#so the other three will have to eat everything

[loovser]

the guy she was interested in wasn’t a guy at all - chapter 3

synopsis turns out the cute guy from the cd store is actually… a girl.

wc: 4,2k

cw: ellie is a total loser omg i need her, fluff, get rid of miller already ellie is better, overthinking, these bitches are gay asf, slow burn, flirting and um.. angst. also fuck you lila!!!!

the strawberries were now completely gone. they were sweet, so sweet you barely registered eating the whole thing in less than 30 minutes. but that also may be due to the fact that you were… busy in the meantime.

you were making a playlist. for ellie. well, miller — we’ve been through that already. you just really appreciated her gesture of giving you your favorite fruit. that’s all! it’s not like you are actually falling for her or something. cause that would be crazy! right…?

shaking your thoughts away, you look through the playlist again. there were a lot of songs she mentioned she liked. some that you thought she would like. this is kinda nerve-wracking. you wanted it to be the perfect thing for her to listen to anytime. and all the time.

because she was consuming your mind all the damn time. you kept thinking about the day you spent together. the tension that was always there, almost too much to bear. it could snap at any moment, really. you haven’t even known her for a week yet — technically you’ve been sharing classes with her for 4 months now, but who’s counting?

she is. because you are all she can think about as well. everything about you is just perfect for her. she is mesmerized by everything you do. everything you say. the way your hair frames your face so prettily. the way your eyes sparkle when you talk about the things you like. the way your cheeks get slightly pink when she flirts with you.

it’s almost infuriating how much you affect her without realizing. and it makes her sick to her stomach when she thinks about telling you the truth. the truth that is now running away from her and from you, more and more, as you get tangled on each other. she can’t stop feeling like shit whenever you are not around. physically, because mentally?

you are always there.

she sighs, still thinking about the message you sent her once you opened the gift.

you (7:45) omg. you’re actually the fucking best.

that was hours ago. three hours ago and she couldn’t stop herself from smiling. she literally kicked her feet and giggled when she read it the first time. im actually the fucking loser. she should be asleep. first thing she has tomorrow morning at school?

VFX class. why the hell do they have to schedule this class twice during the week? yes, there are a lot of complicated and extensive things to be taught… and it was one of her favorite classes… but just thinking about seeing you again and not being able to talk to you was killing her.

she wonders how much more she can handle without totally blowing this all up. without making a mistake or saying the wrong thing and making you find out about the truth. her phone buzzing takes her out of her thoughts.

it’s a message from you. her heart races.

you (11:52) https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4pcARou6l7BtoiGSlAfjEp?si=OAzV49VjS46eY88uJWG_xw&pi=j9HJeil2TTmH7

she made me a playlist?! ellie nearly drops her phone. she clicks it. it reads ‘for miller’. there’s a picture of a starry night. the description says ‘yes, that’s my window.’ you took the picture for it? of a sky full of stars?

she sighs, trying to contain herself. you just keep getting sweeter. she keeps on drowning in you, losing herself in the vastness of you that lives in her mind — and in her heart. seeing that, somehow, you associated her with stars made her nerdy brain short-circuit.

if there’s something ellie loves more than music, it’s the space. and everything that’s in it. from galaxies, to planets, to stars. it fascinates her. ever since she was little she has been in love with it. she dreamed of being an astronaut, traveling through celestial bodies. it’s not really how it works, she knows that now.

but it will always be a part of her. a big one. something she could talk about for hours, days even. and you managed to see it in her, somehow. you, without realizing, put both of her biggest passions in the same place. something that you made for her. the three things she’s always thinking about: music, astronomy and you.

she tried not to read too much into it. it was hard. she was trying to decypher all the lyrics, wondering if you meant something else from some of the songs. maybe she was going crazy. what should she answer? there wasn’t enough words to tell you how much she loved it.

she knew exactly what would, though. so she made you a playlist too. but she didn’t send you, not yet. she wanted to see your reaction, your face, when she sends you the link. guess this will have to wait till tomorrow.

in the darkness of her childhood bedroom, she falls asleep. between her sick habit and savage starlight posters, the solitude she doesn’t have in her college dorm, and in the loud beats of the playlist you made her, she finds peace. hoping she won’t have sleep paralysis from listening to these songs until she sleeps.

you plop down on your seat. the classroom is still empty, there’s just you and a few people seating on the front rows. apparently, miller left you on read. you wanted to just not care about it cause maybe he just fell asleep? or he was busy?

but you do, already thinking of all the possibilities of what could’ve happened. was it too much? did you overstep? you see someone approaching the seat next to yours. looking up, you see her. ellie.

you haven’t seen her since last friday, when she was kind enough to get your earbud for you. there is something about her that makes you nervous. your gaze meets hers and you smile softly at her.

she almost panicks. she smiles back at you but she’s sure she must look ridiculous, trying hard not to blush or look flustered in your presence. it looks more like a flat smile. but you find it cute anyway.

now what’s up with that? why do i find her cute? you nearly groan in frustration. lately things are… weird. you don’t even know anymore what you are into or not. it’s been consuming you, all this miller and ellie situation. there’s no denying that you are attracted to both of them. but that’s all. surely!

and why does it matter, anyway? just let things happen. thinking like this eases your anxieties a little and you relax in your seat. you check your phone. it’s 8:06 a.m. class is getting full.

taking advantage of the fact that you are on your phone, ellie quickly opens her chat with you and sends you the link of the playlist she made you, shoving her phone back on her bag right away.

she bites down a smile when she hears your gasp.

you can’t believe it. that’s what took him so long to reply? you smile widely, opening it. the title is your name. simple, but it says a lot. there are lots of sick habit. ‘i was made for loving you’ by kiss catches your attention. not as much as ‘wonderwall’ by oasis. you don’t want to make assumptions, but some songs really… speak for themselves.

as you are immersed into the playlist, ellie keeps watching you. she tries to be smooth with it but some students almost laugh at how she’s straight staring at you. the way you can’t stop smiling is enough for her to not give a fuck if anyone sees her like this right now.

but Mr. Barbosa arrives, forcing her — and you, unfortunately — to finally pay attention to class. you steal a few glances at ellie, as time passes. she looks pretty today, too. wearing a forest green long sleeved shirt and skinny jeans. how does she look so good in those?

then, you remember the paper you have yet to finish. turns out it will be part of a bigger project, so you didn’t really have to turn it in last week. but you have to find a partner for it and it can’t be your friends, since they are also majoring in film.

without thinking too much about it, you turn to ellie.

“hey, um… are you doing that project with someone already?”

for a moment, she thought she was dreaming. hearing your voice again, so close to her. your eyes on her. shit, gotta answer.

“no. not yet, are you?” she tries her best to seem nonchalant about it and not act like her heart is about to explode. even if it is.

“no, i was thinking… maybe we could do it together?”

ellie blinks. it hits her like a train. the way you asked it so sweetly, almost like you were shy. she is sure she’s blushing now. this gay shit is so hard. she exhales, lips slightly parted as she manages to get the words out “yeah, sure. cool.”

you chuckle, finding her cute. again. the flat words that came out of her mouth almost too quickly, her pink-tinted cheeks. the way her freckles look when she blushes and how her green eyes widened a bit when you asked her to be your partner.

ellie forces herself to look away from you when you chuckle. or she would drool. her arm accidentally pushes her savage starlight comic to the floor, next to you, which catched your attention.

it happens so fast. when you lean down and touch it, she does it too, at the same time. her fingers brush against yours as you reach for it together. you look up and she is already looking at you. you’ve never been so close to her before. am i stuck in a sapphic tumblr fanfiction or what?

you grab the comic, clearing your throat as you hand it to her. “oh, isn’t it that space comic thing?”

she composes herself, getting it from your hand, murmuring a ‘thank you’. she looks at it, preparing herself to be called a nerd and whatever you might think of people who read these stuff. “yeah, um, it’s really cool.”

“i bet it is… i read one, once. there was this dr. daniela something? she’s badass” you point out.

“dr. daniela star?” she asks, dumbfounded “she is one of my favorite characters!”

“you have great taste then” you chuckle at her enthusiasm and she smiles.

“oh, you haven’t seen anything yet.” did i say that out loud? you always make her feel so comfortable to be herself that she doesn’t realize what is actually coming out of her mouth.

“you could show me, then.” ellie’s not even sure what you are talking about anymore. her brain’s half-melted from the sound of your voice alone. “while we do the project, i would like to hear more about it.”

oh, righttttt. savage starlight. she nods, grinning. “just let me know if i get too carried away.”

you chuckle “i don’t think i would mind. but sure! when are you free to meet up and start it?”

“i’m free after class. i think my roomate won’t be around, so, if it’s okay with you, we can do it there.”

“sounds good, ellie” you smile. and she nearly passes out at her name leaving your lips. “can you give me your number? so we can talk about the details”

shit. shitshitshit. “umm… my number?” she chuckles, nervously. you nod, unaware that you already have it. “i d-don’t have it” she blurts out.

“you don’t have… a phone?” you frown, confused.

oh god kill me now. “yeah! i mean- no! i mean, i do, i just broke it so… it’s broken! very broken.”

“oh… makes sense now” you laugh.

it echoes in her head over and over. what a beautiful sound.

“yeah… but you can go there, like, around 3? i’ll be waiting for you.“

“sure! i’ll be there.”

she smiles at yours words. “great. my dorm’s number is 333.”

tidying up her part of the room was hard. not that she wasn’t organized… well that’s actually the case. don’t get her wrong: ellie hates dirty things. she’s very clean. but when it comes to organizing? it gets messy.

there were a lot of comics spread on her desk, her bed… even one lost in the bathroom. her action figures? everywhere. her roomate, lila, would complain about it all the time. but really, what wouldn’t she complain about?

there were even some papers on the other bed that she just throw into her roomie’s drawer, making sure to put everything in its place. she also made sure that things were clean.

she put the dirty clothes basket into the closet, just to make sure you wouldn’t see it and organized her shelves full of books, comics and action figures.

and you? well, there you are. dorm 333. at 3 p.m. you take a deep breath, watching the wooden door, like it’s going to knock on itself. you don’t even know why you are so nervous. you are just going to start your project. relax, damn.

taking a deep breath, you knock. from the other side of the door, ellie murmurs a rushed ‘shit’ and tries to compose herself. when she opens it, you take in her figure. her auburn mullet is half up, she is wearing a black tight long sleeved top and grey sweatpants. minecraft socks on her feet.

she looks so good you have to stop yourself from staring and looking like a creep. her toned arms can be noticed due to the tight fabric of the shirt, hugging them perfectly, and you feel dizzy. gladly, you snap out of it “hi! nice socks”

ellie laughs, cheeks blushing slightly. crap, i forgot those were on. “yeah, well, i am very stylish. as you can see.” she gives you some space, gesturing for you to come in.

“of course. you gotta remember me when you become the it girl on new york’s fashion week.” you tease.

she scoffs, playfully. like i could ever forget about you. you just stare at each other for a second and she rubs the back of her neck, nervous. “i’d lose my mind with all that attention.”

like she’s almost doing right now, alone with you. your attention is all on her. “you don’t like attention, huh?” you chuckle, looking around her dorm.

it’s so easy to say which half is hers. the wall is full of posters, from nirvana to savage starlight ones. her bed is kind of messy, the fuzzy spider-man blanket all wrinkled.

“depends on who’s attention i’m getting.” her tone is… silky, but it hits you hard and you look at her face. there’s a hint of a smirk on her lips. a shiver runs down your spine. is she flirting with me?

did i just flirt with her?! she facepalms herself mentally, plopping down on her bed while she holds your gaze, trying to look nonchalant. but she is not. her brain is almost turning off. she’s fidgeting her fingers.

“only selected people have the honour of you liking their attention, then?” you chuckle, seating next to her. your thighs brush and ellie swears she might pass out.

her knee bounces once before she catches herself. stop it. act normal. you are warm and she can feel it even with your clothes’s fabric in the way. “you could say that.” she grabs her laptop, putting it on her lap.

“am i one of them?” you ask, teasingly. her heart nearly stops. she didn’t expect you to be so bold. but she likes it. a lot. her grip on the electronic device tightens, but you don’t notice.

what you notice is how her already pink-tinted cheeks darken even more. you like the effect you have on her. isn’t it funny how miller didn’t even cross your mind, not even once? well, that is until you spot a sick habit cd on her desk.

“oh my god!” you say as you get up and she thanks the universe for not having to answer to your question. she would stutter so hard. “you like them too?”

she watched you, smiling at your enthusiasm. after all, she is the one who recommended them to you. “i love them. they are my favorite band.”

“you are really… something else, ellie.” your words are genuine. you just think she is so cool. and cute. and pretty. and just… not afraid to be herself? like, using minecraft socks or reading comic books during class. telling you how the song you were listening to was good.

if ellie knew you perceived her that way, she would go crazy. how can you see herself for what she truly is when all she does is try to stay low and not catch anyone’s attention in college? how can you understand her when you know how she is outside of that place too?

“have you met you?” is all she manages to say. from admiring you from her seat since she saw you for the first time in class, to really getting to know you, she couldn’t help herself. she was really falling for you, deeper and deeper. im fucked.

you smile widely at her. like you did earlier in class, when she sent you the playlist. her heart aches on her chest. you put the cd on the player, and ‘of two minds’ by sick habit starts to play.

“it’ll be more fun if we do it listening to them, don’t you think?” you tilt your head slightly, asking her. you sit next to her on her bed again.

she couldn’t say no to you. not when you were right there, next to her. not when she could feel your thigh against hers. not when she could sense the smell of your shampoo. “definitely.“

“i told you i wanted you to show me how great your taste is. didn’t i?”

the innuendo in your sentence makes her shiver. the tension in the room is palpable. almost too much to bare. you smirk. when you do, her breath hitches in her throat. “ain’t i showing you enough?” she murmurs, hoping that you would say no.

it lingers between you. this feeling, this moment. your closeness. which seems to be increasing by each second. you get lost into her green eyes. they are so… familiar.

she moves her hand towards your face, hesitantly. when it cups you cheek, you lean into her touch. her fingers are calloused, but the way they caress your skin is soft. there isn’t a second where your eyes leave hers, or hers leave yours.

her heart is racing so fast. she wanted to do that for so long. to feel your skin, to touch you. to have you this close. to see your eyes sparkling at her, the way it does now. at her, truly. not at her in the cd shop where you think she’s a guy. it feels surreal.

until her dorm’s door is yanked open and her roomate barges in, startling both of you. as you get away from each other, lila doesn’t even look at you, apparently looking for something on her bed.

hiding your frustration, you just keep quiet. you almost kissed ellie. should you feel bad? because you really don’t. yes you’ve been talking to someone… flirting with him. exchanging playlists. but it’s nothing serious yet. right?

ellie sighs “what the fuck, lila?” she puts her laptop down on the bed, a hand in her heart as she recovers from it. from you.

“i forgot my essay. shit, where is it? did you touch what was on my bed, ellie?” her rude tone made you frown.

“yeah, it’s in your drawer.” she gets up to open the drawer she referred to, but the other girl rushes in and opens it herself.

“don’t ever touch my things again.” lila says, grabbing her papers and slamming the door when she leaves.

there’s a beat of silence.

“she’s so lovely.” you say, breaking the ice. ellie laughs, coming back to her bed, next to you. she’s so pretty when she laughs.

“yeah, um, i didn’t think she would show up. sorry about that…”

you squeeze her shoulder gently, as if to comfort her. “it’s not your fault. don’t worry.”

her anxieties crumble when you do that. she takes a deep breath, trying not to focus on your touch so much. she smiles at you. “right. for the project, um, have you made the first part?”

as you started talking about the project and what you had in mind for it, both of you tried ignoring the tension that never seemed to fade away. every excuse you had for touching each other was being taking advantage of.

like when you showed her some references of what you thought would be good, leaning closer to her to show it on the laptop’s screen. or when she asked you for one of your colorful markers to sketch something in her journal and her touch on your finger lingered for a little longer.

not to mention the way you were staring at each other, the eye contact almost making you go insane. the little shy chuckles that left your mouths. ellie needed to breathe or else she would do something stupid.

every second she spent next to you, every glance you threw her way, every accidental brush of your hands. it was like something was being carved into her, slowly, softly, permanently.

and when you laughed at one of her dumb jokes about how the main character in savage starlight would be a terrible film director, she couldn’t help but smile like an idiot.

you made her feel like she was in orbit, like everything else was just distant starlight, and you were the only thing real and glowing.

at some point, the work stopped being the focus. pages sat open, notes abandoned mid-sentence. the music played on, faintly into the background, the sound of your heartbeats louder to your ears.

you caught her staring again and she looked away quickly, biting her lip. "you are really bad at pretending you're not staring" you teased softly.

ellie choked on a laugh "says you."

you grinned, leaning back on your hands, your thigh still pressed to hers. “fair enough.”

another silence. not a bad one. just a moment where you both are too lost on each other and at the growing feeling that makes your stomaches twist. in the dim light of her dorm, she aches at the way you shine at her.

“hey, um, i am gonna go to the bathroom real quick.” she announces. you nod, briefly looking up at her and flashing her a smile.

her sleeves were pushed up slightly and you could see something on her right arm. her inked skin. you were not sure what the drawing was, but it was definitely a tattoo. sometimes you thought about how many similarities she has with… no. stop, you are being crazy.

you rest against the wall, still sitting on the same spot of her bed. you run your hand through the fuzzy blanket to ground yourself. but it accidentaly touches something hard under her pillow. you frown.

deciding to see what it is, you lift the pillow and you see it. her phone. the broken one? doesn’t seem broken at all. what if im not being crazy? is the question that keeps popping in your head.

those were just… coincidences. right? you didn’t even see ellie’s full tattoo. many people gets tattoos on their right arm! that’s normal. and her eyes… well miller is not the only person allowed to have green eyes. obviously.

you shouldn’t be checking her phone. it’s her personal stuff. but you do. you click the button on its right side and the screen lits up. there’s a song already halfway through. it’s paused. you recognize it, ‘californication’ by red hot chili peppers.

it’s a banger. everybody listen to it, don’t they? so what if you put that into the playlist you made for miller? it doesn’t mean anything.

until it does. when you skip to the next song, it’s ‘pour some sugar on me’ by def leppard. the next one? ‘cherry waves’ by deftones. no…

you are on the verge of breaking down. you open your spotify, searching for the playlist. your fingers tremble as you click on it. you check the order. it’s the same. it can’t be.

you skip again. ‘even flow’ by pearl jam. the first tear falls. you go backwards, seeing if the song before californication is what you think it is. you check it on your phone first.

then, you touch the button to the previous song on her phone. ‘heart-shaped box’ by nirvana. that’s all the confirmation you need.

so many feelings rush through your body. it’s overwhelming. embarassment, betrayal, humiliation… it’s too much. the tension snapped and took you with it.

as ellie finishes cleaning her face and taking deep breaths, she hears some noises. she can’t identify what they are. so she opens the door to her room.

you are not there anymore. what is, though? her phone. what is this doing here? i though i hid-

that’s when she knows. you found out.

previous

taglist!

thank you for the support babes, hope you like it 💘

@vahnilla @liztreez @hyperbabes @lybbay @coeurcanelle @desiretolive @b1uecatt @moonystoes @eriiwaiii2 @daughterofthemoons-stuff @uraesthete @machetegirl109 @snuffphiliaa @robinphobia @na0koz @ellies-real-wife @vivzzi @wtvm0m0 @lesoulew @violetszn

[asce-of-hearts]

milf reader and barely legal gojo blehhhhh, not proofread!!!!!!!!

Barely Legal!Gojo who uses his first day as an adult going bar hopping, getting so drunk he's kissing everything and everyone.

Barely Legal!Gojo who gets dared by Suguru to go and talk to the gorgeous, curvy and very obviously older woman who is dancing with her friends, a fucking MILF. Who is so drunk he doesn't hesitate as he stumbles your way.

Barely Legal!Gojo who can't lie when asked about his age. Who feels disappointed when the only thing you allow him to do is buy you a drink, or two, or twelve.

Barely Legal!Gojo who feels himself getting hard when you cling to his arm and whisper to him sweetly: "I wish you were like eight years older so I could flirt with you properly."

Barely Legal!Gojo who lets all coherent thoughts leave his mind as he turns to kiss you, not caring if the bar is full, he will be groping you over your dress.

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this is a mess idk idk idk

Gojo M.List

TAGGING: @sunnymmoon @lilithlunas @imvivian @eroscastle @goldenglow149

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[azulpitlane]

we cant be friends ii l fc43

summary: after months of hiding your pregnancy, one mistake ruins your peace notes: this is kinda chaotic idk how to feel about it lol

part one masterlist

july 2025

🔒yourusername

346 likes

yourusername quick baby bump update at the six month mark💘🎀

view all comments

user your bump omg!!! so cute

user ur having a girl whattt🥹🥹🥹

user missing u in argentina <3

user you were born to be a girl mom🩷

alexpriv i took two out of three of these pictures. i feel like the father.

yourusername um you literally are the father of my child tho??

alexpriv considering im the one who goes out to buy your weird cravings, i might as well be!

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yourusername posted stories

317 views

alexpriv did you go out alone? i wouldve gone with u babes

yourusername actually😬😬😬 i accepted francos mom’s offer to eat lunch together

alexpriv um what

yourusername …and i told her about the baby

alexpriv um WHAT

yourusername i cant lie to her!! shes like my second mom :( she didnt ask who the father was though so i didnt mention it either

alexpriv oh gosh is she gonna tell franco?

yourusername she said she wont. she knows we dont talk anymore, she just doesnt know why. ig franco didnt tell her about everything

alexpriv of course he didnt🙄🙄

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f1

1,529,258 likes

f1 BREAKING: Franco Colapinto will race for BWT Alpine for the remainder of the 2025 season. He will be replacing Jack Doohan starting at the Belgian Grand Prix.

view all comments

user yay he’ll have money to support the baby

user this couldnt have been announced at a worse time😭

user wait why ?? am i late to the gossip

user girl go on twitter. everybodys freaking out saying he impregnanted his best friend

user WHAT SHSHSKSLSL

user someone posted a picture of his mom and his best friend (who he was always shipped with) and she was definitely pregnant

user twitter is nothing compared to the argentinean gossip shows, theyre milking tf out of this rumor

user they on twitter saying hes a baby daddy

user alpine pr had to come up with something real quick!

user congratulations on the promotion! oh and the baby🍼🍼

user guys what if franco is not the father…

user omg that would be so embarrassing for everyone in these comments

user nah that would be hilarious😭😭

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yourusername posted stories

243 views

alexpriv you are SO unserious😭

yourusername babes my life is falling apart! humor is the only thing getting me through

alexpriv should we just run away to a different country again?

yourusername yes! i heard canada is nice!

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🔒yourusername

294 likes

yourusername life is too chaotic. im just gonna sleep until i have to give birth brb

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user girl see u in three months i guess

user gonna miss ur baby bump updates🥹

alexpriv oh when i told u to get off your phone you actually took that seriously LOL

yourusername in my selena gomez era and deleting all social medias bye

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november 2025

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alpinef1team

425,294 likes

alpinef1team Alpine F1 Team Statement.

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user man what is going on with colapinto this season? he's barely scoring points, now this?

user at this point just give doohan his seat back🤣

user i thought briatore said they were going to move on from these "distractions" ?? why is he missing a race now?

user and when we needed him the most, he vanished😔

user so unfair!! do you know how many fans flew out to see him race??

user wow everyone is being so insensitive, it clearly states family emergency!! all other drivers would choose their family over racing!!

