#that painting was worth 12K
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victorluvsalice · 2 years ago
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-->And then, as Victor finished up his meal and Alice started a new painting, Smiler spotted a certain Roxana Lopes on the porch -- you know, that Sim that was too busy playing with clay on Love Day to even consider giving Smiler a drink? Welp, I saw an opportunity for Prank-Day-appropriate revenge, and after having Smiler go out, say hello, and share some preposterous rumors (”I heard EA was actually going to stop having microtransactions in games!”), had them dare her to streak.
And she happily stripped off her clothes and went! XD Well, if she’s willing to run around in the nude, I’m happy to see her go run around in the nude. And it helped Smiler complete Prank Day too, so double win there. XD
-->With that sorted, the trio settled down into more domestic stuff to finish out the day. Namely, Victor and Smiler teamed up to continue improving the washer-dryer combo -- Smiler added a additive tray to the washer so they could use some of their flowers to scent their clothes, while Victor made the dryer lintless so they’d never have to worry about cleaning the lint trap again -- while Alice did another painting! Which turned out to be a masterpiece!
A $12,000 masterpiece. O.o Yeah, uh, if your abstracts are selling for that much, Alice, it’s no wonder neither Victor nor Smiler needs a job! She celebrated the sale with a quick wolf nap on the floor, followed by testing out her ability to lick herself clean. XD Hey, she just earned the household over 10K in one painting, she can do as she likes.
-->And then Guidry showed up and started trying to grab the Soul Sip on the side table again. *grumbles* I sent Victor in to distract him again -- and then realized, “hey, he must be a valid target for Prank Day” and had Victor scare him. XD Hey, Guidry’s scared the trio plenty -- about time he got a taste of his own medicine! I sent Alice and Smiler upstairs to join the fun, and soon they were all gathered around, sharing ridiculous stories and the Prank Day spirit. Smiler and Victor even got in a kiss after being denied all day by various other chores, aww. :) (And then Smiler scared Victor, but I didn’t have room for that shot. XD)
-->Anyway, with Guidry sufficiently distracted (and the Soul Sip safely tucked away in Smiler’s inventory for later), Victor headed to bed for his required 40 winks, while Alice had another meditation session to control her Fury (look at her levitate! She’s really gotten a handle on this “wellness” thing :p) and Smiler brought in Elmer for another tune-up session. Feels like a solid ending to the day, right?
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foolishlovers · 24 days ago
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With 2024 coming to an end, I just wanted to give a quick shout-out to my favourite fics I (re)read this year. I have so so much appreciation for all writers creating beautiful works about our beloved angel and demon pair. Reading these sometimes funny, sometimes heartbreaking, sometimes sappy, sometimes deliciously filthy stories has been a constant source of joy. I truly can't even begin to describe how thankful I am to be part of such an incredibly creative and loving fandom. So so much gratitude for all the different versions of them, all the genders, all the tropes, all the canon fics, and all the human AUs. There are so many more amazing fics I read this year and there are so many more to explore in 2025, but the following few have made themselves a home in my heart. I promise they're worth a read! 💜 [I do fic recs all year long, check out this tag for more.]
Date by @ddagent (2.5k, T)
Every year, Aziraphale is spoiled on his birthday. This year, he decides to do the same for Crowley. There's only one problem - he's not actually sure when Crowley's birthday is.
Roller Derby Queen by @summerofspock (2.5k, M)
Crowley skates for Hell on Wheels and she's pretty good at it too. She'd be better if she weren't so distracted by the new skater on the opposing team.
Sweet Nectar of the Eldritch Gods by @brenna (3.2k, G)
Azira writes a letter to the purveyor of her favorite honeys and sweetness ensues. No offence, but who says “by the by,” by the way? It’s adorable? By the by, do you like wine? Crowley
Poor Men by @why-not-go-with-style (3.9k, G)
What To Do When Two of Your Professors Are Hopelessly in Love With Each Other: an instruction manual by Adam Young (featuring Pepper Moonchild because someone has to be the voice of reason here).
!False (It's Funny Because It's True) by @mirjam-writes (6.4k, E)
Aziraphale drew a long breath through his nose. Crowley, of course it had to be Crowley. The new guy in the sales department, who would promise potential customers just about anything to close a deal. Arrogant, annoying – and wildly, stupidly attractive. Aziraphale hated him.  Aziraphale is a stellar software architect and a project manager, who is so done with the sales department selling unrealistically scheduled and budgeted projects. And he definitely doesn't have a crush on anyone, thank you very much.
Show me where the Nightingale sings by @sabotage-on-mercury (6.5k, G)
After settling into their new home in the South Downs there are still things to process for Aziraphale and Crowley before they can start a new chapter of their life. But winter is turning into spring. There is magic abroad in the air. And finally, the nightingale is back.
The Art of Human Nature by @ineffable-doll (6.5k, T)
Crowley is a painter who has only ever had an eye for nature. That is, until a client named Aziraphale commissions her for a painting to boost her self-confidence, and Crowley discovers that her client is as beautiful as the Earth itself. Then she goes and catches feelings, because she’s a disaster.
Lit by @fellshish (12k, T)
Crowley takes a university course on literature and surprise! The book they’re discussing is Good Omens. Uh oh.
