. But—” He pauses, considering. It’s always a tricky game, figuring out what to say and what to keep close to the chest, but this case is harder than most. “Actually, Sapnap and George, I’d like to ask, were you aware that Dream is a god? Or was a god?”

He is predicting the chaos that erupts after that, all exclamations and incoherent sounds, most of them some variation on either “What?” or “Fuck!” or some combination of both. But he keeps his gaze flickering between George and Sapnap, measuring their reactions. George’s face goes blank—shock, he thinks, rather than the expression of someone being caught out. And Sapnap’s jaw drops slightly.

“Dream’s not a god,” he says, and his voice overrides everyone else’s. “Dream’s not—there’s no way he could’ve kept that from us. Absolutely no way.”

“He’s not now,” he agrees. “He separated himself from the vast majority of his power, somehow, when he realized he’d be corrupted by the remnants of the dreamon. But he was one. I’m sure of that much. He may have hidden it from you, but I am certain of it.”

Sapnap’s face reddens.

“Aw, I think you hurt his feelings, Wilbur,” Schlatt says.

“Dream’s not a god,” Sapnap says again. “He’s not.”

“Even if he is, what does it matter?” Fundy says suddenly. “Especially if he’s not one now. It’s the dreamons that we have to deal with. The Egg, and whatever’s left in Dream. So if we don’t have anything that can take care of that, then what the fuck is all of this for? We have nothing.”

“Weird time for the kid to grow a spine,” Schlatt comments, and he’s ignoring him, he’s ignoring him, even though the vitriol in his son’s voice hits like a knife driven through stitches, back into a wound not yet healed. Fundy’s not looking at him, and the avoidance only makes it worse.

(it is directed at you it has to be it has to be that it is directed at you and it hurts hurts hurts and there is no one to blame but yourself and it hurts and you’re so tired and you have to stay in control but it hurts)

A hand touches his. He glances down to find that he’s clenched them, that his knuckles are white and his palms are stinging from the bite of his fingernails in his flesh, and Tommy has placed his hand on his, watching him. It is an effort to relax even a little bit, but for Tommy’s sake, he manages it.

Tubbo clears his throat. “What Fundy is getting at, I think, is that even with the stuff that me and Fundy have, it won’t be enough to kill them. Maybe we could banish the Egg, but apparently the exorcism we used on Dream wasn’t entirely effective, so we can’t be sure of that much. So maybe we’re not quite at square one, still, but we haven’t gotten that far. And if we can’t beat the dreamons, we can’t beat the Egg. Since the Egg is a dreamon.” He shrugs. “We’ve managed to keep it out. And as long as none of us break the enchantments from the inside, we should be fine to hold out here. But in the way of attacks, we don’t have much.”

“Great,” Quackity says. “So where the fuck does that leave us, then?”

He narrows his eyes at the table, attempting to collect his thoughts, and then looks back up. “I think we’re getting a bit off track,” he says. “Sam, is there anything that you can remember from the moment that Dream broke out that you think might be relevant?”

He tries to keep his voice, if not gentle, then at least free of blame, perhaps because he sees what Quackity apparently doesn’t; there is nothing he could say that would assign more fault than Sam has already assigned to himself. His eyes are dark, shadowed, and what skin is visible above the lines of his mask is pale and gaunt. It’s only been two days, little though that seems possible, but Sam appears as though he hasn’t eaten or slept for a week. Frankly, Wilbur hopes that he’s not planning to join in the fight that is sure to be on the horizon; he hardly looks as if he could effectively wield a sword. He is a far cry from the confident, stoic warden he met in the prison a few weeks ago.

“I don’t know,” Sam says, voice half a moan. “I think—I didn’t go in his cell. I know that for sure. I’d have no reason to. I didn’t go in, and the lava wasn’t lowered, so somehow, he escaped despite that. Which doesn’t make any sense, since the prison was designed to cut people off from any extraneous powers that they might otherwise have access to, and that includes admin abilities.” He stops for a second. The table has fallen silent again, though this time, there is a certain anticipation to it, a horror. Even Quackity looks considering rather than outraged. “I didn’t see him coming. He stabbed right through my armor. And I don’t—maybe it’s related to the demon thing. Or maybe—Wilbur, you said he was a god?”

His voice rises in pitch on the last sentence, cracks a bit on the last word, and Wilbur is suddenly reminded that Sam, like Sapnap and George, has known Dream for a very long time. Known Dream for a very long time and somehow, not known this.

“He was,” he says. “I don’t know how much of that power he still has. Not much, I’d imagine, but in combination with demonic corruption, perhaps that doesn’t matter. And in any case, it’s not something you would have known to plan for.”

“Wait,” Schlatt says, “is that why he could see me? Wilbur, what does it mean that he could see me? Does that mean something?”

He blinks. That—might actually be a good point. One that he hasn’t thought about in some time, though where he fits that into the mess of puzzle pieces spread out before him, he has no idea.

“So we’re back to square one there as well,” Phil says.

“Then I’ll reiterate, where the fuck does this leave us?” Quackity says. “We’ve been doing a whole lot of talking here, but not a whole lot of actual planning. Does anybody actually have an idea of what to do, or are we going around in circles?”

“I don’t see you offering much of anything either,” Eret points out.

“Yeah, ‘cause I don’t know what the fuck is happening!” Quackity shoots back. “At least I can admit that instead of yanking everyone around pretending like I know what I’m doing!”

That is a barb, probably, but Quackity isn’t even looking at him, is glaring at Eret, and this is about to erupt into another argument, and he thinks he’s going to allow it to, because even laying out all the information available to them isn’t getting them anywhere, and even if he had the ability to impose control over the room, there is still a part of him that whispers, that cries out that he does not have the right, and any moment now they will decide that punishing him for his crimes should be higher on the list of priorities, especially if he tries to step back into his old role, and—he’s not nearly as over this as he hoped he was, is he?

(he forgot how to trust a long time ago and perhaps these fears are baseless but that makes them no less potent and he forgot how to trust a long time ago he cannot trust them he cannot and he holds none of his former power not even that which was rightfully his he holds none of it and he cannot trust)

(he can control this he can lead but)

(but he)

(he’s supposed to be)

(a question, one that you do not want to confront: were you ever in control?)

So he lets them. He lets them talk over each other. Even Tommy joins in after a moment, after a sideways glance and another squeeze of his hand, and he can’t even pay attention to what everyone is saying.

It is difficult to keep his shoulders erect. There is a weight trying to bring his head down to his chest. It’s just an argument, and he can hardly expect anything less from these people, so bitter have the tides of history turned between them all, but it feels like a failure on his part, and his thoughts are fracturing again, flying beyond his grasp.

“Wil,” Phil murmurs next to him, but he just shakes his head.

“Yeah, this is going great,” Schlatt says. “Good job with the meeting. Y’know, when I was in charge, I didn’t let any of this happen. I ruled with an iron first. People listened to me. They respected me.”

“And then you died in a drug van,” he says, “from a heart attack, surrounded by people who hated you.”

This gets him an extraordinarily strange glance from Phil, but no one else is paying attention. He can’t keep track of who is snapping at who, but they’re all snapping at each other. In a way, Schlatt is right; the peace lasted, what, ten minutes at most?

Schlatt is silent.

Fundy is looking at him, too. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t want to read the expression on his face. He doesn’t want—

“Wait,” Schlatt says suddenly, “wait, fuck, do you feel that?” He sounds genuinely alarmed, for once, and after a second, Wilbur feels it too, feels

(the air in the room alight and alive and their voices waver in and out of tune with the underlying melody and the regard lies heavily on them all and the universe is always there is always with you in the back of your mind but it is leaning in closer leaning in over your shoulder and you feel)

the way the atmosphere shifts. His ears fill with white noise. Everyone is still arguing, and they need to stop, but he can’t force the words out. Beside him, Phil jolts. Tommy grips his hand tighter. He doesn’t know if they’re saying anything, can’t hear anything past the ringing.

(a realization, dim and far too late: he really should have tried to get some more sleep)

Schlatt curses. He can hear that, for some reason, loud and clear. And then, he becomes aware of the tether again, aware that the tether is being pulled, is being yanked on, a burst of energy departing from him, energy that he’s fairly sure he might not actually have to give, and—

“Hey, could you all just shut up for two fucking seconds?” Schlatt says, voice almost causal, strong, no longer echoing, and the static clears from his mind and ears, and the room is once again quiet. His hands have begun to shake, and the tether is pulling on his heart, he thinks. He doesn’t have to turn to know that Schlatt stands behind his chair, solid as anything.

His heart is literally fluttering. That might not be good.

“What,” Quackity says, “the fuck.”

And he doesn’t say anything else. Because the god appears, then, hovering over the meeting table, cloak fluttering without wind, twin halos circling their head, and it’s interesting, that he can see those now without straining his mind. The space under their hood no longer appears full of shadows, but rather of the universe itself, a darkness that is not empty, starstuff swirling just out of view.

“Oh, shit, that actually is a god,” Schlatt mutters.

He hears the humming. It bolsters him, a bit, boosts his flagging strength. He takes in a deep breath, and his heart calms, steadies.

He focuses.

“Is hovering over tables the only way you know how to make an entrance?” he asks.

The god’s hood swings his way.

“I asked the universe,” they say. “The universe did not refuse.”

“What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck,” Quackity is muttering under his breath. Eret is staring, jaw slack. Puffy has grabbed onto Sam’s arm. The reactions on his side of the table are less pronounced; Phil and Ranboo have seen the god before, Techno is not one to be impressed without what he considers due reason, and Tommy refuses to be cowed on general principle, though he does hear him and Tubbo both let out a, “Holy shit,” under their breaths, almost in unison.

But Sapnap has risen to his feet, eyes wide.

And George says, “Dream?” His voice does not waver. He sounds curious, confused. Perhaps hopeful.

The god actually seems to still, the motion of their cloak dying down as they turn away from Wilbur and toward the other side of the table.

“Once,” they say, and Wilbur is surprised that they’re answering at all, to be honest. “No longer.” They pause. “He loved you. May yet still, under the corruption that has taken him. I am sorry.”

The god does not know human emotions. The god is not a person in their own right, not really; they are built of the power of a god and little else. But somehow, Wilbur almost believes that they mean it.

Sapnap makes a gasping sound, like air tried to escape his lungs but got caught in his throat. George has sat up straighter in his seat, his whole body leaning toward where the god is hovering. His hands rest on the table, palms facing upward, as if in invitation.

If it is one, the god does not take it.

(DreamXD, Karl called the god, DreamXD, Dream XD, Dream Xed, Dream crossed out, Dream but not, and perhaps this is the cruelest thing he could have done to these two, inviting a facsimile of their friend to hover in front of them, a reminder of what they lost and are not likely to ever have again, because this god could never hope to replace the man that Wilbur remembers from the beginning, the Dream that used to be and will likely never be again)

“I asked the universe,” the god says again, and turns back toward him. “The universe did not refuse. The universe sees you, and the universe would reply.” They pause, allowing that declaration to simmer in the air for a moment. Their voice echoes, and he can hear in that echo the overlay of the song, the tune, the notes that the stars hum reverberating in the world’s atoms. “If I alone were strong enough to exorcise this corruption, he would have done so when we were whole. But you have met with the universe, and the universe would aid me, so that I might aid you.”

His attention is fixed on them. But in his peripheral vision, he sees Sapnap slump back into his seat, face contorted.

(yes, this is the cruelest thing he could have done, bringing their dearest friend’s mirror reflection here)

“And what—” He stops. Wets his lips. His mouth is dry. “And what aid would that be?”

The folds of their cloak stir. A hand emerges, and the hand, too, is darkness-that-is-the-universe, and it is not connected to any arm that he can see. Their fingers splay wide, and then dropping from the air and onto the table, there are two swords. On first glance, they seem to have been forged from diamonds, sparkling blue in the throne room’s flickering firelight, but there are runes crawling up and down the blades and hilts, runes that seem to squirm and dance and shift.

And the runes are lit with starlight. He’s not sure that anyone else can see it. But he knows.

(the runes hum)

“The void is not so easily subsumed,” the god says, “and it is from the void that the corruption comes. But the void is part of the universe even as it exists outside of the universe. Corruption can be destroyed.” The hand gestures to the swords, now lying beneath them on the table. “With great effort, but the universe has joined me in it. These are the result.”

“I’ve never seen runes like those before,” Tubbo breathes, eyes wide. He leans forward, apparently overcoming his wariness. “These can—these can kill a dreamon? Like, actually?”

“The blow must be lethal,” the god says. “But the corruption can be destroyed. You asked me for help. This is all I can offer you.”

“It’s far better than nothing,” he says, and pauses, just to hear the hum, now coming from multiple sources, the swords and the god alike. “Thank you.”

“Do not fail,” the god says, and under any other circumstance, Wilbur might laugh at the words, so stereotypical, like something out of a television show. Do not fail. As if he plans to, as if he would without this prompting. “Do not allow this to be in vain.”

The world folds around them. The air compresses. Just as they appeared, they are vanish again, the only sign of their presence the swords that still glimmer before them all. The atmosphere lightens, the sensation of being watched easing away, like storm clouds dissipating. The god is truly gone, then, and staring at the blades, he’s not sure what to feel. He supposes that he hoped for more, somehow, hoped that the god would have the power to solve the issue for them, that if he could just persuade them to act then their troubles would go away. But it makes sense that they can’t; if the god’s power were enough to destroy a dreamon, then Dream wouldn’t have been possessed in the first place, and none of this would be happening at all.

This is the second best thing. The universe itself has interceded.

(and it’s such a strange thought is something that he never would have thought plausible because the universe does not interfere the universe watches and waits but he has been there in the cradle of the cosmos and felt them watching heard them whisper the stars and the space between and they watch but they watch with love and the universe has not fixed their problems has not made them magically disappear but it has given the means to do it themselves and upon further reflection that is like the universe that is very like the universe and perhaps what it has given them is hope)

“Well, that was enlightnin’,” Techno drawls. “So glad we got all of that cleared up. Can I have one of those fancy swords, or do we need to have a whole argument about this, too?”

“Why the fuck are you being so calm about this?” Quackity says. “Why the fuck—what the fuck even was—and you!” He stands, the motion quick and sharp, and he throws an accusing finger in his—no, in Schlatt’s direction, because the god is gone and he can feel his heart fluttering again, his energy tugged away from him at a rate that should perhaps be considered alarming, and he can sense Schlatt’s presence behind him, solid and breathing. “How are you here, you’re dead, you are so fucking dead, I ate your fucking heart that’s how dead you are, I literally own your, your leg bones, I have your femurs, how are you here, and can you just die again, right now?”

“Aw, did you miss me, honey bear?” Schlatt says.

“No, I hate your fucking guts, I hate you so fucking much, you are—” And he keeps going, and Sapnap has shaken himself out of his stupor enough to glare daggers at—shit, at his fiance’s ex-husband, and that’s a bit messy, isn’t it? And absolutely no one at the table appears pleased that Schlatt is here, even though several people seem to be too focused on absorbing what’s just happened with the literal god to be too concerned at the sudden reappearance of a former dictator, but Quackity continues and Schlatt eggs him on, and Tubbo is a few seats down, swiveled in his chair and staring at Schlatt with an expression that’s impossible to determine

(but that he doesn’t like, doesn’t like the mix of hope and fear and want and disgust, doesn’t like it at all)

and it’s all too much, and his chest hurts. Like it’s too tight. Like his lungs aren’t inflating.