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yourusername posted a story

342 views

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yourusername posted a story

304 views

alexpriv i leave you two alone for a few hours and now he's laying down in MY bed😒

yourusername LOL to be fair, i was the one that told him to get some rest

alexpriv um what the hell ?? you are being too nice to that man

yourusername that man is unfortunately the father of my child

alexpriv wasnt much of a father these past nine months

yourusername trust me I KNOW. but honestly right now im just happy lucia is healthy and perfect, i don't want to deal with the drama right now

alexpriv ill deal with it on your behalf and get him out of there.

yourusername 😭😭 don't worry ill let you kill him another time for now im just gonna nap

alexpriv WAIT I NEED A DEBRIEF OF YOUR CONVERSATION WITH HIM AFTER I LEFT THE ROOM

alexpriv HELLO??

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🔒yourusername

429 likes

yourusername little lucia💘

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user oh my god she's perfect!! congratulations bby

user lucia omg❤️ beautiful name for a beautiful baby

user i cannot wait for you to bring her home!! gonna shower her with gifts

alexpriv OMFG I LOVE HER SO MUCH ALREADY I WOULD KILL FOR HER

alexpriv so honored to be her godmother <3 im still crying

alexpriv okay but that debrief though...

yourusername ill text u rn dummy😭

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francolapinto

liked by lando, pierregasly and 2,490,245 others

francolapinto ❤️

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user I KNEW IT OMG

user HELLO?

user he missed the race to be at the birth🥹

user honestly i applaud you for being able to keep this a secret

user Y/N X FRANCO TRUTHERS WE WON

user and they called us crazy for believing these rumors

lando congratulations mate!

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epilogue out now ♡‧₊˚

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(im so disorganized when it comes to tags, if i missed u i apologize😵‍💫)

tags: @toldyouitwasamelodrama @hc-dutch @96mcobo @formulaal @aleatorio1234 @kayleighlovesf1 @angelluv16 @hadids-world @landossainz @flowerpotterr @eclipsedcherry @weekendlusting @freyathehuntress @irisesinthegarden @bravo-delta-eccho @kissesandmartinis @mrs-reeves-17 @dancerbailey3 @chlmtfilms @oopsalltropes @mayax2o07 @htpssgavi @janhavichauhan @luvrrish @widow-cevans @ellelabelle @kaztheemyth @mclarenswag @1800-love-me @czennieszn @unstablefemme @formula-ghost @ajordan2020 @parkerloves @ivegotparticulartaste @oiiiiiijhhhvcfxc @riverjane-d @rendezvoushn @taeraeshii @kravitzwhore @sunshine-and-midnight-rain @blackmage24 @marijas-stuff

[oofmybad]

Overdramatic

synopsis: billie comforts you after you have an overdramatic breakdown over something very trivial.