Paradigm Shift by @hakunahistata (13k, E)
“Apologies, apologies! The time got away from me.” Aziraphale Fell entered the room brightly, a binder in one hand, tea mug in the other. Crowley’s languid sprawl went rigid as the senior accounting analyst who had been the indulgent secret in the back of his mind took the seat opposite him.   Or, Crowley Pines at the Office: An AU.
Feast by @ashfae, mostlyjustgoose (15k, E)
Crowley's spent the whole of lockdown asleep. Aziraphale has spent the whole of lockdown baking, cooking, and becoming increasingly frustrated with his solitude. Which eventually leads him to the perfect way to solve all his problems at once... Or, Aziraphale attempts to seduce Crowley with a truly excellent meal, and Crowley is amenable.
Ever-Fixed by @hkblack (19k, E)
Aziraphale Fell had a plan. Go to school, get his degree, and start his life with his beloved at his side as man and wife. Until one day Crowley disappears. Decades later he meets a man, and finds the love of his life again. Anthony J. Crowley, suave, cool, masculine, in control, unflappable, has spent decades building himself up. He refuses to let his confident facade disappear for Aziraphale, who once almost tumbled down the stairs to certain death because his nose was stuck in a book. It’s just sex, and they’ve been dating for months, this time around. There’s no need to get his knickers in a knot. But the past isn’t easy to let go of, even if you’re both avoiding it. A story about love, intimacy, and finding each other again. (Alternatively: Tender smut, but then I wrote love story flashbacks, and now it's just emotional and there's plot in my pornography)
Fireworks by @optimistic-starlight (19k, E)
He had to get himself under control. Aziraphale needed him. That prick boyfriend of his drained so much of Aziraphale's time and energy, dampened so much of the gentle, beaming happiness that Crowley had always adored about him. He needed Crowley there to support him, to do the things a best friend should be there to do. And, well, if Crowley needed him too, if he had to subsume his own pain to focus on making Aziraphale happy, that was something he could bear quietly. He could do it for his angel. Crowley groaned and dropped his head against the tiled wall of the shower. His angel. He had to stop thinking of him like that.
Maybe Next Christmas by @flamingbentleyy (21k, T)
Airports were tricky business, but waiting in airports was as close to hell as one could possibly get. Nobody knew it better than Aziraphale, whose luck had made him end up in one right on Christmas Eve of all days. Although his airport experience turned a little less hellish and a whole lot more entertaining after he ran into an old college friend in that same airport. And then again. And again…
The Small Ad by @theladydrgn, @sylwritesstuff (32k, E)
WORK WANTED: Partner For Hire. Tall, lanky ginger of arguable gender available to be your significant other to keep pesky relatives, nosy coworkers, or well-meaning friends at bay. Able to be as annoying or as polite as you like. Causing a fight over Christmas dinner with your odd, bigoted uncle/aunt/cousin will require an extra £200 up front. £50 for the first hour, negotiable otherwise. Ciao.   It isn't the sort of advertisement Aziraphale usually paid any attention to, but desperate times do indeed call for desperate measures.
Heavenly Wicked Cafe by @waitingtobebroken (33k, T)
There is a terribly rude barista that makes amazing coffee and a saint of a barista, whose coffee tastes vile. And they are in love.
Petrichor & Parchment by @katnoggin (33k, E)
“Mr. Crowley, I presume?” Aziraphale asked in lieu of an introduction, which was not forthcoming. The guy hadn’t even removed his sunglasses. Oh God, he had a tattoo on his face. Aziraphale wasn’t one to judge, but… what kind of gardener had a snake tattoo on his face? Now also available as a podfic from Literarion  [Huuuge recommendation for the podfic!!]
The Heart of the Forest by Kalimyre (33k, E)
Retired librarian Aziraphale moves into a small, isolated cottage deep in the forest with a strange history. He soon realises he's not alone in the woods; a presence watches him. But as he begins to befriend the stranger that lurks in the trees, Aziraphale comes to understand there's more to him than appearances suggest - and Aziraphale's own destiny may be tied to the mysterious creature with the golden eyes.
in your own time by @ineffabildaddy (33k, E)
Aziraphale and Crowley grew up together as next-door neighbours on Hogback Lane, classmates at the local Catholic school, and inseparable best friends. By the age of eighteen, both were hopelessly in love with the other, despite the knowledge that they were doomed to live apart, as Crowley aimed to pursue university study in London and Aziraphale committed himself to remaining in Tadfield, dedicating his life to the Church. After almost twenty years spent away from his hometown, renowned botanist Crowley decides to come and visit Tadfield again at a moment's notice; the purpose of his visit is to speak at a Careers Day for the school he and Aziraphale, now a beloved priest and a frequent helper at the school, attended. The twenty-four hours that follow will change both of their lives for ever.
Between Comfort And Chaos by anathxmadevice (45k, T)
“And how long have you two been a couple?” “Oh, I—” Aziraphale panics. “Ha, well, that’s a funny… We’re not actually—” “We’re just friends.” Crowley says, their voice clear and calm and lightly amused, either because of or in spite of Aziraphale’s flailing attempts to divert the conversation. “Ah, yes, quite.” Aziraphale says, then takes a sip of his drink just for something to do, instead of focussing on the way Crowley said just friends, and how it causes a painful throb in his chest that he has never fully got used to. His memory can only scrabble at the edge of a time where being just friends with Crowley didn’t feel like a particular form of torture. * Or, Aziraphale has been desperately in love with his best friend and housemate Crowley since they were students, but is too scared to do anything about it.
