#rattling him like a broken tv remote

[ateezmakemeweep]

broken (part 2).

san x reader

word count: 12k

angst, fluff (tw: mentions of domestic abuse and rape)

(part 1)

no matter how many times you tried to change your thinking patterns, you still classified your life into two parts: before the abuse and after.

you thought, after watching your ex-boyfriend being escorted out of the courtroom with a one-year prison sentence, that you wouldn’t be scared of him anymore.

you thought that moving out of the house and living in your new apartment would make day to day life easier, not needing to see the floor you were beaten on or counter you were forced to have sex on every day.

you thought that having san would make you feel happy and loved and enough. that having a whole new family unit consisting of seven other crazy boys and a crotchety old lady would be enough.

but as you sit curled up on the bathroom floor with tears in your eyes, you’re seeing you severely underestimated everything. 

underestimated just how much trauma you still had to sort through and how badly that asshole really did mess you up.

six months ago:

“so we have the surveillance footage and witness testimony from your neighbors,” your lawyer explains gently, an older woman with kind eyes and soft-spoken voice that quickly transforms in the courtroom. 

“but a personal statement, if you feel comfortable, would probably guarantee the harshest sentence.”

the harshest sentence being one year, a measly 365 days compared to the 1,825 he subjected you to every kind of abuse: sexual, emotional, mental, physical. 

hitting and grabbing and slapping until your skin was littered with bruises and cuts. 

talking so harshly to you that you believed dying was the best option, stripping you from any sort of confidence or self-esteem you once had. 

making you feel completely inept and useless, solely viewing you as a piece of property he could boss around and use at his disposal. 

you had left the office with shaking hands and a pounding heart, barely being able to dial san’s number before he answered after one ring. 

this was the first appointment you’ve went to without him, insisting he can’t and won’t miss his midterm for this. 

“hi, love. everything go okay?” he asks softly, with the sweet gentle voice that has quite literally kept you alive these past few months. 

you don’t know what you did in another life to deserve san but you know that without him, you probably wouldn’t have made it this far. without his constant support and sweet reassurances, you wouldn’t have believed you could ever do this. 

willingly tell police officers and lawyers about what happened to you, break down and expose yourself in such a way that always made you feel weak and pathetic. 

admit aloud that, yes, you’ve been a victim of abuse and no, those bruises and scars on your body aren’t from clumsy falls into the wall or cabinet. 

without him, accompanying you to the police station or lawyer’s office, where you knew jungkook was lingering, you would’ve never felt safe. 

you would’ve broke down and took it all back, told them that you made it all up and to release him because he didn’t do anything wrong.

but he did so much wrong and you and san know that. the police and lawyers and judges know it too, several outbursts from the man in court and at the station proving that. 

it’s what makes the thought of a personal statement so hard, having to look your ex-boyfriend in the face and watch him stare you down with not an ounce of remorse or sorrow.

san must know it too, if your silence through the phone tells him anything, and you can already hear shuffling in the background as he prepares to leave his class and head to your apartment.   

“are you done with your test?” you ask first, voice sweet but mousy in a way that makes san’s stomach sink

he knew today was gonna be rough for you, he knew he should’ve asked his professor to retake the midterm next week. 

“yes,” the boy answers immediately, knowing he’s about to run back into the classroom, circle c for the last three answers and haul ass to his car. 

“san, are you-”

“i was done, it’s fine, y/n,” he confirms gently, feet moving and body desperate to rush toward your apartment. 

because he knows after all of this time, you’ve learned to hold back your pain and suffering. years of practice and keeping tears at bay that he’s noticed have made these months difficult for you two. 

and he hates knowing that you still wait till you’re alone to cry. 

that even though every time you do, he wipes away every tear and holds you to his chest until you fall asleep, you still feel most comfortable being sad alone.

that you’re probably already home now, about to bury your face in a pillow and sob until you hear his car and wipe your cheeks clean like nothing is wrong. 

but there’s a lot wrong. 

a lot wrong with how you’ve been treated and how hard it is to move past it. 

a lot wrong with the legal system that makes this painful journey even more exhausting, forcing you to recount memory after memory and answer question after question about the worst ordeals of your life. 

that’s why san can’t help but turn in his test and rush out the door to his car, speeding off campus and onto the highway in hot pursuit of your apartment above the bakery.

it had seemed like perfect little place to get you back on your feet, the smell of freshly baked bread and pleasant bustle of regulars greeting you in the early morning hours. 

there was no commute for you, just a walk down the stairs and through the yellow door of the bakery, where simple work waited for you. 

“you just need to ring up the customers and maybe clean a table or two. most people take their things to go,” your boss had told you, a divorced mother of three who spent most of her life baking before she was finally able to open up a place of her own. 

it was simple work but it was more than you’d done in years, something as little as small talk with regulars successfully draining you. filling you with a nervousness and fear that you’re still feeling even without your ex’s presence. 

but it’s in the way a man yells on the phone about a business deal going sour while waiting for his morning coffee. 

a woman chastising her kids saying that they won’t get to eat the cookies she’s buying after dinner. 

the slam of the door when a harsh gust of wind howls from outside and rattles the small bakery with light blue walls and pictures of bread and desserts.

you don’t know how many coffees you’ve spilt or plates you’ve broken from jumping at the harsh sounds, realizing little by little how hard this transition was gonna be. 

even with san and his friends and your boss and the crazy old lady who secured this new life for you in the first place, it’s still hard. 

you can’t even imagine doing all of these new things alone, just living in such a simple way that the average person takes for granted. 

but you suppose it’s not all simple yet, going back and forth between meetings with your lawyer and the police for the court date that’s rapidly approaching. 

you can feel that the closer it comes, the harder it is to breathe. 

the mere thought of seeing the man who hurt you for the longest five years of your life, sitting in front of you with not an ounce of remorse on his face. making  this process even harder because how are you supposed to talk in front of him? 

see clear as day that you’re not safe and you never will be. 

that he’s gonna get out in a year, because that’s the harshest sentence possible without you being hospitalized or dead, and hurt you again. he’s never gonna stop hurting you because he always said you were his and he wouldn’t ever hesitate to-

you don’t even hear the jingle of san’s keys opening the front door or his softly spoken call of your name. 

you’re only aware of his presence when you feel his warm, small hands cup your face, his thumbs rubbing over your wet, salty skin as he mutters your name lowly.

“hey, i’m here, i’m here,” he mumbles sweetly, tone soft and gentle the way it always is no matter what the circumstances are.

he plops down on the couch before pulling you into his lap, his hand rubbing up and down your back gently. you hear the quiet but firm “sh, sh, sh,” against your head, the sharp calming hums always in threes as an attempt to ground you.

you try to focus on his calming sounds and even breaths, the hand on your back so warm and gentle as he lulls your panicked body into a calmer state. 

you bury your face in his chest and breathe in his scent, cologne and detergent mixed with his natural scent that lingers on your pillow every morning. 

“i-i’m sorry.”

the words make his stomach plummet, tears burning his eyes because you never have anything to be sorry for. you never have anything to be sorry for and you say it all the time. 

when you bump into him in the kitchen while making food together.

when you sit on the remote and change the channel by accident.

when you burnt the cookies one night and made the fire alarm go off. 

he remembers that being one of the worse nights, the loud noises making you jump while also flinching away when he lifted his arm up to fan away the smoke. and then you immediately apologized again, cookies long forgotten before he grabbed your hand and led you into the living room. 

he just held your hand as you both watched tv, his thumb rubbing over your skin before you spoke words so quietly, he almost missed them. 

“i wish...i would stop doing that.”

he cranes his neck over to look at you, eyebrow raised and eyes soft as he looks  at you questioningly. 

he wants to tease and say that you’ve never burnt the cookies before but anytime you feel comfortable enough to talk to him like this, he never wants to say the wrong thing.

“i...i know you would never hurt me,“ you continue after a few moments. “and i know i’m just...scared easily, i guess. but it makes me feel bad,” you admit quietly, heart pulling in your chest as you look at the man beside you. 

he has gotten you through the hardest times of your life, has been by your side every step of the way with no questions or complaints, and you haven’t been able to repay him. 

not even with a plate of fucking cookies. 

“you don’t have to feel bad, y/n,” san says gently, his hand reaching out slowly to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. 

your eyes close at his feather light touch and the way it makes your heart jump, his fingers lingering on you in a way that makes you feel so safe and content. 

“and i know it’s hard to believe still but you have nothing to be scared of either. i’m not gonna let anyone hurt you again and i mean that.”

“but i feel like i’m hurting you,” you mumble softly, pulling your knees up as you rest your head on the couch cushion. his brows pull together as his eyes roam your face, a pout on his lips the more he looks at you in silence.

“you’ve helped me so much and i just...” tears fill your eyes as you struggle to find the words and breathe. you’ve only been living in your new house for two months now and almost every day, san has been here. 

bringing you food, helping you clean and decorate, spending late nights with you watching movies, helping you through an inevitable fit of panic when your memories and life become too much. 

he makes it easier to breathe and you’re scared that without him, you’re gonna stop one day.

“i just keep... taking from you. you get nothing out of helping me but you still do it anyway and i...you shouldn’t even bother, san. i-i’m not worth this time and i just want you to-”

“stop.”

he tries to keep the anger out of his voice knowing that all of this is what you’ve been told. you’ve been told your whole life that you weren’t enough, were only deemed worthy by a piece of shit who did nothing but hurt and berate you. 

but it doesn’t make it any less hard to hear. to hear in your voice and see in your eyes that you truly believe you’re not worth the time he wants to put into you. 

“you’re worth the time to me,” he says, voice gentle but firm in a way that makes a lump form in your throat. his finger reaches out to trace small circles on your hand, your eyes following it so he doesn’t see the tears building up. 

“i like seeing you happy, y/n. and i wanna help you.”

your teary eyes meet his and you swallow the growing lump in your throat when you see the look on his face, soft and sweet in a way you still can’t believe is directed toward you. 

“i feel like i need a lot of help,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper as you think back to how day to day life is so challenging and draining. 

the loud voices and the screaming kids and banging door that sends you into a panic. the broken dishes and tear stains on your pillow that are there more often than not after san leaves every night. 

but san’s hearing each and every word right now, his heart panging in his chest at how vulnerable you are right now. how you let him see this side of you and continue to despite how hard he knows everything’s been. 

“that’s okay,” he smiles softly, stopping the circles on your hand to intertwine your fingers. “i’m gonna be here as long as you need me, okay?”

you look up to meet his gaze and feel a tear slip down your cheek, a cry bubbling in your throat that you so desperately wanna let out. 

but you also don’t wanna make san any more sad tonight, biting down on your lip as you nod your head before leaning on his shoulder. 

you don’t see the smile that crosses his face or hear the content sigh that leaves him, his hand in yours and presence enough to lull you into a dreamless sleep. 

“you have nothing to be sorry for,” he assures you quietly, looking over your face as he wipes at your cheeks. you meet his gaze and your eyes stay locked on one another, his thumb gentle and soft across your skin.

“did you do good on your test?” you squeak out after a few moments of silence, a smile breaking out across his face. 

“of course i did, we studied all night, didn’t we?” he teases, referring to just last night when you helped him with index cards and read them all to him twice before promptly passing out on his chest. 

a blush crosses your face as you look down in embarrassment, a sweet high pitched laugh bubbling out of him. 

“it’s okay, don’t be embarrassed. your drool only ruined a few of them.”

“i don’t drool,” you mutter, a small smile on san’s face as he tightens his hold on you in his lap. 

“did you eat yet?” 

you shake your head as indistinguishable mumble leaves your mouth, curling yourself into his chest more as his warmth and comforting scent envelop you. 

his lips brush against your hair in a small smile, quietly asking what you wanna eat even though he knows you’re gonna say you don’t care. 

“whatever you want,” you mutter against him, the exhaustion of waking up at 5 am and the draining meeting with your lawyer catching up to you. 

and san knows on days like these that chinese food and watching reruns of old cartoons is usually the thing you need to feel a little bit better. 

pretend that just for a few hours, everything is okay and there’s nothing more pressing than spending the night together in what always turns into having a sleepover. 

because just as you found it difficult to live in that house you once shared with jungkook, san finds it difficult to go back to that block every night. 

stay just a few houses away from where he’s reminded of how you were treated while he was just a few feet away.

watching as the backyard once full of flowers becomes dull and colorless and every window reminds him of what was truly going on behind the walls of that house.

it’s one of the reasons why staying with you just makes sense. that and the fact that leaving you always proves to be the hardest part of the night together. 

you with a pout and sad eyes quietly whining for him to stay and him being completely powerless as he throws himself down next to you and wraps his arms around your waist. 

he’s not surprised when the same thing happens tonight, your eyes drooping and body slacking against him before he quietly asks if he should get going. you look up at him tiredly, eyebrows pulled together and one cheek red from you leaning on his chest in a way that makes him hold back a smirk.

“no,” you say quietly, your eyes roaming his face before you quickly realize he might want to leave you. the thought rips a pang of hurt through your chest but you can’t help but feel that might be the case. 

you ripped him away from his test and cried on him all night. why would he wanna stay with you? 

“unless you want to. i-i don’t wanna force you to stay here if you don’t-”

“of course i want to,” san responds, taking your face in his hands gently and allowing his thumb to run along your soft skin. “i was just checking.” 

because he also never wants to overstep. make you feel too overwhelmed or smothered since if it were up to him, he’d never leave your side again. 

his words and touch send relief through you, the panic and fear that attempted to break through quickly dying it. everything about him makes it so easy to be calm and comforted, a smile making it’s way on your face as you nod. 

you place your head back on his chest, sighing contently when you feel his arm wrap around your shoulder a few moments later. you stare at the tv blankly, not sure how long you’re lost in thought about the conversation at the lawyer’s office. 

“but a personal statement, if you feel comfortable, would probably guarantee the harshest sentence.”

could you really do that though? strip yourself to the most vulnerable degree and proclaim to a courtroom full of people how weak and defenseless you were for five years? how the man who’s gonna be seated just a few feet away over you had that much power over you? 

would you feel better looking jungkook in the face and telling him that you’re gonna be strong and come out okay? that he won’t be able to hurt you anymore and will rot behind a cell for what he’s done?

or would you it make you feel worse? seeing him again and the blankness behind his eyes. the pity and sorrowful looks on the judge and court officers when your voice shakes and eyes brim with tears as you recall your old life.

you’re not even sure if san is awake at this point, his arm heavy around you and breaths even under your head but you can’t seem to stop your tired self from speaking.

“my lawyer suggested i make a personal statement.”

san doesn’t stutter under you, the only sign of him being awake when he hums lowly and gently pulls away from you. the bed dips next to you when he lays on his side, your eyes meeting just as he reaches out to smooth out a messy strand of hair.

“yeah?” he mumbles lowly, his soft eyes roaming your face. “how do you feel about that?” 

the question, despite the serious tension in leaves in the air, makes you smile softly, remembering when your lawyer recommended counseling, you thought back to san waiting in the car and felt as if you already had all the support you needed. 

he has the most patience and kindness of anyone you’ve ever met before and you can’t imagine trusting someone as much as trust him. have someone else hear you this vulnerable and genuine, see you cry and feel all the emotions that come with rebuilding your life after being a victim of domestic violence. 

“i don’t know if i can do it.”

the words make san frown, holding himself up on his elbow as he looks over your face with concern. he can tell you’re tired, eyes hazy and drooping but he also can tell your mind’s been preoccupied. 

more so than usual. 

“i...i don’t know if i could do it with him there.”

“he’s not gonna hurt you anymore,” san reminds you gently, his hand creeping down in between your bodies to take ahold of yours. it’s soft and small and warm and everything about it makes you feel safe. 

“i-i know. but...just him being there. watching me and hearing me say what he’s done when i know he has no remorse. and then telling more people how i let it go on for so long and-”

“you didn’t let anything go on for too long. it wasn’t your fault. y/n.”

tears burn your eyes as a lump forms in your throat, hearing those words from almost everyone in your life but still not having the ability to grasp it. 

it feels like your fault, it feels like you’ve allowed yourself to be treated in a way you knew was wrong for far too long. 

because now look at you. trying to rebuild your life but being panicked when the wind howls just a little too loudly outside. 

you take a few deep calming breaks and swallow as you look at him, eyes hazy and glossy and threatening to close shut; you’re so tired but it’s like your brain never stops going these days. 

“she said...it’d guarantee the harshest sentence. but shouldn’t the evidence be enough? the tapes and the witnesses? why- why do i have to keep going through this?” you whisper, voice shaky and tears building as you look at him. the sight alone makes san stomach sink, rolling his tongue between his lips anxiously. 

“i just want it to be over. i don’t wanna keep recounting what happened over and over and over again. i... it’s so hard, san. it’s so hard and i feel like i can’t do it anym-” 

your words break off as a quiet whimper leaves your mouth, crumbling against san’s body when he pulls you forward and wraps his arms around you. your head falls in the crook of his neck as his hand rests on the back of your head, breathing slowly and evenly as quiet hums leave his mouth. 

“I know, baby,” san mumbles, his lips against your head as he presses a kiss to your hair. “you don’t have to do anything you don’t wanna do, okay? no one can make you do anything.”

"you're hurting me, jungkook," your broken voice tells him, the cracks and pain behind it familiar to even your own ears.

you don't know how many times you've heard yourself like this. so desperate and defeated.

"i wish i didn't have to, babydoll," he says lowly, "but you never listen. you make me do this."

and you don’t even think about if you’re gonna regret it at the time. not use your own voice and speak up in front of the courtroom about what the man on trial did. 

you can only think about his eyes watching you, your friends hearing your voice quiver and shake, the judge maybe not taking your words into account. it all seems too much right now, the crushing weight of anxiety and fear that’s making you feel too weak to do that. 

“you made it this far. and it’s almost all over, okay?” san reassures, his hand stroking your hair as he tries to calm your cries. “if you wanna do it, i’ll be right there next to you. we’ll all be there for you and you’ll be safe the whole time. but if you don’t, that’s okay too. you don’t have to and everything will still be okay.”

and because it’s like the blonde just knows everything when it comes to you, everything is okay - or as okay as things can be under these circumstances. 

your lawyer didn’t bat an eye when you told her you weren’t sure if you could do a personal statement, her hand on your shoulder as she gently tells you that it’s okay. that the harshest sentence would probably still be given, considering the unusual amount of evidence in a case like this. 

you watched jungkook get taken out of court with a one year sentence, thrashing in handcuffs and cursing at you while you gripped san’s hand tightly. 

you had foolishly thought watching that was gonna somehow heal you immediately. 

no longer make you afraid or flinch at the smallest of sounds or movements, make you feel like now you can take san’s words to heart and feel worthy of the love he showered you with. 

but it was with that love, you started to grow too dependent. let it consume you in a whole new way that made you feel like without san, you couldn’t breathe. 

at first, he didn’t know what had triggered the episodes that followed three months after the trial. 

it had seemed as if you were making a lot of progress over the past few months, truly happy and smiley without an ounce of fear in your eyes that had always seemed to linger. 

you were working hard at the bakery, becoming closer with the regulars and even finding it easier to talk with them. they found you comforting and sweet, always greeting them with a warm smile and remembering how many sugars they got with their morning coffee. 

the same warm smile you gave san when he told you he was visiting his parents for his mom’s birthday one weekend, sending him off with a loaf of bread and an array of cookies. 

“don’t eat them all,” you teased lightly, side-eyeing mingi who was one of your many regulars and could also take your advice as he shovels rainbow cookies in his mouth. 

“i won’t,” san smiles gently, looking in mingi’s direction and holding back a laugh upon seeing the boy. 

he was probably the next closest person you came to trust since you all got to know each other, a soft spot for him ever since the moment he deemed sunflowers ‘sunnies’ during the darker times. 

mingi was the happiness and innocence you think you must have had once. finding the good in everything and being happy just because the sun was out and dessert was on the table. 

“and neither should you,” san chastises the younger boy, smacking him in the back of the head lightly. you smile softly at the exchange, holding back a snort as you clean off the table next to the bickering boys. 

the arm around your waist a few moments later would’ve startled you had you not smelt san’s cologne, leaning into him and feeling grateful you’re the only three in the store right now. 

you look over your shoulder and smile softly at him, heart stuttering at the look on his face. eyes full of such concern, you should know he’s about to ask you if you’re-

“are you gonna be okay tonight?” 

he wasn’t ignorant of the fact, the same way you weren’t, that this is gonna be one the first nights you’ve spent alone in months. 

not falling asleep to the gentle lull of his breathing or his arms around your waist. no one to be there if you wake up from a nightmare, where memories torment your body as you hear the shouts of your ex and feel as if your body is still being bruised.

san not being there to wake you with a gentle peck on the cheek before dragging you back to the warm bed when you try to get up for work. 

but you have to be okay, right? you’ve been doing so good these past few weeks. and you’re an adult the same way he’s an adult, it’s ridiculous to think you guys would have to spend every night together. 

“of course, silly” you poke him gently, smiling when his dimples poke out of his cheeks. “have fun with your parents. don’t worry about me.”

“i always worry about you,” he mumbles lowly, his lips ghosting over your hair as you push his chest lightly. he bites back a smile when he sees the blush on your cheeks, pulling away from him immediately so you can stick your tongue out at him. 

and that night, it actually feels as if you’re okay. 

you busy yourself by cleaning and cooking before passing out to the vampire diaries. your sleep is dreamless and calm, waking up to a good morning message from san consisting of a bare-faced, messy-haired selfie. 

but a few days after his return is when he began to notice the little changes. 

behaviors he thinks you weren’t even aware of that made his heart sink into his stomach; it reminded him so much of the first few weeks you were away from jungkook. 

how despite the fear in your eyes, you clung to him because you knew he’d never hurt you. felt safe in his presence and sought him out when you were feeling uncomfortable or upset. 

and he sees you’re back to the place right now, so obviously uneasy and upset despite the major progress you’ve been making. 

it was like the second he came through the door, you had to be by his side. leaning your head on his shoulder as you watched your shows or grabbing his hand when he got up to go to the bathroom. 

at first, he thought it was cute - your clinginess and obvious affection toward him. he thought it was sweet and it made him so happy, smiling softly and kissing the top of your head as he told you he’d be back in a minute.

but the more the weeks went on, the worse it was seeming to get. 

you asking him after only a few hours of him at school when he was gonna be back. nightmares and bad memories haunting you when you’d fall asleep for naps in between your shift ending and his last class. 

“baby... are you sure you’re okay these days?” 

the words cause you to stop stirring the pasta in the pot, craning your neck to where san is sitting on the countertop. 

he meets your gaze with a soft smile and extends his hand out to you, leaning down to press a kiss to your nose before pulling you up.

you squeal at the sensation, giggling quietly because there you two are just perched on the counter like two cats and no regard for the boiling pot of food beside you. 

you giggle again when he places a kiss to your neck, tightening his hold around your waist.

he relishes in the sound of your laugh because it also seems like these days, he’s hasn’t heard it that much. 

“i feel like i haven’t heard that in a while,” he mumbles against your neck, his lips lingering on your skin. he never wants to say the wrong thing with you or make you feel like you’re not doing good enough. 

you pull back and look at him with a small pout, your fingers toying at the end of his shirt nervously. 

“i...i’m okay though,” you tell him quietly, thinking it’s the truth even though you have felt off these days. 

you didn’t know what it was though honestly. it’s felt like ever since san came back from his parents, you’ve needed him extra. clingy and needy and annoying in the sense that the poor man can’t even go away without you needing him. 

and now he seems to know it, too. 

maybe he doesn’t wanna do this anymore. maybe he didn’t sign up for months of you going back and forth, feeling great and confident one week and then back to being clingy and scared the next. 

because you know it’s only a matter of time before two things happens: he gets sick of you and leaves or starts resenting you. doesn’t wanna waste his time with a battered woman when he could be wth fun and carefree college girls. 

“have i been annoying?” 

your blurted out question throws him off as much as it breaks his heart, immediately shaking his head as he cups your cheeks. 

his lips fall into a pout and your eyes immediately fall to them, about to comment on it before he places a sweet, short peck on yours.

you two, despite your close and intimate relationship full of skin-ship, don’t kiss a lot. you can only count of one hand how many times san has kissed you on the lips, most of the time going for your cheek or head.

but you certainly don’t mind. 

you think it’s good to take it slow, since everything else about your relationship is so intense. that’s why the times he does kiss you, you get filled with such a happy warm feeling that usually makes you feel better no matter what. 

that’s how you know you’re not right. that suddenly, for some reason, you’re not okay again despite being so incredibly lucky that the people in you life now care about you. 

they’re trying so hard to help you and it feels like you can’t repay them in any way.

“no, no, baby, not at all,” san says when he pulls back, his thumb gently rubbing your cheek. “i’m just concerned.”

the lump in your throat makes it feel like you can’t breathe, biting your lip harshly as you look up at the blonde. 

“i love that you want me around,” he continues softly, his voice barely above a whisper as he looks down at you. “but i’m just...i also wanna make sure you’re okay.”

you nod your head as you take in his words, slightly calmed by them despite the way your mind is trying to tell you otherwise. 

he loves that you want him around, he just said so. and he wouldn’t put up with you if he didn’t want to, right?

“i’m okay,” you assure sweetly, leaning into his touch just a little bit more. “i guess i just missed you.”

your cheeks flush at the soft, almost touched look that crosses san’s face, his lips falling into a pout as he tightens his hold on you.

“i missed you too.”

boiling liquid splashing onto the stove causes you both to look away, a squeal leaving your mouth as the foamy water overflows the pot. 

“shit!” you squeal, jumping down from the counter to rush over and lower the heat. san watches from his spot with a small smile, chuckling lightly when you throw him a look.

“sorry,” he says sheepishly, a playful roll of your eyes causing him to jump down and hug you from behind.

he presses small kisses and laughs into the crook of your neck as you finish making the pasta, feeding him pieces from the pot to see if it’s cooked enough. 

you eat on the couch and spend the rest of the night watching tv, a relatively calm and relaxed night that makes you feel much better than the past few days. 

you think you just got so used to his presence, the comfort and warmth and light he provides by just being in your apartment and smiling at you. 

you were scared by how attached you’d grown to him, depending on him in a way you think a person who has gone through what you’ve gone through shouldn’t.

but he’s so good and makes you feel loved. it’s such a different feeling than one you’ve ever experienced, after your family and friends and ex-boyfriend let you down time and time again. 

you’ve never had someone like this before but you’ve also never tried to rebuild your life before. never had the chance to be your own person and make your own decisions - it’s something you’re still learning and that’s evident to everyone in your life. 

but the next morning, a pleasant surprise in the form of mrs. kim comes bursting through the door and immediately lights your face with a smile; apart from san and mingi, she’s another person you’ve grown extremely close and fond of. 

she’s the one who made everything possible, rebuilding your life with a new home and workplace. it’s why she always tries to push you further out of your comfort zone and into the real world with gentle prodding and much needed assurance. 

she’s at the bakery for almost two hours before she pulls up a chair behind the register and gets that look in her eye you know all too well. it’s the look she gave you the day you accepted the apartment, insisting you take it and make it your own and to not even think about how to pay her back. 

the look she gave you before the trial as she gave you strength, told you that you were strong and you were gonna get through this, with or without your personal statement. 

and apparently it’s the look she gives you when she broaches the topic of you enrolling back in school. 

“so what do you think?” she asks, tone carefree and excited like she’d been thinking about this for weeks. “is that something you’d wanna do?” 

your immediate thought is yes. yes, yes, yes shout it from the rooftops yes. you miss school and learning and all the experiences that come with getting an education. 

you once loved school and had so many aspirations but then your life apart. the prospect of an education or getting a job was dangled in your face as some sort of manipulation tactic.

that when jungkook went too far and left you especially bloody and bruised, he’d mentioned school like it was the answer to all of your problems as a couple. like that was his penance and would win him boyfriend of the year.

and mrs. kim must see the haunted look in your eye, replaying flashbacks and memories from how choices like that weren’t under your control for the longest time. 

“listen to me, stop staying in there,” she says, flicking at your head and making you wince. “is that something you wanna do? yes or no?” 

“yes but i-”

“but nothing,” the old lady says, wiping out an ipad the boys had been teaching her how to use for the past few weeks; the font is the biggest size you’ve ever seen and has a cat case on that almost makes you burst out laughing upon seeing.

“i was looking at the local school, it’s close and cheap but you could always get some financial aid, scholarships or even a loan,” she begins to tell you, eyes squinted and a wrinkle between her browns as she taps on the screen. “this shit is so hard, i’m still trying to learn. oh, great here it is, okay. look, they even have this major.”

you had mentioned once that you thought about a career in journalism to her, one night when you and her were making cookies in her house as the boys tended to her garden (because they were gardeners now, official, professional gardeners who only know how to plant sunflowers). 

tears almost immediately fill in your eyes as you follow her pruny finger, licking over your lips so you don’t start sobbing. 

she looks up at you after a few moments of silence and it’s promptly followed by her smacking your arm, a scoff leaving her mouth that makes you giggle. 

“what are you crying about?” 

the emotion clogged in your throat makes it hard to speak, attempting to talk through the strange contrast of tears and laughter bubbling in your throat. 

“i just... i can’t believe you remember i told you that. it was so long ago.”

“what? you think because i’m old i don’t remember shit? i’m not a senile, y/n, jesus.” 

a wet giggle leaves your mouth as you listen to her talk about the research she’s done, about how to pay and when you can start and her son’s experience at the local college. 

it all makes you feel very hopeful, excited even, as you think about what once seemed impossible. 

getting out in the world and pursuing a passion you as an individual had. making connections and just conversing with different people and seeing relationships form. 

but all of those doubts and fears instilled in you don’t just go away.

you remember months back when you told san you were writing again, he was the one who recommended going back to school. 

was so happy about it that his eyes were shining and dimples were out and you’d never seen someone more handsome.

but now that you guys are...kind of together, would his mind change? does he not want you talking to other people either now? will he think it’s silly or pointless, since you already have you job at the bakery? 

you know deep down that that’s not the kind of person san is. you knew from the moment you met him and risked talking and smiling and laughing with him that he was good.

but that part of you still scared and broken from what you went through, the prospect of school and freedom dangled in your face as some sort of reward or apology, is scared he won’t approve.

and whether it’s unhealthy or not, all you want is san’s approval. 

“c-can i ask you something?” you ask him later that night, both of you cuddled up on the couch.

a blanket’s thrown over your lap with san’s arm around your shoulder, your head now off his chest as you look up at him questioningly. 

he immediately looks down at you with a soft, curious expression, running his hand through your hair as a small smile makes it’s way on his face. 

“anything,” he hums lowly, already making your nervous body feel slightly more calm. 

you have to try and always remember this is the boy who’s been by your side for months, with no complaints. who saved you from your life before this and only wants you to be safe and happy. 

“i was talking to miss kim earlier today...” you begin, his interest already peeked because he thinks he might know where this is going; he was suspicious ever since the older woman asked him how to make the font larger on her ipad. 

he sees the slight apprehension and fear in your eyes so he takes your hand in his, running his thumb over your skin gently and giving you a small, encouraging nod. 

you take a deep breath and try to shake the worry off, opening and closing your mouth before deciding to spit it out. 

“we...were talking about me going back to school. and i...kind of thought that would be something good for me to do. i used to love school and learning and mrs kim. said there’s a lot of things i could do to pay for it and stuff, if i needed to...” 

his chest hurts slightly watching you stammer over your words nervously, your eyes moving from him to the wall as you start to unconsciously hold his hand tighter. 

“but if you don’t want me to or think it’s a stupid idea, i won’t. i just...wanted to make sure it was okay with you.” 

you don’t see the way san sits there in contemplation as you’re too nervous and toying with the edge of the blanket, his face sympathetic but also a little surprised. 

there’s a lot of things that san is still getting used to, the way you’re so vulnerable and attached to him (in a way he doesn’t mind at all). 

but it’s like right now he’s seeing the severity of it, watching as a grown woman asks for his permission for something she absolutely doesn’t.

it makes tears burn the back of his eyes but he quickly pushes the sensation and desire away, his hand lifting your chin so you made his gaze head-on. 