warning: billiexfem!reader, fluff, very mild/trivial angst, comfort

a/n: consider this my autobiography lolol. i legit just burst into tears cuz my light wouldn’t turn off. i’m… having a quarterlife crisis 😃

~~~~~

today has been one of those that takes extra strength to get through. there’s nothing *actually* wrong, but nothing is going right, either.

first you stubbed your toe. it hurt, but no big deal. next, your coffee burnt your tongue so now all you eat is tarnished with the sting of your morning brew.

you got through most of the day with no other mishaps, but this would soon come to an end. everything has just been so much lately - nothing seeming to go right.

you have a good life, yet you remain deeply dissatisfied with it. for no reason at all. unsure of where this deep unsettle comes from, you’re left searching for stabilities in others. relying on your friends to distract you from your tortured state. always reading self-help book after self-help book to try and enlighten some sense of clarity.

nothing.

so when your mother started harping on at you about something you forgot to do, you feel the tension rising to your shoulders. your face growing with a warm flush as hot tears pool at your waterline.

you manage to swallow them back down - intending on going to sleep to distract yourself from the unease. but this is where disaster struck.

you go to turn off the light and wind down for bed. you press the light switch once, twice, three times to no avail. the light remains on depspite your pushing.

you walk over to the other lightswitch, hoping that this one will follow your commands. you frantically press on the tab, feverishly begging it to listen to you.

“oh my god, what the FUCKKK!” you yell out, stilll fiddling with the light switch. but it pays you no mind. the bright, overhead, flourescent lights remain on. overwhelming your senses with their clinical nature.

you hit the switch one final time, putting in all your might - as though force will change the inanimate objects mind - to slam the light switch off.

nothing.

tears pool in your eyes, the warm flush from earlier returning to your cheeks as you drop to your knees - allowing the tears to fall from your eyes. your cheeks sting with the salty streaks, and your ribs ache from their tight constriction.

you let out a loud, primal groan - pushing all of your frustration out of your chest and into the air around you. after your release, your shoulders shake with all that’s left in them.

suddenly, out of nowhere, you feel a hand on your shoulder. your head whips up to look to your right. there, your beautiful girlfriend is sat there, crouched next to your body.

“what happened, my love? what’s wrong?” billie asks you, her tone low and gentle. her voice is filled with concern, and her eyes say what her mouth doesn’t.

“the light-“ you choke on your own sobs, “the light won’t turn off.” you squeeze your eyes shut, a tear falling from each eye.

“but why are you crying?” billie pushes, confused why such a minor mishap has gotten you in this state.

“everything is wrong, the light is too bright and it’s overwhelming me, my mom won’t stop nagging me, i don’t know what i’m doing, nothing makes sense anymore” you pause your rambling to take a deep, laboured breath, “and my tongue is burnt!” you yell out as you finally collapse on the floor, your legs giving out from underneath you.

“aww my baby, one thing at a time. ok, love?” billie coos at you. her hand stroking your shoulderblade. she moves her legs so that she’s sat down next to you on the floor and pulls your head onto her lap, cradling you cheek.

you continue to sob, letting everything that’s been building up inside of you out.

“just breathe, ok? you’re ok, mama” billie whispers, her thumb caressing your cheek.

“i’m not. i’m a mess. i’m just some twenty-something with nothing going for her. i had all this potential going for me and it’s all gone. i just spend everyday sitting waiting for the next to come. and all my good years are in the past. i’m fucked” you ramble on and on, your face tucked in billie’s tear-soaked hoodie.

“ah, so it’s not the light” billie giggles.

“i know i’m a joke but stop laughing at me!” you sarcastically giggle out through your own fit of tears.

“my love, you’re not wasted potential. you’re so young and you have so much going for you. you’re the smartest person i’ve ever met... but don’t tell finneas” she reassures you. her face sending you a sympathetic pout.

“you have to say that ‘cause your my girlfriend” you argue, sobs still shaking your voice.

“i don’t have to say anything. you know i like to say whatever the hell i want, mama” billie says, trying to make you laugh in any way possible. but you’re not there yet. not ready to be self-afacing.

“why don’t we sleep in the spare room tonight? hmm?” billie suggests. you simply nod in return, eager to not have to deal with flourescent lighting all night long.

“come on, lets get you to sleep. you’ll feel better tomorrow.” she reaches for your hands, standing up and pulling you up with her. she wraps her hand around your waist as you walk through the bedroom to the bathroom.

you still have tears falling, but you’re not as overcome with emotion. as you two approach the sink, billie grabs hold of your hips and lifts you onto the counter. she picks out both of your toothbrushes and puts toothpaste on each of them.

handing you your own, you begin to brush your teeth. but in even a moment of silence, the thoughts begin to flood your head again and you break out in sobs once again.

“aw, angel” billie says with a full mouth before leaving her toothbrush in between her teeth and taking yours in her hand. she brushes your teeth for you, delicately scrubbing your teeth of the day’s dirt.

once she’s completed yours, she finishes off brushing her own teeth and puts the rinsed brushes back in their place. billie leaves you behind on the counter to walk into the bedroom.

“where are you going, bil?” you call out after her.

“just to get pjs, don’t worry darl” she shouts back from the other room. with two big shirts in hand, she approaches you and strips you of your day clothes, carelessly abandoning them on the floor for another time. she wraps you up in one of her big cotton shirts before hoisting you off of the counter.

“c’mon, let’s get you to bed” billie leads you down the hall to the guest bedroom and turns down the sheets for your entrance.

she pats along your whole body, tucking you in like a burrito - just how you like it. your body is confined to the sheets in the most comforting way possible. billie crawls over your body and climbs in next to you. under the sheets, her hand reaches for yours.

“it’ll all be ok, you know? i know you feel like some twenty-something mess, but you’re not. i see so much good for you. and i promise you, i will love you through the good AND the bad” she pecks your cheek.

“now i’m gonna cry from you being so sweet” you giggle as a few tears escape your eyes, landing on the pillow below your head. billie catches the new tears threatening to spill with her thumb.

“i love you, baby. thank you for looking after me”

“always.”

[snzunii]

love wins all | chapter three ( satoru g. )

from childhood summers and petty high school banters, to the endless college lectures—med school and the chaos of residency, you've been through it all. you've built everything together. you're each other's home—everything. but what if your relationship breaks beyond repair? what if the one thing you couldn't save was each other? can your love still win it all?

neurosurgeon!gojo x trauma surgeon!reader

warnings. romance, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, hurt no comfort, fluff, medical au, established relationships, high school sweethearts, unresolved feelings, unresolved issues, grief, emotional repression, mutual pining, emotional trauma, childhood trauma, explicit sexual content | eighteen plus only!

word count. 6.1k

masterlist.

note. hi, chapter three is here. aaaa i've been writing this since yesterday. lol anyway, close your eyes for errors or some mistakes. i just wrote what i've learned in our neuro topic last week (i want to collapse) also, i'm going to start a taglist for this on the next chapter. just send an ask or comment if you wanted to be added (not adding blogs that doesn't have visible age anywhere on their blogs, sorry)

i hope u enjoy this chapter. reblogs are always appreciated! <3 lovelots

CHAPTER THREE: STILL WITH YOU

It has been two days since that incident in the on-call room. Since Satoru punched your Dad. You don’t actually know if you’ll be mad—or grateful. Because for one, your Dad deserved that, not just for pushing you to do this surgery but for… everything. Or mad, because Satoru’s outburst could cause him everything that he worked hard for to get here. 

It was frustrating, really. 

You haven’t spoken properly since that day. Not about what it meant for your relationship and what happens next. You’re not even sure if you still wanted that divorce you asked him.

You’ve been passing by each other in the hallway, other times you can see him glancing at you at the cafeteria but neither says a word. Besides, he’s busy doing something in his lab and he’s been packed with surgeries (not that you’re checking up on him—okay, fine. you are.) and the pit is a busy place, as usual—and Dr. Yamada left you a bunch of cardiothoracic cases to do while she’s gone. 

Including this one.

“Hey, how are we doing here?” you smiled a little, stepping inside the room of your patient—the one your father forced you to operate on—the woman you fought so hard to save.

“Dr. Gojo!” she has a big smile on her face, “Thank you! Thank you so much!”

You just gave her a slight nod, checking on her vitals—the usual routine check-up. So far, everything’s holding. She’s doing fine. 

“You’re doing so well. Let’s keep it that way, okay?” you say adjusting her IV line slightly, pulling the blanket over her chest, your voice wasn’t soft—but it isn’t unkind either. That’s how it is supposed to be, setting boundaries but enough to show that you care.

Not too attached, but not that detached either. 

You can’t involve yourself too much in a patient—especially this one. Your eyes hover her figure for a fraction of a second and your chest aches. “I heard the other nurses call that tall doctor—the one with white hair, Dr. Gojo too, are you related to him?”

You paused for a moment, and you nod. “Yeah, he’s my husband.”

“Oh! Really?!” she gasped in delight, “That’s so cute! You’re like a power-couple doctor! That’s so sweet.”

You just hummed, you hesitated a bit but then you crouched at her level. “I have to go now. No lifting heavy things. No stress—none of that at all. Rest, eat healthy and stay hydrated. Okay?”

Ayumi nods enthusiastically, before you could even step out the door she thanked you again. You smiled at her, “Dr. Ieiri will be here soon to check on you and your…”

You bit your lip but you steadied yourself, “Your baby… I’ll see you soon.”

—

“Hey.” you peek at the door and you see Ieiri typing something on her computer, she looked up, and you barged in her office, sinking yourself in her couch.

“Hey, yourself. What’s the occasion? Why did the Chief of Trauma grace me with her presence today?” she smirked, sitting beside you.

You just snorted, resting your head on the backrest of the couch. “Just wanted to see my friend.”

Ieiri mimicked your position, “Heard you filed for divorce.”

“Satoru told you?”

“No, Suguru did.” she looked at you, “You won’t really go through with it, right? I mean, come on, it’s you and Satoru…”

You don’t know. You wanted to save Satoru from yourself but everything that you’ve decided doesn’t feel right. 

You closed your eyes, sighing. “To be honest, it’s so hard. I can’t keep on doing this to him. I’m so afraid.”

“Afraid of?”

You swallowed, the words stuck on your throat and they wouldn’t come out. How would you even explain it? How would you tell her something so illogical? Something you’re not sure is fixable?

You felt pathetic—it’s just words but it was so hard. It was so hard to open up because you always feel that it’ll be a burden—that you’ll just add to something. 

Shoko didn’t press, she just sat there because maybe that’s what you needed. Because she knows you. 

After a beat, she speaks, “It’s okay to be afraid, YN. But being afraid doesn’t equate to pushing someone away. Especially someone who’ll watch the world burn into flames for you.”

You tilted your head a little to glance at her, her words etched on your mind like a branding. “He loves you. We’ve seen it firsthand. You both are literally so annoying.”

You chuckled, remembering the times where they’ll roll their eyes because they can't take how affectionate Satoru is to you—because he loves like that, he doesn’t care who sees, he loves you so passionately that he’ll bend all the laws of nature for you. 

“I know you think you’re shielding him from the pain by leaving but it’ll just hurt you both more.”

You breathe, soaking in the words that she’s saying, letting it sit heavy on your chest. Because she’s right and you hated how easily she could read you. 

“You can let yourself need him.” she looks at you and smiles faintly, “You save everyone but yourself, you can do that by letting him in.”

You could feel your heart pound slowly—loudly, feeling her words settle in. You weren’t supposed to need anyone—that’s how you were raised, you were supposed to survive on your own.

But with Shoko saying all these—maybe needing him doesn’t make you weak, maybe pushing him away is what’s pulling you apart even more.

—

With a coffee on your hand, and a tablet on the other you stride in the hallway along with Miwa and Kugisaki trailing you like lost puppies. They clutch their notebooks on their hands like they’re life is hanging on a balance.

“Miwa. Present.” you say without sparing them a glance. 

“Mr. Ito, 54 years old, post-op day three from an emergent CABG. His vitals are holding, chest tubes have minimal output overnight. No new complaints.” Miwa says.

“So?” you look at Nobara, “What do we do next?”

“Refer him to physical therapy for early mobilization and breathing exercises. Then monitor for any signs of infection.”

“Good.” you say, they smile at each other—like satisfying you made their day, but why would you stop there? You raise your brow, “And why exactly do we initiate early ambulation for post-cardiac surgery?”

Miwa jumps in, “To prevent pneumonia and DVT.”

“Good.” you say, “And what if the chest tube shows fresh blood?”

They pause for a bit, carefully thinking the next words to say to you. Your face turns blank, the tablet thuds as you drop it on the counter. “Come on, tell me. Teach me like I’m a first-year. Kugisaki.”

“Huh?” she jumps a bit, “It’s an emergency. Possible—”

“Miwa.” you cut her off.

Miwa flips through her notebook, “Check for possible surgical site bleeding or cardiac tamponade.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes?”

You clicked your tongue, “Is that a question or an answer?”

“Yes—I mean, yes—it’s an answer.”

“Good, next time, don’t second guess. Always be sure, you’re holding a life in your hands. Come on.”

You pick the tablet up again and turned away, you continue walking. They share glances with each other before scrambling up to follow you.

“Has she always been like this?” Nobara whispered to Miwa, the latter nudged her shoulder as a warning but it’s no use because you heard her anyway but you didn’t say anything. 

“But I heard she’s not… always like this. You know.” Miwa answered her, eyes glancing on your back, making sure you aren’t already shooting daggers their way.

“Maybe it’s because of Dr. Gojo—I mean, other Dr. Gojo—like, have you seen them at all together? I heard they were together ever since pre-med or something?”

You pursed your lips as you ignore them or at least try to. They’re not very good at whispering. 

“No.” Miwa says. “I heard they’re together ever since high school.”

“Whaaaat? That’s so—”

They both stopped walking when you stopped walking, the girls almost bumping on your back. 

You know you heard his voice—sharp, loud—mad, just a few walks along the hallway.

“Are you thinking? At all?” you continued walking, staying behind the nurses’ station, “You think playing it safe will make you a hero?!”

Satoru’s mad. Really mad. You’d never seen him this mad—well no, you’ve only seen him this mad once—it was med school, you think. But he was worse back then.

“You’re being reckless, Gojo! You think cutting into him now is smart?! You’ll fucking kill him!” Dr. Yoshida fired back—his senior neurosurgeon.

For a moment you just stood there. No, it wasn’t your business. 

Someone will step in, someone will stop them. You tap your foot on the floor—getting restless, clutching the tablet on your hand and your coffee discarder on the counter.

“You know what I think? You’re a fucking coward—” 

And it just happened, his fist came flying to your husband’s face. 

You saw Satoru’s head whip to the side violently, you didn’t even have time to react, you just moved—shoving the tablet to Miwa or Nobara—you don’t know who, you don’t care. 

You ran towards them tossing yourself in between, “THAT’S ENOUGH!”

You shouted—loud, angry—your voice dominated the whole floor, bouncing off the walls. 

Everyone stopped moving. You can see the look on Satoru’s features—slightly shocked. You grasp on Satoru’s arm and drag him to the nearest empty room until you’re out of sight, slamming the door behind you.

Not caring what they say. Not minding the whispers that comes your way. 

“Holy shit.” Nobara whispered to Miwa with wide eyes, watching you pull Satoru away from prying eyes like he’s a scared little kid.

“Yeah, holy shit. I didn’t think she could be any more scarier.”

—

Satoru wasn’t looking at you, but you stared at him—his hair a mess, his lower lip busted and your heart clenched at the sight. 

He was still simmering with anger, you could tell. 

You were silent for a moment, until you took a deep breath and moved to the counter to get the first aid kit. Satoru sat on the exam bed and watched you silently, his heartbeat gradually steadying from the intense emotions that he was feeling. 

How do you look so… calm now? Your emotions were in contrast to what you were earlier. This is why he couldn’t let you go, and why he wouldn’t.

You still care for him. You still love him—deeply.

You face him, holding his chin in between your fingers to steady his face then you press the cotton on his lip. He flinched and you clicked your tongue, “Don’t move.”

Your voice was soft, nothing like earlier. You cleaned the wound carefully. There was just comfortable, familiar silence between you. No one dared to say anything.

He just watched you, burning your image in his mind—scared that if he blinked for even just a second, you'd slip away. Your brows slightly furrowed, your lips tight. Until you spoke, “What were you thinking? Another fight in just two days? Are you really throwing your career away?”

He didn’t answer, instead, he clutched on your hip to pull you close, arm circling around your waist as he leaned his forehead on your shoulder—grounding himself. You could feel his body tremble slightly as he breathed, maybe from the anger. Or Exhaustion.

You froze just for a bit. You sigh, putting the cotton down. There’s hesitation in every move that you're making but you shrugged it off. Your fingers ran through his soft hair, your other hand soothing his back gently.

“I don’t care what I lose.” he murmured, “But don’t ask me to lose you because I couldn’t do that.”

Your breath hitched and your heart pounds, why is he doing this to you?

You don’t know what you were thinking but all the words just came out of your mouth. Slowly, not a hint of hesitation but assurance. “You’re… not. I’m yours, Satoru. You couldn’t lose me.”

Because it’s true. You’ve always been his. 

─── MARCH, 2011 ───

The sun casts a soft glow on your skin as you look up, a smile adorned on your face—your hair, dancing slightly along with the wind. 

It’s your graduation day.

You’ve made it. You never thought you’d survive the endless college lectures—all the tears you’ve spent, all the late-night study sessions, but you’ve made it—you survived it all, and you didn’t think you would if not for him.

Satoru. Your best friend, your boyfriend—standing there, smiling as he watched you. You looked at him and jumped on his arms, he spun you around, letting out a laugh when you raised your arms into the air, “We made it!”

“God, you’re so embarrassing.” Shoko says and you just stuck your tongue out at her when Satoru settled you down.

“Congratulations, you two!” you both looked at the person who spoke, it was Satoru’s mother. You smiled, she immediately went in your direction and embraced you—instead of his own son, who is now frowning.

“Really?” Satoru says, “Hello? I’m your son.”

His father laughs lightly, tapping Satoru’s back. “She’s always been your mom’s favorite. Aren’t you used to it by now?”

You laughed at that, pulling away from her slightly to look at your boyfriend, “Don’t worry, you’re my favorite though.”

“As you should. Because I’m proposing to you today.” he says so casually that you almost choked on your saliva.

You blinked, pulling away from his mother. Your voice almost whispers,  “What?”

And before you could even process what he just said, he was already kneeling in front of you. You looked at his mom and dad—his mom, smiling, nodding at you to tell you that it’s real.

He is proposing, right now. Today. 

He didn’t care who was looking—your classmates, your professors—Satoru’s always been like this. There’s not a sliver of care in his body when it comes to you. 

Satoru looked up at you, smiling as he laid out a small, velvet box in front of you. “Marry me.”

He didn’t need any big speeches because you already know it all.

You laughed, tears welling up in your eyes, because he’s not asking—he’s telling. You bite your lip, before nodding. “Yes… yes, I’ll marry you.”

The whole place erupted into applause, you swore you heard Shoko shouting ‘Finally!’ and all you could do was snort back a laugh. Satoru stood up quickly, slipping the ring into your finger—a little nervous if it’ll fit your finger—but it did.

So perfectly. 

“Now, you’re stuck with me.” he laughs, pulling you in. You smiled and buried your face into his neck. “I love you.”

You pulled back a bit, he tucked the strands of your hair behind your ear, wiping the tears from your eyes using his thumb, “I love you, Satoru.”

—

The diner was quiet, just a few people eating inches away from the corner booth where you sat—the four of you, still dressed in your gowns laughing about something mundane over burgers, milkshakes and fries.

“When’s the wedding? Tomorrow? Next week?” Shoko teased, her elbow propped  on the table, her cheek resting on her palm. 

“God, you two are going to be even more unbearably annoying now, are you?” Suguru groaned dramatically as he slouched on the chair, earning a laugh from Satoru while you scrunch your nose. 

Your thumb brushing over your finger where your engagement ring sits over and over—making yourself believe that this is in fact, real. You’re engaged to the love of your life.

That you get to spend your whole  life with him. It’s fucking real.

Satoru slung an arm around you, pulling you close to him. “My god, it’s starting.”

“Hey!” you pursed your lip, “We’re not that bad!”

“Not? That? Bad?” Shoko emphasizes every word, rolling her eyes, “You can’t even last five minutes without eyeing each other. Give me a break.”

And to annoy them even more, you faced Satoru and cupped his cheek—pressing your lips against him, moving your lips slowly, deliberately.  You could feel Satoru grin into the kiss, and to add fuel to the fire, he pulled you close until you’re practically sitting on his lap.

You both stopped when Suguru threw a fry on Satoru’s head, “Gross. We’re eating.”

─── MAY, 2011 ───

It has been two months since graduation, and only a month left until your board exams for physical therapy licensure. Of course, you’d both want to be licensed even though you’re going straight to medical school in September. 

“Love.” Satoru called for you, walking in the hallway of your apartment with two coffees in his hand. “I’m back.”

But no response from you. 

“YN?”

He walked towards the dining area where you both usually study—yes, you’re still studying. The board exams are looming over your head, even though you’ve wanted so badly to take a break—just a little bit more, you’ll get the rest that you needed, but not now.

Satoru turned to the corner towards the dining room, then he stopped just before he was to enter. There you are, slumped down at the dining table, your head resting on your arms. Papers are scattered everywhere, you were still holding some of the flashcards in your hands and some already fell on the table. 

He smiled, watching you—you looked so tired, and yet you’re still so beautiful. His eyes fell on your hand, the ring on your finger glinted under the lights. 

And it suddenly hit him, you’re his fiancée—soon, his wife. God, he gets to call you his wife. How lucky is he?

He walked towards you, carefully pulling the flashcards out of your hands then he pressed a soft kiss on your hair, you stirred a little but didn’t wake. Satoru chuckles and pries the stray strands of your hair away from your face. 

His heart is about to burst just looking at you. What have you done to me?

─── SEPTEMBER, 2014 ───

You stepped into the apartment that you share with Satoru. Your bag dropped carelessly near the table, your exhaustion weighing your body down—you feel like your knees are buckling everytime you walk.

A nice, cold shower would be nice right now—you badly wanted to scrub the hospital smell off you. But you think you’d pass out before you could hop into the shower.

Fuck. Third year of medical school is killing you—it’s all killing you, rounds, pre-rounds, assisting, endless fucking lectures. 

You wanted to collapse on the floor. Just stay there and not move. But even so, you drag yourself into the kitchen to get yourself a cup of cold water but the pile of dishes greets you—is it from yesterday? Or from the day before? You had no idea.

You closed your eyes, inhaling sharply. You clenched your fists and started working on it—washed the dishes, took out the trash, cleaned the counters and swept the floor. You could feel the irritation seep under your skin but you let it slide.

Don’t be mad, you told yourself. Because if you are tired then Satoru is too. 

Don’t start anything. You’re both exhausted.

Afterwards, you walked towards the living room then you saw him, sprawled on the couch with his scrubs still on. He looked so spent,  visible dark circles under his eyes because you both haven’t had a proper sleep in days. 

You can’t get mad, how can you when he looks like this? When you barely see each other? He was just there, in the same hospital you are—in the same space you are but he felt so far away. 

There was a sharp feeling crawling through your chest—irritation? Anger? Exhaustion? 

Maybe all of it but you composed yourself. You turned away to go to your bedroom, determined to take a shower and sleep it off. Maybe it’ll go away. It will.

You rummaged through your drawers, desperate for something decent to wear—but you stare at… nothing.

He promised. He. fucking. promised. You left a text, a post-it note, you reminded him when you bumped into him at the hospital but—god, he didn’t do it. 

All of it hit you at once—the frustration, exhaustion, anger, pain—all of it. It’s just laundry, it’s just fucking laundry but you slammed the drawer a little harder then necessary.

A loud thud echoing through the apartment. 

You just sat there on the floor, taking deep breaths until you heard his voice.

“Love?” you looked at him, his voice hoarse from sleep, “What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong? You wanted to laugh. 

“Nothing.” you muttered, standing up from the floor to go to the bathroom, Satoru followed you, still half-asleep, confused as to what was happening.

You don’t want to fight. You really don’t want to. 

You got the laundry bag from under the sink and started putting the dirty laundry in it—then Satoru muttered a curse—realizing just now that he was supposed to do that. He was supposed to take it to the laundry shop.

“I’m sorry.” he says, walking towards you. “I’ll do it, YN.”

But you didn’t budge, still putting in the laundry. He tried to pry the bag from you but you nudged him away a little harshly.

“I said I’ll do it—”

“Fine! Here!” you slammed it on the floor, your voice sharp—mad, tired. Just plain tired.

“I said I’m sorry. I forgot, I was so tired and I just passed out on the couch.”

“Just stop talking.” you muttered angrily, walking out of the bathroom and sat on the edge of the bed, face pressed on your palms. But Satoru followed you, he crouched down to your level.

“I’m sorry, okay? I had a lot to do—I got caught up in rounds. It ran late and—”

“I don’t fucking care!” you shouted, “I’m tired too, Satoru! I’ve been standing all day. All fucking day! I’ve just finished a 12-hour shift! I’m tired, I’m hungry! I don’t fucking know what I feel anymore! I asked you to do one thing. Just one! Just one thing and you can’t even do it!”

Satoru stood up and took a sharp breath, his figure towering over you. His frustrations bubbling up to the surface, “I’m doing the best that I can, YN! You think you’re the only one who’s tired? Fuck. We’re just the same! I’m fucking exhausted, I just wanted a little bit of rest, was that so bad?!”

This is why you didn’t want to say anything. This is why you didn’t want to fight. 

Because you understood him. Because you knew and you still got mad. 

You hated the way everything was now. Was it supposed to be like this? Would it still be like this when you finished medical school—when you become actual doctors? 

Silence just took over the room—the weight of the things stirring into the atmosphere. Heavy, painful. 

Then you looked up at him and he was staring at you. With those eyes—with those damn blue eyes behind those pretty long lashes that you love so much. That you miss, that you crave for. 

And the next thing you knew his lips were crashing onto yours—hard, desperate, needy—you kissed him back, in the same wavelength, hungrily until breathless gasps replaced the heavy atmosphere, until your clothes were discarded on the floor.

Until your back hit the soft cushion, his figure towering over you again. Your fingers threading through his hair to yank him closer, until you could feel his skin pressed against yours. Until you could feel him inside you—thrusting hard, deep until your sanity was taken away from you that all you could say was his name like a broken player.

You moaned into his mouth when he pressed harder. “I love you,” he growled into your lips, “I fucking love you.”

—

“You still mad at me?” he mumbled, his fingers caressing your hair gently, you squirmed close to him, your head resting on his arm. 

“A little.” you whispered against his skin—too tired to speak, or to even open your eyes. You hear him chuckle, the vibrations travelling into his chest. “But I love you and that trumps it.”

“Good.” he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion. “Because if you hated me then I might’ve cried right now.”

You laughed—a real laugh, your first one in days. “You know I could never hate you. You’re too annoyingly handsome to hate—and I would hate to see you cry. It’ll break my heart.”

“Look at me, huh? I must be a real catch.” he chuckles, his arms tightening around you like he never wanted to let you go. Like he wanted to just stay in this moment and let the world outside of you cease to exist.

“Show-off.” you hummed lazily, sleep taking over you slowly. “Just shut up and sleep, Satoru.”

He moved slightly to pull you closer—your legs were tangled with each other, your breaths getting in sync as you both fell into slumber. But before sleep could consume you fully, you hear him mutter an ‘I love you.’

And just like that your fight vanished into thin air, your frustrations turned into quiet promises that no matter how hard it gets, you’ll always end up back into each other. 

 ─── NOVEMBER, 2014 ───

This was rare for you—no pre-rounds, no case studies to present with a doctor breathing down your neck for once. So you figured, it’d be a good idea to visit your fiancee in the peds floor—just to see him. 

Just so you could breathe even just for a minute.