Loving You Slow by @tawnyontumblr (46k, E)
Crowley just wants to dance, but he's not prepared to sell his soul (and other things) at Mayfair's Hellfire Club to do it. Tending bar at The Bookshop in Soho is just the escape he needs, providing Crowley can convince the club’s owner he really belongs on the stage. Unfortunately Aziraphale Eastgate is not quite the generous guardian angel Crowley has been led to believe. Welcome to The Bookshop, where it always pays to look under the covers.
A Billion Points of Light by akitsuko (50k, E)
The firefighter lifts the visor on their helmet, and Crowley may not be able to see very well, but those are the most beautiful eyes he’s ever seen in his life. Crowley has never been one for the whole 'love at first sight' business, but he may need to reassess after Aziraphale - a gorgeous firefighter - saves his life.
More Than by @naromoreau (55k, E)
Crowley would like to spend another year without marrying, especially when thrust-forced to pick a husband. She refuses to cave in on a matter of principles. She refuses to cave in specifically on a matter of not wanting to be married to Lucien Morningstar. But she might need a hand to break free from such a burden. And who knows? She might even find something else along the way.
Lavender Apiary Of Your Honey Eyes by @snek-of-eden (66k, E)
The first thing Aziraphale registered was fiery red hair matted with sweat. The second thing was the man’s face, sharp and intelligent and a little guarded, sunlight dappling a spray of freckles. Upon seeing this, two contradictory thoughts crossed his mind: ‘Gosh, he’s pretty’, and ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever heard a man use that many expletives in the space of a minute’. “Oh,” he said, swallowing hard. “Hello, then.” __________ When Aziraphale inherits a small, cosy cottage in the countryside, he finds unexpected company in a gardener he didn't even know he had. Crowley is sweet, and strange, and about as foul-mouthed as you can get. Before he knows it, he's falling pretty goddamn hard for a man whose friendship he's terrified of risking. Ah, the foils of love.
Old Vines by @sevdrag (189k, E)
A.Z. Fell, one of the most respected names in wine and food blogging, has been sent on assignment with his assistant Warlock Dowling to spend six months in California Wine Country. Under direction (by his boss, Gabriel) to use this experience to double his blog followers and write a novel, Aziraphale is both excited and anxious about the opportunity. Anthony J. Crowley is the owner and viticulturalist of Ecdyses, a winery that unexpectedly fell into his lap eleven years ago when he hit rock bottom. He may be in debt, yeah, but he’s paying off his loans — and despite pressure from his lenders and their team of inspectors, Crowley has found a kind of contentment tending his little corner of terroir and producing extraordinary wine. Crowley’s old vines are the heart of his vineyard, and he’s never let anyone in. Crowley finds Aziraphale intriguing; Aziraphale finds Crowley enthralling. Turns out a famous wine expert and an experienced viticulturalist can still learn things from each other. The summer of 2019 unfolds. [Big recommendation for the podfic here too!!]
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cloudss-space · 4 days ago
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You were special
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( killer chat ) ronin x reader ... angst & slight hurt/comfort ... 12k word count
author note: thank you all for 50 follows !! i appreciate all of your guys love and support. i appreciate you all who read my works and i can't wait to write even more for you guys <3
trigger/content warning: gore / blood, skin picking, suicide, self harm, anxiety/panic attacks
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Growing up, you felt the weight of eyes on you from every corner of the room. It wasn't the warm gaze of approval or the gentle encouragement of someone who wanted you to thrive. These eyes were sharp, like knives, dissecting you piece by piece, carving out the parts that didn't fit their expectations. You were a canvas they demanded to be perfect, but their tools weren't brushes—they were scalpels, precise and ruthless. Every glance was a silent demand, every word an unspoken expectation. You had to be something, you had to create something, you had to prove that you were more than just skin and bone. Your worth was measured in accomplishments, in trophies, in how brightly you could shine under their unyielding scrutiny. But even the brightest stars burn out, don't they?
You learned early that being still was dangerous. Stillness meant inadequacy, a failure to meet the standards etched into you like scars. They pushed you into classes: piano, ballet, painting, debate—anything to ensure you were never idle. Each lesson felt like a blade against your skin, shaping you into something they could display. Your fingers bled against the piano keys, your toes blistered and cracked in ballet shoes, and your voice turned hoarse from endless rehearsals. But you never stopped, never faltered, because stopping meant disappointing them. Disappointing them was unforgivable. Your successes were their triumphs, and your failures? They were unforgivable and unforgettable.
You remember how their words cut deeper than any knife. "Not good enough," they'd say, their voices dripping with disappointment. You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat, even as the taste of copper filled your mouth from biting your tongue too hard. Your skin felt too tight, your body too fragile under the weight of their expectations. There were days when you looked in the mirror and saw something unrecognisable staring back. The reflection was cracked, fractured by their demands and your inability to meet them. But you'd still smile, because showing weakness was another sin you couldn't afford to commit.