(Schlatt died of a heart attack hated and alone even surrounded as he was he was alone and he died of a heart attack of a)

He glances around the table one last time, hoping for some indication that somebody, anybody, wants this conversation to get back on track. Instead, his gaze lands on Fundy, who is watching Schlatt with shock and open anticipation but very little anger, and somehow, that is what does it, what sends everything boiling over, the fact that his son is looking at Schlatt with a more welcoming expression than he greeted him with.

(and he deserves it he deserves it he knows but)

He never had control here. He has to face that.

He yanks at the tether, pulls with what little strength he has left, and the flow of energy halts, and Schlatt goes translucent mid-sentence.

“Just to be transparent, the bastard’s always around,” he says into the silence, rising from his seat, blinking black spots from his vision. His own voice sounds distant, but clear, at least. “But he literally has to draw from my lifeforce to do that, so that’s enough for now, I think. Please direct your complaints to the empty air rather than me, as I have very little say in where he decides to go poking around, and I probably agree with all of your objections to his general everything in any case.” He leans against the table, and tries not to make it obvious that that’s what’s keeping him upright. “I suggest we conclude our discussion for now, and come back in a few hours to actually formulate a plan based on our new resources.”

He gives it a second, but only waits for one person—Puffy, he thinks, though his vision is swimming—to nod, hesitantly, before turning on his heel and leaving the room. Going anywhere. Anywhere else.

(you lost control of them and you’re losing control of yourself and how long until you have to admit that you never had control in the first place that you claim to be better but don’t even know what that means that the paint really is scraping off and once it’s all gone there will be no more lying to yourself and then where will you be, Wilbur, where will you be)

No one stops him. A few people call out. Schlatt—sounding irritated, but that’s tough; he’s going to have to deal with it—and Tommy, and Phil.

He took a few minutes before the meeting began. To compose himself, to relax. That didn’t work, so he’ll take a few hours. And then get back to it. There’s no choice otherwise, after all. No real rest until this nightmare is over with, whenever that may be.

He ignores the voice that whispers that he’s not going to make it that far. He’s pushed through times like this before.

He can do it again.

[fanficshiddles]

Sweet Revenge, One shot

Loki is being subjected to some edging torture to try and get information out of him. But the poor OC doesn’t realise he has been playing her all along. Biding his time to break free and give her a taste of her own medicine, only much worse.

WARNINGS: Rape/Non-con. Dom!Loki. Teasing, edging, orgasm denial, forced oral.

 She swallowed hard when she walked into the basement and saw the angry Asgardian/Jotun chained to the wall at the opposite side.

She didn’t particularly like doing what she was doing, but she had no other option. Her boss would have her head if she didn’t get the information out of him that they needed. But the ways in which she was torturing him to get said information was not the most ethical of ways. But she was good at it.

Slowly making her way over, she tried to put on a brave face. He tugged at his chains, snarling at her. He was still in his Asgardian armour, but the flap on his leather trousers was open and his cock was sticking out. Still rock hard from her teasing earlier.

She couldn’t deny he was an absolutely gorgeous specimen. And she had had to deal with rather ugly subjects in the past. So having Loki to work with was a much nicer change of pace.

He was sweating still, panting between his snarls at her. She was impressed so far with how much teasing and edging he had been able to take without telling her the information she needed. In-fact, he had barely said anything since he arrived seventeen hours ago.

Trying not to stare too much at his rather monstrous looking cock, throbbing and in desperate need of some attention… She grabbed the bottle of lube and silicone fleshlight. But as she turned back to him, she could see the desperation in his eyes.

Biting her lower lip, she decided to try something different. Thinking that perhaps, the more intimate use of her bare hands would maybe make him talk quicker.

‘Still not ready to talk?’ She asked as she squirted some lube onto her hands and put the fleshlight back down again.

Loki narrowed his eyes at her, mouth parted. But he didn’t utter a single word. Though he looked absolutely furious.

Rubbing her hands together, she moved in closer to him. She was glad he was chained up, he was incredibly strong looking. Especially in comparison to herself. If he got free, she would have no chance that was for sure. Her boss had left for the night too now, so she wouldn’t even have any back up.

But she wasn’t worried. The chains were on and he was going nowhere.

‘I could do this for days, weeks even if need be.’ She took a firm grip of Loki’s cock, he twitched and groaned as she slid her hand down his shaft. ‘It would be much easier if you just told me what I needed to know.’

She tried not to enjoy the way he felt in her hands. Or the panting and grunting that came from above her while she focused on his cock. She was careful not to give him too much stimulation, she didn’t want him to cum. It would ruin everything.

‘If you tell me, I will make you cum. I will even use my mouth, if you want.’ She tried, glancing up at him.

His nostrils were flaring and his jaw was clenched. But he still said nothing. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment when she rubbed her thumb over the tip of him. But then she suddenly stopped and took a few steps backwards.

‘You are making this so difficult for yourself.’ She sighed and went to the other side of the room, picking up a journal she flipped it open and wrote down an update. Everything that happened in the basement had to be recorded.

Her ears perked when she heard a dark chuckle coming from behind her. It was the first noise she had heard from him that wasn’t whimpers or moans.

‘I think you’ll find, it’s about to become difficult for you.’ He purred, sounding so much closer to her than he should be. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end at his deliciously sinful voice.

She spun around and panicked when he was right there, on front of her, out of his chains. The anger and desperation no longer on his face, instead it was full of mischief, hunger and darkness. Before she could comprehend the situation and do anything, his large hand was wrapped around her neck and she was forced back against the wall, above the ground.

She coughed and spluttered as she tried clawing at his forearm and kicking out at him. He tightened his grip and chuckled wickedly.

Leaning in, he ran the tip of his nose up her cheek and smirked as he saw the life starting to drain from her eyes from lack of oxygen.

‘Oh, cat got your tongue now?’ He chuckled.

To her relief, he loosened his grip around her neck and lowered her down so her feet was firmly back on the floor. But he still kept a hold of her, pinning her to the wall. Her breathing was laboured, he was only allowing her short breaths.

‘Mmm… What to do with you, my little mortal. You thought you could tease and torment me, keeping me chained up in here like some animal. Not only do I have much more stamina than you think, but my powers are beyond what you could even comprehend. No mere chains could keep me restrained.’ He rubbed his thumb up and down the side of her neck while he spoke.

‘P… P… please.’ She whimpered.

‘Ohhh, I think I will rather enjoy hearing you beg.’ He hummed. ‘But I have a better idea.’

He slid his hand down her chest, grabbed her blouse on the way and ripped it clean off her. She cried out and tried pushing against him as he did the same to her bra, tearing it off like it was made of paper. He then clicked his fingers and to her dismay, her trousers and knickers simply vanished into thin air!

She tried covering herself up and attempted to run, but Loki fisted his hand into her hair and yanked her back towards him. He pulled her against his front and clamped his other hand down between her legs, holding her there very firmly.

‘This… Is now mine.’ He growled.

She let out a sob, realising she had no way of getting away from him. She had spent many hours torturing him, thinking he was trapped. But he had been playing her all this time.

And he was certainly going to get his revenge.

‘First. Let’s do what you suggested earlier.’ He let go of her and she attempted to run. Loki just rolled his eyes at her feeble attempt. He grabbed her arm and forced her down onto her knees on front of him.

When she tried to get up again, he pushed her down by her shoulders. She felt a weird tingling around her wrists and they were magically forced behind her back, held in place by his Seidr. No matter how hard she tried to struggle, she wasn’t breaking free of the invisible bonds.

Loki breathed out hard as he looked down at her on her knees, trembling and staring up at him with wide eyes. He slipped his hand back into her hair, taking a tight hold that made her yelp. He moved in closer, so his cock was just inches from her mouth.

‘You will use your mouth to pleasure me. And you will make me cum.’

She opened her mouth, waiting for him to slip into her. But Loki knew her game, he was too smart. He smacked her cheek in warning, hard enough to knock her face to the side. But not hard enough to knock her completely over.

Then he grabbed her cheeks harshly and leaned down to sneer right in her face. ‘You will NOT bite me. Or you will regret it, I promise you that.’

She felt sick, how did he know that was her plan? But she knew that was most definitely a promise she didn’t want him to keep.

Still shaking, she nodded slightly. Knowing there was no other way out of this. She hoped that perhaps once she gave him a blowjob for his release, he would leave her alone and just escape.

Taking control of her head by her hair once more, he forced her down upon his cock. Not giving her any time to get used to him or prepare, he forced himself down her throat, choking her.

‘Take it!’ He snapped, not giving in even when he felt her gagging around him.

She struggled against his Seidr, trying to get her hands free. She couldn’t pull back. All she could do was try to relax her throat, to try and accept him.

Loki made her gag for a while, before pulling out with a pop. She gasped and gulped down air as strings of saliva and pre-cum dribbled from her lips.

‘Now get to work.’ He demanded.

She got herself under control and as he pressed his cock passed her lips again, he allowed her to do the work for a while. She used her tongue to the best of her ability, swirling around him and licking underneath his tip. She hollowed her cheeks and bobbed her head up and down, but not too far down of her own will.

‘Ohhh yes.’ Loki moaned, throwing his head back.

His grip in her hair got tighter and tighter with each minute that passed. He started taking full control again, fucking her mouth roughly. Then, finally, he got his release he had been waiting patiently for.

‘Swallow it. All.’ He forced himself down her throat as he came. She started choking again as she struggled to swallow in time, it was too forceful and fast, a lot dribbled out and down from her chin.

‘Look at the mess you’ve made.’ He pulled out of her mouth and then pushed her down onto the floor. Luckily her breasts took most of the impact, but her face still hit the floor a little harder than she would’ve liked.

‘Clean it up.’ Loki snapped.

She felt so humiliated, used, sore… And he had only fucked her mouth. But she stuck her tongue out and managed to lick his sperm up off the floor, having to move her body like a snake without use of her hands.

Loki folded his arms over his chest and watched with a big grin while she licked the floor. He moved his foot over towards her, into her view. There was some on his boot.

‘And my boot.’

She paused, but she knew better than not to do it. So she closed her eyes and cringed internally as she licked it off.

‘Good girl.’ Loki hummed.

He reached down and gripped her hair, lifting her up to her feet. She swayed as she stood, her legs like jelly. Loki walked her over to the table and bent her over it, making her gasp. She started to plead with him again, begging him to let her go.

Loki put his hand to the back of her neck and held her down firmly. With his free hand, he stroked down her spine and down over her backside.

‘Oh no, pet. I am only getting started with you. I’m going to fuck every hole of yours, over and over.’ He forced his hand between her thighs, stroking her cunt he found her aroused. He slid a finger straight into her with ease, gathering wetness he slipped it out and over her clit, making her mewl and whimper. ‘I will fill you with so much of my cum, I will be dripping out of you for weeks. Or I might make you wear plugs, to keep it all inside.’

She cried out at his words and also at the way his fingers were playing with her so well. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing. But his fingers weren’t there for long, he moved behind her and pressed his cock against her entrance instead. With one swift stroke, he forced himself fully into her, making her cry out in shock at the way he filled her right up, forcing her body to accommodate him.

He leaned right down over her, pressing his weight against her back. Her hands crushed between them. She trembled as she felt him twitch inside of her, the size of him hitting every single sweet spot.

‘I’m going to keep you… I’m going to turn you into my own personal fuck doll.’ He pulled his cock back, almost all the way out of her.

His breath tickled against the side of her neck as he nibbled on her earlobe, and then he dropped the final bombshell that made her blood run cold, just as he thrust roughly back in and knocked the wind out of her.

‘And don’t think for one second you are ever going to be allowed to cum again.’

[letsperaltiago]

as long as you're with me it's always the time of the year

🌟 HAPPY 6TH OF DECEMBER: DOOR ONE 🌟

Welcome to door one of four! 

Behind my Christmas calendar’s first door is a... pre-relationship Peraltiago Christmas oneshot! ♥️ And I bet you have this series overall “theme” figured out now 😙If not then I guess you’ll have to tune back in in another six days! Until then I hope you can enjoy this first fic in the Christmas calendar/oneshot series!

Summary: The only thing Jake likes about the holidays is the Nine-Nine's annual Christmas party. This year, perhaps, he will come to prefer Amy's misfortune and company. Takes place somewhere between S02 E09: The Roadtrip and S2 E011:The stakeout.

Rating: G  Words: 6k

Read on AO3 here

🎁⬇️OPEN DOOR ONE HERE ⬇️🎁

The smell of pine trees, cinnamon and every other Christmas spice imaginable hangs over the precinct when Jake walks in on his day off. Normally he’d never set a foot near work on one of his holy days off, but today is the precinct’s annual Christmas party, and that he of course isn’t stupid enough to miss. Who would want to miss out on happenings like Boyle bringing some unknown Christmas-snack no one would ever want; drunk-Amy making an appearance; Gina hustling secret Santa gifts from young beat cops? Not Jake, that’s for sure.

This year’s party is being held on the third floor, the Special Victims Unit’s floor, and the second the elevator doors open before him Jake is met by the loud buzz made up of Christmas music, and people talking and laughing. Colors are everywhere; from the different, ugly shirts and Christmas sweaters people are wearing to the familiar, cliché Christmas decorations which have probably been reused for the past twenty Christmas parties. It’s horribly perfect, Jake thinks. Perhaps he hates the holidays, yes, but he does love the messy parties they bring along.  

“Jakey! Welcome!”

The detective has just barely stepped out of the elevator, onto festive grounds, when Charles appears right before him, holding two mugs of what appears to be some hot liquid. Jake is by no means very religious although he still prays to higher powers that said hot liquid is not that mulled Norwegian fish-wine his friend brought last year. Charles hands over one of the mugs and Jake is seriously afraid to look or, potentially even more hazardous, breathe in the toasty steam rising from it.

“Hey, bud. What’s that?”

“Mulled wine!” Charles takes a sip of his own mug meanwhile Jake can’t stop eyeing him, suspiciously so, because if there is one thing Jake doesn’t trust his best friend with then it’s primarily and definitely anything food and drink-related.

“Actual mulled wine or fish-wine?”

There is no getting around the fact that Charles is obviously hurt by the lack of trust his best friend is showing, when the little man’s face falls deadpan. “It happened once , Jake. One time.”

They start walking towards the briefing room, one much bigger than the one on their floor, where the life of the party is.

“I threw up for two days straight after last time - just saying, bud!”

Jake dares to smell the beverage and it does actually smell like actual mulled wine, so he hesitantly takes a sip, just in case it turns out he’s been betrayed. Alas the flavor tells him the liquid is indeed normal mulled wine, which makes this yet another cracked case for Peralta.

Inside the briefing room that is crowded with people, both some he knows and a lot that he doesn’t, a Christmas tree and all kinds of snacks and drinks, it’s hard to tell who is from what department and honestly? Jake doesn’t care. As long as people seem to be a good time and are willing to laugh at his hilarious charms then he’s down to clown. Or down to Santa - whatever Christmas-saying is more suitable.