You wandered through the quiet hallway, the lights buzzing softly. It was already late and there weren't many people in the hospital now, the only people that you see are the night shift nurses in their stations—doing something. You turned the corner to head for the Pediatrics Department when you saw him—in the dim hallway, his knees pressed to his chest, his face buried into his palm.

You don’t miss the way his shoulders shake, and then you hear it—a muffled sob. He wasn’t just crying—he was weeping, uncontrollable gasps coming out of his mouth. 

And your heart immediately sank.

Why was he crying? What’s wrong? You hated seeing him like this—you barely see him in this state because he doesn’t falter that easily, he’s the strongest person you know, and for him to fall apart like this? 

Your steps were light, careful—he didn’t even notice you were there until you called his name. “Satoru.”

He flinched a bit to the sound of your voice, his tear-filled eyes met yours—shock settling in briefly, you weren’t supposed to see him like this. But you crouched down in front of him, cradling his face in your hands. “What’s wrong, love?”

“He… didn’t make it.” he choked, the words heavy on his tongue, like he couldn’t get the words out. “He’s just a kid… he’s seven and he… stopped breathing. He just—and I couldn’t do anything. If I had been there earlier, if I… I didn’t save him—”

“Hey. Hey—no.” you say softly, pulling him in and he buried his face on the crook of your neck, his arms wrapping around you so tightly, “It wasn’t on you. It wasn’t your fault, my love.”

His sobs grew louder, holding onto you tight as if you’re the only one anchoring him to the ground. There was undeniable pain growing into your chest, like your heart was being clawed out and chopped up into pieces. You couldn’t bear seeing him like this, and you hated yourself because there’s nothing you could ever do to shield him from this kind of hurt.

Because that’s the reality the two of you chose. 

You pressed your lips on his hair, long and careful. Trying to ease the pain that he was feeling. You trace circles around his back, trying anything just to make sure he knows you’re here, that you are never going to leave him.

That you carry his burdens with him. 

─── APRIL, 2025 (PRESENT)  ───

“And you are officially late.” Satoru says with a hint of boredom in his voice, his back leaning against the wall near the nurses’ station.

Satoru didn’t miss the scowl on Megumi’s face, he looks at his watch. “We’re two minutes early. You said 8 am and it’s 7:58.”

“If I’m already here then you’re late already.” Satoru says, fixing his posture before looking at Yuji who is almost out of breath, he raises his eyebrow. “What’s his problem?”

Megumi’s face turned blank, “Made him run down the hall.”

Satoru almost snorted a laugh but he stopped himself. Megumi hasn’t changed a bit, huh? 

“Alright, brats. Let’s get this over with. I have a lot of things to do.”

Satoru walked with the chart in his hand, he strides through the hallway without even looking, like he knows this place like the back of his hand. Megumi and Yuji followed him, almost jogging just to keep up.

“Mr. Go, 64 years old, admitted after a minor stroke.” Satoru stops just outside the room and tosses the tablet to Megumi and the latter catches it without even blinking, Satoru shoves his hands inside his pocket. “Tell me what you see.”

Megumi skimmed down at the tablet, “Territory infarct, left MCA.”

“And what deficits do we expect when it’s the left MCA?” he asks, looking at Yuji’s direction. 

Yuji straightens up, “Contralateral weakness or numbness and what do you call—oh, aphasia and also, he could have difficulty in proper sequencing and memory loss as well.”

Satoru carefully looks at them—eyeing them meticulously then raises his eyebrow, “What about his vision?”

Megumi answers, “Loss of half of the visual field and his eyes deviate away from the hemiplegic side.” 

Satoru hummed, nodding. “Good. What’s our big concern?”

“If the patient develops a massive brain swelling or if there’s hemorrhagic transformation.”

“Alright,” he answered lazily, satisfied with their answers, then he started walking again. “I want frequent neuro checks, monitor for any change in his mental status—for everything, motor strength, speech. Watch for signs of increased intracranial pressure.”

He stops and looks back at them, “Be alert, CVA evolves fast. Patients can crash almost immediately and when any of that happens, you call me. Not your resident. Not anyone. Me. Got it?”

—

“I’m so fucking tired.” Shoko says as she dropped her tray down the table where you were sitting, you just snickered, already getting a fry from her plate. 

She plopped down on the chair like she owned the whole cafeteria. “Pity you.”

“Ha-ha.” she answered glaring at you, but she suddenly pushed forward, sitting properly. “How are you? By the way, I just checked on your patient before I got here. They’re doing fine. Nothing to worry about, you did a good job.”

You just hummed in response—relieved that what you did really saved her. You were about to speak when Ieiri smirks, staring at the figures walking towards you, “Looks like we have some company.”

“Huh?” you didn’t have any chance to look when you see two shadows looming over your table. 

It was Suguru with that blank look on his face and with him, your husband, with a fucking juice box in his hand. Your eyes flickered towards his busted lip and your chest aches just a little. 

“Mind if we join? Yes? Thanks.” Suguru says dryly, putting his tray down and pulls out the chair before the two of you could answer. Satoru, on the other hand, pulled the chair beside you, dropping his body on the chair, his legs sprawled out—knees bumping into yours. 

The contact sent currents all throughout your body but you didn’t move, didn’t even look at him—you just leaned your back on the chair. 

You stayed silent, pursing your lips and tried to look away. But your body betrays you—it’s like an instinct. He’s like a magnet that you couldn’t pry your eyes away from him.

Muttering a curse in your head, you glanced at him a bit—and he was looking at you, not even pretending. And so, you looked away. 

Fuck. What is happening? 

Shoko sipped loudly on her straw, smirking at the two of you. “Wow. That’s not awkward at all.”

If you could move your legs at all, you would’ve kicked her. 

Suguru bit on his sandwich and leaned forward propping his arm on the table, “You know if you think about it, it’s kind of funny.”

You raised your eyebrow at him. What… funny?

“Back in college and med school, you two are insufferable.”

“Fuck, right?!” Shoko added, “Constant heart eyes—giggling and whispering like you’re in middle school.”

They both laughed, and you could feel your cheeks heat up. You wanted to kill your friends, if only it’s not against the oath that you took. Lucky. 

You looked at Satoru again, there’s that smug grin on his face, completely unbothered—just sipping on his juice box. 

And somehow, everything fell into rhythm. For a moment the tightness in your chest loosened, the air felt easier to breathe. 

The four of you just sitting there—laughing about nothing and everything, talking about things that didn’t even matter. 

This is what you’ve missed for the past few months. Suguru and his stories, the way Shoko rolls her eyes but smiling anyway—and Satoru, his laugh that could make your heart leap in inexplicable ways.

It was just like this before, right? It has always been like this before. 

You didn’t realize you needed it until after now—after months of heartbreak and pain. Everything just felt right, everything just seemed so light even if it wasn't. Your shoulders don't feel so heavy anymore that you could laugh carelessly how much you wanted to.

“Oh my god. I heard about that. He really fell asleep?” Shoko asked once more and Suguru nodded—still pissed off. “I mean, wow.”

“Yeah, standing up. Mid-suture. God, I was so pissed off I almost yanked him out of the operating room.”

“He really leaned forward?!”

“Yeah. Almost fucking up the sterile field. I swear to God, he was testing my patience.”

You were still giggling when you felt it, his hands sliding under the table—his arm brushing against yours, your breath hitched for just a second. 

He wasn’t pushing you, he was just there—offering, taking a risk hoping that you’ll take it with him. Your instincts scream at you—you’re supposed to pull away, you’re supposed to push him away.

But your heart betrays you. Your hand laid above his, your fingers curling around in a perfect lock without any hesitations, holding it tight like it’s the most natural thing you do. 

You didn’t even need to look at him. You just know, he was smiling too.

Shoko stopped laughing for a moment, looking over your shoulder. “Uh-oh. Incoming.”

You blinked, then you glanced back. There they stand, just a few steps from your table like their feet are nailed to the ground. Nobara, clutching the tablet on her hands carefully, like she’s holding a bomb. All the while, Miwa, the poor girl, wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

You raised an eyebrow. They stood still.

Then your voice cuts into the silence.

“Are you going to stand there and just stare at me?” you laid out your free hand, “What do you need?”

Suguru immediately looked away, hiding a grin behind his knuckles. Shoko watched the scene unfold with an amused smile—well, also with a little bit of pity. While Satoru just coughed into his drink—also hiding a grin.

The three of them exchanged glances for a brief second. Exchanging one of those, oh shit, looks. You almost looked and sounded like your old professors back then. You know? Those attending breathing down on your necks.

They moved forward, in sync, and you almost laughed. Nobara’s gaze flickers down slightly—under the table, where your fingers are intertwined with your husband’s. 

She looked away and cleared her throat, placing the tablet on your palm.  “Here’s the labs you asked for, Dr. Gojo.”

“CBC, CMP and cardiac enzymes just uploaded.” 

“Good.” you say, scrolling the tablet with your thumb without sparing her a glance. “Tell them to repeat troponin tests in six hours. You can go.”

“Yes, Dr. Gojo.” Miwa says and they scrambled away almost immediately causing the three doctors to burst out laughing and you stay unfazed.

“God, you’re scary. I’m having war flashbacks.” Shoko says, wiping the tears from her eyes.  “Did you see them flinch when you blinked?”

You sipped your drink calmly, not minding their laughter. And the next words you say only made them burst out harder. “Excuse me. I’m literally the nicest one here.”

You purse your lips—glaring at Satoru, squeezing your husband’s hand for laughing too hard. But he just scrunched his nose and gave you a cheeky smile. 

And in this moment—even just for a short while, you were back where you were supposed to be. 

Right there in the safest place you knew.

[sillylilsquid]

almost, always

pairing - hyun-ju x reader summary - after everything fell apart, you and hyun-ju keep finding excuses to stay in each other's lives. some loves don't end cleanly. some loves find a way back, even when they shouldn't. warnings - au!hyun-ju, afab!reader, angsty angst, brief sexual content, pre-bottom surgery hyun-ju. 18+, minors dni! 5.2k words

It was always the little things that piled up first. The unanswered texts. The late nights you spent waiting, wondering if she forgot, if she cared, if she was just tired or if it was you.

The arguments that started small and stupid–where to eat, what time to meet–and ended with slammed doors and swallowed apologies.

“You never take anything seriously,” she said once, standing in the kitchen, arms crossed so tight you thought she might snap in half.

You laughed–sharp, defensive. “It’s not that serious, Hyun-ju. It’s just dinner.” 

But it was never just dinner. It was never just one thing.

It was the thousand tiny disappointments that neither of you knew how to voice until they turned into something ugly.

It was her needing structure, needing something solid to hold onto–and you needing something a little freer, a little softer, something she couldn’t give without breaking herself apart.

It was both of you pretending you could fix it, even when you knew you couldn’t.

Until one night, after one too many fights, one too many wrong words, she said, quietly, almost kindly: “I can’t take care of both of us anymore.”

You didn’t fight her. You just stood there and let her walk away.

Present

It’s been six months since you broke up. Six months of pretending you don’t think about her every time you pass a cafe she liked. Six months of telling yourself you’re better off, even though every bone in your body knows you’re lying.

So when your kitchen light goes out–and the broken stool in your closet mocks you–you do the stupidest thing you could possibly do.

You text her.

hey. can you help me? my light’s out and i can’t reach it

It’s pathetic. You know it is. You stare at the message, thumb hovering over the screen, heart pounding. You almost delete it. But before you can, the typing bubble pops up.

Hyunnie omw.

Three letters. No hesitation. Just like that, you’re right back where you started. Waiting for her.

You don’t have to wait for long. 

Fifteen minutes, maybe less, before you hear the soft knock at the door–the same rhythm she always used. Three quick taps. One long one.

You hesitate with your hand on the doorknob. Some stupid, stubborn part of you still thinks: if I don’t open it, maybe I won’t have to feel all of it.

But you open it anyway.

And there she is.

Hyun-ju, standing in your hallway like no time has passed at all. Black sweater, faded jeans, keys hooked on her thumb. Tall and steady in the way you never learned how to be.

Her eyes flick over you–taking you in, checking for damage you’re not sure you even show–and then she smiles.

Small. Careful. Like if she gives too much away, you’ll both fall apart.

“Hey,” she says softly.

“Hey,” you manage, voice catching in your throat.

You step back to let her in. She kicks off her shoes without being asked, setting them neatly by the door–because of course she remembers how you hated when she used to track dirt across your floors.

The apartment feels too small with her in it.

Or maybe it just feels too full–with everything you’re trying not to say.

You point toward the kitchen lamely. “It’s the light in there. I can’t reach it.”

Hyun-ju nods, already moving. Efficient and calm. Like she didn’t once rip your heart out with her bare hands.

She grabs the chair from your table without a word, balancing carefully as she reaches up. You stand back, watching her–the stretch of her body, steady confidence of her hands, the way her brows furrow slightly in concentration.

Your throat tightens.

It’s stupid. It’s just a lightbulb.

But once, it would’ve been your how she was fixing. Your broken things she was trying to make better.

Now it’s just…charity.

She steps down lightly, flipping the switch. The kitchen floods with warm light. “There,” she says, wiping her hands on her jeans. “Good as new.”

You smile weakly. “Thanks.”

Silence stretches. You wonder if she can hear your heart beating through the walls. 

She clears her throat, rocking back on her heels. “You doing okay?”

Same question as last time. Same lie waiting on your tongue.

“Yeah,” you say, forcing a smile. “Fine.”

And for a second–just a second–you think she might call you on it. Might reach for you like she used to.

But she just nods. Tight. Careful.

“Good,” she says, too quietly.

You walk her to the door even though she doesn’t need help. Even though you don’t want her to leave. She hesitates at the threshold. And so do you.

But nothing happens. No apology. No confession. No miracle. 

Just two people still too close and too far at the same time.

“Text me if you need anything else,” Hyun-ju says, voice low. 

You nod, heart splintering. “Yeah. Sure.”

She hesitates like she wants to say something more. But she doesn’t. She just slips out the door, leaving you standing there, holding all the things you’re still too scared to say.

Six months ago

You never meant to fight that night.

You meant to talk. To fix it. To make her see you were trying. But somehow it always ended the same way.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Hyun-ju said, standing in the doorway, arms crossed so tight across her chest you could almost hear the bones creaking under the strain.

You sat on the couch, hands trembling in your lap, staring at the coffee table because looking at her hurt too much.

“It’s not that bad,” you said, voice cracking. “We just had a rough week. That’s all.”

Hyun-ju laughed–sharp and broken. “A rough week? You missed your interview. You forgot about dinner with my parents. You left the gas on in the kitchen.”

You flinched. “I said I was sorry,” you whispered.

“You’re always sorry,” she said, and her voice cracked too, despite everything. “I’m tired of having to pick up the pieces every time you forget how to live.”

You shot to your feet, chest burning. “I never asked you to do that!”

“You didn’t have to!” she snapped. “I love you, you idiot. I loved you enough to try. And you made me feel like I was holding this whole fucking relationship together by myself.”

Silence.

Just the sound of both of you breathing, ragged and uneven.

You stepped forward, desperate. “I can be better.”

She shook her head. Tears glinting in her eyes that she refused to let fall. 

“It’s not about being better,” she said, voice small. “It’s about me not wanting to feel like I’m drowning every time I look at you.”

You hated her for saying it. You hated yourself more for knowing it was true. You opened your mouth to argue. To plead. To promise you’d change.

But she was already grabbing her keys. Already putting on her shoes. Already walking out the door.

And you–you just let her. Because you didn’t know how to ask her to stay without hurting her even more.

Now

You don’t talk about that night anymore. You don’t even let yourself think about it if you can help it.

But Hyun-ju still texts sometimes.

When her car won’t start. When she locks herself out. When she needs someone at two in the morning and there’s no one else she trusts to come without asking questions.

You still text her too.

When you burn yourself cooking and need someone to yell at you until you ice it properly. When you get a flat tire and don’t know what the hell to do. When it’s late and you’re lonely and you tell yourself you’re just being practical–not desperate. 

Each text feels like stitching yourself back together with thread that’s already frayed.

Temporary. Inevitable.

Neither of you ever says too much.

Never how are you unless something’s wrong. Never I miss you even when it’s obvious. Never I’m sorry even though it hums under everything.

Just these small, bleeding moments of almost-love you both pretend are nothing. You know it’s stupid. You know you’re only hurting yourself.

But you also know: if she texts again, you’ll answer. 

Every time.

You pick a quiet place.

Small, tucked away. Half-lit and half-empty, the kind of restaurant where you can pretend you’re not two people who fell apart.

Hyun-ju’s already there when you arrive–sitting at a booth in the back, scrolling absently on her phone.

She looks up when she hears you, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear the way she always did when she was nervous.

Only now–you notice it’s longer.

Falling a little messier over her shoulders. Softer somehow. 

“Your hair’s gotten long,” you blurt without thinking as you slide into the seat across from her.

She touches it self consciously, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “Yeah. Guess I got lazy about cutting it.”

“It looks good,” you say, maybe too quickly.

Her smile deepens, a little more real. “Thanks.”

She lets her eyes wander over you for a second, lingering in a way that makes your skin feel too tight.

“You look good too,” she says, quieter. “Healthier. Happier.”

You duck your head, pretending to read the menu even though the words are blurring.

“Trying,” you mumble. And she hums–low and thoughtful, and for a second it almost feels easy. Almost.

Dinner is…easy, at first.

Small talk. Work. The weather. You both pretend this is normal.

You poke at your pasta, your foot brushing hers under the table, and it feels like it used to.

Almost.

And maybe that’s why you say it. Maybe that’s why you finally crack open your ribs and spill it out like it’s something worth offering.

“I’ve gotten better, you know,” you say, trying to sound casual and not desperate.

Hyun-ju looks up, surprised.

You rush on before you can lose your never. “I use the planner you bought me. Every day. I don’t miss appointments anymore. I even set like five alarms so I’m not late for anything.”

You laugh awkwardly, scraping your fork across your plate. “I’m…I’m more responsible now,” you say, quieter. “I’m not the same.”

Hyun-ju’s face softens.

She reaches across the table and squeezes your hand–just once, quick, like she’s afraid of what it might mean if she holds on too long.

“That’s good,” she says, voice warm. “I’m proud.”

And you smile. You smile because you’re supposed to. Because she’s proud of you.

But deep down, it feels like someone’s wringing the air out of your lungs. Because for one stupid, impossible second, you thought maybe–

Maybe if you got better–

Maybe if you fixed all the things she hated–

Maybe she’d come back.

But she just smiles across the table. Kind. Distant. Done.

Proud of you. Not in love with you.

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat, pretending you didn’t just bleed out in front of her. “Yeah,” you say, voice almost steady. “Yeah, it’s good.”

Neither of you says what you’re really thinking. That it’s too late. That getting better doesn’t undo the past. That some bridges don’t burn–they just…fade.

You finish dinner. You laugh at her jokes. You hug goodbye. And when she pulls away, she doesn’t linger. Not like she used to.

Back at your apartment, you stare at your planner–the one she gave you–open on the kitchen counter.

Tomorrow: meetings. Grocery run. Doctor’s appointment.

Everything neatly written out. Everything structured. Everything good.

You’ve gotten better. You really have. But it doesn’t matter. She’s still gone. And you’re still her–mad at yourself for wanting her anyway.

A few weeks later

The texts don’t stop after dinner. If anything, they come more often now.

You send her pictures sometimes–small glimpses into your day. Your coffee in the morning. Your planner spread out across your desk, scribbled full of meetings. Your smile, shy and proud, after hitting the gym for the first time in weeks.

Hyun-ju always answers.

proud of you.

you look good. happy. 

And it’s enough to keep you breathing. For a while.

You didn’t mean to send the next text. Not really. 

You’re just feeling reckless one night–buzzed off loneliness and one too many glasses of wine.

Your skin warm. Your heart stupid.

You take a few more photos. First one, smiling at the mirror, hairy messy, t-shirt too big. Second one, slipping the t-shirt off one shoulder, baring skin you know she used to worship. Third one, lower, suggestive, soft and a little desperate even though you don’t say anything.

You hit send without thinking. And immediately regret it.

She doesn’t reply. Not right away. You spend an hour lying on the floor staring at your phone, heart pounding, stomach flipping.

Finally, the screen lights up. Incoming call. Hyunnie.

You answer without thinking, “Hey,” you breathe.

She doesn’t answer for a second. When she does, her voice is wrecked. “We have to stop this.”

You sit up too fast, panic slicing through you. “What?”

“We can’t keep talking like this,” she says, a little steadier. “It’s not fair. To either of us.”

Your throat tightens. “Please don’t–”

“I can’t…” She exhales sharply, and you can hear her struggling with it.  “I can’t keep pretending I’m okay. I can’t keep pretending I don’t want to come over there every time you send me something like that.”

Tears sting in your eyes, hot and fast. “I’ll stop,” you whisper desperately. “I’ll be good. Just–don’t leave.”

Silence hums across the line.

“I promised myself,” she says, voice breaking, “I promised myself I’d take care of me this time.”

You press your fist to your mouth, trying to stay quiet, but a choked sob slips through.

And that’s what does it. That’s what breaks her. “I–shit,” she mutters. “I’m coming over.”

The line goes dead.

You’re still curled on the couch, wearing the same stupid oversized shirt, wiping tears off your cheeks with the sleeves, when you hear the knock at the door.

Soft. Three quick taps. One long one.

Hyun-ju stands there–messy, breathless, soaked from the light drizzle outside, looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world she ever learned how to love.

Neither of you says anything. You just launch yourself at her.

She catches you easily, arms wrapping around you so tight you can barely breathe–but you don’t care.

You press your face into her neck, inhaling the scent of rain and sweat and regret.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper against her skin.

“No,” she says fiercely, pulling you closer. “I’m sorry.”

She presses a kiss to the top of your head. Another to your forehead. Another to your trembling mouth.

It’s not careful. It’s not clean. It’s messy and hungry and wrong.

But you let her kiss you. And you kiss her back. Because neither of you ever learned how to let go properly. And maybe you never will.

Hyun-ju kisses you like she’s drowning.

Like she thinks if she stops, she’ll realize how stupid this is–how doomed you both are–but she can’t stop. Her hands are shaking where they grip your hips, holding you close like she’s terrified you’ll disappear.

You break apart for a second, gasping.

“This is a bad idea,” she says, voice low, wrecked, forehead pressed against yours.

You nod, heart hammering against your ribs. “I know.”

Her fingers trail up your arms, ghost-light, hesitant. “We shouldn’t,” she breathes against your lips.

“You can stop,” you whisper back. “If you want.”

You feel her shudder. But she doesn’t stop. 

She leans in again–slower this time–mouth brushing yours so lightly you could almost pretend you imagined it. Another kiss. And another. Each one a little deeper. A little more desperate. 

Her hands move like she’s afraid to touch you and terrified not to.

She presses you back into the couch, following you down, the weight of her body so familiar it makes your chest ache.

You arch into her, fingers threading through her damp hair, pulling her closer, and she groans–wrecked–into your mouth.

“I’m supposed to be stronger than this,” she says, voice cracking.

“You are,” you whisper, thumbing over her cheekbone. “You are.”

Another kiss. Harder. Rougher. 

Her hips slot between yours, and you gasp, feeling the heat of her, the way she’s already trembling.

“Tell me to stop,” she pleads, breathless.

You cup her face,  forcing her to look at you. “I won’t,” you say softly. “I want this.”

Her eyes slam shut. Her forehead drops to your shoulder.

And then she’s moving.

Sliding her hands under your shirt. Mapping the skin she used to know by heart. Kissing her way down your throat, across your collarbone, dragging her teeth lighty where she knows it’ll make you shiver.

Clothes fall away, messy, half-forgotten on the floor.

And the whole time–

The whole aching time–

She keeps whispering, “We shouldn’t be doing this,” even as she presses deeper into you, even as her hands roam desperate and frantic over your body.

You arch against her, moaning softly, and she curses under her breath, breaking apart at the seams.

“Hyun-ju,” you whisper, guiding her hand lower. “Please.”

It’s the please that shatters her. She sinks into you like gravity gave up, mouth finding yours again, kissing you slow and deep and broken.

When she finally pushes inside you–slow, careful, trembling–you both gasp at the same time. And it’s not rough. It’s not quick. It’s aching. 

Like she’s trying to memorize the shape of you. Like she knows it’s the last time she’ll get to have this.

You clutch at her, nails digging into her shoulders, pulling her closer, closer, closer.

And she gives you everything. Every broken piece. Every unfinished sentence. Every fucking thing she spent months trying to bury.

You come undone together–messy, desperate, whispering each other’s names like prayers neither of you believe in anymore.

She doesn’t pull away immediately. She just rests her forehead against yours, both of you trembling, both of you too full of regret and relief and sadness to move.

“We’re so stupid,” she whispers hoarsely.

You close your eyes, feeling tears prick. “I know,” you say. But you don’t let go. And neither does she.

The room is dark now. The rain tapping against the windows is the only sound.

You’re lying in Hyun-ju’s arms, both you stripped down to nothing, skin cooling where it was just burning minutes ago.

Sheets tangled around your legs. Your head tucked into the curve of her neck. She’s holding you too tight, like she’s scared you’ll disappear if she lets go.

You keep your breathing slow. Even. Pretending you’re asleep. You’re not. You’re so awake it hurts.

You feel her shift slightly, her hand brushing gently up and down your back, so light it barely feels real.

And then you hear it. Her raw voice, low, barely a whisper into the darkness: “Fuck,” she mutters. “I miss you.”

You stay perfectly still. Hyun-ju exhales shakily, pressing her nose into your hair.

“These past six months…they’ve been hell.”

Her fingers tighten on your hip, grounding herself. Or maybe holding herself back.

“I tried,” she breathes. “I tried seeing other people. I tried moving on.”

Another shaky breath. “But fuck…you’re always on my mind.”

You close your eyes tighter, tears pricking at the corners. “I’m so stupid,” she whispers. “We can’t do this. I can’t hurt myself again.”

Her voice cracks on the last word. “I can’t hurt you again.”

You want to turn around. You want to tell her you’re awake. You want to tell her you don’t care–that you’d let her break you a hundred times if it meant feeling like this for even one more second.

But you stay still. Frozen in place between what you want and what you know you can’t have. Hyun-ju presses a soft, broken kiss into your hair.

And then, quieter than before, “I love you.”

It’s not loud. It’s not for you to hear. But you hear it anyway. And it shatters you.

You wake up first. For a few minutes, you just lie there–watching the way Hyun-ju’s chest rises and falls, the way her hands curl instinctively against your hip like she’s still holding onto you in her sleep.

You wonder if she dreams about you. Or if you’re just another bad habit she can’t kick.

When she stirs, blinking awake slowly, the first thing she does is pull you closer, pressing her forehead to your shoulder.

Neither of you says anything.

The air is thick. Too heavy with everything  you can’t take back.

Eventually, she pulls away, sitting up slowly, rubbing her face with her hands like she’s trying to scrub away the night. You sit too. 

Both of you fully dressed now, standing awkwardly near the door, pretending this isn’t the worst thing you’ve ever done.

Hyun-ju grabs her jacket. Hesitates.

You reach for the doorknob but don’t turn it.

You glance at her–at the way her jaw clenches, the way her hands twitch at her sides like she wants to reach for you but knows she shouldn’t.

It would be so easy. One more kiss. One more excuse.

But she steps back. Gives you space. And somehow, that hurts worse than anything else.

“I’ll see you around,” she says softly.

You nod. “Yeah.”

She leaves without looking back. You close the door behind her and lean against it, pressing your forehead to the cool wood, trying not to cry.

A few days later you text her.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Nothing serious. Just hey and how are you and you left your jacket here.

Left on read. Every time. You tell yourself to stop. 

You don’t. You just keep staring at your phone like if you hope hard enough, maybe it’ll light up. Maybe she’ll come back. Maybe this time it’ll be different.

Four days later. Almost a week. Finally.

Hyunnie: can we meet up

Your heart stutters. You don’t even think, you just reply. Where?

Hyunnie: my place

You knock once. The door swings open almost immediately.

She’s standing there, hair messy, eyes dark, wearing that same oversized hoodie you always loved. For a second, neither of you moves.

Then she’s pulling you inside, slamming the door shut behind you, kissing you like she’s been starving without you.

The clothes fall away faster this time. It’s rougher. Less careful. More desperate.