The world outside was no better. Strangers saw only the polished version of you, the mask you wore so diligently. They marveled at your talent, praised your dedication, and envied your supposed perfection. But they didn't see the blood beneath your fingernails or the bruises hidden beneath long sleeves. They didn't see the sleepless nights spent practising until your body screamed for rest. They only saw the results, the shiny, glittering facade you presented. And isn't that all that matters? They believed the lie, even if it was killing you.
You started to resent the things you once loved. The piano keys felt like ice beneath your fingertips, their melody now a dirge. The ballet studio smelled of sweat and despair; the mirrors reflected your exhaustion rather than grace. Even your own voice betrayed you, cracking under the weight of forced enthusiasm. But you kept going because stopping wasn't an option. You wouldn't let them. You didn't want to stop, you didn't think you deserved to. You were grateful for their attention and investment in you.
The pressure was intense, squeezing your chest with every passing day. Your heart pounded against your ribs like a bird desperate to escape its cage. You know you will never be able to let it all go, to collapse under the weight of their expectations. Would they even notice if you shattered? Or would they sweep up the pieces and demand you put yourself back together? You didn't know the answer, and you were too afraid to find out. So you kept moving, kept performing, even as your soul screamed for release.
There were moments when you felt like you were drowning, gasping for air in a sea of demands. The water was dark and cold, and every time you surfaced, another wave crashed over you, dragging you back under. You reached for lifelines that weren't there, your hands clawing at the emptiness, nails breaking and bleeding. But you never screamed. Admitting defeat was not an option. You let the waves take you, let them pull you deeper, until the only thing you could feel was the crushing pressure of their expectations.
And yet, despite everything, you kept going. You did it not because you wanted to, but because you had to. The fear of their disapproval was greater than the pain of their demands. You became a machine, operating on autopilot, your emotions buried so deep you almost forgot they existed. But sometimes, late at night, when the house was silent and the world was asleep, you'd feel the cracks in your armour. Tears would come unbidden, hot and angry, carving trails down your cheeks like rivers of molten glass. You wiped them away quickly, ashamed of your weakness, and promised yourself you'd try harder the next day.
But no matter how hard you tried, it was never enough. Their eyes never stopped following you, unblinking and unforgiving, always expecting more. You could win every competition, master every skill, and still, they'd find something to critique. They weren't interested in your talent; they wanted perfection. And perfection is a moving target, always just out of reach. But you kept chasing it, even as it tore you apart, because what else was there? What were you, if not their perfect little masterpiece?
Now, as you stand on the edge of adulthood, you wonder what it was all for. The trophies gather dust, the skills they forced upon you now feel like chains rather than gifts. You look at your reflection and see the scars of their expectations etched into your skin, visible only to you. But beneath the cracks, beneath the layers of performance and pretence, you see something else: a flicker of defiance, a spark of hope. And for the first time, you dare to believe that you can rewrite your story.
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The flicker of defiance you saw in the mirror is extinguished by the weight of expectations pressing down on you. The walls close in, their pristine white surfaces streaked with the red of your efforts, the rawness of your exhaustion. Every movement is a reminder of how much you've given. The hollow ache in your chest grows louder, echoing like a drumbeat in a cavern, but you drown it out with the rhythmic grind of repetition. Practice. Perfect. Repeat. The cycle sharpens like broken glass, slicing into your resolve, but you won't stop. Stopping would mean failure, and failure is unthinkable.
You feel the toll of always being "on" and always having to perform. Your joints crack and protest, your muscles tremble under the strain of endless hours. Your hands, once steady and graceful, now shake uncontrollably, fingertips raw and split from the relentless grind. You notice the blood smearing the piano keys, dark crimson seeping into the grooves, but you keep playing. The melody is disjointed, discordant, but no one's listening closely enough to care. Your audience only sees the performance, not the cost, and that's what matters. You keep telling yourself it's worth it, even as your vision blurs and your pulse thrums erratically in your ears.
The whispers of doubt grow louder, turning into screams in the quiet moments you can no longer avoid. They claw at the edges of your mind, their voices overlapping, accusing, demanding. Not enough. Never enough. The words feel like needles beneath your skin, burrowing deeper until they reach your core. Sleep offers no reprieve. It is fractured and restless, punctuated by dreams of endless auditions and faceless judges with mouths like voids. You wake up gasping, choking on the reality that it's not just a dream. The nightmare is real, and there's no escape.
Your body betrays you in more obvious ways. You catch glimpses of your reflection, pale and gaunt, eyes sunken into shadowed hollows. Your bruises don't heal; they bloom like dark flowers, reminders of your inadequacies. Your nails are chipped and bloody, and when you wash your hands, the water runs pink, swirling down the drain like a mockery of the effort you've poured out. You try to hide the signs, but you can't hide the exhaustion etched into every part of you. Even the air feels heavy, pressing down on your chest until every breath is a battle.
People notice, but their concern is superficial and short-lived. They say, "You're pushing yourself too hard," their words laced with a tepid sympathy. But their empathy is superficial. They don't understand the true depth of your exhaustion. They still expect the same performance, the same perfection, even as your body and mind crumble. Their smiles are masks, hiding the insatiable hunger for what you can give, for the show you've built your life around. You're foolishly loyal to their expectations, nodding and smiling, while all the while you know it's not fine. Pretending you're fine.