“y/n...you don’t need my permission to do anything. you... you know that, right?”

your eyebrows pull together almost in confusion that he didn’t immediately respond with a yes or no, head cocked to that side as you lick over your lips nervously. 

he can’t help but think if this was a fault on his part. did he make you feel like you have to ask his permission or approval for things? did he maybe at any point make you feel scared or judged when he’s been doing his best to avoid that?

your harsh grip on his hand brings him back to the conclusion that, right now, this isn’t about him. 

whether he did that or not, he has to make sure right now that you know you’re your own person and don’t need to run decisions by him or anyone else. 

“baby, i think it’s great you wanna do that and will support whatever you wanna do. but you don’t have to ask for...my permission to do anything,” san tells you softly, his hand cupping your face as he presses a kiss to your head; the words ‘his permission’ even feel gross on his tongue.

“i’m happy if you’re happy. and if going to school will make you happy, i’m gonna be supportive 100%. you got it, love?” 

you don’t even know why you’re surprised by san’s reaction but it still brings tears to your eyes, only being able to nod before you bury your face in his chest. 

he bites back a smile at the feel of you against him, running his hand up your back to gently rest in your hair. 

“you still wanna study journalism?” he mumbles against your hair and again, you can only nod so you don’t let out the whimper threatening to leave you mouth.

because it still shocks you day after day that everyone in your life now truly seems to care. 

they remember things about you and want to see you smile, always remind you that you can do whatever you want and are slowly making you see that, maybe, you will be okay in the end. 

it may not seem like a lot to someone who’s been lucky enough to have these things but, for you, it’s something you haven’t ever had before.

the ability to giggle and smile and spend your night with someone who you can see really, truly loves you. who wouldn’t do anything to hurt you and always has your best interests in mind.

that’s exactly why when you fall asleep, san can’t help but turn to look at your sleeping form. he runs his hand through your messy hair, moving a strand from your face and feeling his heart lurch at how peaceful and innocent you look. 

he still can’t get the thoughts out of his heads from earlier, wondering if, maybe, this whole time, he hasn’t been doing the right thing. 

maybe these past few months, you should’ve been rebuilding your life on your own. he shouldn’t have been here every, single step of the way to sooth and coddle and protect you. 

it was something hongjoong said just a few weeks after you moved in and he nearly attacked the boy, asking how he could let you cry alone every night and feel lonely and scared in a new place?

but he also knows that hongjoong is more logical than him. he’s always let his emotions get to him, empathetic and caring almost to a fault. 

and with you, he was always even more clouded. 

now, though, he’s seeing that maybe hongjoong has a point. he’s seen it in the way you’ve become more clingy and dependent on him, something he loves and makes him feel warm but also knows, for you, is a part of feeling safe. 

and as hard as it is for him to admit, he knows you need to feel safe without him. slowly rebuild your own sense of self and security without him always being there to wipe your tears or kiss your face. 

but how is supposed to do that? he thinks, watching your sleeping face with a pained chest and burning eyes.

he’s about to get up to get a glass of water before he hears you whine, both his feet not even on the floor before even in your unconscious you can sense his departure. 

“going to get water, love, i’ll be right back,” he mumbles in your ear, kissing the side of your head when you still and roll back over. 

he gulps down the cool liquid before resting his head on the cold fridge, letting out a sigh as he realizes he may need to have another discussion with hongjoong.

even more so when he goes back into the room and sees your face, the slightest hint of discomfort in your pinched eyebrows and frowning lips. 

you turn back over when he crawls in the bed again, your head on his chest and arm wrapping around his stomach. 

he smiles upon hearing your sleepy voice call his name, dazed eyes staring up at him as he kisses the tip of your nose. 

“hi, baby. i’m back.” 

“i love you.”

the confession make his eyes widen and heart speed up, shocked into silence at those three, sudden words. 

because while it’s obvious that’s how you both feel for each other, your sweet touches and words exchanged since the moment you met one another, you two haven’t ever uttered that sentence. 

never put it out in the open and really discussed your feelings for one another. 

but your eyes are shut and breaths turn even before you can even hear his softly spoken, “i love you,” in return. 

and it’s because he loves you that he tells hongjoong about the thoughts he’s been having, wondering if he’s been doing the wrong thing the whole time and just making this transition harder for you. 

“i think you’re trying to make it easier because you love her and don’t wanna see her hurt anymore.” 

san’s eyes meet hongjoong’s across the dining room table at their house, a house san hasn’t slept or eaten at basically since you moved out; everyone knew where he was and they understood it completely but they also missed their friend’s presence. 

“but...she does need to learn to be on her own, san. she’s never done that before and she’s always been dependent on someone. luckily you’re just...so fucking good that it wouldn’t be a problem. but even with her asking you if she could go to school...she’s not okay, yet, san. she needs to sort her shit out.”

“i don’t want her to be alone,” the blonde admits, voice tight and eyes threatening to water. “i don’t want her to think i’m leaving her.”

“you’re not leaving her alone. you’re just not gonna be attached at the hip 24/7. it’s normal for couples to be apart. you still live and pay rent here, you know. everyone misses you.”

the sound of bickering and plates crashing promptly comes from the kitchen, mingi’s harsh yelp of wooyoung’s name causing a commotion of bickering to break out. 

hongjoong looks at san with a half pained, half amused expression, knowing that the dimpled boy  will have to readjust to how loud and chaotic the house is all the time. 

“you don’t have to do right now,” hongjoong says, wanting to finish the discussion before the boys notice san is here and lost their shit. “ease her into it. talk to her about it. see if she feels the same way. but let her know you just wanna help her, because i know you do, right?” 

san’s nod is immediate and hongjoong mirrors him, his eyes quickly widening as he looks over the blonde’s broad shoulder. 

he doesn’t even get to turn around before a slew of bodies bump into him, nearly knocking him onto the floor as six large, excited boys are jumping and squealing around him.

“san! you’re finally home!”

you’re nearly two months into your first semester of college by the time you’ve fully adjusted to your new schedule and pace of life.

classes monday, tuesday and thursdays mornings followed by your shift at the cafe during the afternoons. you miss your early morning regulars dearly and don’t know what to do with the 10+ memorized coffee orders still in your brain but you already love school so much. 

you love learning and talking with your professors and meeting the many different people on campus. you’ve even found a small group of friends, two girls who sat next to you and immediately started up a conversation with you.

you were terffied and shy at first but eventually opened up, giggling and sharing your thoughts with them before class started - you even always made sure to be 10 minutes early so you could get in your chats with them. 

unsurprisingly, san had been nothing but happy and supportive for the entire journey. helping you apply and become familiar with the campus while also assuring you everything was gonna work out. 

your days were busy and packed with work and you truly loved it but night was still your favorite. when san would walk through the door with take out or you’d be greeted with the sight of him waiting for you on the couch. 

it really felt as if your life was finally coming together, happy and at peace in a way you never felt before. it was like you finally had some sort of control over what happened to you, long gone the feeling of knots in your stomach or an uncontrollable shake in your hands. 

but when you notice san is a little more quiet than usual today, you feel that foreign feeling make it’s way back into your body. 

“is...everything okay?” you finally grow the confidence to ask, his hand absentmindley rubbing your leg that’s sprawled out on his lap. 

you can tell the question throws him off by the way he snaps his head up to look at you, brows pulled together and his head cocked cutely to the side as his eyes roam your face. 

“’course love, why do you ask?”

“i don’t know,” you hum softly, leaning the side of your head on the couch as you look at him. “i feel like you’re quiet today.”

“just thinking baby,” he tells you, tightening his hold on your leg before looking your way. “how were classes today?”

“good, i have to start my essay soon,” you tell him, something uneasy still pulling at your stomach; you’re not used to san being quiet or so lost in thought, usually the only time he’s silent is during a new episode of your shows.

“you’ll do great on it,” he says encouragingly, the hand on your leg gently calmingly rubbing your skin up and down. “you’re doing really good, you know that?” 

happiness fills you at the thought of making san proud, a small smile on your face that causes one his own to cross his face. his dimples poke out and it reminds you so much of your first meeting, when the sun reflected off of him and you just knew there was something too pure and good about this man.

“thank you,” you smile softly, a faint blush on your cheeks that has san’s heart breaking in his chest even more.

he doesn’t wanna have this conversation tonight but he thinks it would be the best time. bring up maybe not staying over every night to create some more space for you while also allowing you to be more independent. learning how to fill your time with things other than him.

but you’re so happy tonight. 

you’ve been so happy these past few months and he doesn’t wanna be the person to ruin that; it seems, though, you can see something behind his eyes and in his demeanor already, your body wiggling closer to him as your gaze shifts nervously. 

“are you sure you’re okay?” 

he lets out a sigh and you can’t help the way your stomach drops, watching carefully as his face turns contemplative and torn. like he wants to say something but isn’t sure if you’re gonna be able to handle it. 

and that alone is scaring the shit out of you. 

the silence is probably only fifteen seconds but it feels like hours, your eyes staring wide and heart starting to race as you look at him; you don’t know what you did but you had to have done something, right? he wouldn’t just act like this out of nowhere. 

“did i...do something wrong?” you ask meekly, that feeling of fear and panic you haven’t felt in almost a year creeping back. you almost forgot how debilitating this feeling is, fully consuming your body until you feel like you’re about to completely breakdown and crumble. 

the fear and concern on your face immediately makes him frown, shaking his head adamantly as he pulls you closer to him. 

“no, no, no, y/n, of course not,” he assures softly, his lips brushing against your head. 

you feel his calming breaths in your hair, like he already knows from the slight waver in your voice and look on your face that you’re getting worked up and anxious. 

the few moments of silence should make you more anxious but you can only focus on his breathing and the warmth from his body against you, trying to stay calm as you remember that this is san and he would never do or say anything to hurt you. 

“i’ve just been thinking about some things and i wanna talk to you about it,” san says, breaking the silence and immediately making your stomach flip nervously. “it’s nothing bad, baby, i just... you know i always have your best interest in mind, right?”

you swallow the lump growing in your throat as you turn to look at him, the soft look in his eye making you happy as much as it makes you sad. 

because while you love seeing it, how sweet and thoughtful and truly kind he is, you know it’s also there because he thinks you’re about to lose your shit. and you haven’t lost your shit in quite some time. 

“i-i know...” 

he takes your face in his hands when your eyes start to wander, the quiet hum leaving his mouth making you look up at him again. the look in his eyes truly stirs something in you, tears burning your eyes even though you’re not even sure why yet. 

“and you know i’ll never, ever hurt you?”

you nod again, feeling panic deep within your chest at where this conversation seems to be going.

“so what i’m about to suggest, i need you to hear me out, okay?”

he waits until you nod, his stomach sinking at the glossed over look in your eyes before he daringly opens his mouth again. 

tells you that he thinks you living on your own while you start a new chapter of your life will be a good thing for you both. that learning to be independent and on your own will help you immensely in this new part of your life. 

“you’ve been doing so good, y/n, and i’m so proud of you. you’ve started school and you work full time and you’re doing all the things you want to do. but we’re together all the time, baby, and i...i don’t know if that’s healthy, for either of us, you know?”

and you think to the average person, who hasn’t been abused and neglected and spent the last five years in normal, healthy circumstances, they would hear this and understand immediately. 

that being alone and learning how to be on your own is a good, healthy thing that everyone needs to experience. 

but all your brain can hear is he doesn’t wanna be with you anymore. 

he’s tired of your brokenness and tired of looking after you all the time and needs some space from you; and while, you suppose, you can’t blame him, it doesn’t hurt you any less. 

it doesn’t terrify you or upset you any less, even though you know his intentions are good; you can only feel unwanted and unworthy and like your time with someone so much better than you is up. 

“is it...i just...do you not like it here? with me?”

did you not keep it clean enough? did you not cook enough, were the meals too frequently takeout and leftovers? you remember jungkook hated that, demanding the house be spotless and dinner be ready and homemade. 

san would laugh at the question if this weren’t the current situation, a serious talk he’s been dreading having because he knows how you’re gonna take it at first. 

but he loves being here and that’s the problem. 

he would coddle you and love you and protect you for as long as you let him if it were up to him. but he knows that’s not what you need anymore, that you’re both not helping anyone if you continue to live your life in what became too comfortable and safe. 

you deserve comfortable and safe but you also deserve to live happily and freely by yourself. and maybe that’s not his decision to make, he often thinks, but he certainly doesn’t think he’s helping you by enabling you to depend on him. 

“baby, i love it here and i love you and i’ll never leave you until you tell me to,” san says, pressing a kiss to each cheek he prays tears don’t fall on in the next few minutes. “but i want you to be okay, love. i don’t want you to need me every night to sleep or think you need to ask my permission for things that are your choice.”

“is that- is that what this is about? that i asked you if i could go to school?” you ask meekly, the idea of talking back foreign but something you can’t control right now. “or is it because i’m in school?”

because maybe you’ve been too busy. maybe he feels like you neglected him. maybe he just wanted an out and this is it. 

“of course it’s not because you’re in school,” san says, slight outrage in his voice as you even suggest that; he always tries to control his responses to you, knowing you’re dealing with years worth of manipulative behavior and maltreatment, but sometimes it does also get to him. 

he was always supportive of your career and education, even when you were just friends and he admired you from afar.

“how could you think that?”

“because this is so random,” you squeak out, tears breaking through as the knot in your throat grows bigger. “i...i didn’t even know you were feeling this way and now you wanna stop seeing me.”

“i don’t wanna stop seeing you, y/n, when did i say that?” san asks, cocking his head to the side as he looks at you contemplatively. 

“you said you don’t want to be together all the time...” you mutter out, feeling stupid and childish but not yet truly understanding what he means. you guys don’t fight at all and you’re always smiling and laughing together - isn’t it okay to be together all the time if good things like that are happening?

“y/n, i love you, of course i wanna still see you. but i just mean...living together the way we have these past months. you’ve never been alone. you’ve always depended on someone, right?” 

you think back to your dysfunctional childhood, depending on alcoholic parents who never taught you how to fend for yourself until you fell into the arms of yet another abuser who you depended on even further.

restricted company and meals and communication, even restricted in what you could do outside the walls of your house. 

“yes,” you nod, sniffling as you wipe at a stray tear on your cheek. “but they’ve only ever hurt me. you never do.”

that fact makes san’s chest pang with hurt, his own eyes burning with tears now as he thinks about how much pain you’ve endured. 

“i know, baby, and i never will. but i think this’ll be good for us. good for you, mostly, that’s always my mian concern.” 

but you start to wonder how this could possibly be good the second the front door closes a few hours later, leaving you alone in your apartment that now feels far too cold and far too dark and far too empty. 

his lack of presence is noticable immediately and it doesn’t take long for panic and sadness and all that existential dread you once felt so deeply start to come on.

he doesn’t want you, nobody wants you, and the only people who did want you hurt you. 

it’s a mantra you repeat in your head as you cry silently, splashing your face with cold water after your puffy eyes can’t take it anymore. and when you get a good look at yourself in the mirror, tear-stained and blotchy and a big fucking mess, you can’t help but see that same girl who was trapped in that house with jungkook.

weak and afraid and horribly incapable of doing anything right. so similiar to the current state you’re in now, sinking down on the bathroom floor and crying into your hands again. 

this could be about san leaving, you know it has something to do with it, but you’re also crying because you now see just how badly you’re still effected by everything. 

you could be distracted by school and work and san but there’s still so much under the surface that you haven’t come to terms with. 

so much so to the point that even san had to step in and do something about it, him still seeing signs that you’re not okay despite how much everyone in your life is trying with you.

and it makes you feel bad that you have so many supportive, lovely people in your life but still can’t find it in you to feel okay. to not depend on one singlar blonde man to make you feel happy or act as if without him, you’re gonna break.

because you can see he’s tired of it. if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have-

“y/n?” 

his voice coupled with his fist hitting the door causes you to jump, at first thinking it’s a bittersweet trick your deluded little mind is playing on you. but then he knocks again, his sweet murmur of “y/n, please open the door,” causing you to cry out again.

hongjoong told him not to go, that he’d barely been home for an hour before he was already itching to rush back to you. 

but he felt uneasy leaving the way he did in the first place, and then even more so when you didn’t answer his three messages and two facetime calls; he hated thinking that you were crying alone or feeling upset. 

and it’s heartbreakingly evident when you reach up to open the door, curled up on the floor in tears, that that’s exactly how you feel. 

“baby, no,” san hums lowly, immediately dropping to the floor so he can gather you in his lap.

it’s so much like the scene when you ran there after the final incident with jungkook, when you collapsed on the floor and finally told somebody about what you’d been going through. 

what happened?" he asks desperately, voice strained and wavering.

but you can only shake your head and cry. cry for how long you've been dealing with this alone and how you feel trapped and how if you don't tell someone tonight.

"he's gonna kill me," you sob out as you shake your head frantically now, "i-i he's gonna kill me," is all you can repeat through ragged breaths.

san can only act on instinct, sitting down cross-legged and holding his arms out slightly before you crash into him. he shakily inhales when your head rests on his shoulder, sobs muffled by his shirt as he feels tears promptly soak through the material.

but he can only sit there, hand on the back of your head as he rocks you soothingly in his lap back and forth.

he listens to your sobs with a broken heart, tears stinging his own eyes because he had suspected something was going on for months and just sat here and did nothing. and now here you are, broken and bruised and in fear for your life.

"i can't go back there," you cry out, "i-he's gonna-"

"no one is gonna hurt you, anymore," he mumbles lowly in your ear, "i'm not gonna let that happen."

“you’re- you’re gonna leave me,” you whimper into his shirt, the only sound in your bathroom for the past few minuets your crying and his soothing hums. “you’re not gonna wanna deal with me anymore and leave and then i’ll really be alone and i’m so-”

“i’m not going anywhere. i’m not gonna let that happen,” he mumbles in your ear, his arms wrapped tightly around you as he presses his lips to your head. he rocks you back and forth so similarly to that night, his hand running up and down your back as he tries to get you to calm down.

“we’re gonna get you help. real help. and we’ll all be here for you whenever you need us. you’re gonna be okay, my love.”

one year later:

you look back at the breakdown in your bathroom and are always surprised that you don’t feel embarrassed.

you think that was the moment when you finally realized how much you’d gone through and how much you really had to sort through. that you could distract yourself all you want and depend on san as much as you felt you needed but you still had things to work through. 

it took you about four therapist consultations to find the right one, eventually finding a sweet older woman who reminded you so much of your boss at the cafe. she listened to you and encouraged you and helped you find so much strength within yourself, you regret not taking your lawyer’s advice sooner about seeing a professional.

you still had bad days, of course, but now you’ve learned how to properly cope with them. cope with the stressors of everyday life, like the shouting of voices and the slamming of doors and san not being by your side 24/7. 

and san, little to your surprise, had done the right thing in saying you needed to learn to be independent.

it scared you at first, living alone and being alone with your thoughts and memories that tried to haunt you every chance they got. but now your life is so full of happy ones that it makes everything a little bit easier; you now love the freedom of living alone and have come to enjoy the peaceful silences of your apartment.

you now have so many things to laugh and feel happy about, like mingi and seonghwa’s obsession with gardening (even though they’ve moved on to vegetables now and have yet to combat the battle with squirrels eating their tomatoes). 

you have school and classes and friends that you made, making straight a’s while also balancing time with your study group, the boys and mrs. kim and your official boyfriend san. 

there are still some days when you wake up and feel a sinking feeling in your stomach that you think might be there forever, a certain smell or certain pain richoetting through your body that will remind you of what you went through and survived. 

but you know that you’ll be able to get through it, not only because you’re strong enough now but because you still have san to lean on - the boy in question currently with his arms wrapped tight around your waist and snoring down your neck. 

you can’t help the small smile on your face as you turn in his hold, your finger reaching out to trace the contours of his face. 

the warm, overwhelming feeling in your chest should scare you but it makes you feel even more happy and content with life, shutting your eyes immediately when his brown eyes meet yours. 

his loud chuckle fills the room before he lips attack your neck, quiet giggles leaving your mouth that only spur the blonde on more. 

“i saw that,” he mumbles playfully, smiling against your skin as your giggles get louder. “good morning, baby.” 

you pull back and smile at the boy staring down at you lovingly, the late-morning sun beaming through your window reminding you so much of the first time you saw him. 

heard his sweet, friendly voice that you immediately trusted and probably fell in love with right there.

"those are coming out really nice!" you hear a voice say from the yard next door. 

you shoot your head to the side to see a young man standing there, probably about your age, eyes kind and dimples poking out of his cheeks as he holds an overflowing white garbage bag.

your lips quirk up ever so slightly, probably being mistaken for your mouth twitching before you give him a tiny bow.

"thank you."

tag list: @mochibabycakes​ @atinyarmyx1​ @middle-of-a-wonshua-sandwich​ @minbinwhore​ @chrryhwa​ @chogiout​ @marksflvr​ @bunbaebae​ @markleeyeosang​ @inkigayeo​ @nlost21​ @toffee-hwa​

[katsukikitten]

WARNINGS 18+ BITCHES. NSFW COLLEGE AU. THIS LIVED IN MY HEAD RENT FREE SINCE @bakugotrashpanda POSTED THE DENKI GOOGLE DOC HEAD CANNONS. I kept thinking how fucking mortifying would it be if he read some of your smut aloud 🙃🙃 its spicy so comment ya thoughts on my crack fic.

Caffeine, you desperately needed caffeine if you were going to survive midterms. 

But you were too busy helping Denki and Mina work on their weak subjects to be able to get the much needed nectar. 

The three of you sit cramped in the bedroom you shared with Mina in the small three bedroom apartment. Trying to seal yourselves away from the rest of your boisterous roommates who argued over who's turn it was for the TV.  They must turn the altercation into something physical as you hear a loud pop, a string of tape and the SIXTH coffee table snap in half beneath someone's weight. Your jaw ticks as you wonder how any of them function in day to day life, let alone fucking college courses. 

Denki answers the same question wrong for the millionth time causing you to pinch the bridge of your nose. Between this deadline and the one of your hobby, you were beginning to lose patience. 

"Look, I'll send you both the google doc of the study guide I made last year." Quickly you unlock your phone and send them both the document in question. 

Only when Denki and Mina share a wide eyed look do you reevaluate what you sent. With shaking hands you look at your sent mail and when you see it was a smut collab piece for your hobby you freeze. 

Fuck 

Fuck fuck fuck. The two absolute worst people to have said piece of work had access to it, to the whole folder of the smutty, vile filth that was a multi chapter fic. 

For legal reasons you were obligated to die now. 

Still fear urges you to act. You snatch Mina's phone that sits inches shy of yours and delete both the access and folder just in time. But Denki has already risen. 

You lunge although, he sadly, is much faster than you and already out the door as Mina follows with a delighted smile on her lips. You give chase, screaming how you'll murder them as Denki clears his throat to realoud to the rest of your roommates who lounge in the living room. Bakugou lying on the main couch that Denki currently hides behind, Sero spread out on the love seat while Kirishima sits in the armchair closest to your door. Several empty bottles of alcohol lie dead on the floor beside the broken wood of the table. 

Molten embarrassment surges through your veins as your mouth goes dry, suddenly that embarrassment turns into undying rage. A simple leap will neutralize him and then you could beat his ass to hell and back for even THINKING of doing what he's about to fucking do.  

Kirishima, ever the mediator, stands to scoop you up in strong arms, keeping you held fast to his muscular and of fucking course, shirtless body. 

"Read aloud for the class!" Mina teases, encouraging the electric blonde.

"'It started with a weighted gaze, one you could feel burning into your skin no matter where you were. And when you would turn to look over your shoulder you would see him. His dark eyes fixated on you of all people, glaring from sun up to sun down. It was safe to say that he hated you. Little did you know how wrong you were'." Denki reads the work verbatim as you fight back tears in your eyes. Kirishima sighs sadly as his grip tightens around your waist. 

No one stops him, and somehow, someone muted the TV, although you were unsure if that happened before or after Denki burst from your room. You just know that Bakugou holds the remote.  

"You simp for 2D men?" Sero laughs as Denki continues to read, he's now just shy of the raunchy details. You're mortified, especially since the whole group compares this anime character to your hot headed crush more often than not. You claw at Kirishima's skin but he activates his quirk while his hopeless romantic ass gets caught up in the fiction. 

"Hush." Mina and Kirishima scold Sero, hanging onto every word as if he were reading a true and tragic love story 

"DENKI IF YOU CONTINUE… I SWEAR TO KAMISAMAAAA!" You scream while he smirks although a huge blush blooms on his face as he reads a head a few sentences. 

"Go on!" Mina snaps, Denki clears his throat while you avoid the searing heat from a vermillion gaze. 

You felt hot and helpless, having hoped to avoid Bakugou as often as you could because he somehow flustered you to the point you felt more like foe than friend. He was the red eyed cat, slinking in the grass while you, the meek mouse scurried in the brush. You try your best to shrink away in Kirishima's large arms. 

Your mind plunges you into the few times you shared allow with Bakugou, making dinner together, setting the table. Waiting to pick the movie while the rest of your group takes their time getting the take out from various restaurants, you would exhale the breath you didn't know you held when they returned. But in your head every scenario ended differently. 

More differently than you'd like to admit. A shy kiss, a searing kiss, you gasping out his name as you wore his hand as a necklace. He would taunt for you to speak louder while his hand squeezed. 

The things you had wanted to happen are being said aloud now. Denki flustered but he continues to read, Kirishima squeezing the air from you as his tipsy or drunk ass gets into what you've written. 

Tighter and tighter as Denki gets closer to reader's final orgasm and the MC's first of the night. The room spins, you whimper and whine softly from the rough nature of Kirishima's skin unused to his usual soft touch being so intense. 

"Y..you feel the coil in your stomach tighten, eyes rolling into the back of your head as his thick length slides over that damned spongy spot. Abusing your sopping hole and puffy clit as his thrusts turn sloppier and sloppier. You feel him twitch within you, the sensation of his aroused satisfaction sends you over the edge. Screaming and gasping out…" 

"Kirishima!" You breathlessly shout, all eyes turn to you as you pant in his arms. Struggling to push out of his vice grip, face flushed, eyes fluttering from both the embarrassment, hot memories and lack of air. 

Your outburst stirs something in everyone, but especially the ash blonde. His deft eyes assess the situation quickly, or as quickly as they can with a tipsy mind. He growls audibly as your mortified form is still pinned to a shocked Kirishima. Bakugou stands and everyone stays silent, he stalks towards you as you keep your eyes averted. 

"Oi. Hair for brains. You're suffocating her." His voice is dangerously dark, threatening even. Kirishima drops you instantly and before you can scurry to your room Bakugou wraps a deadly hand around your wrist. 

"Pikachu, Racoon eyes, Soy sauce, take shitty hair with you to get an apology dinner. Take my card and get all the good shit too." For a moment no one moves until a glowing red eye looks over a broad shoulder and the intoxicating smell of caramel begins to fill the room. Everyone rushes to get their things Mina grabs for her shoes and purse, Denki his jacket, Sero Bakugou's card and Kirishima a shirt. 

The four of them practically fight to get into the cold air of the open hall.

Bakugou watches you shake, his eyes narrow in distaste. 

"Little mouse." His voice causes you to jump, stomach knotting before your hair free falls. You cannot find the strength to answer. He turns you around, slamming you into the wall. The pictures and knickknacks rattle against the dry wall, you swallow quickly. 

Did he hate what you said that much, oh gods look at how he us glaring at you. 

Fuck, you fucked up. 

He wraps his hand tightly around your throat, coming close as he holds twin pulses, starving your brain of oxygen. Of sound choices. Instantly you feel yourself becoming wet as he takes a moment to undress you with his eyes. He places a harsh, head swimming kiss to your lips. Biting at your bottom lip for entrance to your mouth, forcing his tongue in. He is kissing you passionately enough your teeth gnash against his. Moaning into his mouth as your hands trail beneath his black shirt. Nails railing across his abs when he squeezes your ass with his free hand. He pulls away with a wolfish grin. 

"Is this what you wanted little slut? To practice what you wrote with me?" His voice is taunting, "Do you think of me as you're soaking wet, writing this filth. I bet you moan my name when your knuckle deep in yourself." 

Tears prick your eyes, eyelids fluttering from both his words and the lack of air. 

"Answer me." He growls, you whimper beneath him as you nod yes. 

"Good little mouse." He tilts your face to him, holding his intense gaze, "Now let's practice what you wrote." 

[nightfayre]

a donation drabble request for the ever kind and supportive Ayobami @tps31! thank you SO MUCH for your donation and support!! you’ll never know how much it means to me <3

prompt: tianshan quarantine fluff, aka “why the hell am I stuck in a house with you all day every day?”

(a/n: this is just a random thought but I honestly don’t think I’ve written a fic about the boys still in middle school like, ever, so thank you so much for this prompt! it was so refreshing to write them as the flustered, airheaded, and teasing boys they are!) <3

tianshan, 3600 words, rated T

*   *   *

Guan Shan hates this. 

The laundry basket next to his. The pair of shoes at the front door. The extra toothbrush in his bathroom, and the second phone charger plugged in next to his bed. There’s a gray duffel bag taking up the corner of his bedroom and a black jacket draped over the back of his desk chair. None of it takes up too much space, carefully put into their respective places and never crossing the boundary, but—

Guan Shan hates it.

And, what’s worse: he never asked for this. He was stupid enough to mention He Tian’s name at the dinner table one night; a passing comment he hadn’t really thought about. But then his mother had paused with a spoonful of miso soup at her lips, pensive.

“He Tian,” she’d echoed, as if the name felt foreign but sweet on her tongue. “Isn’t that the one who lives near the center of the city? The one who lives alone? The tall and polite and handsome one of your friends?”

“Uh,” Guan Shan had said, smirking with distaste. “Yeah. Sure. That one.”

“Poor thing. Alone throughout all of this mess.” She sighed. “Why does he not live with his family?”

And Guan Shan had thought about it for a moment, sifting through his mind like pressing rewind on a VHS. “I don’t know,” he’d admitted, reaching for the soy sauce. “Never asked.”

She nodded, thinking. “Well, you should invite him over, then.”

Guan Shan choked. 

Oblivious, his mother had continued: “Have him stay a few nights. No one should be left alone throughout this entire period. Who knows how long this will last, what with how many cases that have been reported. He’ll go stir crazy by himself, poor soul.”

“He’s already stir crazy,” Guan Shan said, eyes watering from a dislodged grain of rice. “I don’t want him here, ma. I’ll literally do anythin’ else. Seriously.”

She’d given him a disappointed look. “Ah-Shan, I thought I raised you to have a little more compassion than that.”

“Trust me, a person like him doesn’t need compassion.”

“Now, you don’t know that,” she reprimanded. She tapped her chopsticks against her bowl, succinct. “After we finish dinner, you should reach out to him and invite him to spend the week with us.”

“A week?”

“Well, now that school is postponed and I’m working from home, wouldn’t it be nice to have company for a bit?”

“Ma, please—“

“You will text him, Ah-Shan. No excuses. The world needs kindness right now, and we will do whatever we can to contribute to it.”

And that, unfortunately, was that. 

That night, Guan Shan deleted the message immediately after he sent it, as if that would erase it out of his memory, too. But it was hard to forget the string of skeptical yet blaringly enthusiastic string of response texts that followed the invite, and even harder to forget the sight of He Tian at their front door half an hour later, duffel bag slung over his shoulder and smile bright as he greeted Guan Shan’s mother with practiced sweetness and feigned gratitude. 

Guan Shan hated it. 

But as his mother shot him a warning look, Guan Shan couldn’t do anything about it. Couldn’t just ignore him like he did, sometimes, at school.

And now, five days in, there’s a knock at the bathroom door. 

“Little Mo, are you naked?”

Running a towel over his hair, Guan Shan scowls at his reflection in the mirror, still foggy from the steam. “Fuck off, chickenshit.”

“I’m kidding.” He can hear the smile in He Tian’s voice. “I just need to brush my teeth.”

“Then you can wait.”

“It’s been twenty minutes, sweetheart. Are your showers usually this long?”

“That’s an average fuckin’ time for showers!”