Hands grabbing, mouths bruising, bodies colliding like you’re both trying to tear something out of yourselves.

You lose yourself in her–the way she gasps when you bite her lip. The way her hands tremble when she pushes inside you. The way she says your name like it’s the only thing tethering her to earth.

You come undone together again, messier this time, more broken.

But when you’re lying tangled in her sheets afterward, skin still buzzing, you can’t stay quiet anymore.

You trace slow circles into her arm, your voice barely above a whisper, “If you just…if you just want sex…” you trail off, swallowing hard. “I’m fine with that. I just…I just want to know you. Even if it’s only like this.”

Hyun-ju stiffens under your touch. You keep going–because you have to.

“I’ll take whatever you can give,” you say, blinking back tears “Even if it’s just…being your hookup.”

The silence after that is deafening. You can feel her breathing change–sharp and uneven. She pulls away slightly, just enough to see your face. Her own face crumples–like she’s breaking in front of you. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, voice wrecked. “I never wanted to make you feel like that.”

You shake your head, trying to smile. Trying to make it easier for her. “It’s fine,” you lie. “Really. I just…I don’t want to lose you.”

Hyun-ju cups your face in her hands, pressing her forehead to yours. “You were never just sex to me,” she said with a shaky voice. “Never.”

But she doesn’t promise anything more. And you don’t ask her to. Because you already know how this ends. And you’re still choosing her anyway.

You try to stay. You really do.

You lie still in Hyun-ju’s bed, your face tucked against her bare shoulder, breathing in the warmth of her skin like you can memorize it. Like you can make it last.

But you can't.

You can feel it–the ache growing heavier by the second. The way her arm around your waist isn’t tight enough. The way she shifts in her sleep, turning slightly away from you. The way everything between you feels unfinished and unsaid and already slipping away.

You stare at the ceiling for a long time. The digital clock on her nightstand glows red. 

3:17 AM.

You peel the blanket back slowly, careful not to wake her. You sit up, pulling your shirt over your head, slipping your jeans back on with shaking hands.

You glance back once. She’s still sleeping. Peaceful. Beautiful. So far away.

You want to crawl back into bed. You want to stay. You want to believe that this time will be different. But it won’t be. You know that now.

So you slip out the door. You don’t leave a note. You don’t send a text. You just walk down the empty hallway, out into the cold, and let the night swallow you whole.

You curl up on your couch, pulling your knees to your chest, burying your face in your hands.

And you cry.

Not the pretty, cinematic kind of crying. The ugly, gasping kind–the kind that shakes your whole body and leaves you feeling hollow afterward.

You cry because you love her. You cry because she loves you too, but not enough. You cry because some part of you still thinks if you were just better, different, more, she’d stay.

But you know the truth. You could become everything she ever wanted. And it still wouldn’t be enough to erase the cracks that already splintered you both apart.

You fall asleep on the couch, tear stained and shivering, clutching your phone like it might save you. It doesn’t buzz. She doesn’t call. And you don’t know if that makes it better or worse.

It’s been three days since you left her bed in the middle of the night. You haven’t texted. You’re halfway through convincing yourself she’s moved on–again–when your phone buzzes.

Hyunnie: dinner tomorrow night? 7pm. i made a reservation. wear something nice.

Your stomach flips so hard it makes you dizzy. You typed out a hundred different replies. You settle on one word. Ok.

The place is beautiful. Dim lighting. Crisp white tablecloths. Waiters in black ties gliding between tables like something out of a dream.

You set out of the taxi feeling underdressed even in your nicest dress. Your hands shake a little as you walk through the doors.

And there she is.

Hyun-ju–waiting just inside. Hair sleek, dark red dress perfectly fitted, holding a small bouquet of white roses. 

When she sees you, she smiles–wide, real, shy–the kind of smile that used to be just for you.

Your breath catches. She steps forward, offering you the flowers without a word. You take them, fingers brushing hers.

“Hi,” you mumble.

“Hi,” she says back, softer.

And somehow, the world tilts back into place.

She pulls your chair out for you like a gentleman, brushing her hand along your waist as you sit. You’re too stunned to say anything.

She orders a bottle of wine–something expensive, judging by the look the waiter gives her–and glances at you across the table like she’s memorizing your face.

You don’t ask why. You just let it happen.

The food is perfect. The wine is better. The conversation is easy in a way you forgot it could be.

She tells you about her work. You tell her about your little wins lately–showing up, staying steady, building a life piece by piece.

She listens like every word you say matters.

When the dessert comes–some fancy chocolate cake with fresh berries–she doesn’t even ask. She just grabs two spoons and slides one across the table to you, smiling that soft, crooked smile that makes your heart hurt.

You laugh under your breath and dig in, bumping her foot under the table accidentally–and not moving it away. Neither does she.

The check comes. She waves it away without looking. The waiter retreats, and for a long second, it’s just you and her, the candles between you flickering.

Hyun-ju clears her throat. “I’ve been thinking,” she says, voice rough, like the words are stuck in her chest. “About us.”

You hold your breath. 

“I miss you. Not just the…easy parts. I miss everything.” You blink, hands tightening around your napkin.

“I thought I had to let you go,” she says quietly. “I thought…that was the right thing. For both of us.”

A pause. A breath.

Her eyes lock on yours.

“But I don’t want to live the rest of my life wondering if we could've gotten it right.”

Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your fingertips.

“I want to try again,” her voice is steady now. “I want us.”

The room blurs at the edges. You’re not sure if you’re breathing. But your voice is calm when you answer in a whisper, “Yeah. I want us too.”

And when she reaches across the table to lace her fingers through yours–this time, you don’t hesitate.

You hold on. Tight. Like you’ll never let go again.

The night air is cool when you step outside the restaurant. The streetlights buzz softly overhead, the city humming around you–but it feels like you’re moving through a world made just for the two of you.

Hyun-ju slips her hand into yours without asking. You squeeze her fingers, and she squeezes back.

You walk slowly, no destination in mind, just soaking it all in–the warmth of her hand, the quiet rhythm of her footsteps next to yours.

It feels fragile. It feels real.

You pass a little park, empty this late at night. The fountain glitters under the streetlamps, tossing little shards of silver across the pavement.

Hyun-ju tugs you toward it, grinning shyly. You let her.

At the edge of the fountain, she stops, turning to face you, her free hand brushing a loose strand of hair from your face.

“You’re beautiful,” she says quietly.

You flush, ducking your head. “You’re just saying that because you fed me three courses of fancy food.”

She laughs, a real laugh, the sound curling around your heart. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”

You meet her eyes–steady, calm. For a moment, neither of you moves. And then she leans in.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Just soft.

Her lips brush yours–gentle, slow, careful like she’s relearning you piece by piece. You kiss her back, arms sliding around her neck, pulling her closer until there’s no space left between you.

When you finally pull away, she presses her forehead to yours, breathing you in.

“I’m not perfect,” she whispers. “I’m gonna fuck up sometimes.”

You smile, thumb stroking her jaw. “Me too.”

“But I’m staying this time,” she says, voice shaking a little. “I’m staying.”

You nod, tears pricking at your eyes, but you laugh through it. “Good,” you whisper. “Because I'm not letting you go again.”

Hyun-ju kisses you again–longer this time–and you let the city blur around you, let the world fall away.

Because for the first time in a long time, it feels like the two of you are finally standing still. Finally choosing each other. Not because you’re scared. But because you’re ready. Together. This time for real.

[gingerbreadmonsters]

oyster eater

or: ask, and you shall receive.

gn!reader, brief and casual descriptions of blood, injury, and corpses, but really it’s just ooey-gooey vampire family fluff. there was a star danced, and under that was i born. inspired by there’s nothing too good for my baby (alt version here). william eating more than just his words in 9200 words or less.

the record alexis is listening to is the supremes a’ go-go, which came out in august 1966 and was the first album by an all-female group to reach number one on the american billboard 200. hm, i wonder who might have been around back then to buy a first pressing of that album…? vincent, on the other hand, is listening to danger days: the true lives of the fabulous killjoys, because he’s a diehard pop-punk truther and we all know it.

if you’ve read glass jaw then you know the drill, but if not: longtime readers may be aware of my sinophone!solaires hc, so ENGLISH SPEAKING READERS – please have a look at this pronunciation guide i made! it’s not too long, and i PROMISE it’ll help <3

It’s Wednesday, which means the Solaire house is busy, as usual.

The housekeepers have been in since early this morning, which woke all three of them up – he could swear he’d barely fallen asleep before the intercom started to buzz, quiet to a human but painfully loud to vampire ears. Blearily, he’d reached for the control pad on the bedside table that opens the driveway gate, clumsily pushing his long hair out of his face and dragging himself out of bed to get dressed so he could go and let them in.

It’s not worth letting them use the keypad lock. He’s tried before, but it just makes him paranoid, if he’s honest – something doesn’t feel quite right about allowing other people to come into the house whenever they like. Who knows what they might get up to, or who they might tell the code to? Better to just wake up early, and deal with the inconvenience later.

He’s not entirely convinced he’d had all the buttons of his shirt in the right buttonholes, but by the time they’d driven up to the house, he’d just had enough time to run a hand through his hair and throw his housecoat on over his shirt and trousers before opening the door. Nobody seemed to notice, so no harm done, hopefully.

The children hadn’t come down for breakfast straight away, but they’d definitely been awake. He’d heard Vincent groaning into his pillow at the sound of the doorbell, and he’d felt the phantom sting of Alexis falling out of bed all down his left side when the vacuum cleaner suddenly came on in the study. Even though their bedrooms are upstairs on the other side of the house, he’d still been able to hear the pair of them fussing about how cold it was, so he’d adjusted the temperature up a few degrees from the thermostat in the kitchen.

Ordinarily, he’d feel a little bad about waking them up – housekeeping normally comes just after noon, so it doesn’t interfere as much with the nocturnal hours – but he did tell both of them yesterday that the maid would be coming early today, so it’s hardly his fault they didn’t go to bed early enough.

Yawning, he adjusts the heat on the hob and reaches into the cabinet for some bowls. It’ll still be a little while before he needs them, but he’ll get them out now so they’re ready.

Actually, he may as well just set the table now. He keeps the bowls by the hob, but lays out the placemats and spoons on the kitchen island, along with some coasters to keep the surface clean. The kettle starts to rattle on the stand, nearly boiled, so he takes the tea cups out of the cupboard and starts to make the tea – perhaps it’s just his age, but he can’t stand tea that’s too hot. If he makes it now, it should have cooled down enough by the time everything else is ready.

The blinds are closed against the weak winter’s sunlight outside, and it’s bright and warm here in the kitchen. The smell of jasmine is light and pleasant as he breathes in, mixing with the sweetness of the ginger he’s already chopped, and he closes his eyes as he leans against the counter.

The maids are cleaning in the living room next door, quietly enough that he can still hear Alexis and Vincent moving around upstairs. One of them must be brushing their teeth, if the sound is anything to go by, and there’s the soft sound of slippered feet walking back and forth across soft carpet. Someone in the walk-in wardrobe, perhaps?

Eventually, the soft ping! of the hob timer going off shakes him from his daydreaming, and he hurries over to check on the pan. It looks good, so he reaches over to get a spoon from one of the tablemats, and tastes a little just to make sure that the texture is right. Satisfied, he adds the ginger, the spring onions, the stock, and a little bit of salt.

Perhaps just one more taste, only to check – yes, that’s just right. Now, to fetch the decanters from the fridge…

“À table!”

He calls up to the children, knowing they won’t be long, and pulls open the fridge door. The tray is cold in his hands as he slides it off the shelf, carrying it over to the kitchen island and setting it down in the middle of the three table settings. His is on the short end, facing away from the door, while the other two are along the long edge to his right.

Ah, the tea must have cooled down by now. As he walks over to the counter to get the teapot, he can hear the soft slap of slippers on hardwood, slow footsteps coming down the stairs, and he smiles to himself as his son peeks sleepily around the doorframe.

“Good morning, xiaozhi.”

“Zao a,” Vincent mumbles, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand as he sits down at the kitchen island in his pyjamas. “Tired.”

“I can see,” William replies, and puts a cup of tea down in front of him. “Too tired even to hold the hairbrush, ah?”

He laughs as Vincent sticks his tongue out at him, dark hair sticking up in all sorts of strange directions, not even bothering to try and disguise his truly spectacular bedhead. “Eat, and you will feel better.”

Alexis comes around the corner just as Vincent picks up his spoon, bundled up in her fluffy yellow dressing gown, eyes narrowed against the bright lights overhead. She ignores Vincent entirely as he tries to trip her up with his foot when she walks past, instead choosing to unceremoniously walk straight into her father, pressing her face against his chest and immediately leaning all her weight on him.

“Lili, still asleep?”

She grumbles wordlessly into the lapel of his housecoat, letting him wrap one warm arm around her as his other hand holds his tea cup. The Maker’s bond between them thrums contentedly with her closeness, the two of them fitting perfectly together as they always do.

The tea is a good temperature now, hot but not painfully so, and he takes a sip before leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “You should eat before it gets cold, mon ange.”

“Mmnh.”

Slowly, Alexis manages to tear herself away and goes over to sit next to Vincent, drooping over the bowl in front of her. He nudges her with his elbow, and without looking she knocks the side of her foot lightly against his ankle. William, watching them, brings his bowl over and sits down next to Vincent as Alexis picks up the decanter of O positive in the middle of the table, and pours a hearty splash of blood into her jook.

“Your appointment is at nine o’clock, yes?”

“Mm-hmm,” she replies through a yawn, stirring around and around until the pale cream colour of her breakfast has completely disappeared, dyed a vibrant, appetising crimson instead. “Said the silk’s from a different supplier, so it’s thicker than usual. Means they want an extra muslin fitting, and then it’ll be done by next week.”

William nods, and waits for her to put the decanter down before taking it himself. “When you finish, then we can go out.”

There’s a lot they’ve got to get through today, and all three of them are quite tired, so breakfast is a mostly silent affair. The soft click of the windows being opened in the study is faintly audible over the low drone of the vacuum cleaner out in the foyer, accompanied by the faint sound of a spray bottle. For the console table by the door, perhaps?

Although there’s nothing much happening this week, the calendar for next week is packed. He and Vincent have dinner at the House of Baz on Monday, then all day on Tuesday the children are up at SkySide to meet a prospective client while he finishes up the buyout on that new property in Florida. Alexis will be out in downtown Dahlia on Wednesday morning for brunch with the Aguilar ladies, then in the evening she’s meeting him at the Pham estate for an informal dinner while Vincent has drinks with some of his friends from the social club.

“Ba?”

On Thursday, it’s set to be a nightmare. A timezone mix-up by the new secretary means he has a call with the SPM office in Hong Kong scheduled for some ungodly hour on Thursday morning, then a shareholders’ meeting in town to discuss the merger that was supposed to happen before Christmas but he suspects is being pushed back to May, and then all three of them are meant to be flying out for the biannual charity fundraiser in McKinley.

…God in heaven, it’s going to mean that dreadful local wine they all seem to love. He’s never tasted anything so painfully sweet, and the worst part about it is that he can’t even discreetly refuse, because he’s fairly sure the hosts own the vineyards that make that awful stuff in the first place. Make no mistake, the houses out there are generally very pleasant to be around, but it really does make you wonder – can they really not afford to get anything good, or do they just ch—?

“Baba, do you…?”

“Hmm?” William startles, looking up to see that Vincent’s brought the pan over from the hob, offering him some more. “Oh, yes…”

He adds a splash of A positive to his breakfast while Vincent spoons some more jook into his sister’s bowl, and sips a little more tea as well. “Thank you, chéri.”

At the very least, the venue should be interesting enough. It’s apparently a new build up in the mountains, designed by some superstar new architect they’d shipped over from Switzerland or Sweden or whatever. Despite the acres of glass windows it’s undoubtedly got, the event starts in the early evening so nobody will have to worry about the sunlight – which would all be very lovely if the mountain setting didn’t mean that there’s also no airstrip. Instead, everyone’s having to fly into the closest airport, which is still several hours’ drive away in the middle of nowhere in Colorado.

Time will be tight, but they should make it in time. The hosts are sending a driver to collect them, so he doesn't need to sort it out himself, thank goodness. He and Alexis are leaving the next morning for a few days at the lake house in Maine, which will be a nice chance to relax. One of the young gentlemen from the house that’s hosting has a birthday on Saturday, so Vincent’s staying out there to ski with them for the long weekend before coming back to Dahlia on Monday afternoon.

Speaking of, he needs to make sure all of the suitcases are sorted and ready ahead of time for when they head to the airport on Thursday. The timing of this birthday excursion is a little inconvenient, seeing as it means they’re having to get all of Vincent’s skiwear out of storage now instead of in a few weeks’ time, when they’re going to Hokkaido together, but they’ve had worse itineraries before. Last year, he was falling over Alexis’ snowboard in the hall for what felt like months, after the trip to Switzerland had to be pushed back at the last minute.

In any case, the situation is the same. It’s going to be a hectic week ahead, which means an awful lot of work to be done now, before the deadline gets too close. He’s never liked cutting it fine if he can help it – preparation is the only proper way, after all. Intense preparation, perfect execution.

Today is for sorting out clothes, which shouldn’t be too bad if everything goes to plan. There’s meant to be a delivery from the milliner’s in about an hour, so that should arrive during Alexis’ dress fitting, and after that they’ll head into town. The children both have some shoes to collect, and then he and Vincent are going to the tailor’s to sort out a few last-minute things while Alexis has her nail appointment. He’s got that new suit jacket that just needs an extra dart or two, and there are a few buttons on Vincent’s waistcoat – the nice silk one from Malaysia that’s got all that lovely embroidery – that are starting to come loose.

After that… oh, what was it they needed to do? Ah, yes – Vincent said he’d ordered something for Alexis that they have to go and pick up. He’s not said what it is, so presumably it’s meant to be a surprise for her. Probably some new jewellery, if the address he said yesterday has anything to do with it, but knowing Vincent, it really could be anything. A new tennis bracelet, perhaps? The clasp on her favourite one needed repairing, so she’s been wearing one of her charm bracelets instead while it’s being fixed.

Once all that is sorted out, whatever it is, perhaps it will be time for lunch. They haven’t been back to the Rosewood for so long, and it would surely be nice to go and sit down in the tea room for a little while. Maybe it’s the fault of his old-fashioned sensibilities, but it really is one of the best places you can go for tea in Dahlia.

The service is very pleasant and prompt, the pianist is excellent, and everything is always so delicious – oh, the scones with the lemon curd are particularly good. Bitter things do taste so lovely with blood.

He sighs, faintly aware of Alexis and Vincent bickering about something or another. The selection is reasonable, but if only there was a little more variety. The establishments in Dahlia that keep blood are fairly numerous, considering its cornerstone status, but he does miss Paris. Not Paris now – he’s there far too often to have the chance to miss it, really – but Paris back then, in the days before he’d ever even thought of travelling to America.

The blood clubs they used to have around the turn of the last century – no, perhaps it was the century before…? Yes, yes, it must have been. He can still remember the smell of the gas lamps they used to use in the days before electrics, the tiny basements they used to be packed into like sardines in a tin. You never left without a headache, they used to say, for one reason or another. His throat dry from laughing, his tongue sweet from the wine, stumbling out onto the cobblestones in the hours just before daybreak.

Ah, they were always so much fun. What a thrill! There’s nothing quite like that now.

They’ll certainly go for lunch, he decides. At the very least, it will be good to get out of the sun, weak as it may be at this time of year. It’s not ideal that they’re having to go out in the middle of the day, but at least it’s not as bad as it will be in summer – when it’s cold, all the layers and layers of clothes and hats and scarves they have to wear don’t look as unusual. Granted, the car windows are all tinted, and all the places they’ll be going to are very used to their sort of clientele, but it is nice to blend in a little.

They must enjoy it while they can, after all. The summer is so dreadfully hot and bright here in California, somehow more torturous with every passing year. Palm leaves riffling in the midday breeze, soft cotton clouds drifting gently past. How it wears on you, how exhausting it is in the heat, sneaking fearful glances up at the blue sky and worrying always about the blistering terror of the sun.

“Gloves, today.”

The two of them nod, still half-heartedly kicking each other under the table in a way that would surely break any human’s ankle, and Alexis scoops up one last mouthful of blood from her bowl.

“I thought it was meant to be cloudy.”

“Lace will do.” William shrugs, eyes closing momentarily as he dips his head slightly to the side. “Cloudy, yes, but bright as well.”

He sighs, satisfied, and pushes his chair back to stand up. “You should get ready for your fitting, mm? They will be here soon, I think.”

The housekeepers can sort out the dishes – it’s far too early to be worrying about all that. Vincent takes a final gulp of tea before abruptly getting up out of his chair, and Alexis nearly knocks the empty jook pan off the table with one fluffy sleeve as she accidentally smacks face-first into his back.

“Hey!”

Vincent hisses when she pokes him in the side in retaliation, his thin pyjama shirt no defence against her sharp nails, but settles for just narrowing his eyes at her. “Jiejie!”

She just rolls her eyes as he fights to get his slippers back on, having kicked them off next to his chair while he was sitting down, and breezes straight past him towards the door. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks for breakfast, ba.”

Honestly, the pair of them. He smiles as Alexis kisses him on the cheek as she passes, before disappearing around the corner and upstairs in a flurry of soft yellow cotton. “You’re welcome, chérie.”

“Thanks, ba.” Not to be outdone, a newly-slippered Vincent shuffles over to kiss him as well, wrapping his arms around his father’s waist and settling into his embrace. “Love you.”

“I love you too,” William replies, words muffled slightly by Vincent’s bedhead but no less heartfelt. “I love you very much, xiaozhi.”

He says it a lot, truth be told, and it’s such a comfort to be able to say – it wasn’t always an easy thing for Vincent to hear, much less accept. Alexis was the same, when their family was still so very new, but he thinks it’s got more to do with the state of Vincent’s human life than anything else. It wasn’t easy to come to terms with his death, the knowledge that his human family would never know what had happened to him, that they were still alive, but unreachable.

At least for Alexis, she always knew that there was nothing she could have done – she would have bled out on the floor, alone, and nobody would ever have known. He would never have admitted it, but Vincent was the same. It wouldn’t have mattered. Even if he’d been found alive, William had seen enough of the dead and dying to know immediately that he wouldn’t have survived for long.

It’s almost funny to think about, now, considering what’s become of him. Who would have thought that the boy who fought so fiercely to hold onto his human life would have found such happiness in his undeath?

He always thinks of that gala, the dinner at the Giuffrida estate in Sicily. It must have been ten years ago, or maybe fifteen? He’d not really been paying attention, engrossed in discussion with one of the Lombardy cousins that he hadn’t seen for decades, when a sudden spike of sickening terror flared in his chest, cold blood running even colder as his head whipped around to where he instinctively knew his progeny was in danger.

Lijie—!

The horrible thud of Alexis’ head hitting the floor, the stem of her wine glass crunching in her involuntary grip as she fell. Vincent, sprawled across the marble floor at the end of the bannister, champagne shattered on the floor where he’d been standing a half-second before. Clutching his sister to his chest as she lay limply in his arms, stunned – William had shivered at the howling torrent of protective rage that seared through their Maker’s bond as Vincent’s eyes found the pathetic, trembling shape of the man who had dared to trip his lady sister down the stairs.

A moment of madness, the stupid animal had stammered, nothing more than – than an accident, just a mistake, sir, I swear! My – my deepest apologies, sir, forgive me, forgive m—!

He hadn’t even lived to hit the floor. The room seemed to sway with the telltale vertigo of telekinesis as Vincent reached out a furious hand to drag the man down towards him, and like a flash of lightning in his fingers the stiletto knife hidden by his ankle had already cut the man’s head from his body, and was buried to the hilt in the sticky mess that used to be his heart.

Cored, like an apple. Vampiric blood, thick and bitter, leaking onto the tile.

Lexi – Lexi, jiejie, I…

William had excused himself from the conversation, quickly scooping up his daughter and ushering her and Vincent into one of the quieter adjoining rooms before anyone could say anything. Alexis had been fine, more surprised than anything as the tender bruise on the side of her head quickly healed over, but the two of them had been inseparable for the rest of the night.

And just like that, it was a fact – a rule, something that everyone knew. Perhaps it hadn’t been clear, but now nobody could possibly doubt it. The Solaires have always had a unique talent for retribution, and Vincent Solaire would do anything for his sister.

Footsteps on the hardwood. They stay there for a little while, eyes closed, until the housekeepers come in to start cleaning up. “Come on, chéri. Time to get ready.”

Vincent huffs, opening his mouth to say something, but—

Bzzzz!

“I’ve got it!”

The intercom goes off, and a fully-dressed Alexis comes racing downstairs to the control panel, pressing the button to open the gate with one hand while the other taps rapidly at her phone. “God, I thought they were coming later…”

Briefly, her eyes flick over to where her father and brother are still standing in the kitchen doorway, before going back down to her phone. “Didi, they’re not here for a pyjama party.”

She starts walking towards the door as the sound of a car coming up the drive gets louder, and Vincent scrambles towards the stairs before she can open it. “I’m going, I’m going!”

Laughing to himself, William goes to follow him, already thinking about what he’s going to wear today. “Don’t have too much fun, xiaoli.”

“Whatever.” She opens the door, and he feels the smile spread across her face more than he sees it. “No promises.”

It doesn’t take long for him to get dressed, all things considered. They’ll be going out for lunch, so he ought not to look too haphazard, but there’s no sense in overdoing it – no need for all the fuss of a frock coat when a morning coat will do perfectly well. His shirt is cream, not white, and his tie is a relaxed, dusky shade of pink to contrast his sky blue, paisley pocket square.

He’s just taking his waistcoat off the hanger when Vincent pops his head around the doorframe, unbuttoned jeans hanging off his waist as he fiddles with the earring in his right ear.

“Ba, are we doing anything this evening?”

William shakes his head, trying not to look too suspicious. “Not that I know of.”

“Cool.” Just like that, he’s fishing his phone out his pocket, tapping away at the screen and swearing under his breath when his earring falls out again. “Gav wants to go to some club he found in Central.”

Oh, Gavin. He’s so glad Vincent met that boy. They do get on so well, and even Alexis – well, Alexis hasn’t killed him yet, which is promising. “As long as you’re back for lunch tomorrow.”

“Can he come?” Vincent asks, scarlet eyes bright with excitement. “He’ll bring his partner too, probably!”

“His partner?” William pretends to think about it for a second, before he nods with far too much solemnity for the situation. “Well, why didn’t you start with that? Of course.”

Call it what you will, but he does adore Gavin’s little partner, the Freelancer who has the apartment downtown near that bar Porter likes. He remembers the rabbit-fast rhythm of their heart the first time they met, looking nervously around the foyer of the Solaire house like they’d accidentally wandered into a lion enclosure, almost jumping out of their skin when Vincent appeared behind them and held out a hand to take their coat. That must have been, what, two or three years ago?

Thankfully, they’re not nearly so skittish now. They’re hilarious, once you get them going, and remarkably insightful for someone who only found out about empowered life such a short time ago. They might as well be family, to be perfectly honest – there’s always a dinner invitation in the post for them, and Alexis almost tore Vincent’s arm off when he accidentally spilt coffee on their jacket, like she was their sister and not his.