Your mind fractures under the strain. Thoughts splinter and loop, chaotic fragments you can't piece together. The world tilts, a dizzying whirl of colours and sounds that blur at the edges. You shake uncontrollably, gripping the edge of a countertop with knuckles white from force. Your heart pounds erratically, as if it wants to escape your ribcage. Panic surges, a wave that crashes over you, dragging you under. You gasp for air, clawing at your chest as if you can force the anxiety out. But it doesn't leave—it festers, a parasitic force feeding on your every weakness.
The pain is constant, a constant, nagging thrum. Your muscles ache, your joints burn, and your head pounds relentlessly, the pressure building like a storm. You feel as though your skin can barely contain you, as if you're moments away from tearing yourself apart. You catch yourself scratching at your arms absentmindedly, nails digging into flesh until you break the surface. The sting provides momentary respite, but it is fleeting. The blood that pools in the shallow crescent marks is a constant reminder of your lack of control.
You start to resent everyone around you—not just for their demands, but for their ignorance. They don't see the destruction inside you, don't care to look past the surface. They clap and cheer, oblivious to the rot spreading through you, the slow decay of your spirit. You know they will notice, you know what you'd have to lose before they'd finally see you. The thought is dark, a shadow curling around your mind, whispering temptations you're too afraid to name. But you push it away, because giving in would mean they've won. You will not let them win, even if it kills you.
By the time you realise how far you've fallen, it's too late to crawl back. The person you were—the child who dreamed of love and warmth—is a distant memory, a ghost haunting the halls of your mind. You don't know who you are anymore. You're not enough. You are a hollow shell, a performer with no audience, a masterpiece no one truly wants to admire. The storm inside you rages on, unrelenting, tearing through the ruins of what once made you whole. But you press on, driven by hope. But deep down, you know the truth: the eyes on you will never let you rest.
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The storm inside intensifies, devouring every shred of hope you attempt to salvage. It is relentless, a gnawing ache that burrows into your chest and festers like an open wound. Those expectations are chains now, dragging you down with every step, their weight pulling you closer to the ground. You know that if you let go, you'll fall. But you don't dare consider it, not even for a second. Will they pull you back to your feet, or will they step over your broken body, whispering, "I knew they couldn't handle it"?
Your days blur together. You move through routines on autopilot, hands trembling as you perfect the same motions over and over again. The blood on the piano keys is darker now, nearly black, crusted into the grooves like dried ink. Your fingertips are numb, calloused and raw, but you play anyway. Each note is a scream, echoing in the room. You wonder if anyone hears your desperation, but no one says a word. When you finish, the silence is cold, more intense than the applause you used to fear.
The cracks in your mind grow wider, splitting into jagged chasms you can't navigate. Voices echo in those dark spaces, some familiar, others foreign, all of them cruel. They whisper your failures back to you, their words crawling under your skin like insects. You catch yourself whispering back, arguing with the ghosts that have taken residence in your head. It doesn't help. Their accusations grow louder, overlapping, turning into a cacophony of shame and guilt. You press your hands to your ears, nails biting into your scalp, but there's no silencing them. They're part of you now, ingrained like the scars you hide.
Sleep becomes a distant memory, your nights spent staring at the ceiling, counting cracks that aren't there. The darkness feels alive, suffocating, pressing against you until you can't breathe. You see shapes moving in the shadows, their forms indistinct but menacing. You know they're figments of your imagination, born from exhaustion and fear, but that doesn't make them any less terrifying. Your heart races, your chest tightens, and you are overwhelmed by panic. By the time the sun rises, you're too spent to face the day, but you force yourself out of bed anyway. There's no room for weakness, not in their eyes.
The physical toll worsens. Your body feels alien, as though it belongs to someone else, someone who has been battered and broken beyond recognition. You stare at your reflection in the mirror, your face drained of all emotion, your skin pallid and your hands shaking with fear. You barely recognise yourself. The bruises that once bloomed like flowers are now dark, sunken craters, permanent marks of your failure to keep up. The cuts on your arms sting as they reopen, your nails unconsciously scratching at them in moments of stress. You hide them, but they're always there, a constant reminder of your failure.
The world outside feels distant and unreachable. It's as though you're watching it through a pane of shattered glass. People pass you by, their faces blurred, their voices muffled. You are unable to connect with them, and you do not care about their shallow conversations and trivial concerns. The isolation is a double-edged sword: you crave connection, yet the thought of anyone truly seeing you fills you with dread. What would they think if they knew the truth? If they saw the cracks, the blood, the ruin beneath the surface? You shudder at the thought, clutching your secrets closer, even as they poison you from within.
The whispers in your mind grow more potent with every passing day. They don't just accuse you of failure anymore – they urge you toward something worse. Give up, they say. End it. You are already broken. Why persist? Their voices are persuasive, almost soothing in their promise of release. You push them away, reminding yourself of the reasons you've held on this long. Those reasons feel so small now, so fragile. The weight of the whispers presses against your chest and for the first time, you consider listening to them.
One night, the storm inside you mirrors the one outside. The thunder shakes the walls, lightning streaking through the cracks in the curtains, illuminating your hollow reflection in the glass. You sit by the window, knees pulled to your chest, nails digging into your arms as the voices scream louder than the storm. You want to reach out, to scream for help, but your voice feels trapped in your throat. You try to text someone—anyone—but your fingers tremble too much to type. The words you want to say are too heavy, too sharp, cutting you from the inside out. The phone falls from your hand with a dull thud.