A hum, muffled by the closed door. “Really? Mine only take ten, and that’s generous considering the precious amount of time I spend washing my—”

The thunk of the lotion bottle against the door rattles its hinges. “Fuck off!” 

He waits until he hears He Tian’s footsteps recede. Guan Shan hates that he knows He Tian is walking away with that smug-as-all-hell smile, satisfied. 

He dresses quickly after that, doing his best to ignore the citrus-scented face wash by the faucet and the contact lens case by the hand soap. The first time he’d seen all of He Tian’s things laid out like this on his bathroom counter was something like a revelation. It was like some things clicked into place, unbidden. Now it makes sense why Guan Shan sometimes thinks he catches a whiff of lemonade every time He Tian gets too close, and why He Tian looks like he’s scowling whenever he reads but, really, it’s just because he’s blind as a fucking bat and has to squint to see fine print. 

If nothing else, Guan Shan suspects at least something valuable might come out of all this time he’s forced to spend together with He Tian — (read: blackmail) — but then again, He Tian hasn’t commented on the old, stained state of Guan Shan’s pillow like Guan Shan thought he would because he’s used it since he was four and can’t really sleep well if he’s not using that specific pillow. And he also hasn’t said anything about the way Guan Shan jumps, sometimes, when the toaster springs up his toast in the mornings because he never fucking sees it coming and it — sometimes — causes him to drop his jam knife.

A stalemate, Guan Shan supposes as he pulls his shirt over his head. Except, deep down, he knows that He Tian probably isn’t even aware that such a concept exists. After all, what would He Tian be if not someone to fight ‘til a broken victor is left standing? 

By the time Guan Shan walks out into the living room, it’s ten o’clock. His mother, having finished washing the dishes because Guan Shan made dinner, is nowhere in sight, likely huddled up in her bedroom with a book like she always does before bed. That leaves He Tian alone on the couch, casually flipping through TV stations in a t-shirt and sweats, and he doesn’t see Guan Shan at first when the latter turns the corner. 

“Bathroom’s open, dipshit,” Guan Shan mutters. He Tian looks up as Guan Shan approaches, settling on the opposite end of the couch.

“About time.” He Tian tosses Guan Shan the remote, and he barely catches it before it smacks against his chest. Standing, He Tian smiles and says, “Find something good to watch by the time I get back, okay?”

“I don’t work at your beck and call,” Guan Shan seethes. But despite his retorts, his fingers find the remote buttons as He Tian saunters back to the bathroom, hands in pockets and steps quiet against the creaky floors. 

For a while, there really is nothing interesting on any of the channels. Guan Shan flies past a romcom, an old horror film, a few cartoons, the dreaded news. Nothing catches his attention — and he feels exhaustion coming on quick. He thinks, maybe, of just going to bed. But behind the apartment’s thin walls, he can hear the water running from the faucet. Despite himself, he frowns. 

It’s odd, really. He never thought he could get used to the image of He Tian’s broad frame hunched over his sink in the mornings, or the way He Tian can reach the bowls at the top of the cupboards without going on his toes, or the sight of He Tian’s nape pressed against the twin-sized air mattress on the floor of Guan Shan’s bedroom. He never thought anyone could make his mother laugh as much as he can, or finish puzzles as fast as he can, and he certainly never thought that his mother would spill Guan Shan’s childhood stories to someone she’d only met... once? Twice? He doesn’t keep track. He never had to before. 

Nevertheless, it’s not nearly enough time to warrant such trust. Such comfort. 

Guan Shan hates it. 

But in the midst of his lamenting, the faucet shuts off. A few moments later He Tian returns. And when he plops back onto the couch — too close — he smells of mint and vanilla-scented chapstick. 

Too aware of his presence and the way his knee almost touches Guan Shan’s, Guan Shan takes a long second to snap back to reality when He Tian asks, “What’s this?”

Guan Shan blinks. On the TV, there’s some kind of documentary playing. A narrator drones over the images of a complex space aircraft, and the camera pans out to show footage of the stars it swims in. As the screen switches to an interview of someone very important-looking in a suit, Guan Shan scowls.

“I don’t know. Nothin’s on.”

He Tian stretches his arms above his head, long and lithe. “Well,” he says, drawn with a sigh, “if you’re trying to put me to sleep, it might actually work.”

“Fuck off, I don’t control the damn stations,” Guan Shan bites. “And you shouldn’t be tired to begin with. You did jack shit today, just like every other day.”

He Tian looks at him, the corners of his eyes softened with drowsiness in a way that Guan Shan has become used to seeing. 

“That’s not true,” He Tian says. “I went with you to pick up supplies so your mom can sew masks. And we went to get the mail downstairs. And I helped you go grocery shopping—“

“You fuckin’ stood there with the cart and didn’t help at all—“

“—and I chopped the onions and peppers for dinner. That’s a lot. I’m exhausted.”

“That’s a normal person’s life,” Guan Shan says, exasperated. “Honestly, what the hell did you do all your life until quarantine?”

He Tian seems to take a moment to genuinely think about his answer. “Homework,” he offers, brows a bit pulled. “Basketball. School, obviously. I usually go to the convenience store for dinner, but sometimes I’ll get takeout. And I don’t get mail, but my groceries get delivered to me, so.”

And then he looks at Guan Shan, almost as if expecting some kind of praising reaction — but Guan Shan can only stare. 

“That’s ridiculous,” Guan Shan says after a long moment. “That’s ridiculous and fuckin’ miserable. You live like a robot, and a broken one at that.”

Silence. Then He Tian sits up a little straighter, as if a puppetmaster had pulled on his strings.

“I mean, I used to take piano lessons,” he says, frowning as he rubs at his neck. “And Cheng took me to shooting ranges. And…” A pause. “Camping. Yeah, we went camping some weekends. Went to rivers and fished together all day. I caught a few sometimes.”

Guan Shan blinks. “What, are you tryin’ to prove somethin’ to me right now?”

And He Tian shrugs. “Maybe.”

The answer takes Guan Shan by surprise. But He Tian’s face is neutral — expression always so put together — and Guan Shan wonders if maybe He Tian is lying to him. Building up some kind of persona again just to tear it down later. Because, surely, with that much fucking money and privilege, the guy doesn’t just sit there in that empty apartment all day and twiddle his thumbs. Surely, with his reputation, he has a regular posse of socialites always seeking him out and inviting him to some kind of get-together or event. Surely, considering all that he is, He Tian doesn’t waste his time looking for, or teasing, or protecting, or calling up—

“Guan Shan?” He Tian says, mouth a little twisted. “You still awake?”

The low rambling of the space documentary suddenly seems louder. Guan Shan swallows, once, then forces himself to look away. 

“You make no fuckin’ sense to me,” Guan Shan mutters. Then: “When are you leavin’?”

“Ouch,” He Tian remarks in an empty but unsurprised tone, shifting back on the couch. After a moment, he shrugs and responds, “Depends. Your text said a week but your mom says forever.”

A scowl. “She didn’t fuckin’ say that.”

He Tian smiles. “No, she didn’t. But she did say as long as I wanted — which, really, isn’t that much different from forever.”

Guan Shan swallows; feels inexplicable heat crawl up his neck like a spider, and he clenches his jaw against it. 

“You should go live with your own family,” he says, staring ahead. “I’m sure they’ve got all the time in the world to shower you with attention.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees He Tian smirk. 

“If I didn’t want to live with them at the best of times, what makes you think I would want to live with them at the worst of times?”

Guan Shan considers that. “This… isn’t the worst of times.”

“There’s a pandemic with no cure killing hundreds of people every day,” He Tian says, bland. “School is practically cancelled. People aren’t going to work. You invited me over to your home, unprompted. Even I know, with all things considered, that these are pretty bad times.”

Guan Shan can’t argue that. Instead he stares at the television, watching an astronomer point out weird symbols on some kind of map. It takes a lot of concentration to focus on nothing. After all, if he shifts his gaze any more to the right, he’ll see He Tian. If he lets his eyes slide down any further, he’ll see the way He Tian’s knee is still too close to his own. Both are dangerous territories for dangerous thoughts, and he doesn’t want anything to do with either. 

After a moment of silence, Guan Shan says, “You know, you should get friends. Real friends, and not your fuckin’ fangirl group.”

He Tian raises a brow. “I have you and Jian Yi and Zhan Zheng Xi.”

“That’s not—” And then Guan Shan stops, frowning, because he’s not actually sure what their ragtag mess of a group isn’t. Instead, he swallows and pathetically hides behind: “I’m not your fuckin’ friend.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Or, maybe, it’s exactly what He Tian thought what he’d say. Guan Shan isn’t sure; he’s never fuckin’ sure when it comes to him. But it doesn’t stop him from tensing up when He Tian turns to face him, fully. Wholly. It leaves no escape, and Guan Shan realizes with a sour kind of reluctance that he has no choice but to look back.

“No?” He Tian asks, meeting his gaze. “Then, what are you to me?”

The way the television’s screen lights up He Tian’s face — it’s like looking at a painting, alone in the museum, at the dusk of day. Blue hues shine through his hair, dim, and his eyes are only bright enough to reflect the silhouette of Guan Shan sitting in front of him. It’s eerie, how the both of them are so undefined in this moment. Maybe, in a way, that’s easier. 

Guan Shan’s voice feels thick when he says, “I’m not answerin’ that.”

“Why?”

“I don’t— need to.”

“Why?” And then: “Overthinking it?”

Guan Shan flares. “What? What the fuck does that— No, I just— I don’t need to answer fuckin’ anything, asshole. I… I owe you jack shit.”

Silence responds to him. He Tian watches him; studies him. Guan Shan feels like a specimen under his gaze, split apart layer by layer under the microscope. He feels like, somewhere, something in him is splintering. And He Tian is watching it happen. 

“I don’t have a fuckin’ answer,” Guan Shan admits, sudden, like a sinner in a confession booth, heavy and quiet and raspy. “Okay? I told you, you don’t make any goddamn sense to me. You wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for my ma.”

He Tian soaks that in, almost as thoroughly as he takes in the sight of Guan Shan’s flushed scowl. 

“You didn’t want me here?” he says, teasing.

“No, dipshit. Every time you’ve been here hasn’t been because I asked you to be.”

He Tian smirks. “Ouch,” he says again, except this time it’s said in a way that pricks Guan Shan like a rose thorn.

Guan Shan pushes down the heavy feeling in his throat. “I don’t know what you were expectin’,” he says, truthfully. 

And then He Tian looks away, rolling his head. There’s a kind of empty look in his eyes that Guan Shan thinks he recognizes, and after a moment he realizes it’s the same look he’s seen in He Cheng’s eyes in the few rare times they’d crossed paths.

“I wasn’t expecting a pandemic,” He Tian says. His voice sounds loud in the small room. “I wasn’t expecting school break to get extended. I wasn’t expecting all the restaurants to close, and for all the store’s shelves to be wiped clean.” He runs his tongue along his teeth. “But I guess, for some reason, I was expecting a text from you after weeks of nothing.”

It hits Guan Shan, hard and heavy, like a ring-laden fist against his cheek. The last time he’d seen He Tian before all of this mess was a month ago — more — and at the time, none of them had known that this is how it would turn out. How could they? It’d only taken a week for things to turn south, and Guan Shan was too busy worrying of how he and his mom were going to file for unemployment to think of the way his phone had been silent for longer than he’s been used to. 

He wants to pull it out right now; check his recent messages. It would be with a sort of disbelief when he would find the timestamp on He Tian’s contact, he already knows. But the shock wouldn’t come from his own lack of outreach. No, his perplexity would stem from He Tian, the same person who couldn’t go a single weekend without a conversation about nothing over Facetime back when things were normal. The same person who, apparently, hadn’t messaged him once until Guan Shan texted him that dreadful night five days ago. 

Had he been— testing Guan Shan?

“I didn’t reach out to anybody else,” Guan Shan hears himself saying. The words taste bitter as they leave his mouth. What is he doing? What does he have to justify? “I... It was weird, those first few days of the lockdown order, and my ma and I— we had a lot goin’ on. It wasn’t— I mean, I haven’t talked to Zheng Xi or Jian Yi this whole time either. I just... don’t have time. Or, I did, but it wasn’t urgent. I— yeah, I barely use my phone anymore, anyway. I’m always at home now so I just... don’t need it.”

He stops, his tongue feeling thick. He Tian isn’t looking at him, but he knows he’s listening. Somehow, the thought makes it even worse. 

“What,” He Tian suddenly says, and there’s a curl to his mouth that he can’t seem to help, “are you trying to prove something to me right now?”

“I—“ Guan Shan flares, teeth clenched and ears hot. “Fuck you. No, I’m not, asshole. I’m actually rescuin’ your damn pride, but apparently you’ve got too fuckin’ much.”

“Hey, hey,” He Tian says, wrapping his fingers around Guan Shan’s wrist when he makes to get up. “Come on. Don’t make me finish this documentary by myself.”

Guan Shan scowls. “I’m tired. Let go.”

“Then we can sleep on the couch,” He Tian replies — and then almost as if it were an afterthought: “again.”

Guan Shan warms at the implication of it. “Why the fuck would I do that when my room is around the corner?” he hisses. 

He Tian tugs his arm. “Because I’ll follow you anyway since I’ve only got two days left with you and I’m not letting today end like this.” He smiles. “We’re not sleeping yet. I’m selfish.”

“I could’ve fuckin’ told you that,” Guan Shan mutters, dry. But he relaxes, settling back on the couch, and eventually He Tian lets him go. The skin he had touched feels electric in his absence.

“Let’s make popcorn and ride this out,” He Tian says, settling against a throw pillow. His eyes, no longer empty, are content as they drift back to the screen.

Hand in chin, Guan Shan smirks. “We both brushed our teeth already. I’m not doin’ it again.”

“Tomorrow, then.” He Tian gestures to the TV. “Popcorn and something more interesting than this.”

“If you think this is so damn boring, then why are you still here?”

“When else will I find an opportunity to spend time with you like this after I leave?”

Guan Shan doesn’t respond. After a moment, He Tian huffs. 

“That’s when you’re supposed to invite me back over in the future, little Mo,” he says, amused. Guan Shan shoots him a warning look as the documentary goes to a commercial break. 

“Don’t push your luck,” he snaps. “And don’t try to convince my ma, either.”

He Tian hums, shifting, and Guan Shan suppresses a flinch when his knee presses up against his. Warm. “I hadn’t even thought about that. That might be the agenda for tomorrow, now.”

“I’m sick of you,” Guan Shan growls. And He Tian laughs, like it’s the funniest thing ever, how easily he can get under Guan Shan’s skin and force him to worry about nothing and get him to stay with him to watch shitty television all within the span of twenty minutes. How Guan Shan has managed to survive more than three days is an incredible feat. How he’s unable to chase away the thought of inviting He Tian over for dinner after he leaves, sometimes, is an inexplicable one. 

And when the documentary comes back on with a cheap intro jingle and the streaming quality of a disposable camera, Guan Shan feels He Tian’s foot hook against his and tries to convince himself, over and over:

I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.

*  *  *

thank you for reading! likes/reblogs would be greatly appreciated, as this fic is dedicated to the Black Lives Matter movement. if you would like a fic/drabble written for you (and you want to support the BLM cause!), please see this post!

have an incredible week! <3

[greenygreenland]

If I Were You: Fives x Reader Pt 2

-pt two. Here’s part 1

Summary: It’s been half a month since Fives first appeared in your room. He’s settled into your home because he knows there’s no way of getting home. Everything is peaceful, and you find comfort in each other. Your parents come home today, and you have to find out a way to hide him from them Warnings: Borderline abuse (very brief), mentions of abuse/violence, pressure from school, COVID-19 mentions, swearing

“--and then I slug him in the jaw and he’s so shocked that he can’t move!” You shake your head as Fives continues reminiscing about a short run-in with some ‘Separatist scum’. You can’t say it’s not entertaining when you yourself absolutely despise the Seps for what they’ve done during the Clone Wars. The guy definitely deserved it. Fives continues on for a while, telling his favourite stories about the 501st as he sips on the juice you’d given him earlier.

You eventually decide to move to the living room, where it’s much more comfortable than the kitchen. Picking up the remote and flopping down on the couch, you turn on the TV.

It’s still mesmerizing to Fives. He’s seen you scroll through Disney Plus, Netflix, and Hulu so many times, yet he can’t get over the amount of shows available. Sure, there was the holonet back at home, but that couldn’t ever compare to the media here. Everything was in colour, and it wasn’t as bulky as a holoprojector. 

Suddenly, you pause, hovering over the show Star Wars the Clone Wars. It’s written in giant blocky letters in yellow, so it catches Fives’s eye rather quickly. “Is that the show I’m in?” he lightly inquires. There’s a cold sensation in his gut, but he ignores it. You nod, mindlessly clicking on it. “I grew up with this show. It’s taught me more about life than anything else, really. When I was in a pretty bad place it helped me pull through.” 

There’s a soft smile on your face that Fives admires more than anything in the galaxy. It’s like an invisible warm hug, and it engulfs him in an overwhelming amount of happiness. A loud fanfare of...something (he’s never really known any instruments) bombards his ears, and he’s turning to the screen so fast that he could have given himself whiplash. 

Admiral Yularen’s voice fills the quiet space. He has to restrain himself from straightening up because it’s just a show. But that’s when something happens. He catches sight of himself on screen, saluting to his Captain and General. The screen freeze for a second, and it ripples like a hologram. The image of himself disappears, and then the TV goes static, flashing in a mixture of blues, grays, blacks, and greens. 

“This can’t be good.” he says, mostly to himself. You glare at the screen, randomly pushing the buttons on the remote as if it’d fix everything. It doesn’t and you know this, but you continue anyway as Fives’s gaze darts from you to the TV. A short sigh escapes your lips. “My parents are going to--” 

You freeze, cutting yourself off as a familiar rumble catches your ear. Fives hops to his feet as you drop the remote, silently making his way to the window just above the driveway. You follow him as he takes a peek behind the curtains. It’s silent for a moment and you know you hadn’t been mistaken. 

“(Y/n), are these your parents?”

“Dank ferrick.” 

Fives looks surprised at your colourful answer before smirking to himself. That’s soon wiped off his face as the front door knob begins to jiggle. You both lock gazes, eyes wide in terror. “You have to hide!” You turn off the TV and frantically knot your hand in his. And suddenly, you’re practically flying up the stairs with Fives in tow. You didn’t even know you could run that fast, but maybe that was because you knew your ‘fight or flight’ had been activated. 

You throw open the door to your room and slam it behind as the front door opens. Fives is scurrying into the closet as you scramble to stuff whatever evidence of his existence into his arms. He tosses his sweaters, trousers, and shirts (you bought with your own money) as deep into your closet as he can. You flick off the lights and open your curtains wide. 

Fives shuts the closet door. You whip out your laptop and a few notes from your physics class, neatly spreading them on your desk along with a few highlighters and pens. 

“(Y/n)!”

That’s your mum. She sounds almost glad to see you. 

“(Y/n), come downstairs will you?” 

You turn on your laptop, flipping to Google Classroom as if your life depended on it--and it certainly did. Once it’s open, you stand from your desk and walk downstairs, putting on the brightest smile you can. “Hi mum!” you call. She smiles at you, covering up a cough as she removes her shoes. “I’m sorry we’ve been gone for so long. Your father’s been busy, and I couldn’t leave him in Chicago all by himself. You know how it can get there.”

The smile is wearing on your face and you know it. Your mum is a kind person, she’s always been, but because of that, she tries to hide her sickness from you. She’s been sick for a while, but she wouldn’t tell you why. Of course, that didn’t stop your father from telling you. He said it was cancer, but your mum replied with, ‘It’s the common cold’ instead. 

Speaking of your father, he emerged from the door. You didn’t need to look at him to know he wasn’t too happy. “Hi...dad.” you quietly say. Your mum puts a hand on your shoulder and that seems to bother him. “What are you doing down here? Go study. You’re not going to be a doctor if you aren’t persistent.” You frown in confusion. “I thought you wanted me to go to MIT--”

“You’d be more useful as a doctor than a mindless computer addict. Maybe if you had skipped a few grades, then you could have found a cure already.” You wanted to be offended, but a voice inside your head made you keep your cool. It wouldn’t do anyone any good if you fought fire with fire anyway. 

There is no emotion, there is peace, you think to yourself with a sigh. Your mum notices, and she gives your shoulder a good squeeze before beckoning you upstairs. You turn to her as she tensely smiles and comply, quietly going up the stairs. You hear someone flop down on the couch, probably your father, and ice shoots up your veins. 

Panic blinds you as you race up the last few steps and dart into your room like you were being chased by a lightsaber. 

It doesn’t take a genius to know what happened. You hear him shout your name and you lock the door behind you. Fives slowly opens the closet door. You can feel his worry as he frowns, and you can’t blame him. Your father sounds beyond angry. If you didn’t know better, you would have thought someone had robbed him. 

“(Y/N)!”

You visibly flinch and Fives decides it’s high time he comes out of hiding. He’s suddenly by your side, locking your hand in his. “You’re shaking.” You look down at your hand weaved between Fives’s fingers with a mindless shrug. “I’m,” your voice wobbles, “fine. It’s going to be fine. It’s--it’s fine. It’s fine.” 

“They’re not going to do anything to you, right?” Fives inquires. You meet his gaze with teary eyes. No words come out of your mouth, but he doesn’t need any to know what you’re thinking. 

The door rattles. You flinch at the shout from the other side, instinctively taking a step back as if it’d help you. “Fives, Fives...” You’re looking at him again, silently pleading for the help you didn’t even know you needed. You had always been alone. Always. No one had been by your side until Fives came along, and it’s then that you begin to realise how bad your situation is. 

He gives your hand a comforting squeeze that makes your knees go weak. “They can’t hurt you.” His tone is firm yet gentle. “Not if I have anything to say about it.” He makes his way to the door. It’s still rattling as he unlocks it, and then it bursts open as your father shouts again. The last time Fives had seen someone this angry was when the General had gone on that Zyggerian mission. The mere mention of the word ‘slave’ had sent the Jedi into an inferno anger that no one could calm. 

But this puny simpleton? 

His anger wasn’t as terrifying as his General’s. Fives couldn’t feel a single ounce of fear as he stared the taller man down. He looked about ready to murder Fives, but that wasn’t the least of his concerns. The man jabs a finger at his chest and Fives has to resist smacking it away. “So not only has my sad excuse of a daughter broken the TV, but also smuggled in a goddamn boy while we were gone!” 

You watch as your father raises his arm, recoiling to ready a punch. Your eyes widen, and you almost have the nerve to feel bad for him. It was never a smart idea to pick a fight with an ARC trooper--much less a soldier like Fives. 

Your father growls, “I’ll kill you both!”

It all happens too fast. Your father throws a punch, Fives catches it, and then it goes deathly quiet. He’s seething as your father trembles in his dark glare. “If this is how a family functions, I’m glad I only have my brothers.” The temperature seems to drop ten degrees with each word he stresses. “It doesn’t matter what happens, no one, and I mean no one should be treated like this. It’s downright abuse. I won’t stand for something so kriffing wrong.” 

This is a side of Fives you know but haven’t witnessed off-screen. He had been like this with Krell, and even though the situations varies from Umbara, his emotions aren’t any different. “Sure, the TV’s broken, but you haven’t even heard why it happened! What kind of father goes around and threatening to kill his own daughter?” 

Your father tries to storm past Fives, but he only tightens his grip on your father’s wrist. “Don’t try it.” 

Your father tries anyway. He whips out a knife--a knife-- and aims for Fives’s neck. Of course, Fives is quick--quicker than the shows give him justice. He dodges, swiping a leg under your father before pinning him down under his knee. The knife falls from your father’s hand and Fives is pulling both his arms behind his back. It’s not enough to hurt him, but it sure does scare him. “Let me go you fucking psycho! You’re gonna pay!” 

Fives looks like he wants to say anything, but he doesn’t, and you know it’s because he’s so baffled by your family dynamics. He hadn’t known any brothers who would do that, and he was glad too. “Oh I’m ‘gonna pay’? I think you’ll have fun taking that to the authorities. What number are you supposed to dial in these situations?” he inquires. 

“Let you go you goddamn--!”

“911.” you quietly answer. “But are you sure?” Fives nods and glances at your phone. You snatch it off the table, tapping the emergency call button and dialling the number. 

-------

Your mother stares at the police car as Fives shamelessly interlocks his fingers with yours. The cars drive away, the lights glimmering in the last light of day. You catch a glare from your father, hardening your stare on him until he begrudgingly turns away. Fives looks rather pleased, but there’s a hint of disturbance on his face. You know the mere idea of family against family riled him up, but he’s good at hiding it anyway and puts on a smile for you. 

Your mother walks up the front stairs of the house, arms crossed as if she’s hugging herself. She turns to you and Fives, briefly glancing at your interlocked fingers. You’re expecting her to say something. Instead, she studies your face and smiles. It’s a bit rough round the edges but full of so much love. 

“What is your name young man?” 

Fives glances at you before turning to your mum. “Fives, ma’am.”

“Fives?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

She doesn’t know what to say, so she stays quiet for a moment. “Is there any way I can thank you?” He turns to you, and then your mum. You seem to know what he’s thinking and give his hand a squeeze in support. “Uh, if it’s not too much trouble, is it okay if I stay here ma’am?” 

“He doesn’t have any family in the area, and it’s not like he can go anywhere with the pandemic.” you smoothly elaborate. “Can he stay mum? Please?” 

Your mum smiles again as if she knows something you don’t. She has something in her pocket that she glances at before eyeing you and Fives. “Of course he can stay. After all, you two are made for each other.” You’re about to ask what your mum means by that, but she’s already walking back in the house. 

And so you look to Fives, who giddily smiles in reply. He knows there’s no turning back now. It’s not like he can return home anyway, which isn’t something he isn’t unhappy about. Without warning, he leans towards you, planting a kiss on your cherry, red lips. He pulls away rather quickly, cheeks red. “Wow, never done that before.” he nervously admits. You snort, ignoring the racing of your heart. “Why don’t we try that again?” 

After all, you two are made for each other.

You smile at your mum’s words and kiss him again. Your heart continues to slam against your chest, and you’re still not sure if you’re doing it right, but it doesn’t matter because you know you two were meant to be. 

PART 3

[imjeralee]

Comfort in Despair: Chapter 16 - Leon with Flowers

Leon x F!Reader

Disclaimer: Do not own Pokemon

Summary:

Galar is rich in folklore and tales of the supernatural.

As a Pokemon Researcher who specialises in ghost types, this is a great opportunity for you to investigate and learn more about the paranormal.

Along the way, you meet Leon (in the most awkward way possible) who becomes embroiled in your adventures.

^ Basically this story is about ghosts :/

Rating: General/Teen

@marydragneell​ - here is the latest update

@crikeygatormate, @alisakagi​ - apologies for the late update

Leon with Flowers

…

…

["We're just two lost souls Swimming in a fish bowl Year after year."

- Wish You Were Here, Pink Floyd]

…

…

Leon arrives outside the Wild Area Pokemon Nursery and pushes open the door. It jingles with a light tune upon his arrival and he sees a lone nursery worker behind the counter. It's Raihan's girlfriend and her Goomy and Dreepy huddle together on one of the sofas, watching TV whilst she works, juggling several large canisters of baby pokemon food and moomoo milk in hands.

“Hi Leon,” she greets him politely as soon she spots him, despite the hectic atmosphere. Her voice is very soft on the ears.

“Hi,” he replies, and Goomy and Dreepy gurgle and chirp at him happily; Goomy uses one of its horn to press down on a random button on the remote control beside them, changing the channel from a drama to a cartoon show.

Throwing a quick glance to the clock on the wall, she says, “You’re early.”

“Ah, yeah, I managed to get everything done…I can come back if you’re not ready.”

“Not at all, give me a minute.”

“Sure.”

“Please have a seat,” she gestures to an empty couch and so he plops himself down.

Raihan’s girlfriend finishes filling up the shelves on the wall with the bottles and the milk before she ducks behind the counter and he hears more glass containers rattling within and she stacks two or three more on the shelf before she says, “Would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you.”

"Okay."

Leon casually glances around the small waiting room until he casts a glimpse at her; Raihan’s girlfriend is a pokemon breeder and she’s the complete opposite of the dragon tamer: calm, quiet and certainly not flamboyant in any manner. Apparently she’s good at handling him and there are rumours flying around that he is madly in love with her. Despite her meek outward appearance, looks can be deceiving because Raihan’s girlfriend is also an EV trainer with an arsenal of high-levelled, competitive pokemon.

And he’s asked her for help.

She dries her hand on a Bellossom tea towel and finally heads to the gate, opening it. “Thanks for waiting! Well, come on in. Sorry about the mess.”

“No problem,” Leon gets up from his seat - looks like she trusts Goomy and Dreepy to be left on their own - and he closes the gate behind him, follows her inside the interior and often unseen part of the nursery.

She leads him towards the baby pokemon room; it's covered with pastel yellow wallpaper dotted with little stars and moons and there are plenty of baby mobiles hanging from the ceiling, soft play toys, alphabet play cubes and various squeaky toys and Leon is greeted with the sight of Cleffas, Pichus, Smoochums, Magbys and Bonslys running rampant around the available space and generally causing mischief. She runs inside at once, pulling at a Mime Jr that’s about to leap off a high shelf before she separates two Munchlaxes who are squabbling over a bowl of berries.

“So sorry,” she exclaims as Leon glances around, unsure where to really look due to the chaos, “I swear they can be very well-behaved. So…what do you think?”

Leon chuckles and folds his arms. “Of course, but…” as the babies bawl and drool and roll around the playmats, he puts a hand under his chin to ponder, “...Something’s not quite right. I’m not saying she won’t like a baby pokemon but…it’s not really her.”

Her shoulders droop. “Oh, r-really? Well…maybe not a baby pokemon then?” Copying his action, an Igglybuff taps at her calf as she rubs at her chin. She glances down and it points to a bottle it cannot reach on the table. She picks it up and hands it to it and Igglybuff rolls away, and she says, “What about an abandoned pokemon?”

Leon raises a brow. “There are abandoned pokemon here?”

She nods sadly; a Riolu tugs on her leg next, wanting to be held, “Unfortunately, yes, the number of pokemon dropped off at the nursery and subsequently being abandoned has risen," she says glumly as she picks the fighting pokemon up and pats him on the head.

“Where are they? Can you show me?”

“Of course,” she puts down Riolu, goading him to play with the others and all the baby pokemon look at her expectantly, “You guys be on your best behaviour, okay?”

There’s a response of chirping, squeaking, high-pitched trilling and a few nods of the head. She looks at them worriedly but has no choice but to leave the room for now. Regardless, the baby pokemon don’t seem to be intent on wreaking too much havoc.

She leads Leon out of the nursing room and further along the corridor, stopping at a random door and opening it; she holds the door open for him and his eyes grow wide when he sees a dozen or so pokemon littered around the room, resting in baskets or perches. However, there is something terribly gloomy about this room and he realises the dullness is emanating from the Pokemon within.

An Eevee in the corner is tightly curled up against the wall but looks up when they enter and its large eyes meets Leon’s. Its ears are flat against its head and its fur is dull and matted. It's clutching a squidgy berry toy to itself.

It’s….miserable.

Raihan’s girlfriend sighs under her breath, “We initially put them together with the other pokemon, but they seem to be doing better with other abandoned pokemon so…my boss put them altogether in one room. Some pokemon have actually broken out and run away…these are the ones that are still waiting for their owner.”

Leon glances around, inspecting the remaining pokemon; a Corvisquire with rough-looking feathers sits on the perch with its head under its wing. A Skwovet hides underneath its thick tail, its wet eyes looking up at the duo. A Minccino is crying in another corner; she runs to it immediately and scoops it up in her arms.

“…This isn’t new, but the numbers are growing rapidly,” she replies as she holds the small pokemon tightly to her chest. It responds to her embrace, closing its eyes.

“What’s wrong with Eevee?”

“We diagnosed it with a permanent leg injury. It can no longer battle.”

Leon bites down on his lip; the sight of abandoned or injured pokemon makes his heart clench with grief. “Arceus, I want to take them all.”