“Has Gina scored herself some gifts yet? And how many drinks is Santiago at?”

Jake awaits an answer while his friend pours himself some more of the warm wine, and puts the time to good use by removing his leather jacket before hanging it on a random chair nearby. The party will be hot, literally, he figures.

“Hmm, last time I saw Gina she was up to two already…”

“Noice,” Jake nods in approval, mentally noting to check in with his friend later. This has to be the year she beats her record of eights gifts in one evening.

“... And Amy was up to one.”

“Not good enough.”

“We’ve only been here for an hour, Jake.”

Jake pauses. With the winter sun setting so early, he thought he’d missed out on hours of partying when in reality Boyle is right: it’s just barely 6.30 and he’s missed out on so little.

“Fair. I’ll give her that. Where is she anyway?”

Boyle turns just in time to see his friend scouting the room in hopes of finding his partner.

“Someone’s eager to hang out with Amy.” Just as his facial expression, rocking cocking eyebrows and a knowing smirk, Charles’ voice is laced with teasing tones. It’s no secret that Jake commiting to his feelings and acting on them, especially now that both him and Amy are single (and totally into each other, if you ask Charles) is at the top of the older detective’s wishlist - no matter how creepy it is.

“Shut up. I have a girlfriend.” Images of Sophia flash before him, the face she made when he promised her he didn’t like Amy anymore, and deep down Jake feels guilty. The feeling is quickly pushed aside though; he’s done nothing wrong and will do nothing wrong. He’s with Sophia - not Amy. “I just need to laugh at someone and Amy just so happens to be the perfect candidate.”

“Just like she’s perfect in every other way?”

“Boyle!” Jake lightly punches his friend on the arm and it almost causes Charles to spill the hot beverage. Just barely, he manages to restore the liquids balance and keep it in the cup.

“Hey! You almost made me drop my glühwein !” Leave it to Charles to pronounce the foreign word perfectly , and leave it to Jake to, as per usual, roll his eyes at it.

“Anyways, are you going to tell me where Amy is or not?”

The two friends stand back, facing the crowd in an attempt to comb through it, however everyone’s outfits seem so alike - ugly and colourful - and so it quickly hits them just how pointless the mission is.

“I don’t know about know, but last time I saw her she was by the women’s bathroom talking to Rosa. Haven’t seen her since.”

“Hm, okay,” Jake mumbles. “I’ll be right back. I just wanna say hi.”

“Sure you do.”

Quickly decoding the way his words are drenched in a certain teasing tone, Jake doesn’t even need to look at his friend to know there’s a knowing smirk plastered across his face. There’s no doubt: it’s easier for him to just walk away without looking back - so he does.

Boyle is a fool if he thinks he’s got a thing for Amy - that ship has long sailed. In the past, yes, he did have feelings for Amy… But that was before. Before Teddy and Sophia; before realising they were better off as friends; before, before, before. Sure, he’d felt something flare up inside of him that night at the inn with Teddy and Sophia when it was suddenly revealed that Amy used to like him, perhaps still did? He’ll admit that. However that entire trip was crazy, all kinds of emotions on display, and anything that said and/or happened there should be taken with a pinch of salt. Yes, he used to like Amy, ‘used to’ being the keyphrase. Now he was happy with Sophia and couldn't possibly have feelings for Amy. At least not romantic feelings, no. Friendly feelings, the sensation of being happy when around her? Sure. Now, months after said roadtrip to hell, things were back to normal: they were partners and friends, without any weirdness or doubt about the fact. That was it and the way it would stay, no matter what anyone said - especially Charles.

Suddenly he spots her, across the room in a corner with a cup in hand, talking to someone on the phone. The iconic red cup causes a smile to grow on Jake’s face as he is granted an early Christmas wish: drunk-Amy is going to make an appearance tonight. He appreciates all sides of Amy, although drunk-Amy is extra fun - especially ever since Gina let him in on the Santiago-drunkenness scale.

It takes her a second to pick up on his approach, but the second she sees him he receives a smile in return. Her hair is loose and shiny as alway. For tonight’s occasion it has a silvery head band holding it in place. To no one’s surprise, even less Jake’s, she’s wearing what he recognizes as her famous Santiago-dress pants. Although the blazer and usually colored shit has been replaced with a neatly ironed white shirt. The silver headband along with the white shirt? Of course Amy would go for an angel-look instead of a tacky red Santa or a green elf like many of their colleagues. Then again: white does look good really good on her, Jake admits to himself, and if it wasn’t for the fact that Charles’ words were stuck on repeat in his mind then maybe he would’ve told her. A nice, friendly compliment like… “You look pretty” or whatever other nice, not inappropriate thing he could say. It’s easier to say nothing at all, he figures.

The crowd around him is loud but he can hear her talking as he closes in on her. He waves to her and she half-mindedly waves back clearly focused on the conversation she’s in the midst of.

“Okay, yeah…”

He stops next to her and sips on his drink while she finishes up.

“We’ll go meet Santa on Sunday then… Yeah, I’ll meet you there. Bye.”

Although he hates to admit it, Jake is happy to see her hang up. It means she can switch her attention to him.

“Tinder date?” He asks.

She looks up, from putting her phone away, with what Jake considers the iconic ‘ you’re an idiot’-grimace, as a consequence reminding him of the one thing he has a hard time admitting - even to himself: she looks really cute doing just that and he likes that he’s the one person that can bring it out of her.

“Ha. Ha.” Her fake laugh is drier than the failed Christmas cookies she brought last year. “What do you think I do on Tinder-dates?”

“Meet Santa - apparently.”

It’s clear as day that the young man takes immense pleasure in the easygoing banter, the special kind he can only have with Amy, and even though his mouth says and shows one thing then his shining eyes definitely don’t agree. Infatuation is the word although he would never dare to call himself out on it. That was Charles’ job, but luckily no one, to Jake’s advantage, would ever believe the always way too excited little man.

“I can’t believe how funny you are, Peralta,” Amy retorts, voice stuck in the same still flat tone that tries to make believe she isn’t very amused and delighted by the fact that Jake located her just to tease her. It’s a special kind of attention, one she at times has dreaded but with time slowly and surely has come to like - a lot. Even though she pretends not to.

“I can’t believe you go on Tinder-dates, Santiago.”

“I never said I did? You did.” She crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow in objection.

“Right, right… Forgot you used to have feelings for me, which means you must’ve cut off all dating in hopes of me coming around one day.”

In all honesty Jake can’t, for the life of him, figure out why he says what he does sometimes. Although, apparently, there must be somewhat truth to it considering how Amy feels her palms heat up against her cold drink, blood rushing to her face where it quickly takes apparent form as a rosy color tinting the apples of her cheeks. Jake, even though it’s so very tempting, tries not to think any of it. Replaying in his mind is the look of confusion and pain on Amy’s face when it was brought up that Amy used to like him. Perhaps it was true but if bringing it up, in a context that wasn’t just for fun and banter, would cause Amy the same troubled feelings from back at the Maple Drip Inn, then it definitely wasn’t worth bringing up again. He shouldn't have said that. Amy didn’t have feelings for him anymore - chapter closed.

“Sorry. Bad joke.”

“It’s fine.” She tries to chuckle it off but he knows a genuine Amy-laugh and this isn’t it.

“Anyways,” Jake takes another sip of his drink leaving the word hanging in the air for a few seconds, aspiring for a change of subject, in case his partner wants to take advantage. She doesn’t though. His turn, he figures.  “If not a mystery man, then who was it?”

She shakes her head smiling at his persistence. “It was my brother Anthony. Him, Christian and I are taking my nephews and nieces to meet Santa.”

“Wow, all five hundred of them?”

Amy has to laugh at this, a genuine laugh this time, one with no snarky comment because he’s kind of right: her family is huge and she appreciates him taking note of it even though the number is horribly wrong.

“Almost… Just the ten of them.”

A shared chuckle between the two settles a nice and comfortable atmosphere around the two; one where the rest of the room disappears into the background and it’s just the two of them laughing and poking at each other as if there’s no half-awkward and delicate taboo to dance around.

Sadly the moment isn’t meant to last for much longer. Jake is halfway into one of his crazy stories, making Amy laugh louder and louder with every sip of her first drink. Out of nowhere, a heavy figure, certainly bigger than Amy’s, comes tumbling into her from the side and it to no one’s surprise results in her drink flying out of her hands, splashing all over her. Amy lets out a whelp, time stands still, everything seems to go silent as everyone around Amy, Jake included, stares in horror at the sudden mess.

Her drink, an unknown clear liquid mixed with melting ice, meets her previously so white and crisp shirt immediately soaking it - there’s no saving it.

“Oh, shit.” The stutter comes from the young man of the hour, someone Jake quickly recognizes at the loud and ruthless - and that’s coming from Jake - beat cop, Officer Miller. Jake finally snaps out of his daze, surprise and disbelief having him thrown completely off track. It’s then he really notices the look of horror on his partner’s half-drenched, very disappointed face, and even though he’s not to blame and it’s barely been ten seconds since the moment of collision, he wishes he’d reacted sooner.

“Oh my gosh,” Amy spits out, the sad remains of her drink plastered to her lower face and clothes.

“Fuck,” Miller adds another stutter to the list of pointless doings, right amidst the act of just standing there completely incapable of anything at all. From his point of view, Jake is witnessing the hopelessness play out before him -  Amy frozen, in shock, and Miller simply staring in disbelief at the consequences of his own acts -  when he suddenly notices how the young officer’s eyes shamelessly wander, from where they were looking at Amy’s face, downwards. Why whould he-

Jake’s eyes trail along, ingeniously, but quickly fly back to where they were looking at the offender - this time with rage in them. Miller’s eyes are still gawking at one specific area on Amy: her torso where her previously nice, white shirt - one Jake can picture Amy spending hours ironing and being excited to wear - is now very much see-through.

“Hey, what the hell, man!”

Jake is by no means a violent person, nevertheless he can’t contain himself. Not when Amy is right before him looking like a lost puppy. He lightly punches the other man’s shoulder.

“What the hell, yourself! Don’t touch me!” Miller, having finally snapped out of his perverted daydream, defends himself and takes a threatening step towards Jake.

“Jake, it’s okay-” Just like all the seminars have taught her, Amy tries to interrupt the escalating conflict; one that’s somehow partly her fault but at the same time not at all. However, feeling very exposed, starting to feel anxious, she doesn’t force anything. Left to do is nothing but to stand back and watch Jake stand his ground - even when the younger but notably taller man steps up to him.

“How about you have some decency and apologize to my partner?”

Jake is enraged, obviously by the drink-incident itself, but mostly by the young officer’s disrespectful reaction that followed suit. On the occasion that he wouldn’t much rather use his energy on listening to and helping Amy then maybe, just maybe, he would’ve engaged further. Inside his head he counts down from ten, still glaring with fiery eyes at Miller, and not moving before he’s reached zero. As if on cue Amy breaks the silence.

“Jake… Let it go. It was an accident.”

She’s too good for her own self, he thinks. Her voice is shaky, not disturbingly so but just enough to get Jake to turn around, and his reasoning is confirmed: his energy and time is better spent helping her, however he can. The crowd around them has once again started buzzing, as if nothing ever happened, and the only thing Jake has eyes for is Amy and the distressing way in which she has her arms crossed before her in an attempt to hide herself. Her body’s posture obviously translates to her facial features, the anxiety starting to show, so of course Jake wastes no time; without further hesitation, he pulls off his iconic blue hoodie and makes sure to help it onto her, shielding her from the rest of the party. Once in a while he throws a glance at her face, and he can tell the very second it hits her that he must’ve seen it too since he knows what’s going on.

“Don’t worry about it. Except for that idiot, no one saw anything. Don’t think about it… Okay?” He reassures her, hopefully putting her mind at ease, and makes sure to catch her eyes before continuing. Hopefully she believes him.  

“Thank you,” she whispers as they stand face to face while Jake makes sure his hoodie is covering her properly. He wants to smile, be the good in her dreadful situation, but still feeling too pissed he can only muster a nod before he wraps a protective arm around her shoulder. “Come with me, Amy. Lets go fix this.” It’s his way of telling her to come with him, that she can trust him and that he’ll take care of it. He can feel her follow him, thus guiding her to the elevator.

❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄

Still in a somewhat trance-like state, Amy lets Jake guide her, arm safely around her shoulder and small-talking to keep her calm, down the dimly lit hall of the basement and into the Nine-Nine’s men’s locker room. Her soaked shirt has slowly started soaking through Jake’s hoodie, the wet tips of Amy’s hair dripping onto it as well, and there’s a very good reason Jake has brought her where he has. He doesn’t waste a second and gently sits her down on the bench in the middle of the many lockers.

“Just sit tight, Ames. I’m going to fix this.”

She nods instead of breaking her silence, still feeling somewhat overwhelmed by the embarrassing situation which has unfortunately triggered an anxious part of her that she most of the time can keep in check. Alas this situation was too much, understandably so, and all she has to cling onto is her partner rummaging rather aimlessly through what she hopes is his locker. Must be; the inside of the door is covered in a Die Hard poster, and Amy feels herself smile a bit at the sight. That is so very Jake Peralta. Even more so when, during the intense search, all kinds of random items accidently fall out of the locker. Everything from packs of gum and old receipts to DVDs and lonely socks.

“Aha! Knew I had it in here!”

Jake pulls a chequered item from the depths of his - very messy, Amy can’t help but shudder - locker before turning to her with a wide, proud smile that lets her know: mission accomplished. He puts a red flannel on display for her and his smile never falters. “On top of being clean and warm it’s also red. Very christmassy, Santiago.”

“Have you just… always had that in there?”

“Probably since I transferred here,” Jake chuckles as he throws all the things that fell out during his search for the flannel back into the chaos of the locker. “Red is not my best color, so I just keep it in there in case I need a change of clothes…” he trails off as if he’s considering his next move, then his head whips around to look at her. “... Or, like, in case my best friend is in trouble. Might not be up to Santiago-standards but I promise it isn’t gross or anything.”

Amy can’t fight it as tiny butterflies break free in her stomach at the sight of her caring partner, someone she could potentially see as more but alas she’ll never say out loud, send her that small, mischievous yet shy smile of his. Instead of saying anything, too baffled to say anything coherent, her eyes will secretly sparkle and heart do a double take. A joke can perhaps do the job, she thinks, hating how Jake-like she’s become over the years.

“Best friend? I don’t see Boyle in here.”

“What a silly thing to say, Santiago.” Having stuffed all of his randomness back into the locker, he turns back to look at her. “You know very well that you’re my best friend, too.”

Silence, more intense than their usual comfortable ones, fall over them as their eyes stay in touch. It’s as if someone’s supposed to say something, supposed to confess, but nothing of that nature presents itself. Instead Jake clears his throat.

“Now take your wet shirt off and put this on.” He hands her the flannel and for a second their eyes lock again. She takes it from him and keeps their eyes locked, for just a second too long as if she’s trying to communicate through the stare. A tension, one made of something unspoken, once again connects them. Too bad Jake’s quick to divert the situation by clearing his throat, she think, even though she also knows he’s right.