Vincent grins, and scoops up his stray earring from the carpet as he wanders back down the hallway. “Merci!”

Ah, young love. Or whatever it is that those three have going on.

He really ought to go down and see how Alexis is doing, so he fetches his gloves from the drawer – dark kid leather, today – and drapes his waistcoat over one arm to take downstairs. He’ll just put it on in a minute. Briefly, he considers a hat, but he really can’t be bothered today, so he picks up the fa zan that’s still on his desk from a few days ago on the way past. It’s gold, with a little bit of jade for decoration, so it should go well enough with the rest of his clothes.

As he goes downstairs, he leaves his gloves on the side table in the foyer, but keeps his waistcoat with him. Decades ago, he would have been horrified at the impropriety, the idea of leaving his room without it to keep his trouser braces covered, but recently he’s stopped caring so much. Besides, it’s not like Alexis hasn’t seen him in them before, and he couldn’t give a damn what any of her tailors think of him when he’s the one who pays their wages.

There’s music coming from the living room, and the low sound of the record player spinning. He can’t quite put his finger on what the song is, but it’s frustratingly familiar. One of Alexis’ old records, maybe? It certainly sounds like it.

“Chérie?”

William knocks softly against the doorframe, and smiles as his daughter’s face lights up when she sees him. “May I come in?”

Alexis nods, arms out to her sides as one of the seamstresses neatly pins and re-pins the two raw edges of muslin closed, all the way down the side of her ribs, while another adjusts the measuring tape around her thigh.

“Can you just, uh…”

She waves vaguely at the mantelpiece over the fireplace to his left – he sighs, shaking his head fondly even as he goes to pick it up for her. It’s half-empty, cherry-scented lip gloss stamped sticky around the rim. “Magic would be too much, I assume.”

“Mm-hmm,” she mumbles into the offered glass of wine, “easier to do it normally.”

“Yes, for me to do it.”

“Yeah.” She grins, a little arrogant and ever so charming, and thoroughly ignores it when he rolls his eyes. The woman kneeling in front of her ducks out of the way so she can lean forward, as much as the half-constructed dress she’s being sewn into will allow, depositing the glass back into his outstretched hand.

“How much longer?”

“Not much. I already chose the pankou, so it’s just the rest of the measuring and then that’s it.”

He hums in acknowledgement, sitting down on the sofa opposite her to put the glass down on the coffee table. There’s a display box already there, so he leans over to inspect the selection of pankou the seamstresses have brought – there’s a particularly lovely set shaped like plum blossoms, along with an utterly adorable set of white rabbit-shaped pankou that he’s very tempted to have added to one of Alexis’ summer dresses.

One set is separated from the rest in a small plastic case, and he picks it up to examine the design. The knots are neat and clean, stiff silk ribbon folded into elegant golden sunrises, classic but not tacky. Yes, these should go well with the fabric she’s chosen. It’s not here today, but he saw the box of samples she’d been choosing from last week – if he remembers rightly, she’d picked a lovely blue silk, all light and airy. There had been a book of embroidery patterns as well, and she’d immediately taken to one of the more complicated designs, full of delicate orchids and butterflies.

Just thinking about it reminds him – didn’t she have another dress with orchids on, not that long ago? Or perhaps it was wisteria… yes, that might have been it. Some sort of purple flowers or other, to match her purple birthday cake. It was really quite a sight, tier after tier covered with so many edible flowers that it had been hard to find space for all the candles. Fifty on the top for all the years since her Turning, and the rest scattered across the other tiers wherever there was space.

She’d been so pleased with it when it arrived, insisting that everyone at the party ought to have a slice, only for Porter to conveniently disappear out onto the balcony for a smoke a few seconds later. Goodness, he wishes he’d had a camera with him – he remembers the panicked look on Porter’s face when she’d descended on him with a plate stacked high with desserts, swiftly crushing his cigarette in her fingers and all but forcing a forkful of lilac-coloured frosting in his mouth before he could escape.

Oh, how the time flies. If he concentrates, he can almost hear the sound of the champagne fizzing in his glass that night, almost smell the drifting smoke of blown-out birthday candles. All those years, decades and decades now, swallowed up fast and slow at the same time. Fifty years. Has it really been that long? It only feels like yesterday when she was young – she and Vincent, both.

…Well. Young, he says, as if that means anything at all. Everyone's young compared to him. An entire desert in an hourglass, the slow perfection of a snowglobe. Suspended in amber, pickled in formaldehyde. A statue gathering dust.

His children are everything to him. That's just the way it is. They're his whole world, the most important creatures to ever walk this earth – and of course they are, they're his family. William Solaire will never be alone again. A father, he's a father, and it's the most splendid and wonderful thing that ever was or will be. There is no House of Solaire without its son and daughter.

Big eyes in a little face. That doesn’t mean it’s not painful.

Because it’s not real, is it? It was never real, it could never have been real. Mine, they’re mine, he thinks – but born to what mother? William Solaire has no wife. They’ve always been mine, he insists – but wearing whose face? The only features he gave them were the fangs.

He never knew his children as children. He didn’t name them. He didn’t raise them. They were already fully-formed when he found them, already grown up without him.

A dying woman on a filthy floor, shallow breaths like mist in the freezing night, crawling away from the sticky mess of organs that had once been her attacker. One hand clutching the ruins of her neck, thick blood pouring sluggishly over her fingers and down her chest as she tried in vain to hold her throat together tight enough to breathe. A dying man, struggling weakly against the seatbelt that kept him pinned to the chair, dark blue bruises painted over crushed ribs and a collapsed lung. The last one still alive, souvenir sunglasses dangling from his collar, still clutching the wrist of the splintered corpse hanging limply next to him.

It’s just a fact. Blood relatives. A night without clouds, the great eye of the moon peering down from the sky.

But how else can he explain it? How else could he know? It doesn’t make sense. William Solaire closes his eyes and sees it all, sees a whole life a thousand times over, unfolding forwards and backwards and over itself like a great kaleidoscope. Crystal shapes and endless colours crashing over him, vast and grand and gorgeous – the lead-lined window of a cathedral raining down in a million slivers of stained glass, glittering in the creases of his skin and catching in his hair.

He sees his little girl, no more than knee-high as she toddles past him through the living room, tiny fingers curled around the soft stuffed bunny she refuses to put down. He sees the colourful flower clips in her short hair, the miniature ruffles around the tops of her miniature socks. The blanket she likes to lay on is spread out in front of the armchair where he sits, an island of blue and green squares atop the cream-coloured carpet, and the books he likes to read to her are already next to him on the coffee table.

Sugar and spice, the cinnamon swirl that runs right through her like sweet rock. She’s oh so lovely, so small and soft and giggly – honey Alexis, perfect in miniature. Darling creature, the tiny angel that fell to earth and landed in his lap.

Remembering is so easy. The precious weight of his little girl in his arms, only ever a daydream away.

It’s not just her, either. Suncream smeared across a tiny little face, white streaks smeared into black hair by messy little fingers. He remembers the garden as it used to be, the scarlet shade of the acer tree by the patio, the smell of honeysuckle thick in his throat the day they took the stabilisers off and Vincent rode his bike across the grass for the very first time. The blue plastic plate he insisted on eating from for every meal, the pair of yellow velcro sandals that always used to fall off no matter how tightly you did them up. His gorgeous boy, his only boy. Vincent and his megawatt smile, blindingly bright and instantly adorable, the treasure of his bleeding heart.

It must have been real. It must have been. Alexis, rucksack in hand, surreptitiously rolling up the waistband of her uniform skirt in the hallway before she leaves for school. Vincent, almost unrecognisable under a thick layer of face paint, gleefully holding up a plastic pumpkin full of sweets. Birthdays and Christmases and summer holidays, trips to the cinema and splash fights in the bath.

They’re his children. He’s their father. Nothing else could ever make sense.

And no matter what anyone says, hasn’t he taught them well? The Solaire siblings are the golden darlings of society, charming and clever and ever so beautiful. They’re well-travelled, they’re eloquent, they’re good with money. There’s a sort of gravity in the way they move, an easy charisma that’s impossible to resist. Funny, but never foolish. Kind, but never naïve.

Every single day, he’s nothing but proud of them – the way they talk, the way they dress, the way they dance. It’s like helium, filling him up and up and up until he thinks he might burst, lightheaded and fizzing and terribly dizzy. If it were up to him, he would do nothing but adore them, not a single other thing than kiss them and kiss them and kiss them for forever, until his unbreathing lungs ran out of breath and his unblinking eyes tired to look upon them.

MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD. It was an impossible choice, but it wasn’t a coincidence. The kidnapped woman and the stolen man, his children that are hostages that are corpses. It’s too much, he feels too much. Can’t swallow it down, can’t make it go away, coughing and spluttering around the sugar-coated shape of my darlings, my darlings, come here and never leave me.

Stuck in his throat, choking him. It’s painful, the stomachache of a sour death and a spoilt future. His eyes water, tears curdled like milk, but he doesn’t notice – because the cloying smell of sweet decay turns into something rich and vibrant, something filling and tempting and irresistibly moreish.

Four hundred years is a long time to starve. He can’t help it, he can’t help it, he’s so hungry. A weak and starving creature, clawing at its own flesh for something to eat, turned inside-out with loneliness. My children. His teeth tearing through a stranger’s neck, hot muscle and cold skin, baked Alaska brain freeze. Blood on blood on blood, cheesecake on mille-feuille on tiramisu.

And that’s just what the problem is, isn’t it? William Solaire is a dead man, a handful of dust in an unmarked grave, gorging himself on good things. It feels good to eat, so he fills his stomach with formaldehyde – it feels good to breathe, so he reaches up through the earth for some fresh air. Hedonism, it turns out, is a beautiful thing. It feels good to be rich and it feels good to be powerful and it feels good to never ever be alone again.

Yes, the sugary sharpness of afterlife everlasting. Pastry flakes all down his shirt, buttery and golden, a sticky smear of strawberry jam all down his sleeve. Ice cream and banana slices, jelly and sprinkles and chocolate sauce, stacked up in a tall parfait glass with a wafer on top. There’s sherbet powder all over his fingers, vanilla custard dripping down his chin. A candyfloss boy and a crème brûlée girl, with red velvet eyes and crêpes suzette smiles, and the caramel sticks his sharp teeth together.

He can’t love them in a way that’s human. Die now, or live forever. Toffee apple sweet and lemon curd bitter, sugar and chocolate and sweet, sweet cream.

“Does this look alright?”

A muslin-clad Alexis twists from side to side, dressmaking pins catching the light as stray threads of cotton float silently to the carpet, laser-focused on her reflection in the standing mirror to her left. All William can think is that she is the most beautiful princess that there has ever been or will be.

What he actually says is a little less complimentary.

“...Hm.”

“Baba!” she huffs, shifting slightly from foot to foot. “Is it okay or not?”

“You would look beautiful in anything, mon ange,” he laughs, left hand absentmindedly fixing the folds in his shirt where it’s tucked awkwardly under his braces. “But is it comfortable? Can you walk in it?”

Obediently, she goes for a lap around the living room, walking on her tiptoes to imitate the high heels she’ll be wearing. As she walks, each step in time with the music playing softly in the background, he suddenly remembers what the record is called – of course! This is one of her really old ones, isn’t it? From before she was Turned, even.

None of his possessions from his human life had survived. Standing over her twitching, gasping body, flushed with the heat of her blood and dizzy with the rush of the Maker’s bond sewing their minds together, he’d known even then that he didn’t want the same thing to happen to his new daughter.

For obvious reasons, she hadn’t been able to go and pick her things up from wherever she’d been living, so as soon as she’d woken up he’d had to ask her for the address. Luckily, she hadn’t been declared missing yet, and he hadn’t let the Department know that they needed to fake her death, so it had been fairly easy to sneak in the next night. Her apartment had been in a mostly-unempowered part of town, and there were no surveillance cameras or electronic locks in those days. Just a window, a key, and as many of her belongings as he could take before the sun rose.

He’d have gone back to get it all, if he had the chance, but it was difficult to tell what was hers and what wasn’t. If only her roommate hadn’t been such a light sleeper…

Mm, he’d almost forgotten about that girl. What was her name again? She’d heard the window opening and called out for Alexis, loudly enough that the next-door neighbours had surely heard her through the wall. William had frozen, only halfway through the window frame, and she must have seen his shadow on the hallway floor – Christ, the sound of her scream had been so terribly, painfully shrill. As fast as he could, he’d scrambled into the apartment and forced open her bedroom door, grasping her face in his hand and staring into her terrified eyes so that he could Trance her.

He’d made her go back to bed and forget that she’d seen or heard anything, but it was too late to do anything about the neighbours, who he could hear whispering nervously to each other through the wall. The risk of breaking covert was just getting higher and higher, so he’d cut his losses – quickly, he’d packed up as much of Alexis’ room as he could, and swept through the apartment for anything that looked like it belonged to her. It hadn’t been easy to get it all out through the window, but he’d been gone before the knocking at the door started.

Never mind. Once she was declared missing, the police seized some of what was left, and it was no trouble at all to steal those out of the evidence packets. And once she was declared dead, her human family came to collect the rest. They’d even put it all into boxes so it was easy to carry.

Alexis had been so happy when he’d come back home with all her missing things, eagerly rifling through the boxes like a child on Christmas morning. So happy, in fact, that she hadn’t even noticed the Invocation setting in.

It wasn’t much. Just enough to take the edge off. Enough to make it a little less painful, enough for her to not miss them quite so deeply. The face of her roommate would fade into a gentle blur, the memories of her family and her friends and her whole human life would settle into soft focus. She’d remember her best friend’s name, but not quite recall her voice – she’d know her mother’s birthday, but not how she liked her coffee. She’d remember the colour of her boyfriend’s car, but not his last name, not the dress he’d bought her for her birthday, not the bouquet of flowers that were still sitting on her bedside table, not the date she was supposed to go on the day after she died.

…Well, perhaps he’d got a little overenthusiastic when it came to the boyfriend. Never mind. Not much to be done about it now.

“How does it feel, mm?”

Alexis nudges her calf with his foot as she walks past. “Seems like it fits.”

“Good.”

He nods contentedly, idly shrugging on his waistcoat as she totters over to collect her glass from the coffee table, gulping down the rest of her wine. It’s lucky that human alcohol can’t get them drunk, else he’d surely need to have words with her—

“Do you remember Sylvain?”

William pauses, unblinking. Alexis stares at her empty glass.

“...Sylvain?”

“The Amaranthe boy.”

A fleeting image in his head, the trembling tingle of their Maker’s bond. A young man dressed in silk, blonde hair pulled back and tied with a ribbon. Low wooden heels clicking on the terrace of a forgotten house, an almost-unnoticeable tear in the cuff of his jacket. A cousin of a nephew of a sister-in-law, or some vague impression like that.

All the blasted Amaranthes look the same. William shakes his head. “No. I don’t.”

“He gave me this bottle as a gift,” Alexis muses, tipping her hand from side to side to watch a single, lonely drop of wine slide around the bottom of the glass. “Said I should save it for a special occasion.”

She smiles faintly, and William can taste the memory on his tongue. Perhaps you and I could share it sometime, Princess Solaire.

He raises an eyebrow, glancing at the empty bottle on the mantelpiece. “How cruel of you, xiaoli. He’ll be disappointed.”

“No,” she says evenly. “He won’t.”

Footsteps from behind, feigned casualness. Your boyfriend has terrible manners.

Does he?

Mm-hmm. The beginnings of a headache starting to form, hairpins digging in too tightly. Thought you’d be the type to train them better, really.

This one’s different.

How so?

Well, considering he doesn’t exist, it makes it pretty difficult.

Doesn’t exist… Red eyes narrowing, then a shrug that comes too easily. My mistake, then. I’ll have him boxed up for you to take home.

You’re too kind. William can feel Alexis getting more and more suspicious, her recollection coloured with mistrust. Give him to my brother, then, if you see him. His car has a little more room than mine.

Your…. A sudden silence. Your brother?

“Was this the first one Vincent was there for, then?” he asks, as the seamstresses start to help Alexis out of the muslin dress.

She nods. “Yeah.”

He winces, the impression of bright lights in the corner of his eye, the shadow of Alexis’ hand gesturing to one side. He’s in there somewhere. Haven’t you met him, yet?

A pause. Cold blood turning to ice.

That depends.

On what?

An infuriating smirk, and a pulse of fearful rage that makes William’s hand twitch with Alexis’ urge to slap the Amaranthe boy right across his ridiculous face. You never struck me as the sisterly type.

You wouldn’t want me to strike you, I’m sure.

Funny. I said the same thing to your brother, but he doesn’t listen as well as you.

He feels Alexis opening her mouth, but the remembered voice interrupts before she can speak. You don’t have to lie, you know. If you want a guy around, there are easier ways than making daddy give you a little brother to look after.

William’s fangs drip with Alexis’ venom, laughter short and sharp and furious. You think I’m keeping him as a whore?

Not a very pretty one, spits the boy. He’s not good enough for you.

And you are?

Of course. I’m the only one who’s good enough, and you know it as well as I do.

He turns to leave, gold brocade glinting in the low light, and William feels his heart rate spike as Alexis sees red.

Lay your hand upon my brother and you lay your hand upon the House of Solaire, Alexis hisses, sharp tongue like the savage crack of a whip. Even you couldn’t be that stupid, could you?

And you wouldn’t be stupid enough to threaten me, would you? Or has House Solaire forgotten the debt it owes to House Amaranthe so quickly? The legacy of our—

Legacy? Alexis spits, and there’s a flash of a mental image – a high-heeled shoe, crushing a human skull into powder. Like you even know what that means.

More than you, the boy scoffs. You’ve not even hit your first century yet, dolly bird. Left your miniskirt at home, huh?

I’m surprised you know what a miniskirt is, she replies archly, and William feels her silently cursing the fact that he knew she was turned in the sixties. Not like anyone lets you under them these days.

I wouldn’t want to be under yours, certainly.

She pouts, mockingly. No? You’re missing out, then.

“What did he mean by that?”

William blinks, shaken from Alexis’ recollections to see her out of the muslin and half-dressed already, pulling her shirt over her head. “Pardon?”

“The… that debt,” she says, voice tinged with confusion. “Did they do something for us?”

Has he really never told her?

The Amaranthes are Old Blood, technically, although not by that name. The current head lives somewhere near Deauville, as if that fools anyone. They’re not even French, at least not originally – they’re actually a branch of House Abendroth that managed to escape the frenzy of vampiric persecution that swept across Europe in the mid-eighteenth century.

If there’s a debt he owes to anyone, it would be to House Abendroth. His Maker’s blood still soaked into his clothes, half-dead from exhaustion after crossing the border into – well, it wasn’t even Germany at the time, just a duchy he hadn’t cared to learn the name of, as he fled the smoking, screeching ruins of that awful clan. He still remembers looking up at the manor house by Lake Starnberg, freezing and hungry as Elisa dragged him through the gates, and thinking that he must have found heaven.

It’s a debt he never got the chance to repay, a debt that burned along with the Abenroths when the human hunters came for them. A splinter branch of a family tree that’s nothing more than deadwood. House Amaranthe are nothing like Elisa.

“Nothing of note,” he manages to say. “Nothing worth remembering.”

Alexis clearly doesn’t buy it, but she just blinks and looks away. “Okay.”

A minute passes. The seamstresses finish packing up and quietly excuse themselves with a bow.

“Did you kill him, at least?”

Alexis huffs, and it’s nearly a laugh. “Obviously.”

“How?”

For half a second, he’s back in her head, leaning over a balcony and picking dead skin from under her fingernails. A blonde corpse leaks blood into the fountain on the terrace below, twisted and crushed until it’s almost unrecognisable, fine silk sodden with water.

“I do hope that’s not our fountain.”

“It was at some party in Budapest, so no.” She’s dressed now, fiddling with one of the charms on her bracelet. “We left before they even finished clearing it up. It was fucking boring, anyway.”

“Who’s partying in Budapest?”

Vincent’s voice is muffled slightly by the walls and the ceiling, although both of them can hear the rattle of his jewellery case as he rifles through it in his bedroom. That boy wears so many rings, it’s a wonder he can even lift his hands out of his pockets.

“Not you,” Alexis yawns, “unless Gavin’s planning on flying you out tonight.”

“He might.”

“The clubs in Budapest aren’t that good.”

“They’re good!” Either Vincent is more attached to Hungarian nightlife than he lets on, or he’s finished picking out his jewellery – either way, he comes lolloping down the stairs and saunters into the living room, dropping himself onto the sofa right in his sister’s lap. “You’re just bad at languages.”

Alexis wrinkles her nose haughtily and pokes him in the side. “Everybody understands vodka Red Bull.”

“They understand that you have shit taste in drinks.”

“You drink Buck’s fizz! Like a fucking teenager!”

“I drink it ‘cause it comes with th—”

The intercom buzzes, and thank God, it must be the milliner’s delivery. Discreetly, William stands up and heads for the control panel in the foyer before they start biting each other. If he doesn’t see it, it never happened.

The delivery is swift, only two crates this time, so he leaves them by the bottom of the stairs to sort out when they get back from their shopping trip. Speaking of which, they really ought to get going. There’s an awful lot to do.

While he’s there, he uses the landline to call ahead and tell the Rosewood to expect them around one o’clock. They know to always give them a table away from the windows, but he makes a point of asking for the eventide menu, regardless. You can’t be too careful.

He goes back into the living room to find the children glaring daggers at each other, which would probably be more meaningful if they weren’t also curled up together against the arm of the sofa like puppies, pointedly ignoring the low murmur of satisfaction that William can feel through his Maker’s bonds.

God, they’re so adorable.

“Zou ba.” He shakes his head fondly, and goes to get his coat from the hook by the front door. “We’re already late.”

“What?”

“Wait, really?”

…They’re not late at all. It’s just funny watching Alexis scurry upstairs to get her handbag when he knows she left it in the kitchen last night, and Vincent tripping over his own feet as he tries to put his shoes on without having to undo the laces.

Smiling to himself, he reaches into the console table drawer and picks out a random set of car keys, before heading out to the garage. To his delight, it’s Vincent’s red Purosangue that lights up when he clicks the button.

“Lili, are you driving today?”

“Yes!” She comes racing out to the garage, Vincent in hot pursuit, and plucks the keys from his outstretched hand. “I’m driving!”

“What? Ba!”

It’s too late. William snickers as he opens the passenger side door, delicately adjusting his gloves as he sits down. “Too late, chéri.”

“It’s my car!”

“Get in, then,” Alexis says through the thick tint of the driver’s side window, and grins as Vincent grumpily opens the door behind her and slides into the back seat. “So fussy.”

She starts to reverse out of the garage, but it’s quite obvious that she’s not really sure how big this car is, getting dangerously close to the wall when—

Thump!

“Didi!”

Vincent just cackles to himself as Alexis stamps on the brake, hand still resting against the doorframe he’d just hit. “That’s never going to not get you, is it?”

“I swear to God, I’m gonna kill you!”

“You said that last time!”

“Savages,” William mutters, mostly to himself, “my house is full of savages…”

The bickering between the front and back seats quickly turns into a heated argument over who gets to choose the music, and William closes his eyes as Alexis finally gives in and lets Vincent connect his phone to the car Bluetooth while she drives down towards the gate. He ends up choosing one of his favourite albums – it’s some sort of rock-pop something or other from about ten years ago, maybe twenty, the story of which he’s tried unsuccessfully to explain to William about a hundred times.

My darlings, my darlings. A plate of lilac-coloured frosting that’s more candles than cake. Tiny yellow shoes, Velcro straps undone, lined up by the door. The little brother who’s not so little, the older sister who never gets older. He could never love them less, only more and more and more.

William smiles. The gate opens automatically as they get closer, and Alexis turns the volume up as she drives through. Vincent just sings even louder.

-

link to the oyster eater pronunciation guide <3

main masterlist

this is an original fanwork by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute

[wutheringmights]

Chapter 32: The Garden Party & The Fallen Idols Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Additional Tags: Linked Universe (Legend of Zelda), Alternate Universe, Character Study, War, world building, Trauma, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Political Intrigue, Found Family, Angst and Humor, Warriors is a very complicated person, Warriors also does not know Time is Mask, Warriors (Linked Universe)-centric, Canon-Typical Violence, Heavy Angst, Manipulation, Morally Ambiguous Character, Please read content warnings before each chapter, Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Physical Abuse, Implied Sexual Content, Power Imbalance, Implied/Referenced Torture, Blood and Injury, Disabled Character, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Implied/Referenced Suicide Summary: “You are going to hear a lot of terrible things about me. Most of it is going to be true.” Being the hero who saved Hyrule from a bloody war was a thankless job that left Warriors with more regrets than he cared to remember. He only started to heal after meeting his fellow heroes from across time and joining them on their quest to defeat the black-blooded monsters. But when his time-hopping journey takes him back home, he finds his kingdom on the brink of war once more. This war threatens to ensnare not only Warriors, but his newfound family as well. Warriors will do whatever it takes to keep them safe, even if that means becoming a traitor to the kingdom he gave up everything to save. But the harder Warriors works to protect his family, the more the secrets of his dark past come to life. Who is Captain Link Walton, the Hero of Warriors? What happened to the two other heroes he had once fought alongside all those years ago? When this is over, will Warriors even have a family left to save or is he doomed to repeat his past mistakes? (Once, there were three brothers: the captain, the engineer, and the child. Their story did not have a happy ending.)

I noticed that it was looking a little happy around here, which means it's time to thrust my bullshit back uponth the people.

I am so sorry this chapter is coming very late at night. As before mentioned, I ran behind schedule and started editing very late. I also was not able to reply to all the comments from the last chapter like I intended to (but I swear I will get to that tomorrow!).

This is a very long chapter. 46k words. A lot happens, and I suggest you prepare yourself for it accordingly. As always, I hope you enjoy.

On this chapter of the story that is just keeps on going and going:

Link and Proxi's peaceful life is interrupted by a very noisy child

In the aftermath of a tragic death, Warriors struggles to plot his next move in an increasingly fraught political atmosphere

Warriors swears an oath

🛡⚔Read It Now on AO3⚔🛡

[sophitz]

Notes on KOTLC, middle grade maturity, and fandom longevity

Now that @bookwyrminspiration and my tag ramblings have returned us to the topic, I'm actually pretty curious about the reception of middle grade lit (specifically longer book series) that progresses in maturity versus that which does not. Is it easier to retain readers if the series matures with them? Is it more difficult to maintain longevity and gain a new post-finale audience if the series is unsuitable for a single age range? (Yes, in my opinion, to both.)

KOTLC has a pretty strictly static 8–12 audience range, which I think is largely responsible for its high fandom turnover rate. There's nothing wrong with staying deeply devoted to the kids' books you were obsessed with in middle school, but the truth remains that most people don't. It's doubly true for series like Keeper, which is in itself perpetually middle grade. Teens grow up, they relate less to the characters, and they move on. Thus, the population pyramid of our fandom is skewed towards the masses of incoming tweens who largely lose interest by 16-18. I hate to bring HP into this because it's an outlier by all metrics of success, but the main nostalgia factor that helps it retain its status as an eleven-figure franchise is because people like to grow up with Harry over and over again. Sure, we've grown up with Sophie, but not to that extent. Maturity shifts allow a middle grade series to show a bildungsroman proper. Keeper doesn't exactly have that.