“You can’t. Not yet. They’ve actually not passed the period yet,” Raihan’s girlfriend replies, “My boss set a month, at least. If their owners don’t return, the pokemon are officially under our care."

Leon emits a sigh under his breath until he spots a small and malnourished fox pokemon sitting quietly by the window, staring outside at the scenery. It hasn’t seemed to have noticed their presences and he observes it for a fraction longer than usual before he takes a step forward. Once he's at its side, it turns round and a single, glassy brown eye blinks at him whilst the other appears to be missing. Furthermore, it only has one tail.

Leon moves to crouch on one knee before the small creature and it regards him silently before throwing its gaze to the window once more, though it wags its small tail.

“Oh! Vulpix…” Raihan’s girlfriend murmurs, “….Poor thing, she's been here more than a month and her owner never came back. She's absolutely lovely, she would be a great choice if it suits your friend."

“I’ll take her,” Leon says, without a moment of hesitation, “Will that be alright?”

She nods with a wide smile. “Of course! I'll get the paperwork ready."

"Paperwork?" he realises he's beginning to dislike that word.

"Yes, it's mostly for our records, then you can pick her up in three days minimum."

"Thanks, I'm looking forward to it!" he exclaims, and she grins in response, picking Vulpix up and off the ground.

"Thank you, Leon!! Isn't this wonderful? You're going to have a new home soon," she coos, lifting one of her paws and wiggling it gently. He can't help but grin.

Raihan's girlfriend hands him the Pokemon and slips her into his arms; their gazes meet and Vulpix blinks her single eye, wags her tail gently, then reaches over and licks his cheek.

She's perfect.

...

Although you’re not quite sure how you managed to get a wink of sleep for the remainder of that night considering what had happened between you and Leon in the garden, you wake up in time for further checkups and the doctors inform you that you will be discharged by end of the day. It's good news, though you will need to make routine visits to get your dressings replaced for a further week or so.

And when you check Rotom, you have received several messages.

Graves will come to pick you up before you are formally discharged and instructs you to get packing. He also briefly tells you his findings about Edward Rose: he was not a satanist but he did not have a good reputation amongst the Rose family. Being one of the lesser known 'Rose', he was remembered for his descent into madness and there is no record on how he obtained or why he chose to use human blood, skin and hair for his painting.

Fifteen paintings are alleged to exist and he was about to complete one more, but this final piece was apparently incomplete and subsequently went missing following his death. The existence of these paintings are bordering mythical. No-one has seen them before and there is no evidence. Just rumours.

But they do exist, and you tell Graves you had found the final painting in the basement of Rose's art gallery, but Graves remarks that there was no such thing when they searched it.

Therefore you realise Rose has already taken it and with that in mind, your fist curls until your knuckles turn white. Realising anything to do with Rose sets you off into an irrevocable rage, you move on and try to think of other things.

Magnolia and Sonia will visit you.

And so will Leon.

You hold your breath as you nervously swipe his message open, letting your eyes roam over the screen. Your mood lifts in a split second and your heart beat speeds up. He asks how you are doing and that he has returned to his duties but he will do his best to visit you before you leave hospital. On this occasion, there is one emoji included but the remainder of the message remains rather professional and straight-forward. You reread it a few more times before a smile worms its way over your face and your heart flutters.

However, you're able to subdue this profound giddiness and your response is a very neutral sounding 'okay' and you hope that's a satisfactory enough answer.

Thus your day begins and it starts off with Sonia and Magnolia visiting as promised; they’ve bagged the first slot and somehow your poster that says 'One Visitor at a Time' no longer applies as they've also brought little Yamper, Cutie and Poltea with them and once they enter the room, you are pounced on as everyone is simply dying to embrace you. Overjoyed to see them, you hug for a lot longer than usual, before Magnolia tells you off again for the danger you had put yourself in but you tell her you will no longer be working on cases and that you will be taking a break.

Pleased with your decision, Magnolia nods to herself.

"I had a dream," you murmur as Cutie and Poltea move to sit on your shoulders, "when you came to pick me up from the psych ward."

Magnolia and Sonia watch you quietly.

"...And I'm really grateful," you add, your fist clinching over the sparse, thin duvet, "for everything. For taking me in, for looking after me. Thank you."

Sonia reacts with a cheerful smile and throws her arms around you again, holding you as tightly as possible and you do the same, whilst Magnolia nods briefly as she balances her cane with both hands.

“That was such a long time ago," Sonia replies, "Don't think about it; it was a bad chapter of your life."

You can only nod.

"How are you feeling anyway?" she adds, when she finally lets go of you.

"I'm okay," you say, and you show her your arm, "...could be better, I guess."

"Hmm... at least the doctors say it's gonna heal. And I heard Leon stayed with you most of the night."

"Yeah, he saved my life."

Sonia giggles whilst Magnolia tells her to keep her voice down, thoroughly reminding her that they're in a hospital. You chuckle as Sonia pouts in response.

They’ve brought you breakfast and lunch in case the hospital food is not sufficient (and it is) and unfortunately they cannot stay for long; their visiting time is over. You and Sonia exchange a long hug and soon, they depart; though you long to tell Sonia what has happened, you feel it’s not particularly the right moment.

In your empty room, Gengar appears from your shadow and though you're aware he dislikes emerging during the day, you're glad he's here and he is happy to see that you are well too; floating over to your side, you and Gengar proceed to share an embrace. You sprawl your arms around his rotund body and back and rest your cheek over the top of his spiky head whilst stubby arms cling to your sides.

"Aww, I missed you too,” you say, and Gengar looks at you with a concerned expression, "I'm fine."

Gengar lets go of you, then puts his hands on his hips and waggles them for a bit and you're wondering what he's trying to say until he glances around the room for a while before he spots an old magazine left on one of the counters. He grabs it, returns to your side and after flipping through some pages, points to you again and then to a random page.

And Leon is on this random page. It's some kind of advert, where he is sitting on a throne with a crown atop his head.

It can only mean one thing.

"Did you see us??" you ask nervously.

Gengar nods and grins mischievously, before he uses a hand to sweep his imaginary hair back and catwalks down your room with a hand on one hip. You didn't realise Gengar had this much sass.

"What's that supposed to mean?" you huff, as his feet leave the floor so he can float up into the air to chuckle. Pointing to you and then to Leon's picture on the magazine, he then clasps both hands together and bats his eyelashes and performs a full three hundred and sixty degree circle in the air.

You roll your eyes in response.

"Harhar, yes, very funny," you reply, but you're smiling.

Gengar returns to rest and you realise you’re missing your other pokemon so you search your room briefly but to no avail; you can’t find the ragdoll anywhere so you leave your room only to see Mimikyu seated outside on one of the empty chairs with her head drooped, crying.

Alarmed, you head over to the pokemon at once, crouching in front of her and big, fat tears drip from the two glowing dots where her eyes should be, staining the dull fabric of its disguise.

“Mimi? What’s wrong???" you exclaim, "Are you hurt? Did someone hurt you?”

“Mi…mi….” she squeaks as she shakes her head, weeping, “Me show you.”

“Okay,” you reply, and as you lower your good arm, she takes a few tiny steps forwards, hops over your elbow and climbs up to sit on your shoulder.

"Mi...are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine. It's you I'm worried about."

"Mi...it's okay," she replies, and she uses a shadowy tendril to pat you on top of the head.

"What do you want to show me?"

"This way, mi mi."

She stops crying as she leads you away from your room and out of your ward in its entirety, guiding you to the direction of the paediatric ward and though you’re not sure if you’re allowed inside, Mimikyu asks you to stop at a certain corridor and as you glance at the nearby nurse's station, the nurses don't seem bothered with your presence at all.

“Mi…look,” Mimikyu says, pointing at the wall.

It is covered in crayon drawings of many pokemon that stretches all the way deep into the children’s play area and into the visitor’s hall which you cannot enter. There's even a crayon drawing of a purple pokemon that says 'eKaNs is SnAkE sPeLlEd bAcKwArDs'.

“Me saw,” she adds as you inspect the wall carefully, “No Mimikyu. Other Pokemon, yes. Pikachu…lots of Pikachu. No Mimikyu. Mi….me hatePikachu…” Mimikyu growls before her eyes gleam furiously with murderous intent under her disguise and a dark, wispy miasma begins to escape from her body. Her shadowy tendril twists into a tight claw in response to her anger, shaking with rage, “Me kill Pikachu…”

You try to reassure her but she shakes her head, trembling fiercely with hatred. Underneath the rag, the sounds of teeth grinding can be heard along with a bizarre clicking noise.

"Hey Mimi?"

"What is it, mi?"

"Why do you not want to look like Pikachu?"

Mimikyu blinks at you in shock before her eyes narrow, the glowing dots burning brightly, "....Mi...me wear the skin of the enemy....?" she growls, and this time her voice positively turns low and demonic, "Me think not..."

As Mimikyu hisses and seethes, you place a finger to your chin as you contemplate how different your Mimikyu is compared to others. Considering Mimikyu is upset that there are no pictures of any Mimikyu here, an idea hatches in your mind and you carefully comb through the ward until you pass a room full of screaming children who jump in their beds and throw pokemon dolls around in the air.

A little girl sitting on her own at a play table is busy doodling princess castles on pieces of A4 paper (and unfortunately, onto the table) captures your attention and you head over.

"Hi."

She looks up at you, blinking her big blue eyes. Then she proceeds to stick a green crayon up her nose. Lovely.

"Can I borrow these?" you ask, gesturing to a pack.

She nods, then grabs a brown crayon and sticks that one up her remaining, empty nostril.

Luckily for you, you don't need those colours so you grab several clean crayons and untarnished paper off the play table closest to you and leave the ward and return to your own; you close the door shut and climb over the bed.

“Mi…what are you doing?” Mimikyu asks, baffled, as you spread the paper over the table and lay the crayons out.

“I’ll draw you,” you utter and Mimikyu looks at you with shock.

“You…draw mi?”

“Yep.”

Mimikyu blinks at you blankly before she lets out a high-pitched squeak of glee that makes your eardrums rattle and a lurid snap rips through the room and you throw your glance to the window where a small crack has appeared in one corner. As Mimikyu continues squeaking, albeit at a lower pitch, tears of joy stain the fabric of her disguise once again and two shadowy tendrils proceed to slither out from her mouth and ensnare your head. It's a rather bizarre and cold, clammy sensation as Mimikyu hugs you.

Whilst you smile at her reassuringly, the door to your room opens and you look up to see Jace and two others you didn’t expect to see: Tanner and Cole.

“Duckie!” Jace exclaims with relief and he dives for you but Mimikyu hisses at him, her ragdoll features contorting horrifically and he comes to a skidding halt, letting out a rather high-pitched shriek in progress. "W-what is that?"

“Mimi, this is Jace," you say as you flick a casual glance to the pokemon, "Jace is good.”

“…Jace good?” she says.

“Yeah.”

“Mi…okay.”

"Jace, this is Mimikyu. She prefers being a ragdoll disguise than a Pikachu one."

"Oh, I see."

“That thing can talk,” Tanner says with wide eyes as Mimikyu slowly releases you and slides down to occupy an empty space on your bed, her tendrils slither back inside her mouth which closes up, the stitches returning to their proper place and Jace is free to approach and embrace you with no issues.

“Yeah, she can talk,” you reply, and Tanner and Cole stare at the ragdoll, bewildered. Regardless, you’re more occupied with Jace.

“Are you okay?” you ask as you let go of each other.

He nods wildly, rubbing at his eyes and nose which is very wet. “I’m fine! Are you okay?!!!”

“Yep.”

As you pat Jace reassuringly on the back, the Ghostbunkers glance at each other awkwardly as they stand in the room and everyone looks at each other and it’s as though everyone is thinking the same thing.

“I had to bring these guys,” Jace moans aloud as he jabs a thumb to their direction, “They wanted to tag along.”

Tanner steps forwards. “Yeah. Um, I know you probably don't wanna see us. Me, in particular, which I can totally understand....but we wanted to apologise. We’re really sorry. I’m sorry,” he murmurs. He looks badly battered and sickly in his fraying chalky-white hospital gown. The possession must have taken its toll on him.

“Me too,” says Cole. Unlike his best friend, Cole is in better shape.

“Can you forgive us?” Tanner asks morosely, and he gulps as though he's terrified of your response but you nod and he emits a huge sigh of relief. “Thanks. Oh god, I can't really explain it but I was still conscious when…” he gestures to your poor, bandaged arm, “I’m really sorry. Like so, so sorry. Hell, I don't think sorry's good enough so I brought Runerigus. I think he should stay with you. He's actually really nice... a totally chill guy. Cole, bring him here.”

“Yeah, sure," Cole searches in his pockets and pulls out the capsule which Tanner scoops up; he takes a minute step and leaves it for you on your table then returns to stand sheepishly before you with Cole at his side.

“We’re sorry,” Tanner says again, hanging his head low, “I’m not gonna let this slide, you know. Rose is a double-crossing, no-good Raticate bastard.”

You and Jace nod in agreement.

“I made him richer,” you murmur, “I can’t believe it.”

Cole and Jace appear confused and toss their gazes to you.

"His ancestor Edward Rose was a painter," you explain, "and he died before he could complete a painting, which was the one we found in the basement. It was a map, and it led to a treasure. I asked Chief Inspector Graves to investigate the art gallery but he says they didn't find any painting so obviously Rose has taken it and now there's no evidence of its existence. By now I'm pretty sure Chairman Rose has used it to find the hidden treasure, sold it or hid it away."

"Damn it, he's a clever bastard, I'll give him that," Tanner grunts out, "Cole, what about our video? We recorded it, right?"

"....I hate to say it but the video footage doesn't work. The moment we went into the basement, the recording went fuzzy."

"Yeah, that was probably Edward Rose's doing," you reply, “Rose will make sure it’s as though it never existed so we can’t persecute him or claim compensation.”

“Well, we’re not going to let him get away with it. I’m still going to press charges. Two can play at this game, ya know? I’ll let you know what happens, okay? It’s not fair on us. He used us. We’ve all been played and what happened last night was…crazy, it was so crazy, man.”

“Yeah, it was crazy,” Cole echoes, nodding.

And Tanner shrugs helplessly, lifting a hand and pinching the middle of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “I have no words, man. I mean I don’t really wanna Ghostbunk anymore,” he admits, “Cole doesn’t want to either.”

“Yeah, I don’t wanna Ghostbunk,” Cole says, nodding again.

Although it is of no particular interest to you, you discover Cole is different on his own; once he is paired with Tanner, he seems devoid of personality and reliant on the more confident and boisterous Tanner.

“Anyway. We’ll let you know how we get on,” Tanner finishes.

“Sure. Good luck.”

“Thanks. Good luck to you too. Here, uh…this is our number, if you ever need our help.”

“I doubt it,” Jace whispers, only for you to hear, but you elbow him and smile politely at Tanner.

“Thank you.”

Without anything else to say, Tanner and Cole apologise once again...for almost everything - for making fun of you, for mauling your arm etcetera; you accept their heartfelt apology and they leave your room silently.

"Wow, they were so sorry." Jace says and you nod. "Damn, I should've recorded it."

“Jace-"

"I'm kidding!"

"Well...I’m sorry too,” you mutter.

“Huh? What...? No, no, what are you apologizing for? You did nothing wrong, chuck.”

“It was too dangerous. I should’ve known. You got hurt because of me.”

“Oh c'mon, look at me. I’m fine!!! I'll always be fine,” he says, before he plops his hand atop your head and ruffles your hair; you muster a weak smile as he punches you in the elbow and shoulders playfully, “So...Leon saved you…?”

“Yeah. I’ve told him to stay away from me.”

Jace crosses his arms and nods to himself. “Good, he’s partially responsible for this.”

“I didn’t have to take the case; it was my decision.”

“Yeah, but if you didn’t, you would’ve made Leon look bad.”

You sigh gently. “It’s not like that at all, Jace. Look, it’s happened and no-one’s to blame. Magnolia and Graves don’t want me to work on these cases anymore and I'm going to listen to them. I’m going to go on a break. Well, there's still Spiritomb to catch but from now on, I'm just going to take it easy.”

Jace seems surprised with your resolution. “…I see."

“So, let's not dwell on this anymore. What’re you going to do now?”

“Oh, uh, I've been told I can go home," Jace utters, rubbing the back of his head, "and my friend from Sinnoh is actually coming to visit Galar, he's gonna be a guest judge for the Beauty Pageant, he's got some kind of exhibition match, he wants to try and see a Galarian Zapdos. Oh, and he's also here to inspect the Energy Plant."

"He sounds like a really busy guy."

"He is! Did I mention that he's a gym leader too? And he’s gonna stay at my place so I gotta clean up my flat and-"

You wait for Jace to finish only to see that he is staring limply into space before he whips his head to you and you stare at him in confusion. "What’s wrong?”

“By Jove, I’ve got it!” he exclaims loudly, his jaw hanging open, “Duckie, now that you're not gonna take on any cases, I take it you're pretty much free for the next couple of days???”

“Yeah, I guess…”

“Okay, okay, I’ll give you a call, alright?”

“…Uh, sure.”

“Right, I gotta go. Will you be okay on your own? Anyone picking you up?”

“Yeah. Graves.”

Jace hesitates, then says, "Arceus help you."

"Thanks," you reply, with an all-knowing nod.

After exchanging goodbyes, Jace dashes off and you’re on your own again; glancing at Runerigus’ capsule, you will deal with him at another time. Apparently he's a chill guy.

You’ve still to finish your drawing of Mimikyu and she’s been sitting quietly and very patiently beside you on the bed, occupying herself by playing with some loose threads of your blanket so you resume your sketch of her before colouring it with the crayons and once you’re done, you lift the paper high in the air with a grin and show Mimikyu who looks up and she hops onto your shoulder again to peer at your drawing, pleased with your efforts.

“Mi mi,” she croons, “Me look good.”

You giggle as she squeaks with delight. “Come on, let’s go hang this up,” you say with a grin, and Mimikyu nods.

Leaving your room for the second time, you make your way to the children’s ward and find the same room where you had asked to borrow the paper and crayons, and with the box in hands, you swiftly return the items where the little girl from before is now sticking crayons into her ears and a nurse is trying to stop her.

Returning to the main corridor, you locate the wall with the drawings and scour for an empty spot and once you’ve pinpointed an empty space, you use some blu-tack from another portrait, splitting some of it up, and use it for your own drawing. You proceed to stick Mimikyu’s picture on the wall, pressing hard on the corners to ensure it’s sticking well and Mimikyu nods with happiness and claps using two tendrils.

“Thank you, mi mi,” she says, nodding vigorously with gratitude.

“You’re very welcome, but it would be nice if I could see what’s under your disguise and draw the real you.”

Mimikyu blinks at you, then shakes her head vigorously, “...If you see mi, me will kill you and me....me don’t want that. Me actually like you.”

You stare at your Pokemon in surprise then giggle lightly.

It’s time to return to your ward but Mimikyu tears off several of the children's drawings of Pikachu along the way, prompting you to run and escape the ward as quickly as you can and before you're spotted although you're certain there might be CCTV around. It's too late to reprimand her anyway and as you pass the communal area where you see the door that leads to the yard, you remember last night’s events where Leon had tried to kiss you and your cheeks flare up.

You had almost kissed if Oleana didn’t interrupt.

“I wonder what Leon is doing...” you forlornly utter under your breath before you could help yourself.

You miss him, and you hope he's doing well and you’re brought out of your reverie when you hear someone ‘pssst psst psst’-ing at your direction and glancing over, an old man in a robe seated at a chess table by the window is beckoning you over. You look left and right, then point to yourself.

He nods. “Do you know how to play chess?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh lovely. Would you like to play against me? None of these bozos can.”

Graves won’t be coming for another three hours.

“Sure,” you say, with nothing to lose and tonnes of time to spare.

Thus you head over and sit down on the drab-looking chair, staring at the worn pieces before you pick them up one by one and begin fixing them into their appropriate positions on the board. The old man helps, setting up his own pieces on his side.

The old man looks familiar and he too seems to recognize you. He says, “Aren’t you Leon’s girlfriend?”

“Uh, no, we're not...we're not together.”

"Yet," he says.

You cringe.

“I remember you were together though,” he adds.

"Yeah, I was visiting him when he was in hospital.”

“And now it’s your turn.”

You nod as he snorts with laughter; he asks you what happened but you tell him it’s a long story, to which he tells you he has all the time in the world, so you recount the tale of Rose and the haunted art gallery as the game begins.

“Uh-huh, I see, then what happened?” he asks; he moves his pawn to forward to which you counter.

You tell him about Runerigus, Tanner, Cole, the possession. Everything.

“What other cases have you worked on?” he asks. You're surprised he's listening and not questioning your sanity as most do.

You tell him about the ghost of South Miloch as your game progresses and you're taking the lead and soon, your story has caught the attention of a passing old lady using a walking frame.

“Did you just say the ghost of South Miloch?” she says with a slight, nasally pitch to her voice, and she turns to you and the old man questioningly before she adds, “I saw it with me own eyes!”

“Sally, this young lady solved the case and broke the curse,” the old man says, and the woman subjects you to an incredulous look.

“Oooh, did you, sweetheart?” and old Sally hobbles to the closest seat nearest to your chess table and plops herself down. “Molly, come here! This is the girl who solved the Miloch case! I told you I wasn’t seeing things! I told you I saw a ghost!”

She’s addressing another elderly woman who’s seated near the telly on a plushy couch with today’s newspapers propped up in her withered hands. Upon being called, Molly looks away from her paper behind her spectacles and glances over; Sally excitedly beckons her over to join with a little wave and a toothy grin and she sighs and gets up slowly, then shuffles over and joins her on the couch.

Glancing at the OAPs, it seems you have gathered an audience who are interested in listening and learning about all your exploits.

“Well? Go on then, dear, tell us more,” Sally says with a gummy smile, and you blink wide-eyed at them.

“Oh, um…well, it was to do with a will and a massive family inheritance..."

And so you share with them the details about the case, from the very beginning of the investigation, through to the middle and to the very end though you do omit names for privacy; the chess game seems to have become forgotten and before you know it, you’ve attracted a small crowd so you move to one of the sofas near the television which grants you a full view of the entire communal area so your small group can listen and gather around you properly. They nestle themselves on the couches, listening keenly as you eagerly recount your tales of hidden treasures, lost loves and spooky phantoms.

Suddenly, a nurse enters the room and calls your name loudly.

Pausing in mid-sentence, you glance over and see Graves standing beside her. He takes one look at you, then at the elderly patients who have gathered around you and raises a brow.

“We’re going now,” he barks.

Time had flown by so quickly.

“Okay,” you rise and leave your seat and your crowd of elderly patients begin to whine but they’re quickly dispersed by the nurses. You tell them your online blog contains more details though you’re aware that they probably don’t really know how to work the internet and they should ask their tech-savvy grandchildren.

Checking the clock on the wall, it's then you realise Leon hadn’t come to visit you after all.

...

Leon has been trying to visit you but is always prevented to do so at the very last minute. He's had a photoshoot that's taken up his entire morning and afternoon, then once he's finished and he thinks he has time to go to the hospital, if it isn’t a fan asking for a photo and autograph, it’s Rose asking him to head over to a route to help sort something out before he's directed to a city or another route for something else.

He’s keen to visit you and checking the clock on his phone, he sees the hours trickle one by one yet the moment he thinks he has a minute to spare, he is lulled into a false sense of security as something else crops up and he’s forcibly whisked away.

You got him a gift last time and so he is set in his mind to get you a gift too; he’s already got Vulpix but she isn't available to be collected yet so he's keen to get you something else.

Aware that you’re going to be discharged soon, if not now, he quickly finishes up his task and uses this opportunity to venture to the hospital before he's missed. He sends you a quick message to let you know that he is coming.

On his way, he enters a gift shop on the outskirts filled with quaint décor and with Charizard, he commences some casual browsing where he eventually settles to purchase a bouquet of multicoloured flowers which he is quite certain you will like. The florist has reassured him on this, too.

Without further ado, Leon heads to the hospital.

And as you’re packing your bag in your room, Graves knocks on the door, enters and asks, “You ready?”

“Yeah,” you say, as you sling the bag over your shoulder and you make sure you have Runerigus and Mimikyu’s capsule whilst Gengar lingers in your shadow.

You try one more time to message Leon but your reception suddenly decides to go kaput and you have been unable to get through to him or receive messages for the past hour or so.

Graves waits outside as you spare one more glance to your now-empty room, at the pristine bed, the empty table and chair. The blinds are pulled up and the sun’s setting, casting a beautiful orangey glow within and your face falls when you check the clock again and throw your glance to the door as though you’re expecting a certain purple-haired someone to come rushing in, panting and looking adorably sweaty and breathless whilst unnecessarily and continuously apologising for being late and you will smile and tell him it’s fine and –

“Alright then, let’s go.” Graves says, swinging a set of car keys with one finger.

"Did you talk to Rose?"

"I did. I'll fill you in later. Let's grab something to eat first.”

"Okay."

You leave the room with Graves carrying your bag for you and promptly head down the corridor, arriving at the lift. Graves presses the button, whistling. He spots a nurse who smiles at him and he clears his throat.

“Good evening, ma’am.”

“Hello, Chief Inspector Graves. Is this your daughter?”

“Uh….sort of.”

The nurse passes sweeping looks between you and the much older Graves, and he appears to have also realised his mistake; whilst you roll your eyes, Graves splutters out an explanation but the nurse leaves with no further follow up.

“When’s this stupid lift coming,” Graves ends up complaining loudly. “Hurry up, damnit.”

There are two lifts but it seems they are exceptionally slow.

Downstairs and Leon with flowers anxiously waits for the lift to arrive, hoping he’s not too late.

People are actively staring and he will wave and smile but they appear to respect his privacy and so he's mostly left alone though the massive bouquet in his hands causes some brows to raise. Charizard helps preen him, licking his claws and tidying his hair, pinching loose strands together and flattening them over the sides of his head. Leon grins at his pokemon and Charizard attempts to give him a thumbs up.

The lift arrives and he steps in; the lift begins to ascend.

Upstairs and the lift doors open and Graves mutters, “Finally, took it long enough,” he grumbles and grunts but lets you enter first and then hops in himself, pressing the button for the basement where the carpark is.

And as the doors begin to close, you hear the sound of the lift opposite yours opening with a loud ‘ping’ and as you look up, the doors of your lift slide to a close, but through the tiny one inch gap, you think you see a familiar shade of purple -

-  and Leon steps out, just as the doors to the lift opposite his has closed and begins descending.

He rushes towards the direction of your room with flowers in hand but the door is open and the bed is neatly made and the room is empty.

Confused, he returns to the nurse’s desk and asks for your whereabouts.

“Oh, she just got in that lift,” the nurse says, pointing to the aforementioned elevator, “Literally one minute ago. You just missed her.”

For the first time in Leon’s life, he was devastated.

...

[youarejesting]

Quarantine.1

[Masterlist] Pairing: BTS x reader (i don’t know if this will have ships or just friendship or what I am just letting it run its course) Genres: friendship, drama, romance Rating: All Summary: Your brother works with a few BigHit dance teams and whilst having permission to accompany him at work the city shuts down banning anyone from stepping outside for a whole WEEK while they disinfect the streets. If you step outside you might get arrested, shot or poisoned by the chemicals they are emitting through the city. Words: 2k 

[Part 2]  [Tag Yourself Here]

The announcement lit up everyone’s phones at once the chimes and vibrations alerting everyone within the dance studio to the emergency update. Your brother looked horrified up at you as he read the text you couldn’t speak Korean or read it well enough to understand but he left to his office. You followed his footsteps and caught his office door before it could shut. 

Switching the tv on he nervously tapped the remote in his hand listening to the people in the news station talk while bright red banners at the top and bottom of the screen relayed the emergency message repeatedly. 

“What is happening?” “Everyone is to stay indoors, they are closing down the streets and disinfecting everything if you step outside you will be shot, detained or poisoned by the chemicals, they said there are no more flights in or out of South Korea” 

Running his hand through his dark brown hair which had once been what some might call a dishevelled design and now was a nest. His tone was clipped as he told you to stay in the office, he left the room his jacket disappearing as the door shut with a small click. The ticking of the clock was so loud or perhaps that was the fierce beating of your heart thrumming against your eardrums and shaking your vestibular system. Bladder feeling tight as the rush of adrenaline caused your kidneys to work double time. Lunging at the door and chasing after your brother, Where had he gone? Opening doors left and right down the hallway calling his name. 

Trying to catch a single glimpse of the tails of his coat, before you busted open more doors filled with back up dancers all looking equally nervous. Turning the corner you started a new hallway throwing open every door you could get your hands on, your chest grew tight. Falling through the door and into a room you called for your brother trying to see through your tears. 

“Where did you go?” You sobbed, falling to your knees you were gasping for air.  “The virus?” One of the boys pointed at your collapsed figure in the doorway he had a very unique face, he had a strong jawline and high cheekbones his nose was super cute like a pixie slightly turned up and gave him a mischievous nature, his lips were turned in concern and the cupids bow was well defined and overall he had a lanky figure. You knew what he said as you had heard this word spoken repeatedly since you had been notified of the Coronavirus.

“Y/n” The familiar voice pulled you back to reality, “hey Woah it’s okay breath, it’s just an alert” There was a familiar rattling sound of a shaking canister and the plastic pressed to your lips brought back memories. You instinctively took a deep breath. “She is fine, she just gets panic attacks”

“You left me” wiping your eyes “You are okay, we all got tested on the way in remember, we are all healthy we have food and water and supplies to last a long time, and I am not leaving you alone okay” Laying your head back against the wall calming down enough to know you had walked into the office of the most famous K-pop boy band.

“I am sorry boys for my sister barging in” “No, it’s okay really,” This man said softly his voice was deep and he spoke English with clarity. He didn’t have a typical Korean boy band face but it was exotic and charming. He was very tall and slim. His full lips curved up into a smile and he handed over a blanket. Wrapping it around your shoulders, his large hands and long forearms had a few prominent veins that seemed to make you lose your breath in a totally unrelated way. “you must have been so scared, it’s okay?”

“I am sorry” “You can stay if you would like?” This voice was sweet and gentle speaking slowly in English. And yet the man behind the voice was truly a god sent the first thing you noticed were his large eyes which had sharp edges slightly turned up like a cat. Next, you noticed his smooth skin and prince charming demeanour. His lips were like soft pink pillows that made you wonder what it would be like to just gently bite. He stood up and walked closer kneeling in front of you, your eyes scanning his form he had shoulders like he was hiding football armour under his sweater. A part of you wanted to reach out and squeeze them gently.

“it is scary being on your own and my handsome face will make you feel better” he winked and you bit down on your lips before you said anything embarrassing. “No, we should leave you to it, come on, let’s not bother them anymore” With his arm under yours and across your back your brother helped guide you back to his small office. He was a choreographer and managed a few dance groups for BigHit, not at the level of BTS but bigger than a high school dance team. He laid you on the small couch and got you a glass of water. “Sleep I will email mum and dad”

He circled the floor his footsteps soundless on the plush carpet. You heard the tapping of a keyboard and faint sounds of what were either you dreaming or talking. It was like everything was happening at once and it felt like you had shut your eyes for a mere second, however, when you opened them the light was off and it was dark outside. The tapping of the keyboard and the talking had come to an abrupt stop. The silence was so loud.

He was gone. Throwing yourself upright you almost fell off the tiny couch only to be caught by a pair of hands. “your brother went to get some food but he was worried you would wake up, I was the only one who willingly stayed behind”

“Who are you?” “Kim Seokjin, but you call me Jin, You know” Eyes adjusting to the darkness you saw you were in the arms of the broad-shouldered gentleman. He sat you back onto the couch. You tried to discreetly touch his shoulders, you squeezed the area curiously, he looked down at your hand.