“Uhm, so yeah… Put that on and I’ll wait outside. There’s another hoodie in my locker, uhm on top, if you’re still cold.”

“T-thanks, Jake.”

A small smile is sent her way before he disappears out into the hall and closes the door, allowing Amy to let out a deep breath. Damn Jake Peralta for being so amazing.

❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄

“Tadaaa.”

Jake’s head flies up, from where he was looking down at his phone, to witness a sight he definitely shouldn’t be loving as much as the butterflies in his stomach tell him he certainly does. There’s apparently something about Amy Santiago in his flannel and hoodie that does something to him; sweaty palms, speeding heartbeat and all that jazz.

“How do I look?”

Beautiful. He thinks but doesn’t say it out loud. There’s a teasing glint in his partner’s eyes, one he wants to fall and dive right into so badly, but he’s too aware to give into it. Amy does a pageant twirl and it couldn’t be timed any better, Jake thinks: it’s the perfect occasion for him to throw in a joke and break the spell that he seems to be under.

“Stunning,” he jokes and prays to some higher power that it’s enough to drench them in that never-that-serious, goofy energy they seem to be all about, even after the most serious and intense moments. “Like looking at myself in the mirror.”

She scrunches her nose and smiles, a face she always makes when he says something funny, and Jake doesn’t complain. “Ouch.” She says, pretend-hurt.

“Hey! I’m very handsome, thank you very much…”

“Whatever.” She shakes her head. “Thank you, by the way.”

“Don’t mention it.” He smiles, genuinely as only he can, and Amy wants to thank him for so much more than just tonight. She wants to thank him for always being on her side, always making her feel good in every situation imaginable, even the bad ones, and she wants to thank him for truly being her best friend. That would come off as a very emotionally loaded confession though, so instead she bites her lip.

“Anyways… I think I’m gonna head home. I’m not really feeling like going back there.” She confesses.

All at once the light and cheery Amy, the Amy that jokes and rolls her eyes at him, seems to be switched off and once again replaced by the hesitant Amy he rarely sees. The few times he has witnessed said hesitant and insecure Amy, without hesitation or questions, he feels a somewhat irrational need to help her, take care of the thorn in her side, whatever that might be. Although now, with a girlfriend, one that isn’t Amy, weighing down on his conscience, he isn’t quite sure of how to act. The thought of her sitting at home all alone while he and everyone at the Nine-Nine parties doesn’t fall on fertile ground. No way he’s just letting her walk out.

“I’ll head upstairs with you and grab my coat, say goodbye to the squad, and then I’ll be off before I can embarrass myself again.”

“Ames!”

Barely turned on her heels, Jake is significantly faster and manages to block her way to the elevator. In the depth of his brown eyes Amy, surprised to say the least, can see something unravelling. She’s frozen on the spot where he cut her off.

“Jake?”

“Stay? We can have a fun night without going back up to the party.” He flashes a shy smile that reminds her of the kind she and her brothers always used to flash at their mother whenever they knew they were bargaining for an unreasonable cause. Much like that Jake Peralta is indeed a child disguised as a grown man.  

“Stay?” There’s that stupid cute frown of hers again, he thinks and he actually isn’t quite sure of the answer. Jake had a bad case of blurting out ideas before being fully sure of what said idea fully was, and this was no exception. All he knew was that Amy couldn’t leave to be alone; he couldn’t have her spend the night doing nothing.

“Uh- I… That’s not what I meant.” It kind of actually was, but he can’t force her to stay if she wants to go, which genuinely seems to be her preferred plan. “Let me follow you home - at least.” Nice save, he thinks to himself.

Her frown slowly melts away like snow on a spring day and, if he isn’t completely delusional, Jake can see a small smile rise on her lips instead and his new idea is actually a good one.

“I would lov-” her voice hitches in her throat when she accidently looks right back into her partner's eyes, momentarily thrown off track, but in true Santiago-style she makes a quick comeback. Keeps the feelings abay and packed away like a pro. “That would be nice, Jake. Thank you”.

“Cool cool cool.” Skin against skin can be heard rubbing against each other, an unusual sound, and it confuses Amy for a second until she notices that Jake’s palms are rubbing against each other. A nervous mannerism on his part that has Amy wonder why . Not for too long though. Jake is quick to save himself.  

“Let me go grab our things upstairs. We can meet on the first floor. I’ll tell everyone you feel sick.”

“Thanks, Jake. My coat is-”

“Navy blue, gold buttons and black handbag. Got it.”

So far from a question as could be, a sentence that is more matter of factly than most things Jake says, Amy can only go silent and nod in agreement. The man is very right, after all and she feels fuzzy at how seamlessly it fell from his lips. They enter the elevator in a comfortable silence and after having stepped off on the first floor, Amy can only smile to herself as she sees the elevator doors close between her and what is probably the best partner in the world. Best friend, she corrects herself, reminiscing about Jake’s words from down in the locker room.

❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄

Snow crunches under their feet, the white powder covering every street in Brooklyn, and tonight the otherwise hectic city looks abnormally peaceful. Amidst the winter wonderland, two figures make their way through the drizzling snowfall, both imagining that this is the way things, perhaps, could and should be. Alone, together the two of them, in the world.

Turns out that focusing on the story Amy is currently telling is, even though very interesting, very hard when snowflakes caught in her hair makes it look all glittery and pretty. Also soft, he thinks, and he hates that he wonders what it would feel like to run his fingers through it. Maybe as they were snuggled up on their couch, under blankets, as they watched those stupid Christas movies that he knows she loves. This trail of thoughts is a dangerous one, he’s aware. Luckily Amy herself comes to his rescue, her laughter shattering whatever parallel universe his mind was forming. Of course he laughs along even though he can safely say that he doesn’t know what he’s laughing at. Alone the sound of her laugh is enough to make him want to join. She’s contagious like that - in every way imaginable.

“Hey, Jake?”

She stops and him likewise. “Yeah?”

He turns around to catch her looking longingly at the building they’re currently in front of; a nicely decorated little café. “This place has the best cocoa. Wanna get some? My treat - now that you’re missing out on the party because of me.” She looks back at her partner for some kind of approval, shyly tugging her hair behind her ears in the process and there’s no way Jake can say no - even if he wanted to. The light coming from the café creates an aura-like effect around her figure and Jake swears to himself that she’s an actual angel.

“Sounds good. Mostly because you’re paying,” he manages to snap out of his daydream just in time to come off as nonchalant, teasing, and the two enter the warmth of the café. Inside it’s buzzing with families and couples celebrating the season in each other’s company, and Jake briefly wonders if that will ever be him sitting with a toddler in his lap, allowing it to taste its first hot cocoa as him and the mother witness it with wide smiles on their faces? And with who? Sophia, maybe? Or maybe- no. Definitely can’t go there.

“Two hot dark chocolate with marshmallows, please.”

“Dark?” Jake frowns suddenly back in present time where Amy has made it her task to order their drinks.

“Yeah, they have different kinds but the dark is the best. Trust me.”

“With my life.”

They share a smile and to everyone else in that room, or at least the ones that care enough to pay attention, they could be a couple - foolishly into each other. Before they know it they’re back outside in the cold, although they quickly forget as their respective cups of cocoa warms their hands, and soon after reach Amy’s apartment building. It feels like forever since they left the precinct, when actually, Jake notices when he checks his phone, it’s only been about an hour. Darkness does that to his already questionable sense of time.

His deed is done, he knows; Amy is home safe, and he can head back to the precinct and party with a bunch of people he doesn’t really care about. Or at least cares just a bit less about than Amy. Suddenly the urge to party, act like an idiot and get drunk surely doesn’t sound tempting - at all. Maybe it’s the few hours he’s spent hanging out alone with Amy; perhaps it’s the taste of dark hot cocoa stuck on his tongue, the one he’d moaned about “indeed being the best he’d ever had” just minutes ago… He can’t figure it out but something from within the last two hours has him hating the thought of being anywhere else but here with Amy. If he asked her to hang out outside in the snow, he would.

“So... “ Amy breaks the silence. “Thanks for walking me home… And the shirt and hoodie.You’ll have it back, washed and everything, tomorrow. Promise.”

Consistent as always, Jake thinks and smiles with amusement radiating from his eyes. “Yeah, I’m really going to need that back asap. It’s not like I have the exact same outfit, like times ten, at home… Like some cartoon animal.”

She laughs, throwing her head back and Jake feels the snow beneath him melt.

“Good to know.” She straightens back up, arms crossed to keep her warm, even though Jake is certain her smile must radiate enough warmth to keep them both warm.

“No worries.”

Silence swallows them and all there is to be heard is the sound of the forever and always buzzing Brooklyn; cars, people yelling, jingle bells, dogs barking and everything that makes Brooklyn oh so very Brooklyn.

“Sooo…” Amy shuffles on the spot nervously creating small patterns in the before solid snow. “Are headed back to the party? I bet Charles misses you.”

They share a chuckle, both well-knowing she isn’t joking.

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re right but... “ He hesitates to say it, nervously biting his lip as the hands in his pocket’s shuffle around for nothing at all. “I don’t think I’m gonna head back. I’m just gonna head home. Everyone’s probably all buzzed by now and I don’t think I’m up for the challenge of catching up.”

“Oh… I- uhm-”

The shuffling only grows worse and it’s as if the young woman can’t find peace, bit by bit aggravating the guilt she’s suddenly feeling - a guilt he’d never intended her to feel. “Jake, I’m so sorry if you felt like you had to skip the party to follow me home. You should've just stayed behind and had fun with everyone. I would’ve been just fin-”

“Ames.” He gently grabs her by the upper arms, stopping her from spiralling completely. “Shut up.” He makes sure to smile when he says it. “I’ve had way more fun hanging out with you than I would’ve with those bazillion strangers back at the precinct.”

He can feel her shoulders drop, relaxing, before she flashes back a smile. A snowflake lands on the very tip of her nose and Jake smiles even wider. Little does she know why. “First of all: bazillion is not a real number. Second of all: if it was then I don’t think that many people work at our precinct,” she argues with a glimt in her eye that matches the snowflakes on her face.

“How can you know if bazilion is not an actual number? A bazillion might be like.. 85?” He tilts his head in that challenging way he always does when he knows he’s got a point.

Silence.

“You might be one of the Nine-Nine’s best detectives but, my God,I swear sometimes you’re so stupid,�� she finishes with an affectionate chuckles.

“No doubt.”

They both laugh it off and it’s so them, they both can’t help but think.

“Anyways… Feel free to say no, but wanna come up? We can finish our cocoas and watch a Christmas movie, maybe?”

There’s nothing he’d rather do. Without a doubt.

“I would like that.”

“Okay then,” she agrees and unlocks the door to her building. “I’m not watching ‘Die Hard’ though.”

“Aw, come on, Ames!” he whines.

“It’s not a Christmas movie and if you try to convince me otherwise, then I will prove you wrong. I have a list of arguments saved on my phone - solely for this very occasion.”

“Challenge accepted!”

They end up watching ‘Home Alone’ instead, huddled up on Amy’s couch with each their blanket and hot cocoa, a friendly distance between them, of course, and if you were to ask them, they both had the best Christmas party-evening. They laugh their way through the movie and each other’s company, no complications in sight, and how they both wish, deep down, that everyday could be like this.

The end. 

❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄

[lakelewisia]

A Lewisian Year

Presented in partnership with the Lewisia Communications Board and Lewisia Public Library

Sponsored by The Historical Society

Hello, readers, listeners, and psychic osmosizers! Welcome to A Lewisian Year, a monthly showcase celebrating the rich culture here in the Lake Lewisia district. Each month, we'll highlight some seasonal events, local celebrations and interpretations of national and world holidays, and historical tidbits.

OCTOBER

Lights on the Lake

You don't know for sure what brought you out to the lake, this cool and misty Halloween night. There are so many bright delights to be enjoyed in town, more festive settings than this stretch of pebbled shore. The moon, already set and no more than a sickle anyway, would do little to illuminate anything more than the glassy surface of the lake nearest to you. Farther out, even that fades into a wall of fog. You just knew, somehow, you were supposed to be here. And you aren't the only one: other people assemble on the shore in uncertain silence. You all look out across the lake, wondering why you are here.

You don't have to wait long. Something appears in the fog out on the water. Just a patch of brightness that could be no more than a particularly thick clump of mist, if it weren't for the way it slowly approaches the shore. It bobs a little as it comes--something is floating toward you. Several somethings, you realize, as more lights emerge from the fog. Soon, a whole flotilla of lights can be made out. And now, by their collective glow, you can see how they are traveling to you.

Each light rides within a pumpkin, a little ship of hollowed squash. Tiny Jack-Be-Littles, great lumpen Knuckleheads, frosty blue Jarrahdales. The ghostly white of Cotton Candy, and the iconic roundness of Baby Bear. Some pumpkins carry but a single ethereal light, while others are crowded with a dozen. They drift in a wobbly, uneven way, suitable for a squash attempting to cross a lake, and yet they also approach so quickly, you have hardly had a chance to look along the length of their assemblage before they are nearly to the shore.

Already, with the pumpkins still several yards out, people have begun to stumble into the water. In the dark on either side of you, some give little cries of recognition as they lurch forward. Others splash out to meet their pumpkin, their lights, in silences grim or reverent. In time, you too will realize which little harvest ship is yours. You too will wade out into the water, heedless of soaked shoes and heavy pant legs. Because you understand, now, in the dark and the mist, what the lights are. You know how far they've come to be here tonight.

It is Halloween, and your beloved dead have come out to see you again. The pumpkins ferry their little soul lights from the misty underworlds and afterlives they inhabit, on this night when such visitations are possible. I will not hazard a guess as to who has come for you this year, nor speculate about what messages they might bring. No matter how many assemble on the lakeshore in a given year, we all meet the lights alone.

Search and Rescue

As you make your way back through town, you watch the more mundane joys of Halloween, in all their glittery, sugar-stuffed glory: trick-or-treaters. Even before the night itself, there are harvest events all month to draw out crowds. It's easy to get lost in such a crowd. Easy for a group to get smaller by one or two people without anyone noticing right away. Easy for someone to get lured away from the group and the safety of the path when there are so many delights to look at.

When that happens, someone has to track them down. Enter the Lewisia Search and Rescue Collective, a loose association of public servants, private trackers, and independently operating animal guides. Given the unusual terrain of the Lewisia area, both physical and ethereal, it takes more than just a sniffer dog and an unwashed shirt to track down a missing person. The LSRC can handle everything from underwater searches (trained kingfishers and a pair of selkie sisters) to dimensional rift retrievals (several retired time travelers and the single skinniest, most disreputable- and ancient-looking black cat I have ever seen). They even have multiple successful faerie abduction recoveries in their history, but they declined to give any details about whom of their associates had handled those cases.

October sees more mysterious disappearances than any other month of the year in the greater Lewisia region. The town's ability to draw in outsiders raises the statistics for seventeen counties beyond its immediate reach as well. (Your humble host has spent a lot of time looking at microfiche records of missing person reports in the last month. A lot.)