On the other side of the spectrum are series like the How to Train Your Dragon books. The first few books are chock full of fart jokes suited perfectly for ten year-olds, but then the series takes an abrupt turn halfway through by centering a slavery plotline, and by the final book, it's full of liberation armies, themes of colonialism, and violent deaths. I'd call it more of a bildungsroman than KOTLC has been so far, even though it only spans about three years in canon. The issue? Its fandom is pretty much dead. Even with the massively successful film/tv/reboot adaptations, the HTTYD books failed in their long-term social relevance, because unlike its adaptations, the series is a pretty awkward binge-read, maturity-wise. Keeper, on the other hand, is practically handmade to binge, because its maturity level never takes any big leaps.

I guess the question I'm tying to ask is which strategy yields better fandom longevity, because above everything, I want KOTLC to remain relevant and celebrated by an active fandom after its final book is published. Sometimes I'm frustrated by its refusal to age because I feel like that stagnation eats away at its potential for wider fandom engagement, but who knows! Maybe focusing in hard on a smaller target audience will bode well in the long run.

[ludolka]

Paranormal Traffic group has my heart in a choke hold <3. If they like go to get dinner after lunch I imagine them ragging on eachother for random things. I.e Joel won't let Jimmy forget he tripped mid sentence and came up with a completely new word (something between a curse word and a censored version)

But Joel and Grians back and fourth is always slightly more pointed, maybe? And everyone else watches them pick on eachother, and perhaps Jim corners him and "Dude either tell him you like him or stop picking on my brother >:T" and Joel blinks and goes "It's all in good fun, ask G, he knows it" and Jimmy taps his fingers, squints and "Hm. At the very least PLEASE stop fueling the 'ship' comments, I beg of you"

This, of course, does nothing.

That makes me so happy to hear :’) they are also so close and dear to me <33

And yess, they totally do that !! They are a friend group first and foremost, they like hanging out outside of filming and I can totally see Joel driving them to a McDonald’s at like 1 or 2 am after a long session and them just joking around in the parking lot while eating or them stopping at some Chinese buffet to grab dinner when they are done earlier

I love the new word invention thing, Jimmy would absolutely do that (though they aren’t PG on this channel) and the rest of the group would adopt that word into their dictionary and use it from then on. They have fun roasting each other after sessions for whatever dumb thing that happened during it that time and laughing about it

And yes, Joel and Grian picking on each other is,, different from how they pick on anyone else. I can see them getting sometimes rather personal, but neither take it to heart and they are cool afterwards like nothing happened. Them arguing over something, saying some rather hurtful shit, only for Grian to stop mid sentence and say something in a completely calm voice like

“Give me some of your fries, I ate mine and I want more”

“Sucks to be you, you should have ordered a large instead of a medium” and still gives him the rest of his fries

And they also have this tendency to both argue about three different topics at once and also to pick up arguing about a topic they started hours or days ago but got interrupted and them just knowing what’s going on while anyone listening in is just very confused and lost

Also Jimmy absolutely hates the ship comments. Maybe to kinda get back at the two and to try to embarrass them, he brings it up during filming once

“Do you guys know people are shipping you? What are your thoughts on that?”

“Shipping us? Shipping us where?”

“Come on Tim, you know that’s both impossible and illegal. Don’t be dumb and believe everything you read online”

“Yeah and I mean we are both here, aren’t we? How would we be shipped while also being here? Think Jim”

They absolutely know what he means, but they enjoy tormenting him until he gives up trying to explain it to them. Also whenever Jimmy asks them to tone something down not to fuel commenters or theories, nothing ever changes and sometimes they even play more into it just to mess with Jimmy specifically

Jimmy once asks Joel to tone down the nicknames, so during next filming Joel makes it a point to call Grian baby or sweetheart in every other sentence. Grian picks up on the bit after like the first five “baby”-s in only ten minutes and plays into it, returning the nicknames that he normally wouldn’t and they also spend that session suspiciously not arguing and standing closer to each other than usual

[soleauclub]

Guide to Balancing a Hot Social Life and Hotter Health Goals

by Soleau Club

If you’re trying to hit your health goals and keep your calendar booked with dinners, parties, and bottomless brunches—welcome to the club. Balancing wellness with a glam, on-the-go social life is basically a full-time job (but like, one we love). The goal? Living your best life without sacrificing your goals—or your social glow.

Here’s exactly how I juggle both without burning out or bailing on myself:

Plan Like a Hot Girl With Priorities

Yes, I pencil in Pilates and the pop-up dinner. Before the week starts, I look at what’s coming up and plan around it. If I know I’ve got a Friday night out, I’ll make my Thursday and Saturday extra clean and lowkey. Think of it like calendar tetris—fun, but strategic.

Pick Your Moments

Not every social event deserves your full glam and three drinks. Some nights are green juice and girl talk. Others? Espresso martinis and dancing. I choose where to go all out and where to keep it cozy, so I don’t feel like I’m constantly “on.” It’s not about saying no to fun—it’s about saying yes to the right fun.

Pre-Game Your Wellness

Before I go out, I eat something with protein, fiber, and healthy fats. This is my secret weapon against the 2 a.m. pizza run and next-day regret. I also hydrate like it’s my job. (Coconut water is the move, babe.)

Hot Girl Boundaries = Hot Girl Energy

If I’m out and I’m tired? I leave. If I don’t want to drink? I don’t. I’ve learned that boundaries are self-care, and they’re also hot. People respect the girl who respects herself—and still shows up glowing.

Make the Morning After Count

The recovery routine is where the magic happens. I wake up, chug water, take magnesium and electrolytes, do some movement (even a walk counts), and fuel up with something nourishing. Bonus points for cold therapy, a sauna sesh, or lymphatic drainage.

Stay Consistent, Not Perfect

It’s not about all or nothing—it’s about bouncing back with ease. I can have a fun weekend and still hit my goals because I don’t throw everything out the window. The next day, I’m back on my hot girl habits, no drama, no guilt.

Here’s the truth: You don’t have to choose between your social life and your wellness. You just need a rhythm that lets you have both. You’re not too busy—you’re just ready to upgrade your approach.

Follow @soleauclub for more on staying fit, glowing, and unbothered—without skipping the party.

[atlas-ghoul-account]

Home Safe.

Warnings: swiss leaves, discussions of ocd, mentionings of touching wood, talk of food, food anxiety (whether it is safe to eat, intrusive thoughts surrounding food), intrusive thoughts about safety of others, hand washing, dry skin because of hand washing (idk i'm just saying everything just in case)

Notes: So this is a bit more of ocd phantom, credit of ocd phantom still lies with @littlemoon-beam lol, I just borrowed it to project some of the stuff I do. That being said, whilst this is my experience of ocd traits/tendencies, if you see anything that isn't quite written write please reach out!

Also also: I can't remember who said it, but I've borrowed the headcanon that Swiss goes back to the ministry to help Aether in the infirmary.

Phantom's ocd gets worse now that Swiss is gone. Now that he's no longer touring, Phantom can no longer make sure he's okay, he can't check on him. He usually knows he's okay, he can just look over and check. And there Swiss would be, looking at him like he was insane as the young quintessence ghoul pokes his head into his bunk to stare at him for a second before leaving. But now he can't do that, because Swiss has gone back to the ministry.

And Phantom knows he can't phone him every time he gets an intrusive thought about him. He knows that, but he wants to. Because then he knows he's safe. And he just wants to know that Swiss is safe.

The compulsions don't take long to start creeping in.

After the Birmingham ritual, when Swiss announces that Aether needs him in the infirmary, Phantom freezes. This can't be real, it can't because Swiss is his lifeline. He's the only thing that keeps him from spiralling out of control, the only sense of normalcy that he can latch onto whilst on tour.

They don't have long to say goodbye, because it isn't really a goodbye after all, but a see you later. Although, that doesn't mean it hurts any less. And almost everyone else has known Swiss longer than him, so Phantom thinks they deserve spending longer with him. So he holds back, no matter how much it hurts. It makes sense to Phantom at least, he probably didn't matter as much to Swiss as the others he had known for years.

"See you later, Ant," Swiss whispers, "Call me anytime." Phantom gives a small nod.

"See you later," He whispers, not able to stop himself from thinking that perhaps he should be going to help at the infirmary instead. He was a quintessence ghoul after all. A small part of his brain told him that actually, Swiss' quintessence, whilst not his main element, was stronger than his. That Phantom wasn't good enough with his quintessence to help.

That night, when he's alone in his bunk, listening to the world go past, his skin crawls. He can't sleep, too scared that if he does something might happen to Swiss. Or he wakes up and the other ghouls are gone too. Or Perpetua, human's are rather fragile after all.

'He won't make it home safe unless you touch wood.' His mind calls out to him. Phantom knows it's irrational, he knows. But why take that risk? Why risk Swiss? He doesn't have to question it before he's tapping wood in his sequence.

Three times, which he repeats another three times. Before repeating it one final time.

Although, it does little to resolve the anxiety, if he's being honest. Instead, he slides out of his bunk, creeping across the bus to Swiss' bunk. He slides in, pulling the curtain closed behind him. It was the closest thing he could get to Swiss. It would have to do.

The rest of the ghouls notice small differences in the coming days. The young quint ghoul looking unsure before doing certain things - things he hadn't questioned in a long time.

Hand washing became more frequent, worried that the germs on his hands would make the other ghouls, or Papa ill. Then they'd have to go back to the ministry, and that would be another friend he'd had to tour without. He didn't think he could do that. Naturally, it didn't take long for his hands to dry out, for his knuckles to start splitting. It made playing harder, more painful. But he couldn't stop himself from washing them, he couldn't risk them like that. Besides, the split skin didn't hurt too much.

The safety of food start cause anxiety in his chest. It wasn't that he didn't trust the other ghouls, they cooked for him all the time. But with the spike in anxiety and the small spiral downwards, he was finding it more and more difficult to ignore the doubt. What if a fly landed on it? What if they didn't wash their hands properly? Can food be left out of the fridge for that long? This is definitely cooked, right? Does this look pink?

The doubts were endless. He tried to ignore them, instead, combatting the thought with a small touch of the table wood. In the short term, it cleared his fears. He touched wood, so despite however irrational it was, it would still mean he would be okay if he ate it.

It doesn't take long for the ghouls to text Swiss, to ask for advice. They feel guilty, knowing that Aether, Omega, and now Swiss were absolutely swamped in the infirmary, but they really don't know how to help the quint.

[dandysworld-meh-imagines]

Hello :3 could you do fruitcake x reader?

Poly Headcanons About Sprout And Cosmo With The Reader!

People seem to really like requesting Sprout and another character in a poly relationship with the reader, hehe! I really enjoy writing for Sprout, I think since I play him a lot now, it changed me sksks here you go, dear anon! Thank you for requesting! <3

-Anna

-You feel feel super cared for in this relationship and those two make sure that everything is okay. Sprout is protective over the two of you and is the one that always reminds you two to eat, take care of yourselves or he goes out of his way to do that himself! Cosmo makes sure you two are doing okay mentally and doesn't mind making you two some tasty cookies! Everyone cares for each other in their own ways and you feel this massive trust with them, you can always open up to them about anything as they will always be here for you and each other.

-It's been stuck a lot with Sprout to take care of everyone as best as he can and you both find it sweet! It's just that he sometimes forgets to take care of himself and that's when you and Cosmo team up to make sure he feels appreciated and taken good care of. Sprout usually says that there is no need to and that he is happy just caring for everyone though he has a warm smile on his face as you and Cosmo do things for him! He just chuckles and accepts it, it's nice to being taken care of here and there, but know he will soon go back to caring for you two instead!

-Sprout is pretty much the one that shows affection to you two constantly, spoiling you two and even stroking your heads or even leaving kisses here and there! If you or Cosmo get shy, he just laughs softly at the cute sight, it's something he adores doing, making sure to make you two feel flustered and especially loved. He can be pretty teasing but it's this soft teasing that doesn't last that long, he then becomes more soft as he shows you two his toothy grin, happy you two are in his life.

-Cosmo is more shy and he likes using his words. If you or Sprout cuddle with him, he just gets quiet as he feels flustered and smiles brightly. Add a kiss and he tries hiding his face somewhere on you or Sprout. Cosmo really likes complimenting you and Sprout in moments like these, making sure you both feel loved and appreciated for everything you do. He is usually the type that just clings quietly onto you if you cuddle with him. It's mostly quiet except for his sweet words but you can definitely catch a nice break in this comforting silence. If all you three cuddle together, it's really something!

-Of course, this fic wouldn't be accurate without mentioning the baking or cooking experience in the kitchen you all do together! Whether it's helping Sprout cook some delicious food for the others or even baking together with Cosmo, you all have a lot of fun! You have gotten so used to cooking/baking together with them that you all have your own roles or even things you feel like doing at that moment. Whether it's someone reading the instructions out loud, passing the ingredients to one another or even the actual cooking itself, it's like you are all connected with your minds, not even words are needed sometimes!!

-If it's not your thing, they don't mind you watching from the sidelines, just cheering them on. You are also the one they always go to when they need someone to taste test the things they are practicing or even making. That especially means that you will taste test Cosmo's cookies constantly! You can definitely see the flavor improving even better the more he keeps at it. Sprout's cooking is also very delicious, you always make sure to give some advice if a new recipe he tries feels a bit off and that. Those two trust your words as you are honest with them, you have helped them improve a lot with your advice, telling them if something is bitter or too sweet or too salty. Your advice also helps Boxten improve a lot, as well!

-If one of you feels down, the other two do their best to show their support and love! Whether it's comforting through cookies or something sweet, cuddles or even sweet and encouraging words. The three of you know what comforts the others perfectly. Cosmo feels safe when you or Sprout hug him and you both try your best to cheer him up with sweet words. Sprout will probably not show it and try to act more tough but you two know him well enough to get him to open up more about his problems, it take a bit before he gives in, appreciating that you two want to make sure he is okay. Those two know exactly what makes you feel better and best believe they will do it!

-At night, things always feel slow as you three are lying down together, trying your best to be in the best position so you all can feel close to one another and also comfortable enough to sleep. Sprout is quite tall and loves to be the big spoon, trying to make you two feel safe at night. Cosmo giggles often as he feels you two super close to him and smiles warmly. Sprout likes to chuckle and smile. You two like switching positions a lot, taking turns having someone sleep in the middle, only if they want, though! Sprout smells like strawberries and Cosmo smells sweet if you ever find yourself to be in the middle!

-Sprout likes to give quick kisses and sometimes deeper ones, wanting to see you and Cosmo's expressions as he leans back and smiles softly. He just really likes seeing you two flustered! Cosmo, on the other hand, gives more slow, very gentle kisses as he holds them for a good while, he is the type that gives you lots of time to process and make sure you or Sprout are liking it. Sprout basically likes making your hearts race faster as he teases here and there and Cosmo is slow, making sure the other toon can process it and even figure out if he should kiss differently or discuss about what he should do better.

-Through it all, this relationship is strong and your bond is amazing to witness. You all know pretty much everything about one another, likes, dislikes, anything, really! Whether it's with words or without, the way you three interact, it really does show how much you all love each other and truly care so much. It could be Sprout placing a protective hand on your head or even shoulder or Cosmo's observing gaze with a soft smile or even placing a gentle hand on your back, softly stroking it. You can tell each other everything and rely on them for absolutely anything. They love you so much after all and want the best for you!

Thank you for reading! <3

[evergreenstringbean]

𝘿𝙞𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙋𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙨, 𝙋𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙂𝙤

𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: 𝙸𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝙳𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙿𝚘𝚗𝚢𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍.

𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 𝟺,𝟹𝟷𝟼

𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝙰𝙾𝟹 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝙲𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚒𝚎 @tulsastrash 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍 ♡

Hidden in the corner of Darrel Curtis Jr’s closet, tucked under a pile of old clothes and an assortment of items that he couldn’t be bothered to understand a proper place for, rested a secret.

The notion of death had never been particularly on Darry’s mind growing up. Sure, sometimes he’d watch his father read obituaries in the paper after the sports section at the breakfast table and make comments when he’d see a name he recognized. But Darry would just continue eating his eggs while complaining for Sodapop to quit leaning his chair back to balance on its back legs.

It wasn’t until his twentieth birthday that everything changed. What started as a day of celebration quickly snapped like a rubber band being pulled too hard. And the sting of identifying his parents’ bodies- what was left, at least- was so sharp that he almost didn’t realize what this now meant for him.

Goodbye, college.

After funeral expenses, they were left worse than broke. What little savings their parents had when they passed was not near enough to cover a proper burial, let alone anything for him to begin the heavy weight of the sudden onslaught of bills. And so here he was. Twenty years old, two teenagers to raise, and piles upon piles of letters with the words ‘Final Notice’ stamped in red.

Goodbye, future.

He tried to keep them afloat for a long while on his own. Sodapop dropping out to work helped a lot, even though the guilt gnawed at Darry over it despite Soda’s insistence that he made the decision for himself. Darry knew that overall, even with two jobs, he couldn’t do it all alone. So, with gritted teeth, he let Soda take on more shifts at the DX station.

After a lot of long days that turned into long nights, the Curtis residence creeped slowly out of the debt pit and Darry had never felt so grateful to just be flat broke. Still, with as happy as he was to be making ends meet, he couldn’t stop thinking about the future. And after witnessing a particularly nasty workplace incident that’d left a new guy with a broken rib, the plagued thoughts of his parents’ untimely end and his own existential dread tied together to fuel his nightmares.

So, as the weather began to warm up and more and more roofing jobs around the city were needed, Darry formed a plan.

“Darry, you seen my jeans?” Ponyboy called from the bedroom. His eyes flickered to his study guide, but he wasn’t quite paying attention to it, convinced he could get away with looking it over on the walk to school.

“I ironed! Check my closet!” Darry shouted back curtly from the kitchen, and Pony was sure he was leaning against the sink nursing his third cup of black coffee as he did every morning like clockwork. The two were having another little spat again- nowhere near the intense shouting matches of before, but still enough to leave the house in a state of unresolved tension. So they only spoke to each other when necessary, for the sake of Soda’s wellbeing. Besides, the middle Curtis brother would have a long shift that evening, which gave the other two plenty of time to duke it out without him there to feel the need to play middleman.

Arguments between the eldest and youngest were not nearly as frequent as they used to be, but they still happened. Even after everything that had gone down three months before- after a week of heartbreak and grief and reconciliation- when it came down to it they were still two vastly different people and that often led to them bumping heads.

Ponyboy bit the inside of his cheek and stepped into the bedroom that once belonged to his parents. After the accident, Darry had moved in to give Soda and Pony their own rooms. Not like they slept in separate rooms now anyways, not with Ponyboy’s tendency for nightmares. But now the old decor and furniture of the room that his mother had once perfected was replaced by barren walls and Darry’s bed, and it no longer felt like the same place he’d once spent countless times sneaking into as a child to seek comfort from his mother after a bad dream or watching his father teach Darry and Soda how to fix squeaky door hinges and shaky knobs. Now it was just a room that his brother sometimes slept in on the rare occasions he could manage it. A room Ponyboy only now entered out of pure necessity, and otherwise briskly walked past in the hallway with downcast eyes.

The youngest Curtis opened the closet with a sigh, pulling the perfectly ironed pants from the hanger as well as a couple of Soda’s shirts he figured he might as well grab for his older brother. He was just about to shut the door and exit the room until the next unavoidable time when the slight flash of something reflective caught the bedroom light and subsequently his attention.

After pushing a few things out of the way- a couple of random jackets and trinkets, probably just things Darry couldn’t determine a place for or hadn’t gotten around to getting rid of- Ponyboy finally fully uncovered the source of the shiny material. An old cookie tin, dented and scratched beyond belief but still surprisingly bright when illuminated just so. He recognized it immediately as their mother’s old sewing tin. It housed buttons and thimbles and some spare needles that the boys used on more than one occasion to hastily stitch up particularly nasty wounds after the rumbles that used harsher weapons than just a plain skin fight. None of them liked to do it, but none of them liked hospital bills and pretentious doctors, either.

He opened the tin out of impulse, wanting just to see the mess of supplies and feel some semblance of familiarity. But when the lid slipped off the top, the typical contents were instead replaced by a mess of dollar bills. More ones than others, but a decent amount of fives and tens and even a few twenties.

Ponyboy blinked, examining the sight before him utterly dumbfounded. Darry was constantly harping on him and Soda that they were always barely making it, warning them about wasting things or avoiding anything that could cost more money than they could swing.

If they had at least something in savings, why they hell was Darry always so damn stressed over something that could be solved with this tin?

Going back to the money, Ponyboy began to notice something about the way the it was all placed. Some of the bills were neatly folded and stacked while others were crumpled into balls, as though they’d been angrily thrown in at the end of a rough day.

Or a rough argument.

And all too suddenly, it clicked with him. All the vague threats Darry made in the haze of their fights, all of the spat out declarations of moving on and leaving Soda and Ponyboy to fend for themselves, all the extra shifts and longer nights Darry seemed to add without thinking they’d notice…

It wasn’t simple angry threatening. It was a warning. He had a plan.

“Did you find ‘em? C’mon, you’re gonna be late for school, kid!” Darry called, his voice getting louder as he approached the bedroom.

Ponyboy quickly popped the lid back onto the tin and shoved it at the bottom of the closet, throwing all the odds and ends over top to try and hide his snooping as the endless sinking feeling threatened to pull him under the floor.

“Anyone notice somethin' weird about the kid?” Steve asked with a raised brow, his voice hushed and somewhat muffled by the cards in his hand as he glanced through the doorway of the kitchen into the living room. Soda and Two-Bit followed Steve’s curious expression, their own poker hands ignored. Ponyboy was sat on the couch, laser-focused on his science textbook resting open on the coffee table while folding the full basket of laundry to his side.

The boys shared a similar unnerved look after taking half a glance at the kid's face. Where he had the same look of concentration he always did when invested in schoolwork or a particularly intriguing book, his eyes were glassy, haunted. It was a look they hadn’t seen in over four months, when they’d lost Johnny and Dallas and Ponyboy spent two painful weeks sat in front of the television and refused to talk to anyone, refused to do anything.

“Soda?” Two-Bit mumbled nervously, almost like he was worried he’d speak too loud and startle the poor kid. “Is he alright, man?”

Sodapop gulped, his eyes trained on his little brother and the way he was seemingly operating on autopilot as he folded a shirt that definitely needed to be hung up. “…Yeah,” he said softly, nodding a little with his eyes still locked on the trauma-ridden ones in the next room. “Yeah, he’s fine. He’ll be fine.” His voice didn’t have a lot of confidence in it, like he was trying to convince himself more than his friends. “Prob’ly just tired. He had practice for track after school, prob’ly just went a little too hard in the paint, y’know?”

That night at dinner, Ponyboy laughed at Soda’s jokes and made casual chatter with Darry about his upcoming track meet schedule, but instead of his notebook and a pen resting on his lap as per usual there was just a stack of homework he scanned over and over again. He almost looked like he was the one grading it instead of his teacher, his eyes darting over the paper time and time again.

When the meal was over, Ponyboy was quick to start washing dishes without Darry even having to remind him it was his turn. While the eldest grinned in appreciation, Soda couldn’t help but hesitantly glance at the kid as he stood at the sink with his back to his brothers.

“He didn’t he do his little dramatic groan he always does,” Soda frowned.

Darry hummed, arms crossed over his chest as a calm smile ghosted his features. “I know, right? No lip or nothin’. It’s almost weird. But shoot, I ain’t complainin’.”

Soda looked from his older brother to his younger brother, noticing the way Ponyboy was hunched over the sink almost like he was operating on fumes. The poor kid had pushed himself like hell today. “Dar, I’m gettin’ kinda worried about him.”

“Pony? Why?”

“I dunno, he was foldin’ laundry and doin’ his homework earlier-“

“That’s it?” Darry asked incredulously, cutting him off. “Hell, we should be thankful. Takes three reminders to get that kid to even start on homework half the time.”

Soda grimaced. “You didn’t see the way he was lookin’, Darry. He looked like…like how he did a few months back. That same damn look.”

Darry felt a knot in his throat, but willed himself to stay calm and not make a mountain out of a molehill. “…He could just be tired. Didn’t he have track after school?”

“Yeah, but it’d make more sense for him to be complainin’ by now, man. You know he always gets like that when he’s beat.”

The eldest shook his head. “No. He’s fine, Soda. It’s been months. You’ve been watchin’ him same as I have and he’s been gettin' better. His grades are fine and he’s stayin’ out of trouble.”

“No, that’s just the thing Dar. When’s the last time he went anywhere but school? When’s the last time he bugged you about wantin' to go see a movie or grab a burger? Hell, when’s the last time you saw him with his nose in some book that wasn’t for class? Darry, he’s slippin' again. Wake up.”

Darry just shook his head again, standing and smacking the table, insistent but not angry. “No,” he said again, his tone firm and final. “He’s fine.”

That night, Darry laid awake in the hollow shell of his room, staring at the ceiling and worriedly piecing together every possible excuse for his brother’s behavior. He was fine, he’d been laughing and smiling again, he’d been spending time with Curly and spending evenings on the porch staring at the setting sky with his fingers curled around a dulled pencil as he wrote in his notebook. He’d been getting better.

Sleep be damned. It wasn’t like Darry was banking on getting any, anyway.

A few weeks later, Darry’s work day had been cut short from running out of shingles and the lumber yard being closed for some dumb reason Darry didn’t even have the energy to be annoyed about, and he’d sooner start again early tomorrow than haul ass all the way across town to the other yard for more bundles for just an hour of daylight.

Even though it was a shorter shift than he was used to, the man was felt dead on his feet by the time he was climbing the steps to the porch. Soda was working a late shift at the DX working on some guy’s car with Steve, and Two-Bit was busy buttering up some random girl who’d just started working evenings at the Dingo. So when he walked through the front door, making sure not to slam the screen door behind him, he knew the muffled noise from the kitchen had to be Ponyboy.

But just as he was about to call out for the kid and alert him he was home, the sound of a hiccup catching on a sob had the knot in his throat that he’d tried gulping down weeks ago falling down to his stomach.

He crossed the living room quickly but quietly, taking cautious steps into the kitchen. Ponyboy was hunched over the counter by the sink, clutching something in his hand with is arms resting crossed over on the surface and his head hidden in the space. His shoulders shook along with his legs as his sobs echoed in the small kitchen, his cries lacing with frustrated yelps that Darry had last heard in a dimmed hospital room underneath the sounds of Dallas’ screams.