“I am sorry, it’s just you looked like you were wearing football armour, I thought your shoulders were fake but they aren’t, that is crazy” “Yes, they are real, so is my handsome face, you know, you may touch” he laughed grabbing your hands trying to bring them to his face, you shook your head before your stomach started growling. He pushed up onto his feet pulling you to yours as his hands were still gripping yours in a firm and yet gentle grip. “Okay, we go to eat”

He went to leave holding your hand but you moved it from his and linked your arm around his gently holding onto his bicep for support. He treated you like a gentleman and even helped you get a tray of food and carried them across the cafeteria. It was a set meal and Seokjin lead you to his table, you couldn’t spot your brother so you followed the broad-shouldered young man like he was parting the sea. 

“Ya Jiiiin” they shouted all talking as Jin placed your meal across from him. “Miss y/l/n, This is Kim Namjoon our leader and Jeon Jungkook, Min Yoongi, Park Jimin, Jung Hoseok, Kim Taehyung” They greeted you with a small hello bow or wave while eating and you lowered your head giving your name back before continuing to eat in silence. 

You made a face at the strong smell of kimchi. Gently lifting the small metal circle off your tray and pushed it to the centre of the table. Your stomach couldn’t handle the strong fermented taste of Kimchi. “Where do we sleep?” You piped up when they had finally stopped talking to eat their meals, your question had some of them freezing as they looked down at their plates.

“There is one room of beds but I don’t think we will get them, the CEO's get priority” they nodded at the words and you hummed looking around.  “What about all the couches? Are they foldout beds?” Pushing your empty tray forward to rest your hand on the table.  “I don’t think so?” Namjoon hummed “perhaps we should invest”

Once dinner was over you searched the building for anything remotely useful for a bed and you came across an old storeroom, that had obviously accumulated props, broken furniture and lost and found items. Among the broken chairs and ripped curtains. You found a queen-sized futon in a packet it looked like a promotional item, the plastic cover was dusty and you found three sleeping bags. Taking the service elevator you brought the items upstairs and as quick as you could to your brother’s small office. 

You passed the boys communal meeting room and froze you didn’t need all these items. Knocking on the door you waited patiently. They opened the door and you stepped inside and shut the door, “I found a futon and some sleeping bags and I know there isn’t enough for everyone but I only need for my brother and I and thought maybe you might like something, as a thank you for being kind, You can probably fit three or four on the futon so you should have it”

“You found it so you should have it?” Namjoon said softly and you blushed you hadn’t expected all their attention on you like this. It made it hard to think of what to say. “Where did you find it?” Jungkook asked “There is a storage room in the basement full of broken furniture”

“Look Yoongi, Hoseok, Jimin, Jungkook and I have Futon’s cause sometimes we fall asleep here when we are working you should keep whatever you want and we will take any extra’s” “Well, um if five of you have futons, then the other two can share the queen futon, and my brother and I will have sleeping bags, do you know if there is anyone else who needs something to sleep on?”

“Uh yes actually our manager in the office to the left,” Jimin said walking forward. The room seemed to get hotter with every elegant and precise step he took. Feet crossing one over the other his leg extending gracefully his steps looked light as a feather and didn’t leave a hint of a sound. He looked like you could bump him and he could go flying away. Yet the muscles contracting visibly against the dark fabric of his pants proved he wasn’t as feeble as you thought, he was compact and strong.

“Do you have a preference in which sleeping bags you would like?” “Uh..” Mind blank as you were frozen in place by his piercing eyes, they were a smouldering dark reddish-brown. You blinked cheeks turning a brighter shade of pink and started inspecting the three sleeping bags in your arms, you checked the size and made sure they were all cleaned and didn’t have any odd lingering smells. They were all in excellent condition so you chose the smallest. “I assume I am the smallest so your manager can have one of the taller ones”

“You’re cute, let’s go” He grinned taking one and patting your head, you followed him out watching his tight pants move with every step. You noticed his shoulders dip with each step and that he was leading with his hips. You ducked past him as he knocked on his manager’s office door. “Ah, goodnight dream about me”

You froze eyes blowing wide and your cheeks going bright red, his laugh made him look like an innocent schoolboy and he almost toppled over in amusement. You scurried off into the office trying to regain any semblance of composure, leaning against the door taking deep breathes the laughter echoing in your head “Where did you go?” “I got sleeping bags from an old storage room in the basement”

That night you couldn’t sleep to busy thinking about the handsome young men who were a few rooms down, you had met them all but only a few of them you had the chance to inspect closely.

[Part 2] [Tag Yourself Here]

[snakeboistan]

When He Sees Me

Pairing: Karmagisa + mentioned Maeiso

So this is basically a sequel of this where Karma meets florist!Nagisa

I was listening to ‘When He Sees Me’ from Waitress when I was writing this so yeah...

Maehara and Fuwa stood behind the counter, completely ignoring their work as they watched Nagisa pace about the shop, their heads moving backwards and forwards in unison as the blunette walked to and fro from one side of the large room to the other, wringing his hands and mumbling under his breath.

“You alright there, Nagisa?” Maehara asked, amber eyes still trained on his frantic-looking coworker slash friend, “you know it’s not that big of a deal, right?”

Nagisa paused, swivelling in place so that he could give the blond an incredulous look. He repeated, hands flying everywhere, “Not a big deal?! This is the biggest deal ever! Karma is coming in ten minutes to take me on a date - a date - and you’re saying that it’s not that big of a deal?!”

“Calm down, Nagisa,” Fuwa said, as if she didn’t transform into a squealing volcano when she found out that the redhead customer that Nagisa had hit it off with that fateful day had asked the petite pigtailed boy on a date to a local sushi chain and then proceeded to glomp said unsuspecting petite pigtailed boy into a hug as she rattled on about how she was ‘so proud of him’ and that ‘all I’m asking for is to be your maid of honour’, “it’s not like he hasn’t asked you out before. I mean the two of you went to see that Sonic Ninja movie the other day.”

“That’s completely different,” Nagisa exclaimed, “we went to a movie theatre - where you sit in the dark for the majority of the time - to watch a movie that we were too immersed in to actually have a conversation. And then we only spoke for about five minutes before I had to leave because mum called. Now we’ll be in a public area where all of his attention will be trained on me.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Maehara inquired, ignoring the quiet hiss of ‘vile madwoman’ that seemed to escape Fuwa’s mouth at the mention of Nagisa’s mother, “I mean speaking to each other and getting to know each other is one of the best parts of dating.”

“You’d know all about dating,” Fuwa smirked, “wouldn’t you, Womaniser?”

“Former Womaniser,” Maehara shot back in offense, “I’ll have you know that since dating Isogai, I have become a changed man.”

“I sure hope so,” Fuwa retorted, pointing a threatening finger at the blond’s face, “I swear to god Maehara, if you hurt that lovely Prince Charming of a barista I will hunt you down and end you in ways so bad that not even Ranpo Edogawa would be able to find your body or discover what happened to you.”

“Fuwa, if I ever do end up hurting Isogai, you have my permission to end me in any way you wish.”

“Guys!” Nagisa yelled, “can we get back to my crisis, please? I mean I’ve never been on a date before so I wouldn’t even know what to expect.”

“But isn’t that exciting?” Fuwa encouraged, her dark and threatening expression had completely been replaced by her usual starry-eyed adoration of anything that remotely resembled one of her beloved shojou mangas, “finding out everything you possibly could about the other, staring into each other’s eyes as you uncover the depths of their soul as you feel yourself falling more and more in love with each other.”

They both looked at her as she began swooning with daze.

Maehara raised an eyebrow, “where do you come up with this stuff?”

Fuwa shrugged, “it’s not my fault that you two happen to have meet-cutes that are literal shojou material. I mean come on: we’re all florists and Maehara’s boyfriend works in a coffee shop. At this point, I just hope that I don’t get dismissed as a mere side character.”

“That makes even less sense.”

“It’s just - just so scary,” Nagisa confessed, head hanging low as he began twiddling with his fingers, “I don’t really know that much about him apart from that he likes the same franchise as me. And that he’s super smart. It’s just so new that I have no idea what to do. I-I like to stick with the things I know, you know, try to minimise the areas where I can make mistakes. When things turn into some big guessing game and you lose control of the situation, things can turn ugly, trust me on that.”

“But it isn’t a complete guessing game,” Fuwa said, “you know that you like him and that he likes you.”

“What if he doesn’t?” Nagisa argued, “what if he only likes whatever version of me that he thought he saw that day we first met? What if tonight, during our date, he realises that he made a terrible mistake and that I’m really not whatever he thought I was that interested him? What if he’s disappointed when he knows what I’m really like?”

“Hey, hey, Nagisa,” Fuwa consoled. In the midst of the male’s anxiety-driven panic, she had walked towards him and now had the palms of her hands laying flat on his shoulders, their firm grips grounding him in an attempt to prevent him from proceeding further with his emotional tangent, “calm down. You’re getting worked up over nothing. Remember he asked you out

“But what if there’s something wrong with him?” Nagisa gasped as a new idea dawned on him, “I mean come on, have you met me? I’m not much of a catch and I’m certainly not that interesting. What if - what if he’s some sadistic psychopath that is only asking me out to lure me away into an abandoned alley and then kill me so that he can sell my organs in the black market or something? He could’ve planned this moment from the first day we saw each other. Oh my god, I knew I was being too reckless.”

“Holy hell, man,” Maehara rolled his eyes, “I can’t believe I’m saying this because you’re like the most chill person I know but you’re acting worse than Fuwa. You really need to reel back on those crime dramas - not everyone’s some crazy unsub from Criminal Minds. He’s a high schooler just like us. I really don’t think he’s planning on killing you.”

“You never know,” Nagisa shot back, “I mean with the TV shows and current media we’ve got nowadays anything’s possible. He could be some sort of heartless sadist. He - he.”

Nagisa cut himself off when his eyes caught onto the bunches of sunflowers that stood proudly next to the pink cala lilies by the window. Walking up to them, he carefully picked one up and gently traced the circumference of the disk florets, his mouth curling upwards at the memory of Karma entering the store the next day.

“I got your bouquet,” he had said, blushing furiously at the wide grin on the other’s face.

“Really?” Karma asked, “I didn’t get a text so I thought it might have been misplaced.”

“I don’t really text people I don’t know that well.”

“Hmm, I see. Well, what if I told you three things about myself? Would that be enough for us to have a textual relationship?”

Nagisa’s blush deepened, both at the redhead’s words and at the way his heart seemed to beat faster. The redhead placed his elbows on the counter and leaned forward, “what kind of three things?”

“Well, one, I want to study Economics in University so that I can become a bureaucrat. Two, I wasn’t kidding about the offer to the movies. Or with maths. Or about those flowers because Asano’s face was the funniest thing I saw all week. And three, I think that you really know your flowers.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“It’s just what I meant when I sent you that bouquet with the forget-me-nots,” Karma smiled, “there’s just something about you that’s pretty unforgettable.”

“He could be the most amazing person I’ve ever met,” Nagisa whispered, “which is weird because I’ve never felt like this about someone. Especially not someone I barely know.”

“But Nagisa,” Fuwa said, “you’re like really good at reading and analysing people so shouldn’t you trust your instincts. They’ve never been wrong before, right?”

“I don’t know. He’s just so amazing and smart and brilliant and he makes me feel things I can’t even explain even though we’ve only known each other for like a week and he’s like a straight A student and I’m just barely passing my tests. I’m not used to not understanding my feelings and I’m just so scared that I’ll drive him away. He’s funny and knows how to make me laugh and I feel like - I don’t know - like I don’t need to be scared. I barely know him but I want to know more and there may be a chance that he does too but what if when he knows more he doesn’t want to know more anymore. When you’re on a date you’re supposed to be open, but what if the only way I can be open is if I get broken and then he realises that I’m a complete mess and by that time it’s too late to put me back together,” he tucked the bright yellow flower back into the basket with the rest of its species, “I always look at things rationally, I try to get as much information as possible but right now everything seems irrational and I don’t know what to do.”

Fuwa walked up to him and pivoted him around so that she could stare right into his eyes, “you be yourself. Your usual kind, loving amazing self that me and Maehara and Sugino and everyone else knows and loves. You go there and you have fun and if Karma suddenly develops insanity and realises that he doesn’t like you - which will not happen by the way - then I will kick his redheaded butt, you hear me. I’ll even steal one of Sugino’s baseball bats so that I can beat him to death, if you want.”

“I’ll help,” Maehara piped up, “so will Isogai and Yada and Kurahashi and everyone else at The Busy Bean.”

“Wait,” Nagisa turned to him, “the coffee shop knows about this?!”

“Yep,” Maehara nodded with no hint of shame, “they were interested in their favourite customer’s love life and I was only too happy to provide. They ship you guys by the way but will kill Karma if he decides to hurt you.”

“You know what,” Nagisa shook his head, “I’m not even going to question it.”

“Just have fun,” Fuwa reiterated, brushing his shoulders, “you’ll be fine.”

“Looks like you calmed down on time,” Maehara quipped, “because I see a little silhouetto of a man.”

Nagisa and Fuwa turned their heads towards the giant transparent double doors to see Karma sauntering up to the store whilst texting on his phone. Readying himself, Nagisa took a few deep breaths before straightening himself and walking towards the front of the counter. With a look behind him so that he could see his coworkers’ thumbs up, he stared straight at the door as he waited for it to open. The bell rang as Karma walked in.

“Hey, Nagisa.”

“Uhh, hi, Karma.”

“So, you ready for dinner?”

“I sure am.”

And so the two of them left the store, side by side.

Fuwa turned to the boy beside her, wiping away a fake tear, “Ahh, they grow up so fast.”

“They sure do.”

“We should go follow them.”

“Fuwa, no.”

“Fuwa, yes.”

[thedetectivessay]

“Case 002: Family Affairs”

A Busted fanfic

tw: mentions of drugs, crime. 

009.

The Light House apartment building

Seoul, South Korea

Sehun isn’t sure he’s comfortable with this new plan.

When Detective Ahn called this morning, telling him to (quickly) meet Jong-min and Min-young at the address he texted him, he thought they would only be there to follow a different lead. He thought there would be a friend of the veteran from the force waiting there for them to hand over an important information. He thought they would soon be meeting the rest of the team for lunch and discussing what they found.

But to his surprise, his fellow detectives informed him that they would be breaking into the drug dealer’s apartment – and they only had approximately two hours to do it.

And oh, watch out for any of Poet’s men who may be patrolling the area around his house.

He understands that as a detective, he has the obligation to help those in need. Of course, the payment Mr. Kim’s secretary touted is an added motivation. Still, he doesn’t know that all of this is worth the trouble.

“Noona, are you sure this is safe?” he asks Min-young as she frowns at the numbers on the lock. He looks at the doors surrounding them, all closed but also all equipped with a peep hole. “The neighbors might see us and report us.”

“We should be okay. Detective Ahn says that Poet has ‘friends’ going in and out here all the time,” she says, pulling up the information the veteran has sent her. She punches in the numbers. When it chimes, she smiles up at him. “We’ll be quick. We’re just here for a short visit.”

“O...Daebak,” Jong-min marvels as he takes in the stately interior of the drug dealer’s house.

Contrary to what one would assume, Poet’s house is very fresh, free, and organized. The furniture is orderly and clean. The floor is spotless. The kitchen counter houses a couple of takeout containers, though, but even that isn’t too bad.

To an unsuspecting person, Poet will seem like any other hardworking citizen.

But of course, they know better. “Oppa, do you mind searching through his bedroom and his study?” Min-young asks. She pulls out a container of nitrile gloves from her purse and hands them each a pair. “Sehun and I will look here in the living room and the kitchen.”

“What are we looking for again?” Jong-min asks.

“Anything that connects Poet with Lee Soon-jae-ssi. Detective Ahn is convinced there’s something he’s not telling us.”

“But Poet told us already he doesn’t know him.”

“Right, but Mr. Kim also gave Sejeong the clue about Poet,” Min-young says as she and Sehun began their search. “He wouldn’t have given that to her if he thinks he’s a dead end.”

“Oh.”

“Are we looking for anything specific?” Sehun asks.

“No.” She pauses to look back at him. She smiles apologetically. “I know it would have been helpful if we know what we’re looking for. Sorry, Sehun-ah.”

“It’s okay, noona,” Sehun tells her sincerely.

He looks through the kitchen cabinets for anything remotely helpful. However, like the rest of the house, the contents of those are deceptively clean and almost boring. The drawers are a bit more disorganized, peppered with spices that, he suspects, are not one hundred percent just spices.

The fridge is clean, barely with any food in it. The storage is half-full of expired food.

Around half an hour after they arrived, he has cleared a room and found absolutely nothing.

“There’s nothing here,” Jong-min says for the fourth time that hour. He emerges from the bedroom and moves into the living room that Min-young is combing through. “I don’t think we’re going to find anything.”

“He’s a drug dealer, oppa. There has to be something,” Min-young says, scanning through Poet’s large collection of books. She stops, looks up thoughtfully, and tells them, “On the books I’ve read, sometimes suspects have secret compartments. Maybe we can look for that.”

“What will it look like?”

“I don’t know. Just look through things that appear suspicious,” Min-young says. She resumes her work, frowning at the books that she pulls off the shelf one by one. “On the TV show I watched, they said that dealers can be good at hiding their stash. It’s a little strange to me that not one bag of weed is even turning up.”

But how can a bag of drugs help us find Lee Soon-jae? Sehun wonders but doesn’t ask. He trusts Min-young; there must be a reason why she mentioned that. So, he will search.

While checking the restroom, Sehun suddenly remembers the payment they are to get after the case is over. It’s a ridiculous amount, but definitely something he will not complain about. He has been thinking of establishing his own business - a dance studio - for a while now. In fact, he’s been saving up for years, and this job is pushing his dream closer to being realized.

His dream was all that motivated him when the gigs he booked were too far and too exhausting, when the client that hired him was too demanding and harsh. When he wonders at nights if he should just give up because nothing is happening.

He thoroughly enjoys being a detective, but he also hasn’t given up on that one thing he wants. Who knows? Maybe the team can even be there for the grand opening of his studio.

His Min-young noona, Kwang-soo hyung. Jong-min hyung, Detective Ahn. Sejeong.

Jae-suk hyung.

He glances out into the hall, afraid for a moment that someone has heard his thoughts. Jae-suk. He died last year from the explosion. It was so bad that the police told them that there isn’t even any remains to bury. It had broken them all – Kwang-soo, most of all – and it broke them apart.

It’s obvious that everyone’s still figuring out how to move on, especially now that they’re all together again, but...

He bites his lip. Should he tell them? Should he tell them about the incident?

“Sehun-ah.” Jong-min pops his head in the room, startling the gentle-mannered detective. Noticing his reaction, he chuckles. “Are you okay? Did you find anything?”

“No, hyung. I’m sorry,” Sehun says, his heart racing miles a minute in his chest. “Did you – did you need to come in here?”

“Uh, maybe a bit,” Jong-min admits bashfully.

Sehun nods, getting up from his seat on the floor. Once he gets out, he heads onto the next room to his left.

He hears Min-young bringing up a concern to Jong-min when he begins looking through the room. There isn’t anything on the bookshelves (surprise, surprise), but once he laid eyes on the painting on the wall, he becomes glued to it.

There’s nothing wrong with the artwork. It’s an oil-paint in deep, twilight hues depicting an ocean just as night is setting in. Beautiful, intriguing, but not that extraordinary.

Still, there’s something about it that unsettles him.

Drawing closer, he takes in the frame. Again, nothing unusual. But... “Jong-min hyung,” he calls.

“Yeah?”

“Can you please help me with something?”

The water running through the bathroom sink stops promptly. Soon, Jong-min, drying his hands on his jeans, comes in. Min-young follows him soon after.

Sehun points to the painting. “Can you please help me take this down?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Taking opposite sides, they try to move it – but to no avail.

“It’s bolted to the wall,” Jong-min observes.

“Now who bolts a painting into a wall?” Min-young asks, arms crossed.

Sehun touches the frame, shakes it to see if it really can’t be moved. When he applies a bit more force, the bottom panel detaches – and reveals a keyhole.

“Whoa,” Jong-min says.

“Great job, Sehun!” Min-young says, grinning in relief. “How did you know it was there?”

“Something just felt off about the painting,” Sehun says.

“Now we just need to find the key,” says Jong-min.

“Noona, do you have bobby pins?” When the two older detectives stare at him, he explains, “We got locked out of a dressing room once. One of the guys in our group taught us how to pick locks.”

Though bewildered, Min-young rummages through her small purse.

Once she produces what’s needed, Sehun gets to work.

Minutes later, they’re looking into a medium-sized vault filled with wads of cash, a few bags of illegal drugs, a gun, and a couple of small notebooks.

They exchange wary glances. “Should we look?” Jong-min asks.

“Maybe we should call Detective Ahn about this,” Sehun suggests.

Min-young considers it. “It doesn’t look like it has any alarm on, does it?”

Jong-min sticks his hand in the vault. Silence. “No.”

“Hm. Maybe just the notebooks,” Min-young says. Then, hesitantly, she divides the notebooks for each of them to read.

The names, dates, and cash amounts recorded within the pages he takes photos of scares Sehun just a little. It doesn’t take a genius to know that each of those people in there can become potential enemies. Just last night, Jong-min and Min-young were in danger of getting killed just for knowing who and what Poet was.

The people in this notebook are people with deep, dark secrets—and deep, dark secrets are things people prefer to take to the grave with them or the people who know them.

“We should probably wrap-up,” Min-young says somberly, checking her watch. “It’s getting later now. Poet’s people might suddenly want to check up on this place.”

As calmly but quickly as they can, they put everything back to where they had found them. They check once, twice, three times to make sure that everything disturbed had been placed back and look untouched.

Twenty minutes later, the three of them are back in Jong-min’s rental car, driving back to the meeting place Jae-wook has set. They’re silent for a moment, rattled by the things they saw.

However, soon enough, Min-young breaks the silence. “Did you find anything interesting?” she asks them.

“No. Just names,” Jong-min says. His eyes are on the road, but Sehun can still see a little fear in them. “We...We don’t have to report the people we see in those notebooks, right? We don’t have to tell the police?”

“I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure Detective Ahn’s cop friends already knows of Poet’s clientele,” Min-young says, but even she sounds unsure.

“There are no Lee Soon-jaes in his notes, noona,” Sehun tells Min-young as he looks through the photos of the notes.

“I didn’t see him in my notebook either,” says Jong-min.

Min-young says nothing, but the shadow of discouragement in her eyes tells them enough.

As he pores over the writings again, an observation causes Sehun’s brows to furrow. “He refers to Black Roses a couple of times in some of his records,” he says.

“Yours had it too?” Min-young asks him, surprised.

“Yes.”

“Oppa? Did yours have the note?”

“Oh, uh, I don’t know. I can’t remember,” says Jong-min as he veers into the interstate. “I’d have to look at the pictures I took when we get to the restaurant.”

“It keeps saying it: ‘Beware of the Black Roses,’” Sehun reports, consulting his phone. “‘Black Roses: avoid at all cost.’”

“Is that a codename for a new drug mix or something?” asks Min-young.

“I don’t know.”

“If it is, Detective Ahn will tells us,” says Jong-min.

Sehun thinks about it. “But, if it is a new drug, why does he keep telling himself to avoid it? Wouldn’t that mean money?”

“Yeah, but then it could be a type that’s mixed with things that can kill the users,” Min-young answers thoughtfully. “I saw a documentary once that something like that became a problem for a city in the US. Seattle, I think? Users were dying because of what’s being mixed in. It won’t be good for business if his regulars start dying off. He’d be losing money.”

True, Sehun thinks, but it feels more like a note to self about dangerous people. Though he feels strongly about it, he doesn’t speak. Min-young is smart, and she’s usually right about these things anyway.

As if sensing his misgivings, Jong-min exclaims, “Ah! Yes, I remember. I did see something about a rose in the notebook. There was a drawing!”

“A drawing?” Min-young asks.

“Yeah. Not like cartoons, though. It looked...pretty. Simple, but clear.” Jong-min ponders over the image. “It looks like a design you’d find at a tattoo artist’s book.”

“A rose tattoo?”

“Yeah.”

“So, Black Rose might be a person,” Min-young says. She frowns. “But why does he need to be careful of them?”

Jong-min shrugs. “Maybe they’re for cops.”

Min-young smirks. “Why would cops be branded like that? Wouldn’t that be too obvious?”

“I don’t know. I mean, all seven of us are branded too.” Quickly, Jong-min realizes his mistake. “Six. I meant to say all six of us have the mark,” he says more somberly.

Though the smirk has lifted from her face, Min-young still gathers a small smile to keep the older detective encouraged.

“A rival drug dealer?” Sehun suggests after a moment. “It’s not uncommon for gangs to have their own marks or colors. Black Roses can be Poet’s rival.”

Jong-min laughs. “Ya, Sehun-ah! You’re so smart!” he says as he beams at him through the rearview mirror. “How did you come up with a great idea like that?”

Sehun smiles, slightly embarrassed from the attention.

However, Min-young’s mind is on something different, something fearful. “Oppa,” she says to Jong-min. “You don’t think we’re putting ourselves in a crossfire between two rival gangs, do you?”

At that, all joy leaves the car.

“I don’t think so,” Jong-min says, but like Min-young earlier he doesn’t come across as convincing to Sehun. He tries for a grin. “Tae-hoon-ssi wouldn’t send us to do something so dangerous. He needs us to find someone. I’m sure he wants us all alive at the end with the person he’s looking for.”

Sehun catches the look on Min-young’s face through the mirror. It lasted a few seconds and wouldn’t have been caught by unsuspecting eyes. But he sees it.

Min-young knows something, something substantial about their client. It disappoints him slightly that she feels the need to keep it to herself, given that they were supposed to have given over every information about their case yesterday at the restaurant. Yet, he’s not surprised. In the end, they were employed as individuals and not necessarily as a team.

Plus – he’s keeping something from them, too, something much more important than the salary their mystery client offers. He should have told them about it. He wanted to tell them about it. But, it isn’t time yet.

Like Min-young’s secret, it’s not time for the team to know about what he knows yet.

[i-miss-balthazar]

Guardian Angel

Warnings: John Winchester is a bad parent I don’t even know how specifically to classify this? Child endangerment? Followed by neglect? Paralyzed!Dean Winchester, angst softened by fluff

Rating: Teen

Pairing: Destiel

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

This wasn’t right. No, Dad said he’d be here by now. Something must have gone wrong with him. Dean knew he was supposed to stay in the car unless Dad called him, but… what if something was really wrong? He’d helped Dad with hunts before - he killed a werewolf by himself last time. Demons were different, yes, but it had been a long time… he had to do something. He got out of the car, grabbing a flask of holy water from the trunk before slipping inside. Yes. Dean was scared. But that wasn’t going to stop him from helping his dad. Dean could hear the demon’s mocking laughter, and his stomach churned with fear. He heard his father groan in pain, and like it was a call to action, Dean surged forward. He emptied the contents of the flask on the demon, making her shriek in pain, before rushing to his dad. 

“Dean, what the hell are you doing here?” John demanded as the boy helped him up. 

“Saving your ass.” Dean responded. 

“Watch your tone.” John growled. 

“Oh, is this your son, Johnny?” The demon sneered, and suddenly Dean was being thrown through the air. First he smashed through a desk, drawing out a scream of pain. John began rattling an exorcism, but the demon didn’t care. She flung him again, and this time he collided with a pole hard. His back bent around it in  an unnatural fashion, and a bone chilling snap rang through the air. The demon laughed maniacally as John finished exorcising it, not even fighting back. Like she didn’t care, her work was already done. 

As the empty meat suit collapsed, the quiet was only broken by Dean’s sobbing. The pain of being thrown around made his head fuzzy, and his back hurt so bad… 

“Dean. Hey, Dean, can you move?” John asked, but Dean’s sobs didn’t leave room for an answer. John slapped him across the face. “Get it together! Can you move?” He repeated. Dean managed a nod. “Good.” John scooped Dean up, and he cried out as he was jostled, and as he was moved, something changed. 

“Dad!” He cried out. “I can’t feel my legs! I can’t-” Dean wailed, sobbing like there’s no tomorrow. 

~|~

“Dean?” Bobby called softly, entering the hospital room. Dean was staring absently out the window, but he turned when the hunter entered. He offered a weak smile, tear stains still glistening down his cheek. “I came as soon as I heard, son…” Bobby sat down next to Dean’s hospital bed, taking his hand. 

“They… they say I’m never gonna be able to walk again.” He told Bobby, his voice quiet, as the tears were renewed. Bobby hurriedly hugged him, letting Dean cry into his chest as he murmured reassurance. 

Later Dean could hear Bobby and John arguing outside his room. Their silhouettes were visible through the blinds. 

“How could you let this happen, John, he’s just a boy!” Bobby has the decency to try and keep quiet. 

“He knew the risks, it’s part of the job!” John defended. 

“He should never have been there!” Bobby snapped. 

“He-”

“Dean is fifteen, John! Fifteen years old, and he’ll never walk again!” Bobby spat. Dean found that he was crying again. He covered his face with his hands and let the tears fall in the lonely hospital room.

~|~

Having a wheelchair… Dean hated it. He hated everything about it. He felt helpless - he couldn’t get into the car by himself. His dad had to help him. His arms got tired too. There was only so much wheeling around his arms could take. Not to mention how difficult it was to keep up. He didn’t even want to think about what school would be like. 

Sam did his best to help. He tried to cheer Dean up, and had even made him cards for his hospital room, because John wouldn’t let him stay the night. The kid even helped push Dean’s wheelchair. It made Dean want to cry. Sam didn’t deserve this. To have to care for his dumb ass brother. Dean was supposed to take care of him, but vice versa. 

There wasn’t a moment Dean didn’t regret going into that damn building.

~|~

It was a week before John went back on a hunt. One short week, and Sam had gone on a school camping trip for the weekend. So Dean was left all alone, a shot gun in his lap (because in John’s words, he couldn’t be completely useless). He turned the tv on, watching Scooby Doo while he pretended not to sulk. Though it wasn’t entirely clear who he was pretending for. 

The second night alone was even harder. There was nothing to do, and Dean felt like he should be out there. Fighting next to his dad. In this condition, that would never happen again though. He’d slept in his chair last night. He couldn’t get himself onto the bed, so he just gave up and crashed sitting up. He’d woken with a horrible crick in his neck, and it made him bitter the whole day though. He’d swore at the sink for sputtering too much, and thrown the remote onto the bed when he couldn’t get the tv to work. The frustration brought him to tears, and the tears just kept coming. Frustration mingled with the despair, and Dean wept until his head hurt.

“Hey now… don’t cry…” A gentle voice soothed. Dean looked up, pulling the shotgun up to the stranger immediately. He was a boy around Dean’s age, perhaps a bit older. His raven hair was a mess atop his head, though in an incredibly cute fashion, and his blue eyes shone in an otherworldly fashion. 

“Who the hell are you?” Dean demanded.

“I am Castiel.” The boy responded, as if that cleared up anything.

“Okay then, what are you? And how did you get in here?” Dean corrected, the barrel of his gun still aimed for Castiel’s chest. 

“I am an angel of the lord, I flew in here.” Castiel responded simply. 

“As if!” Dean scoffed. 

“I can prove it to you!” Castiel assured, and Dean swore he must have been dreaming, because light began to radiate from this Castiel, and the shadow of two angel wings painted the wall behind him. Dean’s jaw dropped in awe, and he lowered the gun. 

“You… you’re really a…” He stammered. Castiel nodded, giving Dean a moment to recollect his thoughts. “Does this mean I’m dead?” Dean asked finally. Castiel chuckled softly. 

“No, Dean. You are very much alive.” He assured. 

“...Then why are you here?” Dean narrowed his eyes. Angels weren’t bad, were they? Traditionally speaking, they weren’t supposed to be, but Dean knew he could never be too cautious. 

“I’m a guardian angel, Dean. I’ve been watching over you, and I-”

“Fat load of good that’s done.” Dean muttered, and Castiel sighed sadly.

“Us guardians are forbidden from getting in Fate’s way… I’m sorry Dean. I wanted to.” He told Dean softly. “I… am actually not supposed to be here right now, but I couldn’t just watch.” Castiel sighed. 

“So you’re here to heal my legs?” Dean asked, hope glimmering in his eyes. Castiel’s heart broke just a little. 