Of course, a missing person isn't always a bad thing; a mysterious disappearance isn't always an involuntary one. Whether it's down to October's metaphysical properties, the changeable fall weather, or just the prospect of facing the coming winter cooped up somewhere, or with someone, you hate, this is the time of year when people make their escapes. Plenty of fairy rings are approached with clear eyes, rather than blundered into. Sometimes maw-like eldritch portals swallow a person AND the suitcase they packed ahead of time. Sometimes, a missing person does not need or want to be found. After all, sometimes those missing people end up here in Lewisia.

Mating and Migration

While we're on the subject of local population fluctuations, I have a repeated and intense reminder from Dr. Ben Langston in the Biology department of the community college regarding mating and migrating creatures this autumn:

If you encounter a local animal, cryptid, ambulatory plant, or other apparently non-rational life form, and it seems like it really wants to eat, breed with, or flee from you or anything else in the immediate area? Strongly consider getting out of its way.

This time of the year, several of our local species leave on their yearly migration to warmer climates in the south. Tawny unicorns and scorched-beak falcons have both already left us. Snowy púki and glass bats will likely be seen headed along their usual paths bordering the Briarwood district. These habits are driven by seasonal changes both obvious and subtle, written into the genetics of creatures and taught from one generation to the next.

It is a drive stronger than your desire to cross a particular road just then. It is an impulse older than your ideas about private yards and landscaping. Let them pass.

All of which is nothing compared to the mating impulse in some creatures. I don't think I need to explicate the mortal danger faced by anyone who gets between a bull moose and his paramour. And while Old Tommy, the goblin crane who lives out by Stoneheart Manor, is generally friendly with the public, that dance he's doing for the next month is not for your benefit, and you should consider using an extremely long lens if you feel compelled to capture his moves on film.

If anything should decide that you are, in fact, the intended subject of their amorous attentions, it is recommended that you seek shelter indoors. Cars are not the deterrent you might hope, except in cases of relatively small unwelcome suitors. A sturdy door and/or high fence will offer more protection until their interest turns elsewhere.

Of course, if you decide you quite fancy one of the human-compatible creatures currently seeking mates, we won't stand in your way. Advice and resources for negotiating an interspecies relationship and parenting any resulting hybrid children can be found through the library's life skills programming.

This Month in History

October 17, 1937 saw the first public distribution of the newly developed vaccine against Custler's Influenza, also known as Gothic flu. Symptoms of Gothic flu include paleness, wasting away, light aversion, mysterious billowing winds centered around the afflicted, and a compulsion to find moorland and cliffs on which to wander. Though not directly fatal, the impulses caused by the disease frequently lead to misadventure. Several of Lewisia's older architectural wonders are thought to have begun as visions of designers suffering from undiagnosed cases of Gothic flu, as the disease is also known to cause obsessions with houses.

Efforts to explore a vaccine or even study the disease had been hindered for years by the tendency of any laboratory setting to go moderately weird within six months of introducing live virus samples to the space. Teams of sensible researchers were assembled based on testing for resistance to romantic notions and delusions of grandeur. Special ultramodern workspaces had to be built, including numerous south-facing windows to counteract the dark and withdrawn tendencies brought on by proximity to the virus. Thanks to their efforts, Gothic flu is now a rare, and rarely life-altering, affliction that seldom does more than cause a temporary flare for flowing poet's shirts and antique literature.

That's a taste of what October has to offer us. See you next month, when November replaces werewolves with regular wolves, donates an hour, and once again brings a covered dish.

[revasserium]

Can I have 34 with Sugawara? thank you

hq!!reqs temporarily: closed ; all other reqs: open

send me a number a character and i’ll write you a drabble ;

34. insomnia: the owner’s instructions suga ; 1,659 words 

a/n: suga, the type of stay up at night bc of an existential crisis. 

the truth is – everything ends. it’s one of those fundamental, incontestable truths, a silver thread in the very fabric of reality, a cornerstone fact upon which the world was built, precarious and everlasting: everything ends. everything. and maybe it’s pointless to let the encroaching shadow of existential dread keep him up at night, but sugawara koushi is just that kind of person. he lies awake thinking about the probable heat death of the universe, and the fact that try as he might, nothing he does, nothing truly, really, actually means anything. 

he flips onto his side, sighs, tugs his phone from beneath his pillow and flicks open the screen. the time glares at him – a jarring 4:33am. he groans and buries his face in his pillow. 

shit. 

and he has morning practice tomorrow. 

double shit. 

he peers at this phone again. 4:34am. 

he opens up his messages and scrolls through his history with you, grinning at all the stupid memes you send each other. his eyes pause on your last message to him – night, love you. sleep tight. 

he’d responded in kind, except exclusively with emojis that perhaps trailed into the questionable territory of being suggestive. but i mean. eggplants are perfectly innocent vegetables, aren’t they? 

his fingers hover over the keys. 

why the fuck not. she’s probably asleep anyway. 

can’t sleep. miss you. wish u were here. 

he hits send, and almost closes out the app when the signature three dots appear at the bottom of his scene and he freezes. why the hell are you awake? 

it seems that you shared his sentiments rather exactly, as your message appears with a little bloop. 

why the hell are you awake? 

he crinkles his nose, fingers already flying. 

said i couldn’t sleep. :( u never read my texts properly. 

a moment later, his phone buzzes and he sees your caller id flare up over his screen. he grins, tapping the green answer button. 

“i do too read your messages.” 

he laughs, the sound just a tad strange in the echo of darkness. 

“fine, fine, yeah you do. i was just teasing.” 

“when are you not.” 

“fair.” 

quiet. the moonlight bleeds slivers between his curtains, the light slicing his room into bits – he raises a hand, staring at his bisected palm with a light frown. 

“are you thinking about the end of the world again?” 

your voice startles him, even across the line, he can hear the way you must be raising your eyebrows, that teasing smile he loves so much twisting your lips. you sound exasperated. and rightly so. he’s exasperated with himself too. 

“may…be?” 

“hm. figured.” 

he lets his hand fall back onto the bed, rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling. 

“what do you think happens after we all die?” 

he hears you shift in your bed as well, and a moment later, you sigh.

“the universe world keeps on spinning. nothing much changes.” 

“right, but like… isn’t it weird to think that all this has existed before us, and it’ll continue to exist after? like. what are we, even?” 

you laugh, the sound making his stomach flutter. 

“cosmic fallout.” 

“wow,” suga rolls his eyes before remembering you can’t see him. though he’s sure you can hear it in his voice. you’ve known each other for way too long. longer than he cares to try and remember. maybe that’s what it’s like to not worry – to trust something enough not to question it. to not have to question it. 

“that’s not depressing at all.” 

you hum, “well. it is. but it’s not like anything we can do will change that. so why lose sleep over it? it’s got no sway on how your life will be.” 

“right, but it’s just… strange – isn’t it? like. how did we even end up here? with like… phones and computers and internet and – and relationships.” 

you’re laughing again, and he closes his eyes. one of these days, he thinks he’ll tape it, the way you laugh, and maybe loop it so it can be the backing track to his entire existence. maybe that’ll give it some meaning, at least – 

he wishes you were there. so he curls up onto his side again and cradles the phone to his ear. 

“i miss you.” 

“i know. i miss you too.” 

“you should come over.” 

“koushi. it’s 4am.” 

“almost 5.” 

“has anyone told you you’re terrible at convincing people to do things?” 

and this time, he laughs, lets the sound shake through him like the first ray of daylight on a rising sun – warm and sharp and hopeful. 

“once or twice.” 

another silence. suga thinks he can almost hear the sound of the world turning, it’s so quiet. and then, your voice cuts through the invariable darkness. 

“by accident.” 

“huh?” he blinks, unsure of if the line cut off. 

“that’s how we all ended up here, a massive, cosmic series of accidents. everything happened just so, all the stars that have ever lived or died – they all did it in just the way they had to for us to somehow end up here, and be able to hold hands and stay up late at night worrying about death and the end of all time.” 

“one hell of an accident,” suga mumbles, crinkling his nose. a wave of tiredness washes over him. he wants to tell you to keep on talking. maybe he’ll record that too, just you talking about something, anything, everything. maybe that’s the cure to insomnia – just you and your voice, lulling him to sleep every night. 

he wonders if that’s weird, and decides that well, he’s your boyfriend, he can be a little bit weird with this kinda stuff. 

“still, pretty amazing right? all that happened so you could accidentally confess to me during homeroom.” 

suga squawks. 

“will you cease and desist? god – you’re just as bad as daichi and noya! they made fun of me for months – months! can you believe it? my own fucking teammates.” 

your laughter washes over him, soothing his fraying nerves even as he huffs and tries to be angry with you. but it’s impossible – it’s been impossible for a long while now, and he wonders why he still tries. 

maybe it’s because he’s so in love. 

“but – whatever happens after we’re all gone,” you say, your voice soft and steady and full of a tenderness so striking it makes his chest squeeze, “at least we had this while we were here, right? at least by some strange conspiracy of the universe, we met each other. and – and fell in love. and… it doesn’t really matter if it doesn’t last forever. cause i’ll remember it happened. and you will too.” 

you take a breath that sounds like the meeting of truth and tragedy, or perhaps the two finding out that they were always one and the same. 

suga holds his own breath, forgets for a moment that he even has lungs. 

“and… i think that’s enough. for me.” 

he lets the breath go, his body curling into itself as he lets his eyes fall shut, his heartbeat thrumming to the sound of your breaths. 

“wow,” he says again. though, it carries none of its former irony. 

and, after a beat. 

“you’re a sap.” 

and this time, you’re the one sighing. 

“i’m hanging up.” 

“wait! not yet – c’mon, you know i didn’t mean it.” he’s laughing again. he does that a lot with you. 

“fine, but only until you fall asleep.” 

he smiles, a pleasant warmth already spreading through his limbs, making heavy his eyelids. 

“i’m already getting sleepy.” 

“good.” 

quiet, once more. the moonlight falling across his room seems to spell out eternity, and it’s moments like this when suga wonders what it’d be like to live forever. not in the sense that he wants to live for a million years, but that he’d like to live in this moment for long than – well, this moment lasts. 

he wants to stretch out the seconds like taffy between his fingers, relish in the sound of your voice, your laughter, in the smell of your hair after you’ve just washed it, the way you kiss him, on the lips, on the cheek, over his eyelids till they see in nothing but daydreams. 

“hey,” he says, whispers into the phone like a secret. 

“hm?” your voice answers back. 

“i think i love you.” 

you pause, and for a moment, just a moment, he thinks he can taste that unattainable forever. he wants to live inside that moment. for as long as he can. 

“i think i love you too.” 

and, even though they’re words you often say to each other, repeated so many times they might lose their meaning – there’s something about the time – the hours caught between morning and night, something about the foreverness of those precious few moments, that makes those words – that specific sequence of letters and sounds, mean so much more than they usually do. 

suga realizes that this is also truth – a kind that he’s always neglected to think about. the truth of beginnings, and middles, and the eternities that live passed the endings. 

because there are certain forevers that live outside the realm of time and space, forevers that are contained within their own special fragments of realities – his and yours, for instance. 

and just for now, for this one moment – love is not an ever-ending thing. 

and the truth is, no matter how dark and dreary the eventual end of the world might be, at least he had this. at least he met you. and at least, he’s known the taste of falling in love. and that’s something. 

isn’t it? 

– 

taglist: @thewaterlily @dorkyama @undertheseabass @miyulovestowrite  @writing-in-monotone @lceiji @vventure @writeiolite

(pls let me know if you’d like to be added to the list! or if you’d like to be removed! u__u) 

[inspired-by-the-music]

Smile

Pairing: Jamin x Reader

Genre: angsty at first, fluffy fluffy fluffy ending!

Warning: y/n is in an emotionally abusive relationship

Word Count: 10k oof guess I went overboard for Jaemin

“I’m so proud of you, Jisung!” You cooed upon learning that your baby brother earned his first part-time job. 

Jisung mumbled, “Ah, cut it out,” but he couldn’t fight his smile as he squirmed to escape your embrace and efforts to pinch his rosy cheeks. “I don’t act like this when you make the honor roll at your college—”

“That’s because my academic excellence has become expected, almost unimpressive,” you joked confidently, almost choking on laughter when Jisung groaned at your mock arrogance. “But you—” you poked his arm— “you’ve always been a precious baby, so it’s weird to watch you step into the adult world.”

Having learned long ago that he would always be a baby in your eyes, Jisung didn’t waste his breath arguing that he was kind of, basically, technically an adult. He blinked at you and tilted his head so it laid against the back of the couch. “I don’t think about it like that. It’s just a job at the cafe, and I’m only doing it because my friends are.”

Spending time with Jisung was refreshing because his simple, youthful outlook challenged your habit of overanalyzing. That aspect of your relationship hadn’t changed since you enrolled in the local university. Jisung was still very much your baby brother; yet, as he laid back and stretched his legs over your lap and his socked feet dangled off the arm of the couch, you realized with a gasp that he was growing up. He was growing up, and he didn’t think anything about it while you mourned every second of lost youth. To Jisung, the next steps in life— which terrified you— were fun, a casual adventure with his friends. 

What would it be like, you wondered enviously, to be like Jisung? 

You wouldn’t ask. Even if you did, Jisung wouldn’t know how to answer. 

As he playfully wiggled his toes into your ribs, and you laughed while swatting at his denim-clad legs, a voice sounded through his headset. The words were unintelligible, but the tone was unmistakable: annoyed. They prompted Jisung to sit upright, plant his feet on the carpeted floor, and unpause his video game. Although his gaze was fixed on the flashing screen, he covered only one ear with the headset. 

He heard you ask, “Who is that?”

“Jaemin,” Jisung whispered out of the side of his mouth and covered the microphone so his friend wouldn’t hear. 

Because he was playing with just one hand, Jisung caused his team to lose. The loss was evident from the crimson text— “YOU LOSE”—  filling the black screen, the slackjawed frown on Jisung’s face, and (especially) from the shrieks breaking through the headset. 

Jisung chanted, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” but the shrieks rang on. 

Your face flushed as rage burned in your gut. “Still Jaemin?”

A mere nod was Jisung’s answer. He didn’t bother to push away the bangs that had fallen into his eyes. 

“What is he even saying?” You hissed. 

“Nothing really,” Jisung shrugged away from your question. 

You were overprotective of Jisung— you wouldn’t deny that. His willingness to defend his buddy despite his obviously flaring tempter fuelled your frustration. Maybe, you thought later, you shouldn’t have disliked that Jaemin kid that much considering you had never even seen him. 

Rolling your eyes, you bossed, “Tell him that it’s just a game. You can play again until you win.”

Jisung shook his head and calmly explained, “That’s the worst thing to say to a raging gamer, Y/N—”

“Are you talking to a girl?” Jaemin roared loudly enough for you to hear. “Is that why we lost the tournament? Because you’re flirting with a girl?”

Sensing that you were reaching to snatch the headset to rival Jaemin’s temper, Jisung jumped up, stood as tall as he could on the couch so you couldn’t quite reach his head no matter how hard you stretched, and huffed at Jaemin, “I’m talking to my sister, not flirting, and I have to go!” He disconnected the headset and turned the game off before you could say anything to threaten his friendship with Jaemin. 

You slumped down on the cushion. “You must have made some really nice friends while I’ve been busy busting my butt at school.”