He’s slippin' again. Wake up.

Darry had sure as hell been awake. With as little sleep as he got on any given day when was he not awake? But in that moment he realized that while he may have been awake, his eyes were sure as hell not open. Not completely. Not until right now, watching his little brother break down over the notebook that contained his semester thesis, the very one he’d been writing in for months as he crawled out of the pit of despair he’d spent weeks wallowing in, now covered in kitchen grease and gravy and utterly ruined.

He slowly approached the boy, noticing the stove still on but the pan nowhere near the eye. Burnt gravy was puddled on the stove top and by the sink and Darry finally started putting the pieces together. “Pony?” he asked hesitantly, watching as the kid finally lifted his head from where he’d been dejectedly resting it.

Seeing Ponyboy cry wasn’t uncommon, especially not in the last few months. But god, if Darry didn’t hate it every time. He’d do anything to not have to see the poor kid cry ever again. The way his eyes were bloodshot and his face was red from the force of the sobs, the way he hiccupped and tried to force it all down which only seemed to make it so much worse. Darry loathed it more than anything in the world.

“Pony…what’s the matter?” he asked, keeping his voice gentle enough to try and soothe him but not so sweet that it unsettled the boy. He knew Ponyboy preferred the normalcy of how Darry usually spoke to him over the sweet, caring tone he tried to adopt to calm him down. It was a constant, and Ponyboy needed constants to keep him grounded more than he needed hushed tones and gentle words.

Sniffling, Ponyboy wiped his eyes with the heel of his palm and took a deep breath, glancing down at the notebook in frustration. “I was tryin’ to make dinner and finish up this page and I didn’t turn down the damn heat in time. Made a damn mess and now this is all fucked!”

“Hey. Language,” Darry said on impulse.

“And I ain’t got time to work on it, because I got two more papers, an exam to study for, and a science project! So there goes my English grade and there goes my halfway decent GPA-“

Darry took a step forward as Ponyboy’s ranting began to worsen. “Pony, you gotta calm down. Who said you had to make dinner? We got leftovers.”

“-And then there goes college and then what? Then I ruined everything because I can’t get it together!” Ponyboy shouted over Darry, clearly ignoring him as he continued his rambling. “Then I ruin everything you and Soda are working for!”

“Pony, c’mon kid. You don’t gotta do all this like you’ve been doin’-“ Darry started.

Pony looked up into Darry’s eyes, screaming, “Yes I do, ‘cause I’ll have to do all this anyway when you leave!”

The eldest looked at his little brother with wide eyes as he stood in front of him, panting from his winded rant and remnants of hiccupped tears. “What the hell are you talking about?” he asked, confused.

“…I found Mom’s old sewing kit in the closet. You got all that cash in there. And you’re always talking about taking off and starting over someplace new. What, were you just gonna up and leave in the middle of the night without tellin’ us?” Pony spat, his voice sounding bitter and broken and nothing like the happier version of himself he’d been piecing back together over the last few months.

Darry gulped, shaking his head. “Pones…no, no no no, that ain’t…I’m not…” he paused, unsure how to explain himself. He wouldn’t lie, it sure looked bad. With the amount of times he’d threatened to up and leave when he was tired and angry and felt less appreciated than a piece of furniture, with the times he spent longing for his own life and not the one he’d been forced into due to their parents’ sudden end, with the folded and crumpled dollar bills hidden away at the bottom of his closet, it all added up to an understandable conclusion in his little brother’s mind.

Before he could find the words to explain everything, he closed the gap between them with a tight hug. He wrapped his arms around the shorter boy and held him close, his grip steady and desperate like he needed Ponyboy to understand through the embrace that he’d never even think about actually leaving them. It was a hug that strangely felt like the one at the hospital months ago, only where he’d felt horrified relief before he now only felt an aching guilt for not recognizing this sooner, for not taking Soda’s observations to heart.

Ponyboy wrapped him arms around him after a second of hesitation, his arms going from loosely hanging around Darry’s torso to squeezing him tight as if he was afraid to let go. “Kid, that money ain’t my bailout money. It’s just a backup plan.” He felt Ponyboy’s grip tighten and he realized he wasn’t helping his case. Slowly leading his brother out of the kitchen, Darry got them both seated on the couch and he pulled back to look the kid in the face.

“Remember how finances were after we lost Mom and Dad?” he asked, Ponyboy nodding silently as his eyes glazed over with muted grief. “They didn’t have anything saved up for something like that. I wasn’t sure we were gonna make it for a while…I don’t want that to happen to y’all if anything happened to me.”

After a second, Ponyboy’s eyes widened a little. “What do you mean-“

“I ain’t saying something’s gonna happen, Pone,” he reassured calmly, squeezing Ponyboy’s shoulder. “But nothin’s guaranteed. Roofing’s got plenty of chances for someone to screw up and get hurt. You know that just as well as I do. I don’t want you two to be caught up in that if anything happened. So I’ve been squirrelin’ away some odds and ends just in case.”

Ponyboy sniffled again. Darry made a reminder to grab some aspirin for the headache the poor boy would inevitably have later. “…And you weren’t ever gonna tell us?”

Darry grimaced, shrugging a little. “I figured you’d find it when you needed it.”

“So you ain’t goin’ nowhere?” the younger boy asked, not quite meeting Darry’s eyes.

“I ain’t goin’ a damn place, Pony. Except maybe to the kitchen to clean up that gravy mess,” Darry replied, glancing over to the doorway. Slowly, the events of the last few weeks started to click in place in his head and he sighed. “Hang on, have you been acting like this all ‘cause of that?”

Ponyboy bit the inside of his cheek and looked away. “Didn’t wanna give you anymore reason to cut out. Figured if I kept the place clean and stayed outta trouble and kept my grades up that you’d change your mind or something,” he explained, shrugging.

Darry let out a breath he’d accidentally been holding, coming out like a sigh. “Ponyboy…this all ain’t on you, kid. You’re puttin’ way too much on your shoulders.”

“But you and Soda-“

“-Are the adults,” Darry interrupted, cutting Ponyboy’s argument off. “We are the adults in this house, not you. Do I appreciate you pickin’ up and doin’ your homework? Absolutely. Do I think you should only be studyin’ and cleanin’? Hell no.” He stood from the couch and briefly excused himself, returning with a warm, damp washcloth that he slowly wiped over his little brother’s eyes.

For a short moment he was reminded of the time the three of them had been riding their bikes on the road as kids. The chain on Ponyboy’s old hand-me-down had snapped, leading to a nasty wipeout that had taken out a neighbor’s mailbox and the skin off the top of the six year old’s knees. Their mother had cleaned the scrapes while Pony wailed, and Darry cleaned his face with a warm cloth as Soda held and comforted him and their father fitted the bike with a new chain.

Even now, Pony looked like the same teary-eyed kid, but knowing the cause of his current state was more than a simple bicycle incident did little to ease the knot still weighing in his stomach. Darry bit the inside of his cheek to steady himself. “Soda and I didn’t have to be adults at your age, Pony. We got to be kids a little longer than that. You’re already growin’ up way too fast, baby. Let yourself enjoy some of this time you got, okay? Please?” he asked, sounding somewhat insistent.

After a long stretch of silence, Ponyboy mumbled, “…He wouldnt’ve let it get this bad.” He looked down at his hands. “I think…he prob’ly woulda talked me down weeks ago.”

Darry didn’t have to ask who. The haunted stare his little brother had was enough of a tell. “…Yeah, kid. Johnny was always pretty good at workin’ stuff out like that.”

That seemed like the code words to get Ponyboy to finally relax, his head drooping to rest on Darry’s shoulder. “…I ain’t watched a sunset in a while…ain’t had the time.”

Darry turned his head to glance back through the window, noticing the dull orange coming in through the shade of the porch. He wordlessly stood and encouraged Ponyboy to do the same before wrapping his arm around his shoulders and leading him out through the front door.

“Where are we goin-“ Ponyboy started, only to be cut off when his eyes met the orange and pink hues of the setting Tulsa sky. He stood entranced by the sight, not even noticing how Darry seemed to be watching in tandem with him, an identical expression of awe on his face.

“…I take a break to come watch these sometimes,” Darry said, not taking his eyes off the sunset even as Ponyboy glanced over at him. “When I’m out workin’ I’ll sit on the roof where nobody can see me slacking and just…watch the sunset til it goes. Like how Mom used to.”

When Darry finally glanced down again, he noticed in the light of the setting sun that the warm hues made Ponyboy appear like he’d never been crying, save for the puffy eyelids and his residual sniffling. “I didn’t know you even noticed them,” Pony mumbled, his voice scratchy from the sobbing.

“…You never asked,” Darry answered simply, letting that hang in the air as they let the fleeting moment pass from bright pinks and oranges to faded blues. “…Alright. Let’s get inside. I got a gravy mess to clean up and you gotta eat.”

After the kitchen was returned to it’s typical state and Darry had gotten a chance to shower the day’s work away, the two had climbed into the truck and driven to a diner for a quick bite. Darry scarfed down a burger and a basket of friends while Ponyboy did the same across the booth, and after the meal he slipped a five dollar bill in Pony’s hand and mentioned a new film playing at the movie house.

A week later, Ponyboy watched as his eldest brother explained the newly developed chore chart to the gang from his spot on the couch, his new notebook in hand as he copied the contents of the old gravy-stained paper to the fresh sheets and listened to Darry in a new light.

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

pez dispenser update, yay!

I am Very Interested in the direction you're taking izuku here. He seems to have come out the other side of this breakdown going, "no look! I trust you guys! Here, I trust you guys so much! You can know about the severe injuries I had as a child that never got a police report!"

It's funny to read izuku's pov vs aizawa. Izuku is just like, wow this all needs to end so I can get back to being the Normal And Awesome Deku I have turned myself into, and aizawa is like thirty seconds from having his own panic attack at having a few months to turn this kid into a functional human being.

You can truly tell that with how izuku keeps insisting on that he's got this by himself, with no understanding how crazy it is to expect his friends and teachers to back out and let him take over, that he, still, still, STILL has simply 0 faith or expectation that his teacher is driven to help the little kid in izuku that he's buried so deep down there. That an authority figure who isn't all might wants to save him. I want to eat his unthinking, warped by trauma thought patterns, they are delicious.

Kinda touching that midoriya foresaw and tried to avert the all might conversation issue. Rip, dude really tried, but baby izuku is like one of those puddles in flooded old buildings you can find videos of people dropping a rock in -- it doesn't look that deep, but if you tried to put your foot in, you would be getting a whole lot more than your shoe wet.

Yeahhhhhh Izuku’s really not handling it the best.

Izuku genuinely didn’t keep everything a secret all these years because he didn’t trust his friends. It wasn’t that he thought they’d react poorly or hurt him with the information or spread it around or anything like that. This was purely due to his own internal issues around it.

But they’re three years deep into being in the fucking trenches together. And Izuku very much is considered a bedrock of the class. You can see it in their internal monologues—everyone trusts him implicitly. It’s Izuku. If one of them was going through something sensitive or painful, he’d be at the top of the list of people to turn to. For like, the entire class.

And while Izuku isn’t per se aware of the fact that the entire class views him as the best of them, he is painfully aware of the fact that they’ve opened up to him over the years. And that this is making it look like he didn’t tell them a single detail about his life before he came to the school. Which is fair, because he sort of didn’t.

So he’s overcompensating. He doesn’t need privacy because he trusts them so so much and this proves it, right?? They can totally know the sordid details of the past he’s in active crisis over.

He’s scared that he’s going to lose the people who have trusted him over the years because he seemingly didn’t trust them back. But they all trust him so much that they’re more beating themselves up than blaming him.

Todoroki and Mirio were in that scene like “uuuuhhhh you look like you’re a second from a panic attack we can totally give you space if it makes you more comfortable” and Izuku’s in a spiral like Why Would I Need Space I Trust You Both Implicitly Please Ignore The Obvious Distress.

Fundamentally, Izuku has never processed what happened to him as a kid. He didn’t tell them because he wasn’t ready to confront how bad it was back then. It wasn’t about trust. Telling them meant saying aloud what happened. He just wasn’t ready for that.

And from the path canon took, I don’t really see Izuku trusting adults. His childhood did absolutely nothing to make him think teachers would protect him. And for all Aizawa did right, I think this is one bag in canon he legitimately dropped.

I want to be clear—Aizawa was working at a severe disadvantage. He didn’t even have a lot to tell him the problem existed, let alone how to address it. But it’s specifically the Hero Killer Stain Arc that makes me think that Izuku only would trust Aizawa to a certain point.

After the Hero Killer Stain Arc, Aizawa canonically calls out Iida, Todoroki, and Izuku in front of the entire class. He doesn’t mention what it's about, but he makes it very clear that he knows what happened and that he disapproves. And his criticism is specific: In instances where you are out matched, it is better to run and get help. Iida, Midoriya, and Todoroki need to understand that

The thing is that Izuku and Todoroki both considered that as their first option and then correctly deduced that they'd be burying Iida if they did that.

I will actually die on the hill that is that Izuku and Todoroki did everything right when it came to the Hero Killer Stain. Iida caused the problem, but the fact that he made mistakes was the point of that arc for him. But Izuku and Todoroki?

They both reacted perfectly. And if they had done a single thing differently, they'd have two dead bodies.

When Izuku realizes that Iida's in danger, the city is on fire, Nomu are attacking the train, and his supervisor has fucked off to fight monsters attacking the city. He does not have an adult hero who is free to bring with him, and we know for a fact that he did not have time to hesitate or try to find other options, because he arrives the second before Iida dies as-is. When he's on scene, his absolute first instinct is to run. Izuku canonically clocked the fact that he was out matched, evaluated whether he could safely retreat, and realized he’d never be able to get out of there with Iida and Native. He’d have to leave one or both of them to die.

So he asked for help the safest way he could: sending out the mass text and stalling for time. And canonically, he wasn’t hoping a classmate would show up to the fight. He was hoping they’d report it to their supervisors and get him help, which is exactly what multiple of his classmates did.

Todoroki, for his part, correctly clocked that something was wrong with Izuku when he got the message. And he didn’t just fuck off without telling anyone where he was going. He evaluated the situation, realized the city was on fucking fire and there wasn’t a single hero free to go with them, and told the heroes with him that they needed to go to this exact location the first second they could. And he didn’t have a moment to hesitate or figure something else out, because he also showed up at the very last second before Iida took a sword to his spine.

Frankly, Todoroki and Izuku couldn’t have possibly handled the situation better, but they got absolutely shit on in the aftermath. I don’t recall a single adult who told them they did the right thing, except maybe Native. They had the fucking chief of police telling them they were no better than the guy who tried to kill their teenage friend with a sword and their teacher publicly calling them out in front of the class without the benefit of context.

If I was Izuku, I would have walked out of that entire thing having my preexisting distrust of adults affirmed. Like. There isn’t a world where Izuku realistically looks back on his actions and thinks “damn I really should have left Iida die.” He’s not going to change a fucking thing in what he did. Every single time, he’s going to go save his friend. The only realistic take away Izuku could have from Aizawa’s call out was “wow, that guy is not going to have my back if I have to make a tough call. So if I have to make one, then I’m just not going to him for help.”

Which is kind of where we're at in pez right now, and Aizawa's starting to realize it. Don't get me wrong, Izuku trusts Aizawa more than any teacher he ever had growing up. He doesn't think Aizawa is going to be actively malicious to him. But he also doesn't necessarily think Aizawa's going to have his back.

The crux of it is in chapter 4. Tiny Izuku says that Mr. Aizawa is already on Izuku's side, and Izuku's immediate reply is, "I promise you that Mr. Aizawa has never once been on my side." He back pedals fast, clarifies that he thinks Mr. Aizawa is fair and not on anyone's side, but his knee-jerk reaction is undeniable.

And to me? It's because Aizawa genuinely has not been on Izuku's side since he came to UA. And I don't mean Aizawa has been malicious to Izuku. Fundamentally, the issue is that he misdiagnosed the problem.

Aizawa has spent his entire time with Izuku mistakenly believing that the source of Izuku's issues was the same as Bakugou's. He is only now realizing that his issues were more like Shinsou's.

Fundamentally, Aizawa correctly recognized that Izuku's problems came from the fact that he was raised in an unjust system. But he misunderstood what Izuku's position in it was.

Here's what Aizawa knows, from the jump: Izuku and Bakugou came from the same school. Both have very powerful Quirks. Both have obvious issues with the other. Izuku specifically moves and looks like he had a professional trainer, meaning someone invested in his training as a hero. Bakugou talks like someone who's been told his entire life that the sun shines out his ass and never got punished for being a little shit. Izuku's more muted, but he came from the same school. Two kids with powerful quirks? Likely were getting away with the exact same shit.

When you have an unjust system, you have the people running it, the people benefitting from it, and the people being victimized by it. If the teachers at Aldera were letting kids with powerful quirks get away with murder, both Izuku and Bakugou were likely benefitting from that. And it is absolutely vital that Aizawa undoes that damage before they debut.

He doesn't even need to think Izuku, specifically, was abusing his position in this power imbalance. The damage is done from how the teachers at aldera were likely treating him. Teachers that produce kids like Bakugou tell talented, powerful kids that they're special, that they're above the rules, that they've got something so fundamentally important about them that they can get away with more. Even if you don't chose to abuse that narrative in the moment, that's a hell of a formative experience.

They're about to have a ridiculous amount of power. They are about to be in charge of enforcing the rules. And people who are in charge of enforcing the rules and think they're above them turn into Endeavor.

Aizawa's approached Izuku from a sort of tough love perspective from the jump. He didn't cut him an ounce of slack, and it's because he genuinely was trying to do right by Izuku. No, he's not going to get to smash up his body and make himself a hazard. Figure it out, or go home.

He's had plenty of time to learn how to manage his quirk, after all.

With Stain? I don't think Aizawa, if he knew the full circumstances, would genuinely say the right call is to have Iida's fucking funeral. I think he'd agree with the decisions Izuku and todoroki made. But he didn't have all the information, and, fatally, he didn't ask. He assumed.

He's got three powerful, bullheaded students who end up in a back alley in the middle of the night, having all separately ditched the heroes they were supposed to be joined at the fucking hip with. He absolutely thinks that they either planned it together or that, when they realized what Iida did, Todoroki and Iida went after him in secret to try to keep Iida from getting in trouble--and almost got them all killed in the process. There is absolutely no way Aizawa knows that they actually tried to run and get help at every turn.

Aizawa made assumptions. And a big reason why he felt comfortable making those assumptions was because he thought he knew what Izuku's problem was. He thought Izuku, like Bakugou, had been benefitting from teachers turning a blind eye to his misbehavior for years. But the problem was the exact opposite. Teachers had been turning a blind eye to his victimization for years.

He shouldn't have been treating him like Bakugou. He should have been treating him like Shinsou.

Aizawa's trying to correct the damage of past teachers. If they've spent years telling Izuku he's god's gift to mankind and it doesn't matter what he does because he's a hero and that makes up for it, Aizawa needs to hold him to the fucking rules. He needs him to understand that he's not special, he's not the main character, he's not intrinsically better or more important or above the rules in some magically important way. He doesn't want to hear excuses. He doesn't want to know why this time it was different. Izuku needs to understand that he has to live by the rules too, because he's going to be in charge of enforcing them soon.

But if they've spent years telling him he's worthless, that people can hurt him and it's okay, that he can never, ever expect help from them because he's not worth it? Then fuck, Aizawa needed to do the opposite. He needed the same end result, don't get me wrong--an understanding that the system equally applies to everyone--but he needs to make Izuku believe that the system will protect him again. That Aizawa will protect him. And Aizawa's combing over every fucking interaction they've ever had, and realizing that he hasn't done that, because he spent all his time trying to correct a problem that didn't exist.

I think Aizawa's been beating his head against the problem that is Midoriya Izuku for the past three years. Because Izuku's a hard-worker. He is brilliant. He is a natural leader. He is the fucking cornerstone of the class. He is shining so bright that it's going to kill him, because Aizawa knows how to recognize a star that's burning out.

For three years, Aizawa has tried and failed to get Izuku to realize he can and should ask for help. And he has failed because he thought the problem was that Izuku didn't think he needed help, when the problem was actually that he thought no one would give it to him.

In this last chapter, Izuku finally said aloud the reason behind the core issue Aizawa’s had with him his entire time at UA: Growing up, he thought that there was literally one man on the planet who would care enough to save him. He was the most hero-obsessed boy Aizawa’s ever met, and he thought All Might was the only hero alive he could count on to care if he lived or died.

There it is. The exact answer about every scrap of self destructive behavior that Aizawa’s been trying and failing to remedy for years. Why the fuck would he ask for help when he needs it? He’s spent his entire life living in a world where people wouldn’t piss on him if he were on fire. Aizawa needed every day of those three years to reverse that kind of damage, and he’s out of fucking time.

Aizawa is legitimately terrified that he fucked up and that it's going to kill Izuku.

Izuku’s Quirklessness is the missing piece of the puzzle that makes everything fall into place—which is why he’s so pissed at All Might for not telling him. Aizawa’s actually kicking himself for not noticing the obvious discrepancies in Izuku’s past. The fact that he grew up with a powerful Quirk was the factor that made him return to the same incorrect conclusion again and again. There were enough hints that he feels guilty for not figuring it out anyway, but if he had known about Izuku’s Quirklessness from the start? He would have figured it out in seconds.

Now that he knows, Aizawa’s changed how he handles Izuku. He doesn’t let there be a single doubt about what he’s doing or why. He makes Izuku explain himself, so that way there’s no more miscommunications around what he means. He makes sure to compliment him whenever he does something right—he’s trying to change courses, but he’s panicking that it’s too little, too late.

And now he’s got this goddamn criminal investigation that Izuku wants to bury, and it’s killing him. Because that’s his student, and he was hurt horribly. And his student just cannot comprehend why Aizawa cannot let it go.

And then there’s All Might.

All Might’s conversation with baby Izuku, for me, forecloses the possibility that explaining OfA is a solution here.

All Might really went in and knocked it out of the park with the best possible attempt at convincing Tiny Izuku that he’s himself. He immediately failed, albeit, but he honestly couldn’t have done better.

There he is, Izuku’s lifelong hero. And he’s there to say the things Izuku’s spent his whole life wanting to hear. All Might met him, and Izuku inspired him. He reminded him of himself when he was young. He thought he could be a hero. He was so impressed he offered to personally mentor Izuku.

And he loved him. Believe you are him, because I loved you too much to ever let anyone take you from me. There is a fundamental flaw in your theory that simply no one cared enough to notice or stop him, because I love you with all of me. I would have noticed. I would have saved you.

If there is absolutely anything that could have convinced Tiny Izuku, it would be that. This isn’t about quality of the explanation. There’s an internal issue that needs to be fixed before Tiny Izuku will believe any of this.

And I think Izuku recognizes this, on a level. As much as he and Tiny Izuku clash, Izuku gets him. He can typically predict Tiny Izuku’s exact responses to things.

But he’s never approached Tiny Izuku like someone he can explain this to. He’s spent this entire time trying to cheat code his way out of this situation. He wants Mr. Aizawa to erase him or to go find the Quirk user and find away to negate the Quirk. He’s never actually even considered explaining this all to himself as a solution.

Because he knows that there’s some kind of fundamental impossibility about it. Even if he can’t say exactly what it is, he knows that there’s an internal issue that means he’s not going to be able to just tell Tiny Izuku the truth.

Voice of God, he is dead fucking right about Tiny Izuku not buying OfA and being liable to tell everyone out of spite. Tiny Izuku would have that shit on the news.

Fundamentally, Izuku is aware that there is a deeper problem driving Tiny Izuku. He knows that it’s not about the quality of the explanation. There is something deeply, profoundly wrong because of what happened to him that makes him absolutely unable to accept that Izuku is him.

But Izuku has never known how to solve the mental wounds his childhood left him with. He still has them himself. He’s been burying them for years, and he can’t anymore.

When action opens in pez, Izuku himself is not okay. He’s just… bleeding internally. He knows how to hurt in ways people can’t see. But you can see how much his childhood is still bothering him in his defense of Mirio. He has never been able to let go of what happened to him. The wounds never healed.

And he doesn’t know how to go to these people he loves and tell them that what they’re trying fundamentally will fail, because he knows he’s been hiding this fucking shipwreck of his own mental health for the past three years but they don’t have a fucking clue at the scale of the problem.

At the end of the day, All Might went in there because he wanted to save Izuku. And Izuku told him not to because he cannot imagine himself being saved.

[brittlesoldier]

So long story short in case I write too much: I think it's purely the idea that Helly has not been moulded by the world compared to Helena. He likes that she's a more "pure" version of herself.

One of the show's main topics is Nature vs. Nurture. Children are a symbolism we see often in this show, not only literally but also in the way innies are described. Obviously they represent "nature", the true self before life has had an impact on you.

The reason this works (to me) with the whole idea of leveling the tempers is based on my understanding of the "humors". The theory of the four humors comes from the theory that everything was made out of 4 basic elements, and this was applied to medicine. So in a similar way they used to believe that every human was essentially made of four humors.

The interesting thing is that they believed everyone had a different default balance of these four humors and that slight difference is what made each person different (nature). And when there was an excess of any of these humors it manifested in illness both mental and physical. That's where labeling the tempers/humors comes in, except what works for one person may not work for others.

I forgot to mention that food was thought to be associated with the humors, so when someone needed their humors balanced they would often eat certain foods/change their diets. Something we're introduced to on S1 and that's brought back on S2 both times through Helena's character is the three raw eggs Kier ate every morning. The eggs Helena hates, but Helly likes. The ones Jame wishes she ate raw. But not only food: physical health, our environment and even the seasons could imbalance the humors.

I think at the beginning Helena may have had some similarities to Kier based on the four temper idea, nothing else. And I think Jame tried to mold her after him, thinking they were the same. But by doing so Helena was being changed (nurture). Her whole life is controlled. She swims in the morning even though she almost drowned, she eats eggs which she hates because it was Kier's favorite breakfast, she lives in Jame's house, she embodies autumn but we've only seen her live in winter.

I think the answer is simply that Helly still hasn't bent to the world. She doesn't have Helena's baggage, her tempers haven't been balanced to devoid her or a sense of self. So the similarities to Kier that Jame may have seen in Helena are still there in Helly but it's more natural. And I understand what he means. If Kier was a cult leader that's still successful (and heavily relies on his image) it means he probably was a natural leader, just like Helly especially in the final episode of season two. Meanwhile Helena is told what to do and what to say. Like when she's doing PR for the company. She's not allowed to step out of that. The problem that Jame doesn't seem to see is that he cannot make another Kier without destroying Helena, and therefore all he liked about her.

I think it's simple but the symbolism is very interesting. Sorry for the rambling lol

so does nobody wanna talk baby helena............ 👉👈