“No, I’m sorry… I am forbidden from that…” He explained apologetically. Dean’s shoulders slumped and his gaze fell to the floor.

“What are you here for then?” Dean sighed. Castiel stepped forth, pressing two fingers to Dean’s forehead and healing the painful crick in his neck. Dean blinked. 

“Okay… thanks, I guess…?” It wasn’t much, but frankly, Dean appreciated the absence of the annoying ache. Castiel offered a smile. 

“No problem… it’s late though. You should head to bed.” The angel suggested. “I’ll help you.” He added.

“How am I gonna get out of bed in the morning?” Dean cocked a brow.

“I’ll be back.” Castiel responded. Dean mulled it over in his head for a moment, before nodding. Cas gently picked him out of his wheelchair as if it were effortless, laying him in the motel bed and pulling the covers over him. “Sleep well, Dean.” He urged softly, shutting off the lights with a thought. 

“Thanks Cas.” Dean mumbled just before the angel returned home. 

~|~

Dean awoke to the smell of eggs and bacon, and he was half certain he was actually still dreaming. Until he spotted a tray of food on the bedside table next to him.

“What the…” He mumbled, still groggy.

“Good morning Dean.” Castiel’s gravelly voice rumbled, reaffirming that the angel hadn’t been a wild dream. Dean blinked the sleep from his emerald eyes, and the angel helped him sit up, placing the tray in his lap. “You made me breakfast?” Dean asked. Castiel shook his head. 

“I have no cooking abilities. I brought this from a diner down the street…” He admitted, and Dean laughed. The melodic sound reverberated in Castiel’s head, drawing a smile to his lips.

“Angels can’t cook. Got it.” Dean chuckled, shaking his head as he began stuffing his face. 

Having Castiel there was nice. He enjoyed having the extra help, especially since it meant he could actually get in and out of bed. He liked talking to the angel. Sure, Castiel didn’t understand anything that had to do with pop culture, but he did this adorable thing where his eyes squinted and he tilted his head to the side that Dean secretly adored. Plus, taking the time to explain the plot lines of movies so he could understand the jokes and references helped spend the time. They played cards together and Castiel even brought board games for them to play. Being with Castiel made Dean forget about the grief he felt. When Dean was with Cas, he didn’t care that he wasn’t out hunting with his dad. When Dean was with Cas, he didn’t care that he was paralyzed. 

~|~

“Your father will be home in ten minutes. I can not be here when he returns.” Castiel warned as they finished a round of poker. Dean frowned. 

“But Cas… I don’t want you to leave…” He mumbled sadly. Castiel gently cupped Dean’s cheek, lifting the boy’s fallen gaze back to him. 

“I will return. But your father can not know I exist, alright Dean? Promise me that.” Castiel requested. Dean hesitated, before nodding. 

“I promise.” He confirmed, and Castiel smiled softly, helping him put the cards away. They had been playing for crackers, so they didn’t have to worry about tidying up chips. 

“I must go now.” Castiel sighed sadly.

“Thank you, Cas… for everything…” Dean offered him a small smile. Castiel returned the smile, pressing a kiss to Dean’s forehead, before he disappeared from the motel with a soft fluttering of wings.

Dean sighed sadly as Cas disappeared. He said he’d be back. Dean reminded himself. A sudden fear overwhelmed him. Castiel never said when he’d be back. It could be years! What if their time together faded in Dean’s memory? What if he dismissed it as a dream? How would he- 

Dean’s thoughts fell short as he noticed a small object on the table. Rolling closer, he gingerly picked it up. It was a feather; black, with an undertone of blue if it caught the light right. Dean didn’t need an explanation, he knew within his very bones what it was. A smile befell his lips, and he very neatly tucked the feather into the breast pocket of his jacket, so the feather would always be next to his heart. More specifically, so he would always have a piece of Castiel next to his heart, right where he belonged.

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Representation Week Tag List:

@misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @specialagentrin @peanutbutterandgrapejelly @all-or-nothing-baby @petrichoravellichor @i-know-like-four-things @is-jus-me @fantastikitty7 @hexlorde

Author’s Note: Full disclosure, I have zero medical knowledge, so I’m guessing based off of various doctor shows I’ve watched. This is my second last fic for the week, I’ll be posting the next one after dinner. That’s a bit lighter, and more fluffy! So happy last day of Representation Week, everybody! If you want more fics like this, feel free to shoot me prompts!

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens Holiday Swap fic - “Effort” (Rated NC17)

Summary: For their first Christmas together as a married couple, Crowley packs up his husband and whisks him away for a holiday vacation in the South Downs. But that’s where things stop going as planned. Snowed in, they do their best to make due. But while Crowley is out hunting down a Christmas tree, Aziraphale stumbles across something on one of the blocked cable channels of the otherwise useless TV that sparks his interest, a long overdue conversation, and an intimate encounter. (3579 words)

Notes: Written for chvystiel who requested Ineffable husbands holiday fluff and/or smut. I hope you enjoy it <3 Warning for sexual content.</b>

Read on AO3.

“Angel! I’m ba-ack,” Crowley calls from the front door in a vaguely (and possibly insulting) rendition of a Cuban accent. Stuck in a remote area of the South Downs without cable, satellite, or Internet, and on track to get snowed in to boot, their sitcom watching options are painfully limited. Crowley hasn’t been able to watch a single episode of Golden Girls in days, but there’s been an I Love Lucy marathon showing on one of the two channels they receive without lines running across the screen.

Crowley wasn’t a huge fan before, but it’s beginning to grow on him.

But by noon, a storm advisory had broken in, warning them that their area was in the path of a huge snow storm, and to lock up and take cover. But there was one problem with that.

They hadn’t gotten their tree yet.

And Crowley would be damned if they spent their first Christmas together without a proper tree.

This holiday vacation was Crowley’s present to his new husband – two weeks away from Mayfair and Soho and Tadfield and London and all the other headaches and bothers of their everyday lives. They’d packed up the Bentley with books, some of Crowley’s more temperamental plants, very few clothes but a whole lot of bourbon, and set out to find the most out-of-the-way place they could rent last minute.

And they did it all the human way, opted completely out of using their powers for this trip.

There’s a rustic appeal to the idea of going completely native over the holidays, but more than that, they didn’t want to risk being monitored, surprise attacked, or worse.

Forced to host Archangels for Christmas dinner.

After the advisory came in, Crowley had gone out on his own to cut down a tree. Aziraphale had offered to go with him, but only halfheartedly, making the suggestion out the corner of his mouth while he longingly eyed the warmth of the fireplace, the cozy comfort of the living room sofa and its many chenille throws, and his book of baroque poetry lying open beside the cocoa cooling in his favorite angel wing cup, waiting patiently for his return. So Crowley graciously turned him down, told him it would be quicker if he went on his own, and that he’d be back soon.

That was over two hours ago.

Seeing as he hadn’t gotten a call or text from Aziraphale since, he’s not sure the angel has even noticed the time. Two hours for Aziraphale is like fifteen minutes to humans, and that’s definitely not long enough for Crowley to be missed.

Or Aziraphale left his cell phone in his bookshop. That, too, is a possibility since he can’t stand the thing.

Crowley wrestles the frosty, too-tall tree into the living room, not surprised when Aziraphale doesn’t rush up to help him. What does surprise him is that the living room is completely empty.

Crowley peeks around the tree to the sofa where he’d left Aziraphale, but the angel isn’t there. His cocoa is, and his book, open to the same page as when Crowley left.

But no Aziraphale.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley closes the door behind him, silencing the whistling wind so he can listen for his husband. Crowley knows he’s there. He can feel him close by. “Aziraphale? Where are …?” A visceral awareness suddenly grabs him by the stomach and begins to pull.

He hadn’t heard the sound at first, masked by the savage wind doing its best to rattle the windows out of their panes. But his body recognizes it for what it is the second it hits his ears.

The rhythmic slapping of flesh on flesh.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley repeats as a question to himself because whatever his angel is doing, he doesn’t want to interrupt until he gets a good, long look. He creeps to the bedroom (because where else would a sound like that be coming from?), hopeful as to what he might find.

The reality, however, is slightly disappointing.

But only slightly.

Aziraphale isn’t masturbating, which was Crowley’s original guess. He’s watching the telly, tuned into one of the channels they can’t watch without miles of static. It’s got to be a cable channel, the image bleeding between jagged lines, snapping into view for a few seconds, then blurring and becoming static again.

The sound, however, remains clear and constant.

Male voices moaning.

Desperate pleas for more!

And loud declarations of, “I’m going to come!”

Crowley’s hands flex, then ball hard at that last one.

Could this be the reason Aziraphale didn’t want to go tree hunting in the first place?

Well, no. It’s colder than cold outside. Anyone not on a life or death mission would be loony to traipse out into the driving snow when they had a warm fire waiting for them indoors.

But maybe Crowley leaving was an opportunity. One Aziraphale couldn’t pass up.

It stings that Aziraphale might rather watch this on his own but Crowley understands why.

Crowley has yet to give Aziraphale any indication that this interests him.

Crowley clears his throat to get his husband’s attention. He’s dying to know what’s going on in Aziraphale’s mind. Aziraphale seems mesmerized, leaning in to the image, his hands hovering over his own body, mainly his stomach, and his throat – the only area where his fingertips can slide over exposed skin.

Crowley clears his throat again louder, and Aziraphale lifts his head. Crowley thought Aziraphale might jump when he realized he was standing there, scamper to change the channel, abolish the image from the screen. Crowley isn’t looking to embarrass his angel (though he had to admit, that reaction would be amusing). He wanted answers, but he also wanted to diffuse the tension he felt in the room, climbing higher with every moan - a mixture of curiosity, desire … and hurt feelings.

But Aziraphale doesn’t jump. He doesn’t change the channel. He doesn’t switch it off. He turns to face Crowley, white fire simmering behind heartbroken blue eyes.

Of all the expressions Crowley expected to see on his angel’s face, this isn’t one of them.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley says softly. “What are you … uh … what are you doing?”

Aziraphale shakes his head, but Crowley doesn’t know whether or not that’s an answer. When he puts a trembling hand to the screen and touches lightly as the two bodies behind the off-colored static come into view, it nearly does Crowley in.

“Why haven’t you made love to me yet?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley’s eyes become wide. He stumbles to answer. “I … well, I …”

“Don’t you want to?”

“Yes!” Crowley nearly screams. “Yes, I do! Of course, I do!”

“Then why haven’t you?”

“It’s just … it’s so … it’s ngk! It’s not that simple, Aziraphale. I …”

“Yes?”

Crowley has reasons. Many reasons. Not the best reasons, admittedly, but enough to shut his libido down if he even so much as considers doing anything with Aziraphale other than kissing, unambitious over-clothes petting. But if he’s cornered into boiling them all down to one single reason, it’s that he’s scared. Yes, scared that Aziraphale will Fall, but honestly that doesn’t much concern him.

Scared that Aziraphale won’t enjoy it.

In fact, scared that Aziraphale will hate it.

Scared that him hating it will alter their relationship irrevocably.

Scared that Aziraphale will start to see him differently.

Different can be good. There’s no doubt about that. But Crowley is a demon and sex … sex is physical. It can be soft and tender, but it can also be dirty and raw.

And painful.

And as much as Crowley wants to give Aziraphale the soft, deep in his heart, he craves the painful.

Crowley is attracted to Aziraphale in a slew of ways, some of them sexual. And Aziraphale is definitely bastard enough to hold his own. But Crowley also sees Aziraphale as innocent and naïve.

Crowley doesn’t want to be the one to taint that.

So the best ground for them, in Crowley’s mind, is the middle one. The one where they travel the same paths they’ve always traveled, wear down the old familiar roads, and stay the same as they have … for an eternity.

Maybe they won’t venture into new territory, but there’s less of a chance of his angel leaving him.

“You’ve been wonderful,” Aziraphale says. “So patient and thoughtful. Getting away for the holidays was such an inspired idea. We’ve only just started and it’s the most romantic trip I’ve ever been on.”

“I’m glad,” Crowley replies, his smile a nervous twitch because he knows Aziraphale isn’t done. “That’s all I want for you.”

Aziraphale nods. “But can’t we fuck?”

And with that one word out of Aziraphale’s mouth, the carefully knotted threads binding Crowley’s restraint to the hitching post explode.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says, sly smile tipping his lips. “Was that too crass?”

“No,” Crowley says. “No, it’s all right. It’s right where I want you, to tell you the truth. But the first time? It should be special, shouldn’t it? And that should mean a little less rough and tumble and a lot more sensual and erotic.”

Aziraphale shrugs. “I don’t see why we can’t have both.”

“True.” Crowley slips off his coat and his glasses, unties his shoes, needing something for his hands to do while they discuss this further. “So, what did you have in mind?”

Aziraphale’s brows draw sharply together. “What do you mean? I thought I was very clear …”

“I mean … do you want …” Crowley gestures, the movements of his hands incongruent with his words “… me to … you know … in you? Or do you want …?”

Aziraphale raises a hand and catches one of his, quieting Crowley, drawing him down to the bed. “I spend a great deal of time giving, my dear. I think I’d like a break from it.”

Crowley smiles. “Receiving it is.” He kisses Aziraphale gently, puts a hand to the back of his neck to keep the angel close. He crawls forward, pushing Aziraphale onto his back. He undresses him. He’d prefer to snap his fingers and be done with it, but that’s only because he’s impatient. Undressing Aziraphale is foreplay, a slow dance of fingers brushing over clothes, then under clothes, painting a trail of gooseflesh on pale skin.

Crowley has been inside Aziraphale’s body, but only in the magical sense; taken a day trip through his memories. He knows that Aziraphale has never been undressed by another pair of hands outside his own, never touched by someone else. Aziraphale’s reaction to being disrobed, to being seen, is intoxicating, even if they never share a single other kiss or touch between them.

But Crowley tossing that final article of clothing aside and being able to look upon Aziraphale, knowing that he gets to have him, is the next step on the staircase to paradise.

Crowley’s clothes join Aziraphale’s on the floor in three seconds flat, lumped into a pile that can best be described as shredded.

Crowley spreads the angel’s legs and fits himself between them. He hooks his arms beneath his knees to lift his hips, but Aziraphale stops him.

“No, I … I want to do it like they are.” He glances over his shoulder at the screen as it pops into focus. “On my hands and knees.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because as much as I want to see your face,” Aziraphale says, cheeks reddening, “look into your eyes, I should think that would be easier. Less contorting. And probably more pleasurable, for you and me.”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley closes his eyes, tilts his head up, gives his brain a mental slap. “You need to stop talking like that!”

“Why?”

“Because you’re going to do me in before we even get started.”

The couple in the movie, lost momentarily behind a sea of wavy lines, begin to exclaim dramatically the way actors in pornos tend to. Crowley reaches for the remote to turn off the TV, but Aziraphale stops him.

“D-don’t,” he begs softly. “Keep it on. Please?”

“Why?”

“Inspiration? I … I don’t know why, honestly. But having it on kind of reminds me of those baths in Rome. Did you ever go?”

“Yes. I didn’t know you had.”

“Once or twice. Oddly enough, I was one of the rare few who went there to bathe.”

“Yeah, well, that makes two of us.”

“But there was … something … about hearing the men there … enjoy one another,” Aziraphale explains, the faltering of his voice punctuating his phrasing, separating his words like Crowley’s hands on his knees, spreading them apart.

“I think I understand.” Crowley grins. “It turns you on.”

“Possibly. Or perhaps I simply … admire it?”

“Same thing.”

“If you say so, my dear.”

Aziraphale leaves one last kiss on Crowley’s lips and turns away, shyly getting into a position that mimics what he’s seen, and not just on the screen. He’s been on Earth for thousands of years. He’s spied, pondered, imagined. He’s let the temptations of others leave footprints in his mind, has allowed them to season his feelings about sex, shape his wants and desires. He thought, after all of that, it would be easy to slip into the armor he’s created for himself as a sexual creature. And if he had decided to share this experience with anyone else for the sole sake of gratification, he could do it – detach from the emotional, leave his insecurities behind, and give in to sin.

But he’s not with just anyone.

And regardless of the fact that Crowley is the one being he should be able to toss aside his fears with, the need to have Crowley want him above all others and keep him wanting is debilitating.

Because in that arena, Aziraphale feels woefully unqualified.

He leans low, rests his head on the mattress. Crowley rushes around him, grabbing pillows to slide underneath the angel’s head.

“Now, you relax,” Crowley says. “Let me take care of you.”

“All right.”

Crowley looks down the slope of his angel’s body – his generous ass, his strong back and shoulders, his powerful arms – and ponders, for the moment, how they should go about this. As supernatural entities, they wouldn’t normally need to approach this the human way. They don’t need lubricants or condoms or anything of the like.

But they’re not using magic now. They’d expressly decided against it, for their own safety. But Crowley is stuck in a position where he knows he’s going to need something to smooth things along.

It’ll shame him later to admit to Aziraphale that he found what he needed during a quick jaunt to the kitchen cabinet, but desperate times call for desperate measures. And besides, olive oil is a more natural equivalent to many of the other things they have available in the cottage.

Less sticky, too.

Crowley slicks himself up with a dollop of oil. He doesn’t need much in the way of friction to get him hard. He’s been achingly hard since the word fuck left Aziraphale’s mouth. He grabs Aziraphale’s hips, caressing with the palms of messy hands, and pulls him back towards him. He settles his cock between Aziraphale’s cheeks, teases his angel open with the head, toying in little circles, before pushing in just barely. Crowley watches in awe as Aziraphale’s body stretches, tight muscle tensing then relaxing for him, accepting him, surrounding him with the gift of Aziraphale’s intense heat.

“Good … Lord …” Aziraphale whispers.

“Oh my … mmph! Aziraphale!” Crowley moans, inching inside him until his hips rest flush against him. “You feel … ngk … you feel … amazing!”

Aziraphale wants to agree, wants to respond in kind, wants to encourage Crowley to keep going, do something, do anything! But he can’t speak. There’s not a single word he can think of to describe what he’s feeling. He has no frame of reference, none that would fit. His hands find a loose section of the sheet beneath him and tug in his frustration at losing the ability to speak.

Crowley pulls almost completely out of Aziraphale’s body, then pushes quickly in. Aziraphale’s back arches, lifting his shoulders before he sinks back down.

“I’ve … I’ve gotta be careful,” Crowley murmurs, shuddering at every noise Aziraphale makes, every response of his body, “or this will be over way too quick …”

“Can’t … mmph … you find a way to stave off, dear?” Aziraphale asks.

“Right! Why don’t you ask me to build you a solar system? It’d be easier.”

Crowley concentrates on Aziraphale’s non-spoken cues: the play of his muscles beneath his skin, his gasps, how his breathing speeds up or hitches in his throat. Aziraphale turns his face, presses his cheek against the pillowcase. Crowley’s eyes lock onto Aziraphale’s expression: eyes squeezed shut, lower lip clamped between his teeth, cheeks flushed a vivid pink. He brings his fist to his mouth and bites into it, whining as Crowley finds a spot inside him that makes his legs quiver. Crowley’s resolve slips as Aziraphale’s teeth sink into the skin of his hand, muffling his mewling cries. Crowley’s lazy rhythm rushes, and Aziraphale squirms at the change.

“Are you okay, angel? Do you need me to slow down?”

“N-no. Quite the opposite. Faster.”

“F-faster?”

“Yes, faster, please. And now, thank you.”

Aziraphale’s politeness makes Crowley chuckle, but he does what his lover wants – faster, harder, until the chant of Crowley’s name that Aziraphale had taken up becomes nothing more than a shadow on his lips, his voice disappearing, his body going still. “Oh …” he whispers, eyelids sliding shut, his muscles, his limbs, motionless with surrender. “Oh, yes … that’s … that’s it … that’s …” Aziraphale’s mouth continues to move even after his voice fades.

Aziraphale writhing beneath him is probably the most erotic thing Crowley has ever witnessed in his entire existence. He isn’t succumbing to a temptation or reacting to an implanted suggestion. Aziraphale’s quivering, his trembling, his moaning are all effects.

The direct effect Crowley is having on Aziraphale.

And he didn’t use his power – Hell’s power – to elicit it.

Crowley did it with his body - the body he’d chosen. He did it with his touch, his words, his lips on Aziraphale’s skin, his hands holding his hips, and his voice whispering his name.

Crowley doesn’t have to ask Aziraphale if he’s coming. He feels it tingling in his chest and in his stomach as if the orgasm is his own, his body filling from toes to fingertips with so much heat, it competes with the Hellish fire always present in his body, making it feel ice cold.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale murmurs.

“I know,” he says through clenched teeth.

“Don’t stop.”

“Would never.”

“Please, Crowley, I …”

“I won’t stop. I swear. I … I love you, Aziraphale.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale whimpers. “Yes, I … I love you. I love you, too.”

“I love you … I love you … I … grr! Fucking shit!” Crowley growls as his hips begin to stutter, start to fail him, and he thinks he might not be able to hold on for his angel. But Aziraphale’s shoulders go slack, his back bows, his arms unwind and stretch out in front of him, and Crowley knows he can let go. The heat that had been rising up inside him releases, his blood cooling as his muscles relax. “Oh … oh, Go—“ he sighs, melting over Aziraphale’s body, limp and useless, but content to be so as long as his angel is satisfied.

The tension that had been hanging in the air before has long gone, but it’s been replaced by a different kind a tension. A tension that poses the questions What was that? Was it okay? Should we have done it? Was it what he wanted? Was it good?

What have I done?

“How … how was that?” Crowley asks, kissing the sweaty nape of Aziraphale’s neck, failing at not sounding as anxious as he feels. “How do you feel?” Did you Fall? is a close third, but Crowley leaves it unasked.

“I feel …” The expression on Aziraphale’s face changes as his thoughts change, grappling to summarize the experience with words magnanimous enough to make the expanse of his feelings understood “… incandescent.”

“Is that … is that good? Is that a good thing?” Crowley asks, too wound up for Aziraphale’s answer to make sense.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says dryly. “It’s good.”

Crowley sighs, relieved. “Good.”

The voices on the TV interrupt. Different voices. Apparently the first movie had ended and a new one began involving two men and a woman. One of the men asks about a photocopy machine in need of repair and Crowley rolls his eyes. He picks up the remote, flashes it to his husband.

“Do you mind?” he asks.

“Not at all,” Aziraphale says. “You know, maybe we should consider making our own movie, my dear. While we’re here. That way we could inspire ourselves instead of relying on this static-y TV.”

Crowley drops the remote and stares at Aziraphale. He doesn’t blink, his face a shade of beet red to rival his hair. He slowly climbs off the bed, limps swiftly through the living room, and heads straight for the front door.

Aziraphale watches with concern and interest. “Where are you going, love?”

“Outside,” Crowley replies.

“In the snow? Without clothes!? Whatever for?”

“I need to calm down. Chill out, as they say. If you insist on talking like that, you’re going to discorporate me!”

[the-awkward-outlaw]

How would a modern au Arthur feel about a female reader who had an invisible illness that caused a lot of pain on the daily? How would he be? Feel?

Hmm, this one may be a bit more challenging. I’ve never written a modern Arthur, but I’ll give it my best shot. 

Arthur puts his grooming brush away and pats his horse affectionately. He loves his little ranch he lives on. He wouldn’t live anywhere else, especially not in the city just beyond the mountain range. Sure, there’s more work and a lot more money in the city, but a lot less happiness and love. He grew up with his uncles Dutch and Hosea after his parents died in a car accident when he was a kid, working on their ranch. Of course, they showed him a few tricks in how to make the most money out of their work and how to do it on the sly. 

Unfortunately for him, Hosea passed away a few years ago due to cancer and Dutch was never the same after that. He ended up just disappearing out of the blue one day and Arthur was never able to contact him again after that. He hoped Dutch was just off trying to find himself now that Hosea’s gone. His own life became rather lonely as he worked on the ranch alone. Since it wasn’t huge, he managed to do it just fine. 

Then he met you at the only gas station in town. You were hopelessly lost trying to find your way to one of the lakes up in the mountains for a peaceful and quiet weekend, but service was spotty out this far and you’ve never been good at reading paper maps. Arthur was there and he helped point you in the right direction. He could see you were rattled because you’d been so lost. Not only that, you were taking the weekend off in order to get away from your own troubles. Your boyfriend at the time was abusive in the emotional sense and you’d just discovered he’d been cheating on you. 

It was pretty late in the day by the time Arthur helped you get sorted and the town’s so small there’s no hotel or even bed and breakfast. It’s all just ranches and farms out here, plus a trailer park but no one goes there. He doesn’t like the idea of someone who doesn’t know the area traveling into the mountains when it’s dark. The roads are windy and several of them are dirt. Many inexperienced drivers have crashed their cars on those roads. He offers you to come home with him, have a beer and something to eat and then says he has a spare room in the barn (where he used to sleep as a boy) that you’re welcome to. Relieved to finally get some help, you accepted. 

The two of you got on so well that the next morning, you asked for Arthur’s number. He was incredibly attractive with his rugged cowboy hat and boots. You’ve only dated soft city boys before, but you always wondered what it was like living out here where no one can bother you. Arthur gave you his number and then said he’d love to go to this lake with you as he knew the roads better. 

After that, you two started dating. It was difficult at first because you lived in the city two hours away. However, you video chatted with each other almost every night and grew incredibly close. Every weekend, one of you would drive to see the other and spend the weekend together. Arthur was a perfect gentleman. Kind, thoughtful, rugged and rough in just the right places. One time your ex even barged into your apartment and accused you of cheating right in front of Arthur. He went home with a bruised jaw and split lip. 

Arthur smiles as he thinks about the last time he saw you. It was nearly a year ago he bumped into you and he’s never been happier. You ended up getting a remote job that allowed you to work from home mostly, so you moved into his ranch home. You’ve never been happier. Sure, the drive to the local grocery store isn’t as convenient as the city and if you want to do anything fun, there’s always at least a thirty minute drive to the largest town, but you love the quiet, the peace. Arthur’s a huge bonus too, of course. 

Arthur finishes filling the troughs with water and then goes to turn off the hose. You left this morning to go to the city to do one of your monthly days in the office. Your job requires you to come in once a month for paperwork, attend meetings and so forth, but it’s not too bad. Arthur hates the days you’re gone. You’ve brought a new light to his life to fill the absence of Hosea and Dutch. He couldn’t imagine being happier than he is now. 

Just as he finished rolling up the hose, his cell phone rings. Since the weather’s clear, service is actually pretty decent. He pulls out his phone, expecting to see an unknown number from a likely scanner. Instead, it comes up as the number for a hospital three towns over. His stomach drops and he picks it up. 

The voice tells him you’ve been in a serious accident. A driver suspected of being on drugs hit you head on at high speed and totaled your car. You’re in critical condition and the person on the phone asks he come see you. Of course, he doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the keys to his truck and drives as fast as he can to the hospital you’re at. 

When he sees you in the bed, tubes all along your body and scratches on your face from the broken glass, he breaks down. He’s so frightened about what’s going to happen. The nurse explains you suffered a concussion but they doubt you’ll be out more than a day or two. You’ve suffered a broken hand, wrist and a fracture in your sternum, but luckily they don’t think any of your organs were injured. Arthur stays by your side night and day, fretting over you. 

When you finally wake, he’s overjoyed. He wants nothing more than to hold you, but he knows how much pain  you’re in and how broken your body is. Of course, because of the pain killers, you don’t feel much. After another day in the hospital, the doctor deems you well enough to return home but orders you to bed rest for the next several weeks so your sternum can heal. 

Arthur’s the best caregiver with you. He comes and checks on you every hour in the bed, making sure you have enough to eat. He even moves the TV into the room so you can watch something if you want. Anything you want, he’ll get it for you. He checks his phone constantly as he works in case you’ve texted him. He’s so gentle and loving, you don’t even feel scared anymore.

After a week has passed though, you start feeling horrible pain in your chest. It’s not from your sternum either. Instead it feels like someone is grabbing your lower ribs and trying to crush them. It’s a horrible pain and Arthur, fearing the worst, takes you back to the hospital. Tests are run and scans are taken, but unfortunately the doctor can’t find any explanation for your pain. An exploratory surgery is even done but still, no answer. A few more screenings are taken and then they send you home with more painkillers and promises they’ll try to find what’s causing it. 

Weeks go by and nothing. Arthur has called the hospital and even yelled at people trying to find the answers, but nothing. Your injuries have all healed but the pain in your ribs is still there. It fades though, allowing you to do work around the ranch and your own job, but at least once a day, a wave of horrible pain will slam into you, forcing you to sit down wherever you’re at and clutch your midriff. It often causes you to cry. 

Arthur almost seems to have a sixth sense for when you’re having an episode. He finds you every time. He sets down whatever he’s doing, sits down next to you and pulls you into his arm. He lets you cry into his shoulder, pets your hair and whispers promises that the answer will be found. He wishes he could do something, anything, to help you. Unfortunately, there’s nothing more he can do other than support you like this and he hates it. He does everything in his power to make you feel better. 

Sometimes he can be a bit of a pest with how protective he’s become since the accident. Occasionally you’ll try to get up on the horse he lets you ride, but he’ll try and argue with you about it, stating if you have an episode, you’ll fall off. You know he’s just trying to protect you, but sometimes it comes off as if he thinks you can’t do it. 

Finally the doctor calls and explains they still can’t find an answer to your pain. They’re sure it’s some kind of injury, but they believe the episodes will begin to fade over time as your body heals. 

Another year passes and while the episodes are not as common, only every couple of weeks, you still have them. The doctor prescribed medicine for you to take during one of these episodes that will help the episode pass sooner than they used to.

Arthur’s been so good to you since the accident. He’s not as protective anymore, but if he sees you start to have one, he’ll grab you and help you sit down. If you’re on your horse, he’ll help you off and just hold you until it passes. He always makes one of your favorite meals after you’ve had an episode. He just wants you to know that he cares about you. He’s easily the best boyfriend you’ve ever had and there’s no doubt in your mind you’ll spend the rest of your life with him.

Thanks for sending this one in! It was definitely more of a challenge but I really enjoyed it! 

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Keening of the Glass King

The scanner at checkout beeped with slow and revolving repetition. The cashier listlessly pushed the groceries over the scanner, one by one, her eyes glazed over with boredom and her gaze trained on the digital oblivion displayed on the small screen attached to the system. The smell of disinfectant, plastic, and a blend of artificially sweet smells hung in the air.

Harper experienced a state of mind of complete emptiness. Just absorbing the sights, sounds, and smells of her environment without as much as a passing thought. Such an unfamiliar sensation to her. Lost in the moment.

And then the moment was gone. Harper’s feet hurt. It had been a long day. Hell, it had been a long week. As she—in her mind—went through all the things she still had to do once she got home, she started to get impatient while waiting in line. Only one more customer in front of her having her shopping cart’s contents processed.

When the guy checking out fumbled around to pay for his groceries, Harper spotted something odd. Rather than spitting out a number that the cashier read out loud with the enthusiasm of a broken woman whose soul had been crushed under the weight of corporate oppression, the small screen displayed text.

LOOK UP

Harper blinked, making sure that her mind was not just playing tricks on her. But it didn’t seem to be. The screen still did not display the total amount of money tallied up from the guy’s purchases. Instead, the words on screen flashed a few times, as if trying to grab Harper’s attention.

Instead of doing as told, she looked around to see if anybody else was seeing this.

The five people in line behind her did not. They were all lost in their own little worlds: one of them endlessly doom-scrolling down the display on their phone, another scratching his head while staring at the cold hard floor, another playing with her baby sat on the shopping cart, and so forth.

Harper’s sights returned to the display and it flashed one more time.

LOOK UP

So she did.

An advertising sign hung low over the checkout line.

DRINK BOOZE. SPIN TWELVE TIMES. SHOUT ROO-AGH PAIR-AGH TO THE HIGH HEAVENS.

It looked exactly like an advertising sign should, complete with the attractively garish color palette and carefully measured proportions. But the words did not fit at all.

Harper did a double take and the sign looked nothing like it did a mere second ago.

SAVE. EARN. SHOP. COLLECT POINTS AND WIN FREE GROCERIES.

She blinked again and it continued to look normal.