The storm continues, unrelenting, as you sit there, paralyzed by the weight of it all. The lightning flashes, illuminating the tears streaming down your face. Their warmth is a cruel contrast to the cold consuming you. Your mind spirals, the voices weaving a tapestry of despair that feels inescapable. You close your eyes, but the darkness offers no solace; only more shadows. Yet, a tiny part of you clings to hope, faint and flickering like a dying candle. This tiny flame of hope is all that keeps you breathing, keeps you connected to this world even as the storm rages on.
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The storm inside you swells, consuming everything in its path. It is heavy, oppressive, and curls through your veins like smoke, dark and suffocating. It presses against your chest, wrapping around your ribs like a serpent, squeezing until your breaths come in shallow, broken gasps. Your heart races, a frantic, uneven rhythm that drowns out every other sound. The world blurs at the edges, the lines between reality and the chaos in your head growing indistinct. You feel as though you are crumbling from the inside out, the fragile framework of your mind buckling under a weight it was never meant to bear.
Time loses meaning in this state. Minutes stretch into hours, hours into an eternity of unrelenting torment. The voices in your mind grow sharper, their words cutting you to the bone. You are not enough. You will never be enough. Why are you even trying? Every phrase is a dagger, a deepening wound that you thought was healed. You want to fight back, to scream at the ghosts haunting your thoughts, but the words catch in your throat, choking you. It's as if your very being is unravelling, thread by thread, leaving nothing but emptiness in its wake.
The emptiness is the worst part. It's a hollow ache that echoes through every part of you, a void that no amount of effort or achievement can fill. You feel like a brittle, fragile shell, ready to shatter at the slightest touch. Even the simplest tasks feel insurmountable, each step forward requiring every ounce of strength you have left. You feel the weight of your body, the pull of gravity dragging you down, and for a moment, you wonder what it would feel like to just let it take you. To stop resisting. To let go. But you cannot hold onto this thought for long.
The constant fear vibrates beneath your skin, never letting you forget its presence. It's not just fear of failure or disappointment; it's fear of yourself, of the spiralling darkness that threatens to consume you. The storm outside mirrors the one within, the thunder rumbling like a beast in the distance, the flashes of lightning stark and violent. You feel the universe is mocking you, its chaos reflecting your own in a cruel, unrelenting dance. Each clap of thunder strikes your fragile armour, each bolt of lightning exposing your vulnerability.
Your hands shake as you try to steady yourself, clutching at your clothes, the chair, anything you can grab hold of. The texture beneath your fingers feels unreal, disconnected, as though your senses are betraying you. The air in the room is thick with the static charge of the storm, and you feel it prickling against your skin like needles. Your breaths come faster and faster, shallow and panicked, as though the world is spinning around you in dizzying circles. You close your eyes, but the darkness behind your lids is alive, shifting and writhing, offering no solace.
You feel isolated, alone, and your mind is consumed by a relentless sense of despair. You are alone, unreachable, as though you're screaming into a void that swallows every sound. You long for someone to pull you from this abyss, to anchor you, to tell you that you'll be okay. Yet the very idea of reaching out feels impossible. What would you say? How can you even begin to explain the chaos in your mind, the storm raging inside you? Words feel inadequate, clumsy, incapable of capturing the depth of your despair. You stay silent, drowning in your own thoughts.
The physical pain merges seamlessly with the emotional, becoming indistinguishable. Your body aches in ways that feel unnatural, every muscle tight and trembling, every joint stiff and unyielding. Your skin feels too tight, too fragile, as though it could split open at any moment. The scars you hide burn with a phantom heat, their presence a constant reminder of battles you thought you'd won. They are proof that you are fighting a war you can't win. The thought feels heavy in your chest, dragging you deeper into the dark.
There is clarity in the midst of this chaos; the pain is sharp and almost tangible. The world narrows to a single point: your suffering. Every sound, every sensation, every thought is amplified, reverberating through you like the toll of a bell. The storm outside rages on, its fury a cruel echo of your own, and you feel as though it's trying to drown you. Each crack of thunder, each flash of lightning, is a judgment, a condemnation of your inability to keep it together.
Yet, even in the depths of this despair, a part of you refuses to let go completely. It's small, faint, barely more than a whisper, but it's there. It reminds you of the moments when the storm quieted, when the weight lifted, if only for a little while. It reminds you that you've survived this before and that you can survive it again. It's not a promise, but it's enough to keep you holding on. For now, at least. In the midst of chaos, that thread of hope is a lifeline; fragile but unbreakable.
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The thread of hope you cling to is thin. It will snap under the weight of your despair. It quivers with the same unsteady rhythm as your breaths, a fragile tether keeping you from slipping completely into the void. The storm rages on, louder and more ferocious, its booming thunder reverberating through your bones. Each strike is a reminder that the world outside is chaotic and unforgiving. You are at war with yourself, torn between the storm and the calm.