“He is nice!” Jisung stepped off the couch. Frowning as you rolled your eyes again, he grumbled, “There’s no point in talking when people are too angry to listen,” before sulking away to his bedroom, embarrassed by his scoldings. 

You regretted letting him walk away, but you resolved to comfort him later after tensions died down. 

. . . 

Because you were determined to be a kind person, you surrounded yourself with people who didn’t boil your blood. So, to tolerate Jaemin— which was as close as you could get to liking him as Jisung wanted— you had to maintain a safe distance. For the sake of peace, Jaemin had to remain a faceless name spoken into Jisung’s headset, and you would try not to roll your eyes whenever you heard it. 

Despite what anyone says, you didn’t walk into the cafe that night with the intention of meeting Jaemin face to face. In fact, had you known that he was the friend Jisung followed into the workforce, you wouldn’t have agreed to pick your brother up after his shift. That was childish; since you were already in town after your last class, it only made sense that you should be the one to wait for him in the parking lot. 

You were patient at first. Then, minutes passed, and you had to turn the car off to save gas, and the almost-summer heat baked the car until you lost all self-control. Had you rushed into the air-conditioned cafe sooner, before you were seething at the realization that you had wasted over an hour waiting for Jisung (who was still scrubbing down tables like Cinderella well into the night on his first day), you might have missed Jaemin’s lecture that pushed your temper to its breaking point.

You couldn’t have recognized Jaemin by his neatly combed hair or crystalline smile. You knew him by the frustrated tone he used to scold Jisung without looking up from the register where he stood counting the day’s earnings. “You made too many stupid mistakes today, Jisung! I can forgive you for forgetting the day’s special once or twice, but every time you talked to a customer— if you can’t be bothered to memorize something so simple—”

“Ahem.” 

The boys’ attention snapped away from their work to gawk at you with wide eyes when you cleared your throat. 

“— you can always just look at this chalkboard,” Jaemin concluded less sternly, pointing at an overheard sign that boasted: ‘Today’s Special: Green Tea Latte.’

Jaemin’s bug-eyed stare provoked you to quip, “Is that all you do— for fun and for work? Yell at Jisung?”

“Huh?” Jaemin’s jaw dropped in an innocent schoolboy expression that might have been adorable if he hadn’t already landed on your bad side. 

This was your biggest fault: you put too much weight in first impressions. Of course, you could easily apologize after realizing that you had misjudged somebody. You even had a consistent record of forgiving inexcusable offenses against yourself. What you couldn’t forgive or forget were attacks against Jisung, and you had just witnessed Jaemin’s second strike. 

Acting as the mediator between your wrath and Jaemin’s confusion, Jisung returned to his task of wiping the table. “What are you doing here, Y/N?”

It was irrational to expect Jisung to raise his voice to defend himself from Jaemin’s scolding. Jisung was subordinate to Jaemin in friendship and especially in the workplace hierarchy. Always, you were proud of your brother’s peaceful temperament. Proud and, at that moment, annoyed. 

“Mom and dad asked me to drive you home after your shift that was supposed to end over an hour ago.” 

Jisung’s lips rounded into a tiny ‘o,’ and he turned to Jaemin for confirmation of the time. 

Jaemin didn’t notice, though. He was quietly studying you with narrowed eyes. “You’re Jisung’s sister?”

“Yeah,” you nodded stiffly. “I’m the reason you lost your little video game tournament.”

Your words were intended as a blunt weapon, but Jaemin laughed. His smile was almost blinding as he swept his hair out of his face with slender coffee-stained fingers. “Oh yeah. Well, don’t sweat that. I forgive ya!”

Before you could explain that you weren’t apologizing— that neither you nor Jisung had done anything to warrant begging forgiveness— Jaemin winked, “As long as you go on a date with me!”

You imagined your reaction looked a lot like Jisung’s: hanging jaws and wide-eyed blinking. Objectively, it was flattering that someone as cute as Jaemin (excluding his temper) would flirt with you even as a mindless pastime. Even if Jaemin hadn’t made two terrible first impressions, even if he wasn’t one of Jisung’s little buddies, even if your pride would allow you to give in to his charms, one dreadful fact remained: 

“I have a boyfriend.”  

On cue, Jisung rolled his eyes. Grinding his teeth, he dropped his gaze on the table. 

“Oh.” Jaemin’s shoulders fell, and his smile barely faltered. The smile, you realized, wasn’t an expression of happiness; his lips were almost permanently set in a toothy grin, even if it didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

That must be inconvenient, you thought. Does he smile even when he’s sad? Or when he’s angry? 

When Jaemin looked up at Jisung, his eyes crinkled fondly. All traces of past frustration had vanished. “Goodnight, Jisung. I’ll see ya tomorrow!”

Slowing his movements to a near-complete stop, Jisung started, “But I’m not finished—”

Jaemin shot him a pointed look. As quickly as it had calmed, his temper flared. “Don’t keep your sister waiting. I’ll close up.”

Just as you opened your mouth— to thank Jaemin, or to apologize for your impatience, or to offer to help clean or at least sit quietly while waiting for them to finish— your phone rang. Your mother was calling probably to ask why you weren’t yet home with Jisung in tow. 

“Come on,” you urged Jisung gently after silencing your ringer and quietly resolving to have him call her once you were in the car. “We should go. Mom is worried.”

After looking at Jaemin once more for permission and receiving a courteous nod, Jisung untied his apron and folded it on the counter before Jaemin. “Thanks. I’ll see ya tomorrow.” 

Had Jisung been less mature, he would have teased you for abandoning your decision to dislike Jaemin after seeing him just once and exchanging only a few words. Instead, he focused on returning your mother’s call to recount his day at school (where he aced his first final exam) and his first day at work (where his friend Jaemin taught him how to make all kinds of coffee and pastries while defending him from the jokes of other teenage workers). 

Silence fell over the car after Jisung ended the call. You drummed your thumbs on the steering wheel, anticipating that he must have saved some exciting story for your ears only, just as he always had. But no sound came from the passenger seat. 

Your heart sank. No, you couldn’t blame him for being mad or embarrassed by you. Not only had you treated him like a defenseless infant— as always— you were also rude to his friend. 

Yes, you had walked in on Jaemin lecturing Jisung, but at least he had been considerate enough to wait until the cafe was empty to voice is criticisms. All day, while you were too busy at school to do it yourself, Jaemin acted as Jisung’s guardian and protector. And no, you hadn’t forgotten that Jaemin screamed at Jisung and made his face flush because of a stupid video game, but it was clear from watching their interactions and from hearing how proudly Jisung talked about him that they held no grudges. Who were you, then, to hold on to one on Jisung’s behalf? 

“I’m sorry,” you muttered. An apologetic glance over at the passenger seat revealed that Jising had fallen fast asleep. His head was leaned against the window, and his mouth hung agape; faint snores filled the silence. 

As you decided to let him sleep, Jisung jolted awake. His face almost crashed into the dashboard. 

“Alright there, partner?” You hummed like you used to in the days when you played Toy Story with him from dusk until dawn. 

“Yeah.” Jisung nodded groggily as he settled back and reclined his seat. “Did ya say something while I was sleeping, partner?”

Again, you readied your apology, but you hesitated to deliver it as you sensed Jisung’s smile like gentle sun rays illuminating your skin. He wasn’t upset. He didn’t expect an apology. Yet, you felt you owed him one anyway. 

He moped, “What’s wrong?”

You shook your head. Although you were sorry, you didn’t have to express that with a long winded speech he wouldn’t understand. You could express it instead through actions. You could express it through jokes. 

“I said Jaemin is a real cutie.” Without glancing away from the road, you winked. 

Because you expected Jisung to gag— who wants to hear their sister call their friend cute?— you were surprised when he simply warned, “You have a boyfriend, remember?” You weren’t surprised, however, that he choked around the word ‘boyfriend.’

“Why don’t you like him? My boyfriend, I mean?”

Had you looked over, you would have seen Jisung cross his arms and turn his gaze out the window. “Why do you like him?”

Jisung so rarely disliked anyone, his disapproval of your boyfriend made you wary of the romance— if you could even call it a romance. After months of back and forth, he finally decided that you could call him your boyfriend. Because you spent so much time and energy chasing that ideal, the half-formed thought of being with him, you couldn’t quite let it go even though the dull reality paled (soured, even) to the dream. 

You should have been able to answer Jisung’s question. It was a dooming sign, your inability to name one reason why you liked your boyfriend that hadn’t been dashed by being his girlfriend. Rather than heeding the sign, however, you clutched the wool over your eyes and turned the radio on. 

. . . 

“Believe it or not, babe, I’d like to have one date that’s not about babysitting your little brother,” your boyfriend said through a mouthful of rice.

Rejection was an almost daily occurrence, but you reddened nonetheless. “First of all, my brother isn’t that young. He’s eighteen.” Yes, to you, Jisung was a precious baby; but you had to deny his youthfulness to defend him from your boyfriend’s criticism. To mask your blossoming blush, you took a sip of your tea. “Second of all, it’s not a date. I told Jisung I would take him and his friends to the arcade if he got good grades on all his exams. I’m inviting you to be nice.”

To be nice. To try again to be a better girlfriend because maybe that would make him a better boyfriend. To subject yourself, again, to disappointment because maybe that would be the final one to sever your ties. 

He had stopped listening, opting instead to scroll through his phone. “Whatever.”

Before he could look up and make his millionth appeal for a date in the privacy of your bedroom, before he could reiterate his rejection, you forced yourself onto your feet. “Yeah. Whatever.”

Although you would be almost an hour early to class, you raced out of the cafeteria. Had you been thinking more clearly— had you been able to breathe comfortably enough to think around him at all— you would have tried again to break up with him. It wasn’t a mystery why Jisung hated him, you admitted to yourself as you dashed through the deserted hallway. He was determined to employ every negative tactic to occupy your every thought; he refused to encourage your interaction with others, even your own brother; he thought only of keeping you to himself. 

And yet, he could ignore you for days, leaving you to wonder what you had done wrong to inflict the latest silence. When you would forcefully swallow your dwindling pride to invite him to spend time together, he would reject your advances because they weren’t intimate enough. 

Until you were trapped in that cycle, you couldn’t comprehend how hard— impossible— they are to break from. In a few scattered moments, like the one where you sat with your back pressed against the wall and knees drawn up to your chest, it was undeniable: you were miserable. Rather than finding the strength to end the relationship, instead of embracing the uncertainty of freedom, you prayed that he would let you go. If he was so uninterested, why couldn’t he just walk away? 

You knew the sickening answer. Nobody ever liked him before you did. Clinging to you— even if it meant breaking you— was the only way he could hold the illusion of self-worth. Putting you down, making you beg for acknowledgment, was the only way he could stand over anyone. You walked into this situation by pining after somebody who never wanted you; maybe, then, you deserved to be unhappy. 

As students flooded out of the classroom and into the hall, you wiped at your eyes with ice-cold hands. You weren’t crying; you were just trying to wipe the tired dark circles off. 

“Y/N!” Someone called on their way out of the classroom. 

It was Jaemin, beaming and waving both hands excitedly as if greeting an old friend— as if you hadn’t treated him so unfairly during your first and only prior meeting. 

That pinch of guilt and whatever dread caused by your boyfriend faded when Jaemin slung his yellow backpack onto the floor at your feet before crashing into the space on the bench next to you. 

“Gotta leave room for others,” he justified when you raised an eyebrow as he stretched his arm along the back of the bench around your shoulders. 

“Right,” you nodded dubiously. “What are you doing here, Jaemin?”

“Ouch— icy—” he winced, playfully smiling all the while. “Just give me a chance, and I’ll prove that I’m worthy of sitting with you!”

“I don’t doubt it.” He blushed at your honest attempt at flattery, and you continued, “But that’s not what I meant. Why are you doing here at my school?”

Jaemin shrugged. “It’s not just your school.”

Your eyes widened. “You go to school here?” He nodded. “Really? I could have sworn you were Jisung’s age and that he met you at his high school—”

“Nope.” Jaemin popped the ‘p’ proudly. “I hope you didn’t reject me just because you thought I was too young!” You laughed, and he winked, “It’s okay if ya did. I’ll give you another chance to date me.” 

You shook your head, almost in a futile attempt to convince yourself that your heart didn’t flutter with the growth of Jaemin’s smile.

“Just playing.” He dropped the arm resting behind your shoulders to act as a barrier between your bodies. “Jisung said you really have a boyfriend, so I probably shouldn’t flirt with you.” 

Blushing at the information that Jaemin and Jisung talked about you, you blurted, “He wouldn’t mind.” Your hand clamped over your mouth too late to prevent them from filling the air. 

“Who?” Jaemin’s head tilted curiously. “Jisung or your boyfriend?” You didn’t answer, so Jaemin tried another question: “Would you mind?”

Eager to escape, you flinched off of the bench. “Sorry, Jaemin— gotta get to class.” As much as you loathed your boyfriend, as much as you were starting to like Jaemin, outright flirting wasn’t right. 

You couldn’t control what Jaemin did. Diving to reach your hand, he didn’t seem to care too much that you had a boyfriend. Then again, he probably didn’t have to care; he wasn’t obligated to consider any feelings but his own. 

Undeterred by your gasp and smirking because you didn’t yank your hand out of his grasp, he asked, “You’re going to the arcade with Jisung this weekend, right?”

It shouldn’t have been a big deal— touching somebody’s hand— but you couldn’t quite breathe because of Jaemin’s touch. Numbly, overwhelmed with unfamiliar emotions that clouded your thoughts, you nodded. “Yeah. Who do you think is paying for all the tokens and pizza?”

“Huh?” In his surprise, Jaemin dropped your hand. You could breathe again. His eyes narrowed. “Not you. I’ll pay.”

You shook your head. “Jisung is my brother, and I promised to take him and his little friends—”

“Do you even know  how many people he invited?” When you responded with another shake of your head, Jaemin counted on his hand, “Renjun, Jeno, Haechan, Chenle, and me. Excluding me— because I’m not letting you pay my way— and including Jisung, that’s five boys you’re promising to pay for. Five boys—” he wiggled his fingers menacingly— “who live on pizza and games.”

Forcing your arms through the straps of your backpack, you chuckled at his dramatic delivery. “If they’re so expensive, why are you so determined to pay for them yourself?”

“Because you shouldn’t have to—”

Your alarm sounded to signal that your class would start in five minutes. “I have to go to class, Jaemin, so we’ll have to bicker about this later—”

As you dismissed the alarm with the tap of your thumb, Jaemin yanked your phone away. “Here. I’ll give you my number.” His eyes twinkled when they met yours, and a corner of his lips flicked upward in a teasing smile as he clarified, “Just so we can discuss this payment business. Don’t get any funny ideas.”

Despite your promise to Jisung not to waste the night staring at the door waiting for your boyfriend, you sat alone at a small table doing just that for at least thirty minutes after Jisung ran into the arcade with his friends. Were you hoping he would show up? Not because you wanted to play skeeball with him or anything. You just wanted— needed— for the silence born after your last conversation in the cafeteria to end. As expected, your humbling texts had gone unanswered; there was no reason to think he had changed his mind about coming to the arcade. 

He’s not coming. Again, always, you were caught between relief and anxiety. Your sweaty palms clutched the edges of your seat. I’ll give him ten more minutes. Ten more minutes, and then I’m having fun with or without him. 