The beeping from the register stopped and the tired-looking cashier stared at her. She mustered a feeble smile and nodded at Harper, expecting her to scoot forward and get through checkout. Because she was holding up the line.

While waiting, accompanied by the rhythmic beeping of the machine, Harper looked around for other oddities. Anything that stood out. The man fixated on his phone, waiting behind her in line, looked up at her while she scanned the environment but then averted his gaze, seemingly startled and nervous—returning his undivided attention to the device in his hand. Everybody else remained oblivious to her and the strange signs she started spotting everywhere.

A magazine on the rack had a strange logo.

THE GLASS KING NEARS

Blinking cleared it up for her and revealed a fairly typical magazine brand logo and boring headline. As it should.

From the corners of her eyes, focused on a bouquet of flowers wilted on a stand nearby, Harper believed to see the little monitor flash with words that did not belong.

PAY ATTENTION

The storefront logo and its current slogan emblazoned on the wide front window did not read as it should. It instead said something bizarre.

DO AS YOUR KING COMMANDS

And in smaller lettering beneath that line: REAP THE REWARDS AND REJOICE IN YOUR SILENT HEAVEN

Harper shook her head. Every time she focused on one of these strange messages or blinked or shifted her weight and tilted her head, she saw what they should look like. The inconspicuous, bland-by-design normalcy of corporate consumerism.

Was she going insane?

She had been pushing eleven hours a day at work and six day work weeks for the past two months, and it must have been getting to her. Harper convinced herself of that. Or at least, she tried.

The cashier read the tally of her shopping cart’s contents off the screen and waited for her to pay. Harper did and left the store quickly.

Ferrying things across the parking lot with the wheels rattling over asphalt, loading her groceries into the back of her car, and slamming the trunk—it all passed by her in a blur. Felt like forever, flowed like molten butter, just ended with barely any time having gone by.

A man in a denim jacket over a beige hoodie approached her, pushing a cart along.

“Should I return that for ya?”

He pointed at the empty steel cage of her shopping cart. She looked him over and the empty cart he had been pushing along himself. Looked like he was just bringing his own cart back to the lineup where the others were gathered, and offering to take hers along for her.

It took her longer than it should to register the simple kindness he offered. Harper flashed him a smile and nodded and he mirrored the quiet expressions. While shoving their empty carts together, he side-eyed her and spoke in a monotone, “The Glass King’s soldiers can win the battle but not the war. Power through faith is what his subjects are for. Through servitude to him we flourish. His divine favor us does nourish. Roo-agh pair-agh.”

The carts rattled and clattered with agonizing volume as he began pushing them away from her, moving along.

Harper blinked and had to know. Had to know she wasn’t going crazy. “What did you just say?”

The stranger paused and craned his neck. Tilted his head. Arched a brow and stared at her with confusion written all over his face, slack-jawed.

“What?”

They stared at each other for another brief lapse in time.

“I asked if you want me to return your cart for ya?” he asked in response. Like he had never uttered the other strange things.

She flashed another smile at him, though in retrospect it never reached her eyes. And how could it have ever been an honest expression of gratitude? Yep, going bonkers alright, Harper thought to herself.

He pursed his lips, broke eye contact, and carried on; walking away from her with the two carts in front of him. They rattled and clattered and bounced when he shoved them over a pot hole.

She got in the car and left before he could return to where she had parked. Drove home. Everything just flew by, time flew by. She focused on the lines in the middle of the road, on the steel giants that were the other cars in traffic, and their hypnotic motions. On the street lights, and less the signs. It worked, because she was intimately familiar with this route. This life. She had done these things thousands of times before—the usual rote motions and actions that constituted her everyday life.

Really, though, she tried to avoid looking at any street signs. Any billboards. Any license plates. Really, she tried to avert her eyes from locking onto any single damned thing that featured text, letters, numbers, or anything that even remotely resembled written language in any shape or form.

It was time to get things over with for the day, kick back, drink something, and sleep.

After unpacking at home and going about her chores to tidy up her lonesome apartment, she sat down in front of the television set. She sighed, feeling relief—she had banished today’s strangeness. No more signs anywhere. Food packaging looked like it should, so did the magazine covers, the local newspaper—even device labels.

Overworked and tired as she was, it kind of made sense for her to be hallucinating. She had heard and read of weirder things happening to people who struggled with a poor work-life balance and chronic exhaustion.

Harper had plenty of work-related crap to put behind her, anyway. Whenever thoughts of that work bubbled up from the pool in the back of her mind, she dispelled them by thinking mean things about her supervisor and then of the co-worker she hated who always contradicted her but agreed wholeheartedly when she heard a man say the exact same thing Harper had said.

“Fucking middle management, man,” she muttered at the TV.

IT IS TIME, read a string of letters on screen, superimposed over the advertisement of some lame small-time lawyer firm.

PERFORM YOUR SERVICE

The words on display made no sense in context of the rest of the things and people being shown.

Cryptic, ominous messages.

She blinked, expecting the strange signs and orders to vanish. But they refused to.

YOUR KING NEEDS YOU!

Harper switched channels to some edgy-looking TV series. Hectic cuts, dramatic music, low contrast and muted colors. The character actor turned to the camera and looked her straight in the eyes, piercing the veil of the screen as if he was gazing through the dimensions from his fictitious world into the real one.

“If you don’t do your part—if we don’t all do our part, perform our service to the Glass King—the world will end. We can’t let that happen,” the man in the show said in his cartoonishly gravelly voice.

Harper swallowed an empty lump stuck in her throat, a wad of nothing that felt like it had assumed the size of a fist. Her insides churned and she started feeling dizzy.

Whatever this guy on the TV show had just said, it might have fit into whatever silly narrative he served, but it also fit right in with her hallucinations.

Or were they not hallucinations at all?

And what had that sign said?

“Drink booze. Spin twelve times, then shout ‘roo-agh pair-agh’ towards the sky,” said the actor. The cheesy soundtrack died down, leaving his words to die in an awkward silence that felt out of character for this particular show. He continued to stare Harper in the eyes, as if expecting her to do something. Like the show had just ground to a halt, awaiting her cue.

Waiting for her to do what she had to. What was expected of her.

Harper got up and the room spun around her. She had already taken some meds to help remove some edge and fall asleep more easily.

Should she mix alcohol with those drugs?

Whatever, she figured. She was already dressed in pajamas. Ready for bed. Would it kill her to try?

Maybe if she gave in to this string of odd hallucinations, they would stop. Under normal circumstances, that train of thought would have made no sense to her, but she chalked it up to the bizarre dream logic she was experiencing.

Only thing being, none of this was a dream, nor would it be particularly fun to unpack in upcoming therapy sessions. She already considered never talking about it if this never happened again.

Harper grabbed a half-filled bottle of wine from the fridge and returned to her living room. The show on TV continued as it should, depicting the usual melodramatic schlock that she would normally expect it to be doing.

She uncorked the bottle with a loud plop, chugged some of the wine, put it down on the coffee table with a loud clank, and took a deep breath. She was already feeling dizzy, so spinning around might have posed a problem.

But she did it anyway.

Twelve revolutions. One by one. Starting slow, picking up on speed to more quickly get it over with. The world spun ever faster, teetered and swayed in ways that made it difficult to maintain her balance. Her heart raced as, for a moment, it seemed like she might crash through the glass of the coffee table and cut herself badly, or stumble somewhere and break a bone in a bad fall, or worse.

“Roo-agh! Pair-agh!” Harper yelled at the ceiling.

Once she finished those twelve revolutions, she fell onto the couch, twisting her left hand and gritting her teeth right after a sharp intake of air to mask the sudden sting of pain. She fell sideways, slumping into the soft fuzzy cushions, and the world continued to spin, leaving her with a sick feeling in her stomach, spreading out in every direction and into every last extremity.

Someone or something thumped. Thud, thud.

“Shut the fuck up down there,” said someone above, muffled through the floor. Angry neighbor. Typical for that asshole. Complained about the smallest things, but always blasting loud music every Saturday morning.

Harper closed her eyes, still feeling the world spinning around her. Her stomach felt like it had unhinged itself from her insides and decided to whirl around in the opposite direction. She swallowed many times, painfully and deliberately, fighting the urge to vomit.

When the spell of nausea ended, she opened her eyes. The show on TV had gone silent, though the screen still flashed with shifting images. It looked like a completely different series now. The colors were vibrant and bright, the lens through which things had been shot distorted the environments along the edges of the screen, and the set looked surreal in its dimensions.

On screen, a woman in a fancy dress walked through a strange, long hallway, steadily and slowly approaching a simply-clothed man who sat on a stool next to a large set of double doors. The angles relayed a sense of paranoia, and the lingering shots on the actors’ faces made Harper feel uncomfortable.

The bald man sitting on the stool, his hands folded on his lap—his expression eerily calm—spoke into the camera. Past the woman approaching the double doors. He spoke not to that woman, but to Harper.

“The Glass King thanks you for your service. Should you fall in this war, know that your sacrifice will not be in vain. This world will continue to exist. You will continue to live your life as you have,” said the man. His voice rolled out like silk; soft and soothing.

The corners of his lips twitched until they shaped into a timid smile.

The woman stepped past him and grabbed hold of the brass doorknob on one of those doors. The moment she gripped it and twisted, she did not open the door.

She screamed.

A blood-curdling, bone-chilling scream. So loud that the neighbor upstairs continued complaining. Thump. Thump, thump.

“—said, shut the fuck up!”

The scream never stopped. Harper held her hands over her ears and cringed, clamping her eyes shut. She did not dare to see what happened next, so horrifying was that scream. She could hear the shriek piercing her ear drums even though she covered them up as good as she could. It pierced her mind, sliced into her soul, cut deep into her consciousness, feeding fuel into the flames of future nightmares.

“You will have your answers,” whispered the bald man on the stool. But it was not from the television set. He was in Harper’s dream that followed. As if she had gone there. Into that strange hallway.

Her uneasy rest left her feeling more tired than before she had fallen asleep. She awoke on the couch and something tasted funny. She blinked and realized where she was, struggled to remember what exactly she had dreamt beyond seeing the man from the weird TV show in her dream say that one thing, and swallowed again. Tasting blood.

Something had crusted over on her lip and face and checking in the mirror revealed that to be a thin line of blood. It had trickled down from her left nostril and across her lip and cheek as she had slept on the couch, all crumpled up.

Harper almost panicked when she realized that she needed to hustle to make it to work on time. She went through the motions in a haze, rushing through every step. Coffee would have to wait, brushing teeth, make-up, slinging on some clothes and straightening them out on the way to her car, slamming the door shut, going just enough above the speed limit to win some time and not draw unwanted attention, and so forth.

After clocking in at work, she sipped her coffee and enjoyed a short breather.

It was going to be another long day. She chalked the previous evening’s strangeness up to a weird fever dream.

Or something.

She held the back of her hand against her forehead to see if she was running any fever and dismissed the thought. The less she thought about getting sick, and the more she believed she was not sick—that stopped her from actually getting sick, right?

Her co-worker—the one she hated—got a coffee from the machine and turned to her.

Nodded in greeting to meet the bare minimum of social conventions maintained between them. She sipped from her cup of coffee as well. Looked Harper in the eye.

Vacant stare. Something odd about it.

“You saw the signs, too, didn’t you?” she asked Harper. Hushed tone, then she murmured more into her mug, “The Glass King nears.”

“What?” Harper asked. Paralyzed.

With fear.

The blood drained from her face and her mind reeled with the possibility that everything she had dreamt was, in fact, real.

Nicole gulped her mouthful of coffee down and her gaze hardened into a striking stare.

“You heard me, bitch,” she snapped at her. “James experienced it too.”

The clock on the wall behind Harper ticked away, filling the air of silence growing between them.

“What—” Harper’s voice cracked. She cleared her throat and tried asking again. “What does any of it even mean?”

Nicole cradled the cup in her hand.

“No idea, but I think there are even more who saw the signs. Just nobody really talkin’ about it. Like they’re all afraid of something.”

Harper cleared her throat again. It felt like phlegm was building up in there, clogging everything up with a tedious stickiness.

“What about rewards? You get anything?” she asked Nicole.

Her co-worker smirked but the mien quickly vanished.

“Learned something about you. Something you probably would rather keep secret,” Nicole finally replied.

Harper licked her lips. Not only had the blood drained from her face, she now felt hot and cold at the same time. Like she was flush with sickness, like a sheen of sweat was on the verge of breaking out of her pores. Was she really sure she hadn’t gotten a fever or something?

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anybody,” Nicole said. She winked at Harper.

Walked away, leaving Harper awash in her confusion and growing sense of dread.

By the time Harper took her seat at her desk, her body was trembling all over. She got to work, tried to distract herself, but her thoughts kept circling back to the odd events. It started cutting into her work.

So she started researching online.

Her body turned ice cold, the cushion of her chair beneath her becoming more uncomfortable than usual. With sweaty palms, she clicked her way through discussion threads, past posted transcripts of live chats, and wound up browsing through terrible-looking websites that looked like conspiracy theory wank assembled by unhinged lunatics. But everything reflected her experiences. Almost to the letter of some of the signs she had seen. And other people were digging through the web, just like her. Looking for an answer. Struggling to understand.

She continued to click, incapable of stopping. Filled with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, yearning to comprehend what was going on.

The world spun around her again. The dizziness had returned.

What filled her with dread was the final realization.

Many people were being mobilized. Some got more specific instructions, being sent somewhere in Nevada. Investigating strange weather patterns that appeared to orbit around Las Vegas.

What she had experienced was not unique. Not limited to her and two of her coworkers. They were not the only ones in the city. They were not the only city. They were not even the only country with people to experience this.

To see those signs. To follow the instructions.

To know, as it was repeated over and over again: the Glass King nears.

—Submitted by Wratts

[feverflushed]

Heyoooo, I haven't written anything in a hot minute! Here, have some actual husbands Sh/eith! As usual, a big thank you to my dear @vcepsis for beta reading this!

————————

Keith sighed, biting his bottom lip nervously.

Shiro was asleep on the couch next to him, snoring loudly. He normally didn’t snore that bad, but that monster of a cold had completely messed up his breathing.

Keith stared at his husband pensively, deep lines of worry running across his brow. 

Rarely he had seen Shiro so miserable.

Sure, Keith had stayed by his side during a couple of flu bugs that had left his beloved husband completely wiped, but this… this sounded miserable, and Keith was sick and tired of it. 

They were three weeks in that awful cold, and it still didn’t show any signs of clearing up. 

It had begun as an innocent sore throat and runny nose, that had quickly deteriorated and become an awful head cold, leaving Shiro a sneezy, sniffling mess. He was constantly battling the pain in his sinuses and the annoying buzzing in his ears.

Then, after a few days, Shiro’s cold had decided to take a trip and settle into his chest too, leaving the poor man to deal with an alarming range of rattling and wheezing sounds coming straight from his lungs.

“You sound like a broken tea kettle. I think you should go to the doctor before you drown in your own bodily fluids” Keith had tried to suggest, but Shiro had scoffed, action that had left him in the throes of a vicious, rough coughing fit.

“I’m okay, Keith. Just a cold and a bit of a cough. It’ll go away on its own eventually.”

Keith had tried to argue, but had ended up giving up.

How he wished he had insisted. 

They had decided to watch a movie after dinner, a relaxing, domestic evening, but Shiro had fallen asleep during the first half of the movie.

The man looked absolutely spent, and Keith had been happy to see his beloved finally getting some rest. That peace was destined to be short lived.

Shiro was mouth breathing, he did that on good days, due to the massive scar across his nose, but when colds ravaged his sinuses, he was loud. So loud that Keith could barely hear the dialogues of the movie. He gently poked Shiro’s side with a finger, and the man jumped awake, startled.

The air caught into his throat, sending him coughing. Deep, painful rattles shaking his whole being, leaving him breathless. 

“That… doesn’t sound good” Keith observed worriedly, as he rubbed Shiro’s back through the fit. 

Eventually, Shiro’s lungs stopped spasming, and Keith managed to take a glimpse of his husband, before the latter buried his face into a handful of tissues. He looked absolutely wrecked.

“Do you want me to make you some tea, Kashi?” he offered, trying to help. 

Shiro tried to reply, but he only managed a small, hoarse rasp of approval. Man, all the coughing had destroyed his throat. 

Keith went to the kitchen, setting the water to boil. He was busy choosing the most fitting tea for Shiro, when a big, beefy blanket wrap trudged through the kitchen, half collapsing on a chair.

Keith clicked his tongue.

“It was not necessary for you to come with me, you know.”

The blanket burrito stayed silent for a few seconds, then sniffled wetly, and a congested voice came from the depths of it.

“...Felt lonely.”

The poor man sounded so sad and miserable, that Keith couldn’t help but feel a pang of deep affection for Shiro. He was just so sweet. He was miserable with that cold, but even then, he was… meek. He had been feeling horrible for weeks, and it showed, but Shiro never complained, never felt sorry for himself. He had just accepted it, trying to make the healing process the least annoying possible, for both of them. 

He didn’t want Keith to worry.

And Keith knew it. But Keith also knew that Shiro was feeling awful. They had been married for two years, he always knew when his husband was unwell, no matter how hard Shiro tried to conceal it. His actions spoke for him.

Keith kissed the top of Shiro’s head fondly. Or at least, the point of the blanket burrito where he estimated Shiro’s head was.

“Go lie down, Kashi. I’ll be there in a minute. Why don’t you choose another movie in the meantime? Something fun and easier to watch than this one.”

The blanket burrito nodded, and dragged itself back to the couch, sniffling miserably. A couple of loud sneezes reverberated through the apartment, as Keith brewed the tea, the lovely scent of mint and thyme filling the air. 

When Keith brought back two mugs of tea, Shiro had already made his choice. 

Keith stared at the tv, reluctantly.

“Coco? But you know that the ending makes you cry.”

“Maybe crying will help me unclog my sinuses for a while. Worth trying.” 

Keith chuckled, and settled down on the couch, but then stood up again.

“Ah, we almost forgot. We have to try the new nebulizer treatment they gave you at the doctor’s office today. Hopefully, this one works.”

Shiro groaned.

“Can I do that tomorrow? I’m so tired...”

“No, starlight. You do it now. The sooner you start with it, the sooner you’ll get better. And I want you to get better.”

Shiro looked at Keith from his nest of blankets, defeated.

“Okay. Just because you asked me so nicely. And because you called me… heh…” Shiro let out a throat scraping sneeze, immediately hiding his face beneath a handful of blankets. Ugh, gross. He reached out to the tissue box on the coffee table, swiftly grasping a wad of tissues, and promptly blowing his nose. 

Gosh. The more he blew, the more he wanted to blow, even if the skin of his nose was absolutely ruined at this point. 

While Shiro busied himself with the tissues, Keith set up the nebulizer. 

Shiro gave him puppy eyes, but Keith didn’t fall for it.

“Don’t give me those eyes. You know the drill.”

Shiro coughed deeply into his fist, resigned, before picking up the mouthpiece of the nebulizer and cuddling against Keith’s side, pressing the play button on the remote and switching on the nebulizer at the same time. 

“Sometimes, I think I’m cursed. ‘Cause of something that happened before I was even born. See, a long time ago, there was this family. The Papa, he was a musician…”

Shiro relaxed, focusing his full attention on the movie, while the medication worked its magic. 

Sometimes, the mist would tickle his lungs just right, sending him into a coughing fit and prompting Keith to gently pound on his back or rub circles on his chest, congestion shifting noticeably under Keith’s hand. He couldn’t help but think that his husband sounded absolutely terrible, and that maybe that was a bit more than just a cold. After several minutes of coughing and sniffling, Shiro’s lungs stopped spasming, the medication finally starting to soothe the itch in his chest and throat.

Slowly, Shiro started to drift off, eyelids heavy with sleep. The hand holding up the mouthpiece started to go limp, dispersing the mist in the air.

Keith chuckled, holding the small plastic tube in place himself.

He focused on the movie, while his fingers slowly brushed through Shiro’s hair. 

Keith hadn’t even realized that he had fallen asleep, but when he woke up again, there was static on the tv screen, and Shiro was still sleeping, still leaning against him.

He smiled, and kissed the top of Shiro’s head. He seemed to be breathing easier. 

Keith turned off the tv, and slowly shifted to better accommodate Shiro’s body. He was heavy, but it was a pleasant weight, warm and comforting. 

Keith slipped into a comfortable sleep, hugging the man he loved.

He had never felt so safe in his entire life.

[ramblinganthropologist]

N7 Challenge 28 - Peace

Summary: After the war... Alistair Shepard can finally take a fucking nap. Or at least he can as long as he remembers to put the Bachelor on first. You think the guy who saved the universe would at least get to choose the channel...

---

Well... they'd won.

They'd won and he was in the hospital.

Though, at least it was one he got a view of the outside world. After nearly two months in a coma, Alistair was glad to have something to look at as the doctors ran countless tests. Apparently, waking up after a two month coma was kind of a big deal in the medical world. He just wished they weren't so rough with the blood tests, he only had one good arm.

Yeah... the missing limb thing was kind of rough honestly. But at least he still had his left arm. How kind of the Reapers to leave that one there.

'At least you are trying to be positive.'

There it was again. Alistair frowned as he held his head with that remaining hand. It was like a swarm of bees buzzing around in his skull. At fist he had thought it was an auditory hallucination brought on as a side-effect from his amp exploding, but that wasn't a side-effect. Death and permanent brain damage, sure, but not hearing a voice.

So... that one was him.

“You're not a Reaper, are you? I don't have a chunk of Reaper stuck in my head, do I?”

He was pretty sure you weren't supposed to acknowledge auditory hallucinations. Or maybe you were... he wasn't sure anymore. His brain was pretty rattled as of late, what with the whole end of the war and all that.

Plus the coma. Had he mentioned he had been in a coma?

'I am not a Reaper.'

Well, at least there was that.

Alistair would have shrugged, but moving hurt still. He had broken pretty much every bone at least once after the end. Most of them were in various stages of healing, so he just needed to lay there and let them do it. Since he no longer needed to lead up a war effort, people were happy to let him just sit there and heal.

It was a nice break.

'You deserve it after many sleepless nights. The universe is safe now.'

“At least it's safe from the Reapers. I can't do anything about gangs and the rest.”

'Take solace in what you did do.'

Something about the soft hallucination in his head did something nice to settle the anxiety in his bones. Maybe it was just a figment of his battered brain, but he was content to let it babble in his ear as he stared up at the cracked ceiling.

'So...you saved the universe. How does it feel?'

Alistair honestly wasn't sure. When they had been in the thick of the war with the casualties piling around his feet, he hadn't gotten much time to think about what it would be like on the other side. Now that he was there... it felt weird.

Like maybe he should've been feeling a lot better than he actually was.

“I'm still thinking about EDI and the geth...”

'I have no doubt they will return. You made the best decision you could with the Child.'

His eyes widened as he tried to sit up – that was a bad idea, because it hurt like hell. “How did you...”

'I have been with you since before you awoke in 2185.'

Oh, great. A long term auditory hallucination. You know what, he was going to blame this one on Cerberus. Not like they were hurting on things to be blamed for, but one more wouldn't hurt. After all, he still owed the Illusive Man's corpse a few more kicks.

Still... he settled back in, sighing. “Right... great.”

'You can call me Love if you want.'

“Fine, nice to meet you, Love. My name is Alistair. You can call me Al.”

'I know. Nice to finally meet you, Al. Now... can we watch the Bachelor? Bo put it on for me while you were out.'

Something about that made Alistair chuckle as he weakly reached for the remote. Apparently, his named hallucination had a taste for trashy TV. Oh well, if they had been with him as long as they said, then maybe they deserved a reward too.

Did it have to be so awful, though?

Despite how much he hated reality TV, a warm feeling settled into his bones as he sat back to watch. Maybe that was Love the hallucination finally settling down. Honestly, it felt nice. Kind of like sinking into a warm bath, only he was dry and in a hospital. All things considered, he wasn't going to complain about it.

The next thing he knew, someone was turning off the TV. The sun had moved across the sky, and was now setting on the other side of the hospital. Twilight was settling in now, and from the looks of things he had slept through more than a few episodes of the Citadel's hottest dating show. Lucky him – he'd missed the drama.

Better yet, Bo was holding the remote.

“Oh, hey.”

She shook her head as she sat beside him. Her arm was still in a sling, but it was the last bad injury she had left to heal. A few more weeks, and she probably wouldn't need it anymore. Then she'd be off to bash someone in the skull. After all, she was retired now.

“I'm guessing you met Love, then.”

Alistair wasn't going to argue with her about his hallucination. “Yeah, they said you introduced them to the Bachelor. Couldn't you have found anything better for them to watch?”

Bo shrugged. “It was that or Lifetime. Didn't really want to watch either honestly, but the Bachelor can be gay sometimes so it was the better choice.”

…

Yeah, he could agree with that. Gay always was the better choice.

For a few moments, the room was silent. It was so quiet, they could hear the construction still going outside and the soft beep of his heart monitor. Together they created a weird tempo that had started to sink into his bones. With all the activity of the Normandy during the war, he had gotten used to noise. Not having it would have been weird.

He was probably going to need a white noise machine or something when he got out...

“So... did you put your papers in yet?”

Bo was playing with a bandage around her injured hand. Despite that, her crimson gaze was focused straight on him. She knew the answer, but she wanted to hear it anyway. After all, talking about it made it real.

And this was pretty real.

Alistair motioned to the table next to his bed. “Almost. I just need to sign and then it's done. I'm officially retired.”

“Well, get to it. Can't have you becoming a Captain or something, then you'll never retire.” She snickered. “Or worse, an Admiral. I can hear it now. 'Admiral Shepard, can you go deal with this?'”

He shot her a look, but he chuckled anyway. “Admiral Shepard says 'fuck off, I'm an admiral. Get someone else to do it.'”

“Bullshit, you'd go out and do it yourself!”

Their mismatched laughter rang out in the small hospital room, though it was hardly sustained on Alistair's part. After all, he was still healing and doing too much of anything still kind of hurt. At least he wasn't coughing this time. Healing was slow, but it was working.

Yeah... he didn't have the heart to do that kind of thing to someone. Besides, he was a hands on type of guy.

When their laughter calmed down, Bo was back to looking at him. “I mean it. You said you were going to retire, so get to it before they pin any more medals on you.”

“I will... it's just weird. We've been in the Alliance for so long that not being in it is... odd.”

About as odd as finally beating the Reapers. The universe was just full of odd things anymore. Maybe he just needed to learn to roll with them.

“Well, let someone else handle it for once. We've done enough for the damn universe. Time to kick back and relax.”

Relaxing sounded good... it probably be easier to do when he had some prosthetic and could actually move, but for now relaxing in bed it was. He had been complaining pre-war about needing more sleep, maybe it was time to catch up on it.

After all, wasn't like there was much else to do.

“I've never been good at that.” Alistair chuckled weakly as he closed his eyes. “Guess I'm too used to running around fixing stuff.”

Bo's voice was soft and deep off to his side. “Stuff, people... I swear you've got some kind of kink for it honestly.”

“Well it wouldn't be so much fixing if you could keep your omni-tool in one piece...” he cracked one eye open. “I see it's broken again, by the way.”

Normally, that kind of smart assery would have gotten him shoved or something. Her arm twitched, like she was thinking of doing it, but in the end she gave that up. After all, pushing someone in such serious condition was kind of mean. She was an asshole sometimes, but she was only mean to him when he was able to take it.

And people thought she was heartless...

“Yeah... well, when you're up to fix it, you can. Helps me avoid the Alliance bitching at me about my retirement for now.”

The TV turned on again – wasn't the Bachelor at least. “Get some rest, Al. I'll be here when you wake up.”

Rest sounded excellent. Though Alistair wasn't sure if he'd hear the hallucination again when he'd wake up, he was comforted in the fact that at least he wouldn't be alone during it. That alone allowed him to drift off.

Really, this was the real prize after finally ending the war. At last, he had the peace to take a damn nap whenever he wanted. Maybe that was what he had been fighting for the entire time. You know, besides saving the whole universe from the Reapers. That was a nice side goal to being able to take a fucking nap.

He'd take it.

[fmdjoosungarchive]

location: mainly daisung’s apartment

date: ~april-sept 2020

word count: 1967

tldr; verification for sung’s song badbye. full everything. the beginning reads so pretentious and dramatic i’m so sorry. sung has a dream about his first best friend (peep the call back to the first loves series) and it sets him on a spiral of self-negativity, thinking he’s bad for everyone he loves and they’re all gonna want to leave him some day. copious mentions of daisuke, who is featuring on the song, mention of yujin, and unnamed references to sung’s friends

“but you could! you could just leave me!” the sound must have been deafening, but all sound muffled. sung barely heard himself. “you can just- just decide you don’t want me anymore! and i- i can’t-” his knees felt weak, sudden as it was, and he collapsed forward, breathing in the heat of daisuke’s body against his own. that warmth was infuriating, but right below that, taking up the majority of space within sung, in every last crevasse, was a deeper pit, hollow and eternally empty. the voice that came out of sung’s mouth was broken apart, near unrecognizable as his own, “please... please don’t leave me.”

-

static, with his finger pressed down on the rubber tipped button of the remote. the television was older, blocky, thick rimmed. the one from his home in gwangju. he registered, then, that he was in the sitting room of said apartment. but, unlike the home from back then, filled with ambient noise of his mother milling about, starting their dinner hours far ahead of time as she preferred to every day, his father flipping through papers or rattling off to his itty bitty brother about sports, said brother nodding enthusiastically despite only understanding every fifth word, this room was silent, save for the static.

zzt.

blue glow combined from the greyed out screen, must have been covering his face. he could feel blue, as a tangible object, a taste in his mouth, an ink on his eyes, a scent perforating his brain.

sung changed the channel, and there he was. in the same white shirt and grey pants he was in the last time he ever saw him. his first best friend.

he didn’t look happy. he was mouthing something, but sung couldn’t hear it over the static. volume button pressed, again, again, five, ten, thirteen times. the static became deafening, tempting sung to cover his ears again, but -he heard it. quiet as ever, sung needed to lean forward to make sure he was hearing correctly. a shout, in english. you know why, over and over.

his fingers fumbled for the buttons again as his heart sped up, to change the channel yet again, but there the boy was, never having left. the sound only got louder, and louder still the more times sung attempted to change the channel. what whispered shout he’d heard before was shouted in his ears now, like the words circled him, pushed closer inward with the force of static, trapping him in.

tears fell from his eyes in buckets, as if within a few minutes he might have been stranded in his own tears like alice. his hands did cover his ears then, trying to dull the sound, but it had no effect. he screamed back, “i’m sorry! i loved you! i’m sorry! please!” a litany of sorry’s continued, until his voice grew hoarse, and all that came out was static.

-

sung woke with a start. every bit of lining in his mouth was dry, along with a chalk filled throat and tongue. his cheeks opposed that feeling, accessorizing with streaks of salted water dripping all the way down to his chin, starting from his tear ducts.

instinct took over as sung’s hand flopped down next to him with power, only to smack upon empty bedsheets beside him. suddenly, his heart matched that of his dream self.