Your skin is electric, hypersensitive to every tiny sensation. The hum of the air conditioner sounds like a roar; the texture of your clothes scratches against your skin, rough and unbearable. You press your hands against your ears, but it's useless. The noise is inside you: a relentless cacophony of thunder and whispers, and the grinding weight of your own thoughts. You press harder, fingernails digging into your scalp, desperate to silence it all. The sharp sting is momentarily grounding, but it's fleeting. The storm inside continues. It never stops.
The room warps around you, its edges bending and twisting in ways that make your stomach churn. The walls feel close, suffocating, and yet impossibly distant. You reach out to steady yourself, but your hands tremble too much to find purchase. The floor ripples beneath you, like water disturbed by the storm. You blink rapidly, trying to dispel the illusion, but the disorientation only worsens. You are trapped in a dream where nothing makes sense, but the pain is too sharp, too real, to be anything but reality.
Your heart races. It pounds against your ribs. It's trying to break free. The rhythm is frantic and erratic, each beat hammering into your chest with brutal force. Your throat tightens and your breath catches as panic takes hold. You try to breathe deeply, to calm yourself, but you can't. It feels like the storm has stolen even that from you. The more you fight it, the worse it gets. You gasp for air, tears streaming down your face as you claw at your throat in a desperate attempt to breathe.
Time stretches, each second dragging on for what feels like an eternity. Outside, the storm rages without pause, its thunder rolling incessantly, its lightning cutting through the darkness with blinding precision. Each flash illuminates the room in harsh, stark light, casting jagged shadows that seem to reach for you. You feel a primal fear in your chest, an all-consuming urge to run, to escape, but there's nowhere to go. You want to run, to escape, but there's nowhere to go. The storm is everywhere, inside and out, a force you can't outrun or hide from. You curl in on yourself, knees to your chest, arms wrapped tight, as though you can shield yourself from the onslaught.
Your mind spirals deeper, the whispers in your head growing louder, their accusations sharper. This is your fault, they hiss. You're weak. You will never be free of this. The words sting like acid, eating away at your strength. You try to push them away, to drown them out with your own voice, but your throat is raw, your words faltering and broken. The whispers laugh cruelly, mocking your desperation. They know your weaknesses, every flaw and failure, and they weaponise them with ruthless precision.
The lightning outside is intense. It feels like it's tearing through you, its brightness exposing every raw, vulnerable part of you. Each flash is a spotlight, a searing judgment that leaves you trembling and exposed. You cannot hide from it, nor escape the way it lays you bare. The thunder rumbles, shaking the foundations of the house, and you feel like it could collapse under its force. You almost wish it would. Then the storm would finally end. You'll find peace, buried in the rubble, but it won't be long.
But closing your eyes only amplifies the chaos inside you. The darkness behind your lids is alive, a swirling mass of shadows and shapes you can't decipher. You feel like you're falling, spiralling deeper into a void that has no bottom. Your hands clutch at your chest, nails digging into your skin as though you can anchor yourself, but there's nothing solid to hold onto. You feel weightless yet heavy, suspended in the storm's relentless grip.
And then, in the midst of the chaos, there's a flicker—a faint, wavering pulse of light. It is not the storm's lightning, but something quieter, gentler. It's almost imperceptible, a whisper against the roar, but you feel it. It's small and fragile, easily drowned out by the thunder, but it's there. You can't say for sure if it's real or just an illusion, but you hold on to it. It's the only thing that feels even remotely like hope, and in this moment, hope is all you have.
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The tipping point comes quietly, sneaking up on you like a shadow at your back. It's not a single moment, but a series of cracks, each one deeper than the last, until you finally shatter. You wake up one morning unable to move, your body leaden, every joint screaming as though it's been filled with shards of glass. Your chest feels hollow and impossibly heavy, as though something vital has been scooped out and replaced with a stone. You try to rise, but the room tilts violently, the world spinning in chaotic circles that send bile rushing up your throat. You collapse back onto the bed, trembling. Your breaths are shallow and uneven. Your hands clutch at your chest, nails digging into your skin as though you can claw your way out of this suffocating panic. There is no escape: only the steady, crushing weight that presses down on you, dragging you deeper into yourself.
The days blur together after that, indistinct and shapeless, each one bleeding into the next. You can barely eat; food tastes like ash in your mouth, and your stomach twists violently at the thought of it. Sleep eludes you; your nights are spent staring at the ceiling as shadows twist and writhe, whispering to you in voices you can't block out. The darkness behind your eyes feels alive, pulsing with the rhythm of your frenzied heartbeat. Your skin feels wrong – too tight, too thin – every nerve ending exposed and raw. Even the slightest touch feels like fire, like needles piercing your skin, and you flinch away from anyone who comes too close. The storm inside you has grown into a hurricane, a relentless force that tears through every part of you, leaving only destruction in its wake.
The self-destruction is ritualistic, an instinctive response to the chaos. You catch yourself scratching at your arms until the skin breaks, until crimson blossoms under your nails, stark against your pale, trembling flesh. The sight of it is horrifying, yet strangely soothing, as though the pain grounds you, pulls you back from the edge of the void. But it never lasts. The relief is fleeting, replaced almost instantly by shame, by the weight of what you've done. You hide the marks beneath long sleeves, even in the sweltering heat, the fabric sticking to your skin and rubbing against the wounds. It's a small price to pay for keeping your secret and maintaining the fragile facade that everything is fine. But you know the truth: you're falling apart, and there's no way to stop it.