But it was impossible to have fun with him. That truth was never more blatant than when Jaemin plopped into the chair next to you. 

He boasted, “I gave the children money to buy pizza,” in a voice made raspy to emulate old age, “per our agreement.”

That was the compromise reached via texts: Jaemin would pay for all food, and you would pay for arcade access. 

Jaemin’s characteristic sterling smile dimmed as he noticed your frown and how you nervously eyed the door and compulsively checked your phone. “Are you expecting someone?” You hesitated to respond, and he warned, “The kids will be here any minute, so you should tell me what’s bugging you quickly. That way, we can work through it while we still have some privacy.”

His earnest stare prompted you to blurt, “My boyfriend.” Noting Jaemin’s frown, you squirmed through your stresses. “I invited him— who knows why— and he said that he wanted to have a date without my brother tagging along— so, obviously, I stormed off— and we haven’t talked in two days— which isn’t that long, but I don’t know what to say to fix things— and he isn’t even here, and—”

Jaemin blinked like Jisung always did when your worries bubbled out of your mouth, so you cut yourself off. Jaemin’s mouth fell open, and it stayed open as he struggled to form a response. 

“I’m sorry.” You shrank in your seat. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

Aside from feeling guilty for dumping your feelings on someone, you hated yourself for spilling them all over Jaemin of all people. Jaemin, who always smiled and didn’t deserve to be burdened with your self-inflicted troubles. Jaemin, who flirted with you, and somehow liked you, and didn’t want to hear about your boyfriend. 

“I don’t think you have to apologize. To me or to him.” Jaemin’s smile slowly returned, and guilt eased its clutch around you. “No offense, but anyone who doesn’t want to hang out with you and Jisung is lame. And I’m not just saying that because I like—”

Your soaring heart came crashing down when Haechan cheered, “We come bearing pizza!” The other boys followed behind him, each carrying two boxes of pizza. 

After Renjun returned Jaemin’s debit card and the boys claimed a seat— notably, Jisung sat at your side and smiled brightly— Jaemin glared at nobody in particular. “Do you think you got enough to eat? Seriously, guys, ten pizzas are excessive! You can’t just take advantage of my generosity—”

“Jaemin,” you interrupted calmly, fighting the urge to giggle at his nagging with the other boys. “It’s okay. If it matters so much, I’ll pay you back.”

“What?” He gasped. “No, don’t! Besides, money isn’t the point—”

“Generosity!” Chenle cackled and flicked a piece of pepperoni at Jaemin; he dodged the attack. “You just bought us dinner to impress Jisung’s big sister!”

The others, excluding Jisung, chorused, “Ooooh.” All, except the laughing Jeno, partook in flinging pizza toppings at Jaemin. 

Burning a faint shade of pink from his neck up Jaemin screeched, “Yah! Cut it out! I dressed nicely—”

Jeno wiggled his eyebrows before sinking his teeth into a slice of cheese pizza. “Jaemin dressed nicely to impress Jisung’s sister!”

And the boys (minus Jisung, who sat quietly at your side, cheeks stuffed full) again sang “Ooooh,” until your face and Jaemin’s both colored crimson. 

In what must have been an attempt to defend you from his friends’ teasing Jisung swallowed his mouthful and chirped, “She has a name! It’s Y/N!”

Jisung’s attempt backfired. 

“Ooooh! Jaemin and Y/N, sitting in a tree. . .”

As the boys sang their silly song, and you laughed out loud for the first time all night, Jaemin’s annoyance or embarrassment vanished. Grinning, he flew out of his seat, grabbed you by the hand, and pulled you toward the arcade. “Hope you got all the pizza you wanted!”

Although you couldn’t really care less about eating more pizza, you yelled over children’s laughter and game sound effects, “You don’t think they’ll leave me any?”

“Jisung might try to save you some, but it’ll get all cold if one of the guys doesn’t steal it. You and I are gonna be here for a while.” He dropped your hand to point up at a shelf of plush prizes. “Which one do you want?”

The giant mint green llama instantly caught your eye. You fumbled with an answer because, “Jaemin, those cost, like, 5,000 tickets!”

He retrieved a neon green play card from his back pocket, twirled it between his fingers, and winked. “4,902 electronic tickets, baby! Pick your prize, and we’ll get the other 98 tickets!”

“How— why—” You stuttered, flustered by Jaemin’s utterly unromantic use of the word ‘baby.’

“I come here a lot,” Jaemin shrugged, “and I already have a bunch of those plushes. It’s a little childish, but they always make me feel better when I’m feeling down.” 

Oh. So this was his response to your rambling about your boyfriend. He wouldn’t tell you to just break up with him if you were so miserable like your girlfriends did before casually moving on to the next topic of idle gossip. He wouldn’t sulk with you like Jisung. Jaemin would go out of his way to teach you to have fun. 

“Pick one!” Jaemin urged again, brushing his elbow against your ribs until you went weak with laughter. Before you could trip over your own feet, he secured you around the waist. As he parted his lips, probably to tease your clumsiness, his gaze followed where you pointed. “Ah, the llama. Cute. Let’s go!” He grabbed your hand again and sped to the wall of skeeball machines because, as he explained, that game was the quickest (and most fun) way to earn tickets.   

“We don’t have to run everywhere,” you wheezed, doubling over. 

Having knelt down to swipe his play card, Jaemin looked up and stole your little remaining breath with his smile. “Come on, Y/N, breathlessness is part of the fun!” Seeing that you were scrambling to pull your card out of your pocket, Jaemin swiped his again through your machine before standing upright. 

“Jaemin!” You swatted at him gently, and he spun away from the contact. “I’m supposed to pay for the games! That’s what we agreed on!”

Your scolding elicited a burst of laughter. Shaking his card at you, Jaemin defended, “The points are on my card.” A single eyebrow arched. “If you want that adorable llama, you gotta let me pay.”

Because he turned his attention to his game and started launching ball after ball into the center target before you could reply, he didn’t see your small smile. “Under that cute exterior,” you mirrored his posture as you started your game, “you’re really quite cunning.”

Rather than fixating on the insult, Jaemin noticed the compliment. “Cute,” he mimicked your high pitch. “You think I’m cute?” He glanced out of the corner of his eye to gauge your expression and snorted as your ball sank into the gutter. “Oops! Am I too cute? Am I distracting you?”

To your relief, your blush was washed out by the blinking arcade lights. “You’re not distracting me because you’re cute.” You balanced the lie with a partial truth: “You’re distracting because you’re annoying.”

“Ouch,” He whistled. His game announced, ‘New High Score!’ and he celebrated by pumping a fist into the air before turning to you. “Every time I think you’re starting to like me back just a little, you cut me right back down.”

Well aware of how flirtatiously Jaemin would interpret your words, you decided to say, ‘I do like you.’ The words were dancing on the tip of your tongue, but you swallowed them back at the sudden reappearance of Jisung and his band of friends. 

“Found ‘em!” Haechan declared as if you had been playing hide-and-seek. 

This is a good thing, you told yourself as your game ended without all the fanfare Jaemin’s high score earned. I would have regretted confusing Jaemin’s feelings. Some true things are better left unsaid. 

“Ah, these kids are ruining the experience,” Jaemin grumbled playfully. Shoving his hands into the pockets of light blue acid-washed jeans, he asked the boys, “What do you need now?”

“We just wanted to check in on our favorite budding romance.” Renjun’s jest received laughter from the other boys and a dramatic eyeroll from Jaemin. 

While Jaemin suggested, “Find your own girls and stop following us like a bunch of weirdos,” Jisung stepped up to your side. 

“Want these?” He held out his joined hands that cupped a rainbow assortment of hard candies. “I won them out of a machine!” Your brother beamed at his accomplishment when you popped a candy into your mouth.

Stuffing a wrapper and a couple of pieces into your pockets, you smiled at him. “Thank ya, Jisung!” The cherry flavored jawbreaker muffled your voice. You nearly choked on your laughter when Jisung bent his knees and leaned forward so you could pat his head of pink-brown hair in proud gratitude. 

“Now that the adorable sibling bonding is out of the way,” Chenle said, “we’re gonna play laser tag. We know you two—” his eyes flickered from you to Jaemin— “would rather make out by the skeeball machines—”

You gasped, and Jisung shouted, “Hey!” He stomped to Chenle and towered over him. Jisung’s height alone would have been daunting if he didn’t have the face of a baby even when glowering. “Don’t be a gross pervert! That’s my sister!” Chenle’s hands rose in mock surrender. “I’m not the one making out with—”

“Anyway—” As you facepalmed, Jeno intervened by stepping between Chenle and Jisung. “We’re gonna play laser tag, if you wanna tag along!” Jeno laughed at his own pun, and you removed your hand from your face to flash a polite grin. 

Jaemin replied with a shake of his head that sent his bangs falling into his eyes. “Nah, we’re not gonna play. Thanks for asking.”

“We’re not?” You wrinkled your forehead. 

You weren’t offended by Jaemin’s eagerness to speak on your behalf; you were just surprised that he didn’t run at the opportunity to explore the arcade with his friends. That was why he showed up, right? To spend time with Jisung. 

Ignoring Chenle’s joking, “Ooooh, trouble in paradise!” Jaemin explained through a nervous grin, “We can’t get tickets from playing laser tag. If we want that llama, we gotta stay focused!”

“Huh?” Jisung’s eyes resembled saucers as he sucked on a piece of candy. “Llama? You’re not gonna pay tag?”

You didn’t withstand your brother’s disappointed stare because you wanted to win some silly stuffed animal. This was wrong— now, you thought, you actually deserved your boyfriend’s disapproval— but you enjoyed having Jaemin’s attention to yourself. 

That’s why grinned, “Gotta win that llama!” earning Jaemin’s high five. 

Teasing you must have lost its appeal; wordlessly nodding, the boys— except Jisung, who stood staring at you— set off to play laser tag. Realizing that Jisung would otherwise be left behind, Renjun ushered him away, muttering, “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Moments passed without words after Jaemin started another round of skeeball. 

The silence ended when Jaemin said, “You don’t have to look so guilty.” His voice, softer than usual, was almost lost amid booming sound effects and laughter and screams of triumph and despair. “Jisung won’t stay hung up on us for long. He’s an adaptable kid.”

You couldn’t explain that the guilt twisting your gut had little to do with the look you put on your brother’s face. Honesty would have required admitting aloud that spending this time with Jaemin was a sin; then, you would have to stop out of respect for the never-present boyfriend who didn’t care to show you any consideration. And you didn’t want to stop. And you didn’t want to ruin the playful atmosphere by vocalizing your distress. And you didn’t want to overwhelm Jaemin’s crush on you if it were as shallow as you imagined. 

We’re just having fun, you argued to the voice in the shadows of your mind that demanded an justification for your joy. 

The voice in your mind sounded a lot like the one booming in your ears, the voice of your boyfriend, the voice that stunned you stiff. Those defensive thoughts— they weren’t just thoughts; they were also stuttered excuses you forced through trembling lips as he glared down at you, his fingers digging into your arms so roughly that it would have hurt if you weren’t embarrassed— numb. Numb except for the agonizing thundering of your heart. 

People were staring. People were listening to him scold, “I wouldn’t have bothered coming to this stupid place if I’d known you were here to hook up with some stupid kid you found at the claw machine.” 

He cut his eyes at Jaemin and crushed you with the realization that you were not trapped in a dream turned nightmare. He wouldn’t disappear with the opening of your eyes, yet you blinked once, twice, thrice, in the hope that he would. 

Jaemin was a s stunned as you were. Dark maroon splotches welted every visible inch of his skin; his chest rapidly rose and fell under his white t-shirt; his hands were clenched in tight fists pressed to his side; his jaw was forced shut, lips pressed into a thin line. 

“He is not a stupid kid.” Emboldened by the instinct to stand up for Jaemin, you didn’t shrink under your boyfriend’s cold, piercing stare. “He’s practically my age, and we aren’t even hooking up—” You liked Jaemin, and that perversion of your relationship made all of your hairs stand on end. “He’s my friend.”

“Your friend.” Your boyfriend’s laugh was hollow. Again, he was going to remind you that nobody was interested in you. Jabbing a finger at Jaemin without breaking your eye contact, he accused, “That kid is no more interested in ‘friendship’ with you than I am.”

At some point, you would have believed it. At some point, those words would have hurt you, but they had been spoken so often that they lost their sting. He had always been like this— cruel— even when you had willed yourself oblivious. Until now, you forced yourself to say whatever might guarantee temporary peace. 

What was so different now? 

Maybe now that you realized there were people like Jaemin, who would enjoy your company without the promise of anything in return, you couldn’t subject yourself to mistreatment. Maybe Jaemin’s smile broke through the darkness your boyfriend insisted encompassed the entire world; maybe Jaemin’s smile exposed your relationship’s emptiness; maybe you understood at last there was nothing there worth saving with forced silence. 

“Let go of me.” You met your boyfriend’s eyes, voice wavering only slightly because the words were unfamiliar in your mouth. “Go away. You don’t want anything to do with me, and I don’t want anything to do with you either. So just— just—”

The tears that pooled in his eyes were inauthentic. Despite recognizing the deliberate attempt at manipulation, you tread that dangerous line between freedom and captivity, between apology and honesty, until he pushed you out of his grasp. 

You couldn’t even be relieved; he turned and towered over Jaemin who, somehow, was not intimidated by his size. Jaemin, who stood proudly when faced with the force that had been strangling you, extinguishing you for months. 

“Ease up, kid,” he growled, “I’m not gonna hit you.”

Jaemin did not change in his posture, and your boyfriend clicked his tongue in annoyance; you flinched at the sound, and Jaemin didn’t bat an eyelash. 

“Whatever. You want her so badly?” Jaemin nodded so wildly that your boyfriend would have seen if he hadn’t focused his eyes on you to watch you crumble as he said, “Take her, then. She’s nothing to me.”

You weren’t winded so much by what he said; you decided just moments ago that he could not determine your worth. But how could anybody spout cruelty so easily? How could he easily turn away from his latest attempt to break you when you could never work up the nerve to gently walk away from him? You couldn’t understand. 

And you couldn’t quite process the public break up until after noticing that the once bustling arcade had gone silent safe for the few scattered whispers— all about you. It was not quite real until you felt the eyes of strangers prying into you in search of the worth he could never find. The humiliation didn’t quite dawn on you until you met Jaemin’s gaze— overwhelmed, frightened, saddened. 

Jaemin’s stare. That’s what drove you to seek solace on a bench under the moonlight sky. 

The unseasonably cool blowing breeze reminded you that you never deserved to hold Jaemin’s attention. What had he even seen in you that day you stormed into the cafe to retrieve Jisung? You had been sweaty, irritable, dismissive of his friendship with Jisung and his inexplicable interest in you. Undesirable in appearance and in deed; yet somehow Jaemin could smile at you. You couldn’t understand. 

After that confrontation, he would never smile at you the same way. How weak must you have sounded, stuttering like a fool? How foolish must you have seemed for allowing someone so careless and cruel to stand close to your heart? 

Weak. Foolish. Undesirable. Unworthy. 