-

he couldn’t taste the blue, though the computer’s light lit up his face anyway. one leg was pulled up onto the chair, arm wrapped around it. no matter how hard he’d been trying, everything he ended up coming up with that day sounded doom and gloom. if he was thinking more clearly, more rationally, sung might have told himself to open up to that feeling, to let himself feel it enough it can dissipate with time. right then, his eyes half focused on the funnel shape of light coming off of his phone that had been left open for so long it was running on low battery.

a bad habit, that red bar was. sung wasn’t bad about charging his phone usually, but the red bar represented something else. it was the indicator of the tens of text threads that had been pushed up to the top of his messages.

you like me, right?

i’m sorry if i’ve ever hurt you.

you’ll be my friend forever? please?

i know you don’t want to talk to me...

don’t lie to me, please

it’s okay if you don’t like me

don’t leave me

one after the next, insecurities on blast. a nasty habit. sung kept to himself, when he was feeling at his lowest, for reasons like that. no one needed to shoulder his irrational mind that was bordering on manipulation. it manipulated himself, and when he let it, others.

that funnel of light had invaded every part of the studio, even into the screws lodged in the desk. there was no getting away from this, no distraction. his feelings demanded they be felt, right then, in anything he did. if someone had passed by quickly, they could feel the heady emotions pulsing out of the door. even if they didn’t pass by, they could hear it, in the wafting, wailing sounds of something akin to an empty cathedral’s organ.

a sludge-ing smack of the apartment door closing, and sung’s heart skipped a beat, momentarily paralyzed. daisuke. more than any other, his boyfriend had dealt with the brunt of his unwell text messages. between each new conversation pushed up to the top of his messages, was another message to daisuke. even then, the coned phone light crowned the king.

his writing programs laid open, nearing on sleep, unsaved, second tier to sung standing up. the chair he’d been sitting on bounced with the force of his lift, and if it were possible, the floor might have bounced with each step as he made his way to the entrance.

what might have usually been a warm, gentled welcome to the love of his life, was replaced with a trembling jaw and tightened muscles. “who have you been with all day?”

sung wasn’t the type of person to yell when he was upset. frankly, he didn’t even yell much when he was excited. but the cries coming from his mouth sounded eerily like a tinny white noise, a million cicadas seeking mates, a buzzing static of a tv.

-

only after his tears had drenched daisuke’s shirt, and his hands had created what seemed like permanent wrinkles, and large, warm hands, much different than his own, had sent cozy heat onto every inch of his body, could sung calm down.

-

another day on, his worries felt distant. at first, he required the unyielding grip of daisuke’s arms around him as he woke up, keeping him tethered to the promises he’d been given the day before. however, as the days passed, it became easier to trust in that once again, and settle his insecurities into their own box.

long after his welcomes had become once again filled with kisses and the touch of skin, was when sung finally felt ready to try to tackle those emotions, and the song he’d accidentally started.

healing was never easy, though. listening back to what he had written, and did end up remembering to save the next morning, brought back all of the terrible feelings he’d been having while writing it. no matter how far he had come to distance himself in daily life from the feelings, they still existed within him, ready to be brought to the surface at any given point.

now wasn’t that time. sung had decided as much. he’d made sure to get a decent night of sleep, and to have spent as much time with those he cared for as possible in the days leading up to this attempt. sung could handle this.

he took it from a more professional standpoint, rather than purely emotional as he had before. while what he’d written was beautiful, it was disjointed together, mixed improperly, and not in a way that was purposeful. although, he realized that it could be purposeful to have the sound a little disjointed, especially if he wrote some kind of lyric basis to the song. after having written dystopia for our songs, sung felt a little more comfortable with the idea, if not excited for such a thing.

if this song worked as an interlude of sorts, it didn’t need to be anything fancy. so, sung worked. he took all of his experiences from that terrible day, and fit them together in a song that was just a little off.

within that same day, sung finished what he’d started before, wrote lyrics, a melody for said lyrics, and mixed it together in a first draft sort of style. it was a feeling of burnout over having sat working on the same thing for so long, over burnout of the song itself, that had him packing up his day there. and with fresh eyes later on, fresh ears that could listen to the song more objectively, to think, this really could work on the album.

he’d been writing for his album long enough that he’d mixed dozens of songs with the same soundscape, a uniformity across the majority of everything he’d written for the album, so the cohesiveness necessary wasn’t a difficult task. probably, the hardest part, was the idea he’d had towards the end of producing.

static.

this song was meant to be an unabridged look into his mind that day, right? and, if there was one thing that had encapsulated every part of that day, it was that terrible sound. as an interlude, it was even more compelling. however, that meant he’d be required to capture the sound. sung considered, for a moment, asking a friend to do it for him, but... he knew this was his own battle to win.

in the end, it wasn’t as terrible as he thought it would be, even if his sweat glands and heart valves may have disagreed.

the final piece, ended up being a singer. sung didn’t think the demo recording he’d done was bad per say, considering there wasn’t a whole lot of technical skill needed for what he’d written, but it certainly wasn’t what he’d wanted.

naturally, sung turned to those close to him. while that was common for him in pretty much any scenario, his demo songs filled to the brim with demos sung by yujin, this was more of a need. he wasn’t sure who he could trust to share this with, especially before it had ever been presented to the company. for all intents and purposes, this piece was sung baring the parts of his soul that not even the people closest to him got to see often. the best -and safest- choice, was the man who had seen him that exact day, had experienced how he felt, and continued to love him anyway.

he’d gone over and over again in his head how he might approach the situation, trying to think of his words more carefully so he wouldn’t trip over them when it came to actually talking to daisuke. and he did so anyway. but, thankfully, call it the power of being in love or something, daisuke readily agreed.

even in the recording booth, sung knew that his fears had still led him to the right decision. daisuke’s voice on the track was as hauntingly beautiful as he could never attempt to pull off. by the end of that day, sung, creativity and love overflowing, had mixed the song, finishing up the last touches, to officially add to his folder for the next album review.

[stainandscribble]

Beyond Words(III)

Let Me Hold You Tight

Pairing: Jongdae (EXO Chen) X Reader

Genre: Jongdae Poet AU; angst; fluff

Summary: A poet reminiscences about his old lover and their relationship in his new anthology, reminding himself of the importance of sincerity, and that love words are just as important spoken aloud as they are printed on paper.

Word Count: 5935

PART 1    PART 2     PART 3

A/N: Love is a blessing everyone is deserving of, and Jongdae has been blessed twice: with someone he wants to spend the rest of his life with, and a child, who he himself referred to as a blessing. I wish him all the best. In light of this, I will be concluding this short series in the next part. I will not be writing for him anymore. (I know its march but this is set in December because it fits the timeline and plot)

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

Space was the nothingness between two things, an unspoken barrier, a limitation that kept you from him. You had told him you needed space. You needed time. Jongdae respected that. He didn’t push you. He had given you as much space as you wanted. You didn’t move back into your shared apartment for three months, until November. You didn’t sleep in your shared bed until December began knocking on your windows with frosty fingers and chilly drafts. He didn’t push, and he hoped he didn’t seem uninterested. In truth, Jongdae was captivated. He had thanked the universe every time you walked out of your bedroom to have breakfast together. He had thanked whichever deities looked down on him every time he could hold you in his arms. The soft hues of his eyes never strayed from you. Since you had told him you still loved him you had watched in glee and relief the way his publisher glared at you. This time, you noticed Jongdae had put a lot of effort into making it work. He sat with you at dinner and indulged in your hobbies, not having you indulge in his. He tried painting with you, and you had hung the pieces above the couch; your piece, drawn and painted with skilled hands and sharp eyes, his with the enthusiasm of a beginner. 

“I think this looks quite good, don’t you?” He asked, brown eyes twinkling as he looked over his masterpiece, although incomparable in skill to your own, still in his eyes, it was an achievement. To Jongdae it was a physical manifestation of the fact he was trying, and you had accepted his hard work. He turned his gaze to look at you, lips curled into a Cheshire-like grin, eyes following the trail of yellow paint smeared over your forehead and the pastel pink colouring your right cheek. 

“You should go into abstract painting.” You turned to look at him, lips mimicking his grin as your eyes trailed his clear face, bare of the paint you ended up covered in. He turned away from your wandering eyes.

“What do you want to watch now?” Jongdae turned on the TV and started flicking through the channels. There was a lightness in his tone; one that you had noticed only recently, since you moved your things back into the shared bedroom. It was clear he was happy. You would have been lying if you said you were not sharing in his happiness. 

“It’s winter sports season. I wanted to watch figure skating championships.” You answered, turning your back to the bright paintings that now decorated your living room. The only other decoration this bright in your home was a vase of purple hyacinths standing on the kitchen island. Since you moved back in, Jongdae had brought you a bouquet every fortnight. You appreciated the gesture, but you were also fed up of the unspoken apology. Your eyes fell on his hand curled around the tv remote, free from any stains. Since he apologised you had never seen him with any ink staining his fingers. 

It was something you wanted when you were breaking up because those stains reminded you that you were cast aside and disregarded in favour of his publisher and a pad of paper. It was no longer the case. His clean hand curled around the remote, flicking through channels for what you wanted to watch, and you no longer felt disregarded. You hoped he felt the same way; hoped that he was as happy as you were. 

“They are on today?” He asked, walking over to sit on the couch. 

“Yeah.” You went to sit on the couch beside him, as he sprawled out, leaning against the armrest. Some moments still felt new, as if your relationship was only beginning, and you supposed in some way it was. It was a new start, a chance to fix previous mistakes, give each other a chance to be better. In some respects, after being away from him for so long, you felt a little shy. That was why you sat a space away from him now. 

“Do we have a sport’s channel?” He asked, still flicking through the channels before he handed you the remote in frustration. 

“We should have. I was in our deal.” You told him, looking through the channel guide to find the sports channel. When you finally found it the competition was starting, and the first skater was about to go on the ice. Their dress was beautiful, embroidered with gems and sequins on the delicate fabric, and their routine was breath-taking, along with the scrape of blades against the ice rink. 

Jongdae motioned for you to move closer, his hand outstretched in your direction, intertwining his slender fingers with yours. With his encouragement, you moved closer, comfortably pressing yourself into his side as his other hand reached for a blanket under the coffee table. He wrapped the fuzzy thing around the two of you, keeping you warm and cosy. 

“It’s so pretty.” Jongdae whispered when the skater landed a triple axel. The soft instrumental music in the background was broken by the profound sound of her metal skates hitting the ice. You flinched, and Jongdae smiled, wrapping an arm tighter around you. 

“And terrifying.” You whispered, making him chuckle. 

The two of you continued watching, your cheek pressed against his shoulder, and you wrapped your arms around him, enjoying his warmth, and the smell of his cologne. For a moment, you were completely at peace, right where you belong. In Jongdae’s arms. 

You were so comfortable in Jongdae’s arms, at one point your cheek fell from his shoulder to his chest, his heart beating steadily in your ear. As the warmth completely consumed you, the last thing you remembered was being wrapped up in Jongdae’s arms as the announcer called out a double salchow. You did not remember going back to bed, nor Jongdae carrying you to bed.

I asked you what love is

And you answered,

That love is many things,

And that I must find love for myself.

Because love to me,

May not be love to you.

During December it had been cold and dreary, having you both in low spirits as you counted the days down to Christmas. Over the holiday period, he wrote all notes and lists with glitter gel pens and stuck them around the kitchen. You thought it was endearing, he thought it was hilarious. For the first week of December, the strange process of waking up beside another person was awkward. Sometimes you woke up on opposites sides of the bed, as far away as the bed would allow. Other times, you woke up in a tangle of limbs with your bodies twisted unnaturally, necks and backs aching for the rest of the day. It was pleasant A change you both welcomed because it meant moving forward, and the pace was irrelevant to the goal you sought out in the end.

Today was one of those days you woke up twisted, sweaty from the thick duvet and body heat. Last night you had fallen asleep on the couch, and now you were waking up in your bed, face pressed into the crook of Jongdae’s neck. 

“Mornin’” You muttered. Your eyes, still blurry from sleep, made out the deep brown of Jongdae’s eyes looking down at you, a small content smile curling his lips. 

“Good morning.” He answered, pressing a kiss to your temple. 

Jongdae woke up, the soft rays of cool winter sunlight streamed through the window, kissing your face as he watched. Soon, you stirred awake, eyes half-closed as you murmured a greeting. He kissed your forehead, pressing himself closer. 

“I love you.” He murmured into your skin, the confession hung in the air unanswered and heavy as he watched you tentatively, seeing sunlight reflect in your eyes and the morning flush bloom on your cheeks. The split-seconds it took you to answer seemed like an eternity for him, a sweet eternity he was willing to wait every time. 

When you answered, there was no hesitance in your voice, and Jongdae thought he was willing to wait an eternity if it meant that at the end he could hear you say it again.

“I love you too.”

The words rattled his bones, like the shaking of reverberating thunder. He had always thought you were a storm. You had always proven him correct. He wanted to stay like this forever, in this moment, and his fingers ached to feel you against them. He stroked your hair, pulling it out from your eyes, giving him a clearer view of your face. His fingers ached for pen and paper too, and it was almost painful not reaching over for it, lying just on the bedside table. He refrained. 

You began moving, getting ready to stand up, and he followed you, sitting up, letting the duvet fall.

“What do you want for breakfast?” You asked, getting out of bed.

“Cereal.” Jongdae mumbled, rubbing his eyes as he got up. You walked out into the kitchen, leaving him to make the bed. His eyes kept falling on the notebook and paper lying on the bedside table, his desire too strong to ignore, and before he knew it he was sitting on the freshly made sheets, writing away, the pen gliding effortlessly guided by his hand. The words formed on their own, and he didn’t see you walk in, ready to call him over, before you stopped in the doorway, watching with fond eyes as he bent his back over the low surface. Maybe if he had seen you there would be less guilt eating at him later. Maybe if he saw you, you would be able to reassure him. He was not meant to fit into your mould. You were meant to learn to fit together, each a separate piece of a puzzle that together would form a picture. Jongdae had learned from his mistakes, but he had yet to find the balance necessary for both of you.

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

Once he emerged from the bedroom, he avoided your gaze, and you could not help but feel the need to talk. And so, you did. You too had learned from your mistakes and knew that you had to make your desires clear, more forceful.

“Jongdae,” You called , and he turned his head away from his cereal to look at you.

“Yes?” He gave you a small smile, his brown eyes gazing at you softly as he played with the softened cereal in his bowl.

“You don’t have to hide away and wait until I’m gone.” You told him, referring to the incident that had transpired moments before. 

The spoon he was playing with fell from his fingers. You could see the dark ink on his fingers, small smudges decorating his hands like constellations. A smile formed on your lips, tight-lipped and rueful, but still, it was a smile, and you were both learning a balance and compromise all over again. 

“Just remember you have a life too, outside of pen and paper.” You watched his stare at you with wide eyes, part astonishment and part fear swirling in the kaleidoscope of browns. He leaned back in his chair; the soft smile he wore now replaced with concern. 

“I never asked you to stop writing. I asked you to talk to me.” You reminded him, voice firm but soft, as you gazed at his hands as he fidgeted with his fingers, rubbing against the ink-stained skin. 

“I feel like that was all I used to do.” He confessed, looking down at his hands. You walked up to him and leaned against the table.

“You are a poet. That’s not going to change. I don’t want it to change.” You took hold of his hands, stopping him from rubbing away at his skin. You could tell he was nervous; you did the same thing when you were. You manoeuvred yourself to sit in his lap and he let you, hands grasping firmly to your sides, thumbs massaging soothing circles on your waist. 

“Keep the ink stains.”

His heart leapt in his chest, the strange feeling of guilt, as if he had done something wrong, began to vanish, and with every caress, it lessened as if washed away by water. You pressed a kiss into his hair, murmuring the same thing as before. He reciprocated your affection in kind, kissing you with a newfound enthusiasm as happy tears burned the back of your eyes. 

“Keep the ink stains.”

So, I decided to find it for myself,

What made my heart race,

- beating against my ribs like the bars of a cage. 

What made my breath shake,

- hitch in my throat and never reach its home in my lungs.

What made my mind reel,

- play the film of you frame by frame like old cinema.

Later that day, as evening settled upon the bustling city, Jongdae busied himself pulling out the contents of your storage space. Behind the hoover and various bits and bobs, you had put away all your Christmas decorations, and now it was the time of year again from Jongdae to make a mess in the corridor by taking them out. He succeeded eventually, and you helped him put everything back in its spot. You two had gone out earlier to get a Christmas tree, a small living one that fir in the corner of the living room. 

Jongdae put on the multicoloured fairy lights, as you began putting on various baubles. Some were plastic, others were made of glass, and reflected the light like little mirrors. 

Once you were finished, you lit up scented candles and curled up with a mug of hot chocolate on the sofa. Jongdae sat on the opposite end, typing away at his keyboard as he sent out work emails and drafts. 

He just finished working on a short story for a Christmas special anthology by his publishing company, along with multiple other writers. Despite the workload, he still baked cookies and helped out around the house and went out on multiple errands like the grocery shop and the post office.

In the background, soft instrumentals played through your speaker. After about an hour, the peaceful atmosphere was broken by the sound Jongdae’s laptop falling to the floor. You rose from the couch and picked it up, making sure nothing had happened to it. Taking a glance at Jongdae, you noticed his closed eyes and even breathing. He had fallen asleep with his laptop on his lap, and it had fallen once he started moving in his sleep.

You put the laptop on the coffee table and pulled out the fluffy blanket from underneath, draping in over Jongdae as he slept. You tried positioning him so that he would lay down fully on the sofa. 

“Goodnight.” You murmured, pressing a kiss to his forehead before extinguishing the lit candle and walking back to your bedroom to get ready for sleep.

Once you emerged from the bathroom, you were greeted by the sight of Jongdae smiling sleepily at you as he finished putting on his pyjamas. 

“Goodnight Y/N.” was the last thing he said before climbing into bed. You did the same, curling onto your side, allowing Jongdae to drape his arm over your middle and thread his fingers through yours.

I found what made my heart ache, 

- the look in your eyes when you spoke about the things you love.

What made my breath hitch

- the way your fingers ghosted over my own before your hand found its way into mine. 

What made my mind come to a standstill.

- when the film ended and you walked away, and the flowers on the windowsill withered away. 

A week passed, and Christmas was coming fast upon the two of you. No real plans have been made, and Jongdae’s parents were insisting you both to visit over the holidays. Your parents said nothing, and since they had never explicitly invited Jongdae to visit with you for Christmas, still being stand-offish towards him. You understood them, and he didn’t push to visit them with you. 

Hence why you were now sitting by the table, eating your breakfast and looking over your calendar.

“Are we going to go separately?” Jongdae asked. It was time to decide what you were going to do, as time was ticking, and your parents, both yours and Jongdae’s, had been pestering you for answers.

“I haven’t thought about that.” You spoke, munching on your second bowl of cereal. 

“My parents have been asking if I’m taking you.” He told you, pouring himself milk in his first bowl of cereal. He had just rolled out of bed, hair a mess and coffee in hand. You watched him, the winter sun, bathing him in light, making him look ethereal. His features appeared sharper; a morning blush flushed his cheeks. He smiled softly at you as you watched him. He enjoyed having your eyes on him and the feel of your eyes scanning over him, invisible fingers caressing paths over his features. 

“My parents didn’t ask.” He heard you whisper, and his heart tightened listening to your hushed voice. He smiled at you, trying to lighten your spirits.

“They still don’t like me?” He asked, already knowing the answer. 

“Watching me live at home for half a year wasn’t pleasant.”

“Maybe we can split it up? One day with your parents. Then one day with mine.” Jongdae reasoned, sipping on his coffee. You nodded, watching him, eyes scanning over his face, falling on his Adam’s apple. 

“I’m all yours. No need to stare.” He smiled at you, and you smirked, leaning over the table to peck his lips. 

“Have you gotten presents for your mother yet?” You asked him, returning to your breakfast. 

“No.” He answered, reaching over to fill his bowl with another helping of cereal. You passed him the milk standing on your side of the table.

“Me neither.” You told him. “What were you going to get her?” You asked, wondering whether you should bring a gift of your own if you were going to split your time between both sets of parents. 

“Perfume, chocolates. That is what she likes.” He answered between spoonfuls of cereal. 

“What perfume are you going to get her?” You asked, wondering about your humble gift to your mum.

“She likes Chanel, and I know she is about to finish one of her bottles.” He just shrugged; eyes turned to look at you. Your shoulders were hunched as you rested your head in your hands.

“My mum wanted a new electric mixer. One of the fancy ones, since her one is living out it's last days.” You told him, and he nodded, promising to take you to a store that sells kitchen utensils.

----------

Later that day, he walked around with you, sipping on bubble tea as you browsed through the shopping centre, electric whisk in a bag hanging off your arm as you looked for a perfume shop that carried the fragrance Jongdae wanted.

At one point, he left you alone, telling you to go get cake, as he disappeared in the mass of people doing last minute Christmas shopping.

You were left in a Starbucks, finishing your bubble tea and a slice of cake you ordered. 

-----------

 Jongdae walked away, leaving you in Starbucks as he rushed through the crowd of people towards the jeweller. Once he got into the quiet store, he was greeted by the worker, who happily showed him what he was looking for, before packing it in a pretty box. 

Jongdae thanked her, before tucking the box away into his bag, hiding it so that you would not find it.

With a smile on his lips that caused them to turn up at the corners, and turn his eyes into slits, he walked back to where you were waiting, finishing your cake and tea.

You waved at him, ushering him to your table, allowing him to sit down before asking your questions.

“Where did you go?”

“I needed to check if I was getting the right perfume. I didn’t want to get the same one dad was getting her.” He told you, hoping he didn’t look as nervous as he felt. His heart skipped a beat when you nodded your head and picked up your bags. You didn’t question him any further, and he was thankful for that.

“Come, we still need to get her present.”

It was all you. 

How could you say that what is love to you,

May not be love to me,

When my love

Is you.

Christmas eve rolled around, and the next day you were going to spend Christmas day with Jongdae’s parents. Tonight, you were with your parents. Jongdae was slowly making amends with your mother, as your parents accepted that he was back in your life, and you hoped that this time it was for good. 

“Jongdae, would you like some hot cocoa?” You asked, peeking out from the kitchen, watching him set the table as your dad did the last-minute hoovering. 

“Yes please.” He called back, setting another crystal glass in front of one of the four chairs.

You helped your mum, taking the dishes to the table, giving her time to change into more appropriate clothes, before your parents and Jongdae and you sat down.  

The dinner went by smoothly, the conversation flew by, about your illustrations featured in a magazine and about the nomination of your artwork for some type of award; at one point your mother even commended Jongdae for a literary nomination in the poetry section of a country-wide award. You did not expect her to as civil knowing that she could hold grudges, but then again so could you. 

“The spiced cake is lovely.” Jongdae turned to your mother, finishing his last sip of hot chocolate. Your mum smiled at him, turning to look at you, and Jongdae’s arm that draped over the back of your chair, thumb running circles over your shoulder. 

“Y/N is a good baker.” She replied and you hid the blush. Baking was something you could always do, and you had been pretty proud of that. 

“She is.” Jongdae commended, giving you a small smile, eyes twinkling in the bright light, the multicoloured fairy lights of the Christmas tree reflected in his dark irises. Without thinking, you smiled back, oblivious to the fond look your father had been giving you all evening. 

“You are going to your parents’ tomorrow morning?” Your father spoke, and you turned your attention to him, smiling brightly.

“Yes.” Jongdae answered, his arm falling from the back of your chair as he rested it in his lap. 

“Wish them a Merry Christmas from us.” Your dad instructed, and you could see the playful glint in his eyes, making you smile. 

“I will. Thank you.” Jongdae replied, a small polite smile plastered on his lips. 

“Thank you for the flowers. They are lovely.” Your mum turned to him before her gaze fell on the vase standing on the top of the chest of drawers under the tv. It was a bouquet of mixed edelweiss, bluebells and honeysuckle. Silent; Jongdae had told your mother he loved you, and it had brought a smile to your lips every time you thought about it.

“And thank you for the wine.” Your dad added, gesturing to the bottle of red dessert wine standing on the dining table. 

“Why don’t we open it tonight, seeing as you are leaving tomorrow?” he asked, and Jongdae turned to you, silently asking if it was okay.

“Sure.” You nodded, going to get a corkscrew from the kitchen.

 The rest of the evening went by smoothly, with you ending up in Jongdae’s embrace at the end of the night, warm under your blankets in your old room.

And yet, you were right.

Love to me was unspoken

Love to me was a subtle breeze.

Love to you was something obvious.

  Morning came, and neither of you wanted to move. Still, he was the first to get up and shower, and you left to help your mum set up breakfast. Once you finished, you went to shower yourself, leaving Jongdae to talk to your dad over the morning news. 

-----------

An hour later it was time to leave, and after a heartfelt goodbye and your parents fretting over if you took everything, you were off on the road, travelling to the next town over where Jongdae’s parents lived. 

“Do you think they will be happy to see me?” You asked, looking over at Jongdae as he focused on the road. You were greeted with a white Christmas this year, and so he was being extra careful whilst driving. Snow was everywhere, and you were thankful the roads were cleared out before you got in the car late in the morning. 

“They call you daughter in law. Why wouldn’t they be happy to see you.” He answered, a smile tugging at his lips, and you gave him a small smile back, on instinct, despite the fact he never saw it. 

The rest of the three-hour journey was peaceful. Jongdae sang along to the Christmas song on the radio, encouraging you to sing along with him as he gave you cheeky smiles and stole little glances your way, doing his best to focus on the road. 

It was a miracle you were not stuck in traffic between towns, so you arrived at his parents’ house around one thirty. 

“We’re here.” Jongdae announced, pulling into the driveway of his childhood home. His mother was the first to get out of the house to greet him, his father following close behind. You stepped out of the car the same time Jongdae did. Almost immediately he was engulfed by his mother’s arms, caught in a hug so tight you could imagine him turning red.

“There you two are!” His mother exclaimed as she let your boyfriend go, giving you a warm smile in greeting. Despite your relationship with Jongdae being repaired, you doubted you would feel comfortable with his mother embracing you, and so you were thankful for her keeping distance. You came to stand by Jongdae, his hand finding yours in split seconds as he threaded your fingers together.

“Don’t they look lovely together?” His mother asked, eyes falling to your joined hands. You blushed lightly, letting Jongdae lead you into his parents’ house.

“Come in, how about some lunch?” His mother asked, leading the two of you to the already set dining table. Jongdae’s dad was already bringing out the tureen for soups. His mum went and got side dishes from the kitchen, motioning for you to sit down.

“I don’t want to bother.” You responded, trying to politely decline, despite the fact you already knew it was useless. 

“Nonsense.” She waved a dismissing hand and went to place the dishes on the table. 

“Sit down.” Jongdae’s dad gave you a reassuring smile as Jongdae motioned for you to sit beside him, his arm draped over the chair you were meant to sit in. You had poured yourself a bowl of hot chicken noodle soup, and so did Jongdae. The soup was delicious, so much so that Jongdae ended up having seconds. Once the food was done, you helped Jongdae unpack your things from the car, and then went to help his mother cooking. The house was spotless, and the only other thing to be done was Christmas dinner.  

You cut up carrots and parsnips as Jongdae peeled and cut potatoes. His mother busied herself with baking a pie.

“I’m glad you two are back together.” She commented over her shoulder as she rolled out pastry. You stopped what you were doing, choosing to let go of the knife in your hand. Jongdae gave you a worried look. He had not told his parents about why you two broke up, figuring that Christmas was not the best time to tell them everything. He had not seen them in a while, seeing as they were away from the country for the last six months because of work. You had agreed to keep your metaphorical dirty laundry private for now.

 “I don’t understand why you two broke up in the first place.” Jongdae pursed his lips, giving you a small smile as he looked at his mum.

 “We thought we needed some time alone to think things through.” You answered for him. Technically it was not a lie, you had done a lot of thinking during the time you spent apart, and you believed, as did Jongdae, that it had done the two a lot of good. it had given you a much-needed break, and it also released a lot of tension between you.

 “I’m glad it all turned out alright in the end.” His mother smiled at Jongdae, and then at you, and you returned the smile, a little less enthusiastically.

 “Mum lets leave this topic for a day other than Christmas.” Jongdae butted in before his mother said anything else. The kitchen fell silent as he resumed peeling potatoes, and you managed to give his free hand a gentle squeeze. 

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

Night came quickly after that, and soon you were sitting at the dinner table, dressed in one of your better dresses. The dinner had been peaceful, you walked away stuffed and smiling, eyes falling onto Jongdae every once in a while, admiring the golden tone of his skin under the candlelight.

You walked to the lounge; the large living Christmas tree stood in the corner. It was decorated with opulent ornaments and the fairy lights glowed a brilliant red and gold in the dim lights.

“It’s time for presents.” Jongdae’s mother exclaimed once everyone sat comfortably in the lounge. An old copy of The Nutcracker lay on his father's lap, open to the first page.

His mother pulled out some gifts from under the tree, giving the first one to her son.

“Here you go, darling.” She passed over the colourful package. 

“And you too, you are family too.” She said, giving you a serious look as she handed you a small box wrapped in red.  

“Thank you.” You told her, looking over at Jongdae as he went behind his father's armchair, pulling out two boxes and a bottle of wine.

"Here you go." He handed his gift to his mother and passed over the bottle to his father.

"What's the third one?" His father asked, setting the bottle aside.

"Y/N thought you would like this, to put up on the picture wall." He handed the box to his father, and he pried it open, revealing a frame with the magazine article featuring Jongdae and his anthology. It was back from a month or so ago, after he received a nomination for the national poetry award.

"Oh, it's lovely." His mother said, picking the frame up.

"She thought it would be nice for you to have a memento of my first success." Jongdae explained, squeezing you hand as you pressed yourself closer to his side. His mother looked at you, tears brimming in her eyes as she smiled, murmuring a silent thank you. She proceeded to put the frame up on the chest of drawers below the wall covered in family photographs.

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

Once you were alone in Jongdae's room, you relaxed a little, unaware until now of how much stress this evening caused you.

Seeing your slumped figure, Jongdae smiled, moving closer, until he was right behind you. He could feel the warmth of your skin and smell your favourite perfume. His heart beat faster, straining against its lining in an attempt to escape the confines of his ribs. He hoped you didn't hear the erratic beating, nor the deep breath he took before speaking. Jongdae summoned all his courage, bracing himself against the storm that you were.

“I have another present.” He whispered, arms wrapping around your middle from behind. You threaded your fingers through his, running your thumbs in circles over the backs of his hands, enjoying the comfort of the moment. Jongdae was warm and solid behind you, his presence allowed you to relax as your shoulders fell. 

“Another one?” You asked, and he hummed in confirmation, the vibrations tickling your ear.

“You’ll like it.” He promised, and you could feel the hind of a smile in his voice. He let you go, and you turned around to face him. Jongdae pulled out a small velvet box out of the pocket of his suit trousers.

“Jongdae-” Your breath hitched, but he stopped you before you could say anything more.

“Be mine.”

“I’m not asking you to marry me. Not if you don’t want to.” He told you, close enough you could feel his warmth, could imagine the erratic beating of his heart. Or was it simply the echo of your own heart?

“I’m asking you to stay with me.” Jongdae looked you in the eye, his dark orbs smouldering with intensity like ardent flames. 

“During the last year I have learnt many things, I learnt that I need to be more attentive, and find a healthier way to come with negative emotions.” He told you, voice gentle as he spoke, your eyes never leaving his.

“I’ve also learnt that I can live without you.” Neither of you flinched or reacted when he said that you both smiled, ruefully, but it was still a smile. 

“But I also found that I don’t want to. I want to stay by your side indefinitely. I can live without you, and you can live without me, but I don't want to. I want you. I love you.” He told you, opening the little box he was still holding, revealing the thin band of gold among the dark cushion. A single brilliant pearl sat in the middle of the band, like a moon against the night sky.

You thought back to his anthology, mind catching onto the significance of the ring he was holding. 

“I cannot water you anymore,

And pearls, like dew 

I cannot give you.”

You remembered the passage from his poem, and tears swelled at the back of your eyes, threatening to spill over.

He had finally given you the pearl he always wanted, finally fulfilling his self-made promise. 

“Our love is an inkwell, and I promise to never let it dry again.” He promised, and before you could continue, you pressed your lips to his.

The kiss was sloppy, nothing like the ones on screen, your teeth clashed, and your neck hurt, but you didn’t care. All you could focus on was the man in your arms; the man who had decided he loved you more than ink-stained fingers, who had kept his promises. It was the man whose ink-stained fingers you learned to love, the same one who brought you flowers and compared you to spring and flowers and the sun, and made you feel like you were all of those and more. You loved him, and you didn’t want to live without him either.

“I love you too, Kim Jongdae.” You broke the kiss, whispering those words against his lips like a prayer.

“I love all of you.” You told him, eyes looking into his own as you let his fingers, stained a deep blue, slide the ring onto your ring finger as your hands wrapped around his neck, keeping his body close to yours. 

Is this obvious enough?

Loud enough?

Eternal enough?

I hope it is,

because you are.