The words you thought of yourself were unfair, untrue, and yet you could not stop thinking them. In an effort to ignore the thoughts you couldn’t control, you wedged your phone out of your pocket. Gifsets were always guaranteed to brighten your mood. 

Your mood soured further, though, after dismissing a wall of texts from your boyfriend— well, ex-boyfriend and after reading a text from your friend, who sent you a screenshot of your ex’s Instagram account. The picture depicted a rather tasteless kiss between himself and a girl who wasn’t you with a caption that read: ‘Guess I don’t have to keep the best thing that ever happened to me a secret anymore. Guess Y/N and I were both two-timers.’

The screen went black, and you slammed the phone down at your side. After publicly accusing you of cheating with Jaemin, your ex revealed the reason why he never wanted you, why he preferred to go days without talking, why he never wanted to spend any time with you: there was somebody else. The problem was never you; the problem was always him. 

Somehow, deep down, or right at the surface, you had always known. So rather than feeling relieved or vindicated, you hated yourself for ignoring your parents and Jisung and the careful voice in your head that said, ‘let go, run,’ long before you met Jaemin and started falling for his smile slowly and then all at once. 

Footsteps slapped on the pavement from afar, and you sucked a breath in. Nobody could see you— not until you had worked through your storm of emotions— so you tugged your legs, bare below your striped shorts, up onto the bench and contorted to conceal yourself in the building’s shadow. 

Jaemin found you with little effort. He wasted no time in running to you and didn’t think twice before sitting beside you just as closely as he had at school days ago. His eyes were different now: wide with concern, no longer sparkling with mischief. 

Unable to stand how he looked at you— as if you were breaking— you crossed your arms over your knees and buried your face in the bend of your elbow. “Stop looking at me like that, Jaemin.”

Although he had done nothing wrong, Jaemin apologized. “I’m sorry. And I’m sorry that happened, and I’m sorry I caused it—”

“You didn’t cause it.” The urge to console Jaemin overwhelmed the urge to hide. You lowered your feet onto the concrete and, to comfort him, rested your arm on the back of the bench, just behind his shoulders. “That guy— he’s always been a big—”

You wouldn’t have known how to describe your ex-boyfriend if your phone hadn’t interrupted you with a sharp buzz that likely signaled another incoming text from your friend. Jaemin grabbed your phone although you were content to leave the messages unread, and the screen lit up in his hand. 

Jaemin’s mouth fell open as he instinctively scanned the message. “He— he had the nerve to scream at you in front of all those people when he’s been kissing—”

Rage tightened around Jaemin’s vocal chords, and he shoved the phone back into the narrow space between your bodies. “I don’t get it. People like that— how do they get anyone to like them? And how can they just treat people— why do they— I—” He raked his fingers through his hair, drawing a deep ragged breath. 

Staring up at the moon and willing your voice to stay even, you mumbled, “I don’t get it either. I guess— you know— I read once that we accept the love we think we deserve.” 

Did you believe that line you found in a book? Is that why you could never break things off? 

Jaemin pulled his legs up onto the bench and crossed them so he could face you fully. “Hey.” He reached for your hand, and this time there was no playful smirk when you didn’t flinch from his touch. Once you mirrored his posture to face him too, he said, “You deserve better. A lot better. And by that, I don’t mean that you deserve me, even though I’d like—”

As if you weren’t leaning into his every word, Jaemin caught his tongue and stared down at his hand holding yours. 

When words failed, you returned his small act of affection by curling your fingers around his hand. “I really want to deserve you, Jaemin. Someday soon.” 

Had you given into the desire to look at him, you would have seen his eyebrows knitting together. “I don’t know what you mean. If it has anything to do with what that jerk said—”

“It doesn’t,” you said immediately despite your failed efforts to silence his nagging voice in the corner of your mind. “You’re just so bright and beautiful, and I was so quick to judge you for yelling at Jisung—”

“Wait, when did I— oh, are you talking about when I got onto him that time after work?”

You nodded slowly, tracing over his knuckles. “And when you yelled at him over that video game.”

“You actually heard that?” At his feeble tone, you finally looked up at Jaemin. In the pale moonlight, his blush was a glowing pink. He scratched at the back of his neck with his free hand. “I’m sorry. I apologized to Jisung, too. I guess it’s not an excuse, but my temper isn’t all that great when I lose games. And that time after work—”

“I know you weren’t trying to bully him. You were trying to help him improve, and now I know that you just like to nag—”

Jaemin huffed, “I do not nag!”

“— and I’m sorry that I misunderstood you. It’s not an excuse, but I am too protective of Jisung because he’s the most precious person in the world. I didn’t know that you knew that too. I’m sorry.” 

Jaemin blinked, unsure of what to do with your apologies. “I like that you’re protective of Jisung. I like that when some big jerk is yelling at you, you think to defend me from his lame insults. That’s who you are, and it’s nothing to apologize for— especially because I like you.”

He liked you. After all of that chaos, Jaemin still liked you. Such a small word— like— meant so much because you couldn’t remember the last time someone who wasn’t Jisung said it to you and meant it. You didn’t try to fight the smile tugging at your lips. 

If you were defined by protectiveness of Jisung and Jaemin, then Jaemin was defined by buying pizza for his friends (and nagging about it), and offering a hard-earned collection of 4,902 tickets to brighten your day with a cute stuffed animal, and holding your hand in the aftermath of utter humiliation. 

You couldn’t keep the fact to yourself, and you didn’t want to: “I like you too, Jaemin.” 

He looked at you, and silence hung in the air as you stood together on the edge of something new. Should you say something to define it? Would taking that dive dampen the chemistry that formed despite old oppressive labels? 

You didn’t agonize long before Jaemin leaped off the bench and extended his hand to you. “Come on,” he implored, wearing that broad smile that gave your heart the wings to soar from its finally broken restraints. “We gotta go win that llama!”

You didn’t hesitate to take his hand; you didn’t hesitate to seize the moment with him, wherever it led. 

Had you anticipated when stepping into the warm cafe from the chilly Autumn breeze that there would be so many college-aged students sitting around sipping down lattes and munching through muffins, you would have held onto the sunshine yellow gift bag longer and sought Jaemin at school tomorrow. Having stood in line far too long to just walk away without achieving your goal, you waited patiently, trying to repress your mounting anxiety, until Jeno noticed you from behind the register. 

“Y/N!” He smiled and motioned you to the front, deaf to the groans of customers who resented your special treatment. “Jaemin!” He yelled into the kitchen, “It’s time for your break!” After shooting an enthusiastic thumbs up that suspended your nerves, Jeno returned to serving customers. 

“Huh?” Jaemin filled the doorway, brow furrowed and lips pursed as he argued, “I’m not scheduled—” 

He shrieked at the sight of you and, as you laughed, he shedded his chocolate stained cream apron. Combing his fingers through his hair, he said, “Jisung isn’t here, ya know.” 

“I know,” you nodded. “I’m not here for Jisung.”

“Then why—”

At last, Jaemin’s eyes fell on the gift bag, and he presented you with his signature breath-taking smile. “Ah, I see!” He wagged a finger as he crossed the dark tiled floor, linked his arm with yours, and led you out into the golden afternoon. 

Sitting on the bench just outside the cafe and jugging you to his side, Jaemin beamed, “You couldn’t resist seeing me on my birthday!”

You teased, “For once, your delusions are spot on.” Too nervous to hand over the bag, you clutched it and glanced around at the browning treeline. “Is this our thing, Nana? Sitting on benches and holding hands?”

The blush that colored his face whenever you called him by his nickname never failed to tickle your heart. “Yep,” he hummed and laced his fingers (warm) through yours (cold). “I’m not gonna have to let go when I open that present, am I?”

His free hand reached out for the gift, and you couldn’t cling to it any longer. Sucking in a breath, you watched as he yanked out the white tissue paper; you released the breath only when his eyes sparkled while he freed the puny pink plush llama from the bag. 

“Did you win this from the arcade?” His smile, already too big for this dull world, grew with the nod of your head. 

“I can’t take all the credit,” you giggled when Jaemin touched the llama’s muzzle to your face again and again in time with the puckering of his lips to simulate kisses. “The idea was all mine, but Jisung helped me earn the tickets. Obviously, we’re not as good at games as you are—” Jaemin winked at the flattery— “so that’s why the prize isn’t as big as the one you won for me once upon a time.”

Jaemin didn’t seem to think less of the gift because of its size. “Ah, this is the best birthday!” he yelled into the cloudy Autumn sky. He released your hand only so he could hug the llama to his chest. “Thank you so much!”

Your heart softened. “You’re welcome!” Looking into the bag, you added, “I think there’s a card too.” 

You didn’t think; you knew there was a card without having to look into the bag for the thousandth time that day. The card— or, more specifically, the note inside— was what made your nerves tremble. 

Although you wanted some relief from the pounding of your heart, you couldn’t quite keep your eyes from admiring Jaemin’s face as he laughed at the silly googly-eyed puppy on the card’s front. You couldn’t keep your gaze focused instead on the llama lying face up in his lap because you had to watch the lines deepen around his smile when his eyes darted up after studying your handwriting. 

“Ooooh,” Jaemin whistled at having caught you studying him. “You have a crush on me!”

“I—” 

“And you can’t deny it!” He flipped the card, and you were faced with your curly pink letterings. Finally, too embarrassed, you looked away. “Here it is in writing!”

Were Jaemin anyone else in the world, it would have been cruel— the clearing of his throat as he prepared to read your confession aloud. He pressed his cloud-soft palm to yours as he recited, “‘Nana, I never thought you would become my best friend’ — after Jisung, I’m assuming— ‘And I never imagined that someone so bright and beautiful could exist in my life and steal my heart, but you have. You have, and I love you, and I’m ready to tell you.’”

Jaemin looked at you again, this time without any trace of playfulness. This time, he waited for you to catch your breath. 

He was good at waiting for you; he had been from the day you stomped into the cafe. He especially proved his patience over the last few months by giving you all the pleasures of friendship— all the joys of having an adorable boy to text at any hour, to laugh with too loudly at lunch, to sit with on two-person benches until seconds turned into minutes that turned into hours. He didn’t even seem tired of waiting for your romance to start because, really, it had already started. 

But you were tired of waiting to call him yours. 

“It’s not a crush, Jaemin. I’m in love with you.” 

He must not have been surprised; he didn’t gasp, his eyes didn’t widen, he didn’t miss a beat before responding, “I really want to be your boyfriend. I don’t need the title to love you too, obviously, but I want it as soon as you’re ready. Please.” 

You had been ready for a while— for as long as you could remember— but you forced yourself to wait for Jaemin. While Jaemin probably thought that you were testing his devotion, that couldn’t have been further from the truth. Contrary to Jisung’s assumption (that you were waiting for certainty of your feelings), you did not once doubt the butterflies that had not stopped fluttering in your belly since you started cuddling with the mint-green llama to fall asleep. 

Maybe nobody else could understand that you were waiting for the wounds inflicted by your ex-boyfriend to heal. You never again wanted to bleed on Jaemin. You were waiting for the day that you could be as bright as the sun too. 

And that day had finally come, so you wasted no time in promising, “Okay, Nana. I’m ready.” 

Perhaps afraid that you would change your mind if asked to repeat yourself, or perhaps sensing your confidence, Jaemin asked for no clarification or justification of your feelings. After pumping a celebratory fist in the hair, he donned a victorious grin that you couldn’t resist capturing in a long-awaited whisper of a kiss. 

BONUS SCENE:

“You’re almost as dangerous in the kitchen as Jisung is,” Jaemin fussed, knocking you away from the oven by colliding into the side of your hip with his own. He made a spectacle of pulling canary yellow oven mitts over his hands. “These keep you from getting burned by 350° cookie sheets, silly!” You rolled your eyes at the reprimand while Jaemin pulled the chocolate chip cookies out of the oven and gingerly set them on the counter. “Yeah, yeah,” you huffed, accustomed to his eagerness to show you up anywhere and everywhere— especially in the kitchen, where years of experience at the cafe gave him a clear advantage. 

After turning the oven off and closing its door, Jaemin pointed and giggled at your pout. “Aw, don’t be sulky, baby!” He dropped the shedded oven mitts into their drawer. Crossing the distance between you in two steps, he pressed his palms flat on the countertop at either of your sides. He lowered his face to level with yours. “You’re kinda cute when you pout, though.” 

Butterflies fluttered in your stomach as Jaemin’s breath ghosted your lips. It wasn’t fair that you were always the breathless one. Quickly, before he could act first, you stretched to match your lips to his. 

His chocolate-flavored gasp was a short-lived reward. Always ready to adapt, always searching for a way to tease you, Jaemin was quick to turn your sweet, playful kiss into something that made your skin burn scarlet and legs turn to jelly. 

“Yah!” Jisung screamed upon entering the kitchen, and you pushed Jaemin away with all of your strength. Jisung never failed to slap a hand over his eyes after catching you deep in a kiss with Jaemin. His discoveries were growing in frequency, and his tolerance was wearing thin, as evidenced by his groan. “No place is safe! Not the cafe— not even during work hours; not Y/N’s car when you two pick me up after school—” 

Jaemin suggested, “You could take the bus—” 

“— not the arcade, definitely not the movie theater after last time, and now not the kitchen! Now, I can’t even walk around my own home without getting jumpscared!”

Jisung so rarely raised his voice, you were stunned silent. Jaemin, meanwhile, encouraged him, “You can walk around. Maybe just knock on doors first,” just to darken your blush. 

“There isn’t a door!” Jaemin pressed his back against a wall and gestured with one hand to the empty archway connecting the living room to the kitchen. “And you’re missing the point!”

“What is the point?” You hoped to make Jisung the target of Jaemin’s teasing, so as soon as Jisung dropped the hand covering his eyes to gawk at you incredulously, you wrapped your arms around Jaemin’s aproned waist and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I thought you wanted me to like Jaemin.” 

“Not like this!” Jisung’s whine struck a devilish spark in Jaemin’s eyes. Your mission was a success: Jaemin’s eyes fixed on your little brother. 

Frowning, Jaemin leaned into your embrace. “That’s not what you said when you gave me permission to ask Y/N out!”

“I thought she would reject you again!” 

When Jaemin gasped and pretended to faint in your arms, you laughed. “Well, Jisung, will any of my boyfriends meet your standards?”

“I don’t care that you’re dating.” Jisung tore his eyes away from Jaemin’s theatrics to root through the cabinets in search of a snack. The tips of his ears were blistered pink. “It’s just— the PDA—”

“Here.” Jaemin offered him a cookie and winked as he accepted it, “It’s not PDA if we’re not in public.” 

“Not this time,” Jisung grumbled through his mouthful of sugar. “Y/N, when do you think you’ll get tired of kissing Jaemin? I need to know when I can start walking around with my eyes open again.” 

Jaemin climbed onto the granite countertop, poked out his bottom lip, and kicked his sneakered feet like a small child. “Yeah! When are you gonna get tired of me?”

There was only one way to answer. 

“Never, of course!” You cheered before pecking at Jaemin’s now smiling lips.

“Shameless!” Jisung shrieked, running out of the kitchen with a handful of cookies. “Absolutely shameless!” 

You and Jaemin shared in the golden laughter that colored your every day together.