The hospital visits begin after you faint for the first time, your body giving in to the relentless strain. You wake up on the floor, the cold tile pressed against your cheek, the metallic taste of blood in your mouth. Your lip is split, a deep red line that throbs with each beat of your heart. Someone finds you there, their voice distant and muffled, as though you're hearing it through water. You don't remember much after that—flashes of fluorescent lights, the sterile smell of antiseptic, the beeping of machines. When you finally come to, you're in a hospital bed, the harsh whiteness of the room making your head throb. Your arms are bandaged and your body aches in ways you don't understand. A nurse explains what happened, her voice gentle but laced with concern, and you feel the weight of her words settle over you like a shroud.
The doctors ask questions you can't answer. Their words blur together into a monotonous drone. They demand details on how long you've been suffering, the onset of symptoms, and the triggering factors. You try to explain, but the words stick in your throat, choking you. How can you put into words the chaos in your mind, the storm that never ceases? They run tests, their hands cold and clinical as they poke and prod, their faces carefully neutral. But you can see the pity in their eyes, the way they look at you like you're broken. It makes your stomach churn, bile rising in your throat as you clench your fists beneath the scratchy hospital blanket. You want to scream, to tell them you're fine, but you know they wouldn't believe you. You don't even believe it yourself.
The therapy sessions are the hardest, each one peeling back layers you've spent years trying to bury. The therapist's questions cut deeper than any blade, their words prying into the darkest corners of your mind. You hate it. You hate how they make you feel exposed and vulnerable. You hate the way they strip away every defence you've built. You lash out, your voice rising in anger and frustration, but it only makes you feel worse. The therapist's calm demeanor is infuriating and disarming. They tell you it's okay to feel this way, that healing takes time, but the words feel hollow, meaningless. Time is a luxury you don't think you have, not with the storm raging as fiercely as ever.
The medication they give you may dull the edges of your pain, but it does not make it go away. You will feel numb and detached, as though watching your life from a distance. The storm is still there, quieter now but still very much still threatening, lurking at the edges of your consciousness. You are in a liminal space between pain and nothingness. It's not the relief you hoped for, but it's better than the suffocating weight that threatened to crush you. But you know you've lost something in the process. The medication has stolen a part of you you'll never get back.
The hospital becomes a second home, its sterile walls and fluorescent lights constantly reminding you of your fragility. You hate it there; you hate how time seems to stand still, each day bleeding into the next in an endless cycle of monotony. The other patients are quiet, their faces pale and haunted, their eyes reflecting the same emptiness you feel. You deliberately avoid meeting their gazes, because you are afraid of what you might see in them, and what they might see in you. The nurses are kind but distant, their smiles professional and practised. You can tell they care, but their concern feels impersonal, like they're trying to keep you at arm's length. This only deepens your sense of isolation.
The days outside the hospital are devoid of purpose. Your life is reduced to a series of appointments and routines designed to keep you afloat. You go through the motions, your body on autopilot while your mind remains distant, detached. The scars on your arms fade, but new ones emerge, invisible to the naked eye but no less painful. You wear long sleeves out of habit now, the fabric a barrier between you and the world. People ask how you're doing, their voices cautious and hesitant, and you force a smile, tell them you're fine. The lie tastes bitter on your tongue, but it's easier than the truth.
Even now, as you sit in the quiet of your room, the storm lingers, a distant rumble that never fully fades. You know it's only a matter of time before it returns, stronger and more destructive than before. But for now, you cling to the fragile peace you've found. You trace the faint scars on your arms, reminders of where you've been, of how far you've come. The journey is far from over, but for the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to hope. It's small and fragile, but it'll keep you going.
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When you first met Ronin, you immediately felt an unshakeable sense of familiarity, as if you had known him in some distant corner of your life. He strode into the room with an unmistakable confidence, his eyes scanning the space with a sharpness that made you feel seen in a way no one else had. His smile was wry, lips tugging upward in a way that was both cocky and knowing, as though he understood the unspoken depths of the world, the secrets buried in the shadows. You felt an instant connection, as though his presence anchored you. There was a quiet strength in him, a ruggedness that spoke to scars you couldn't see. For the first time in a long time, you didn't feel alone. The pain that had been strangling you eased in his presence, his brokenness mirroring your own in a way that wasn't about winning or losing, but understanding.
As time passed, you noticed the cracks in his armour. His humour was sharp, biting, and there was an edge to his words, a layer of bitterness that he'd wrapped around himself like a protective shield. You realised quickly that Ronin had been through things – things that had torn into him, carved out pieces of his soul. He kept these hidden beneath layers of deflection. He was not like the others who wore their pain like a mask, unable or unwilling to show anything more. There was something about the way he carried it, as though he had learned to live with it, to make it a part of him instead of allowing it to consume him. This instilled a sense of safety. He wasn't perfect. He was deeply flawed, just like you, and that was comforting.
But as you spent more time with him, something else started to creep in: a gnawing feeling that began to fester in your chest. It was subtle at first, an undercurrent that tugged at the back of your mind. It wasn't his fault. You felt small in his presence, as if the things you had once prided yourself on—the talents you had worked so hard to cultivate—were starting to wither. Your mind wandered to the past, to the years spent building something, only to watch it slip away as Ronin's effortless charisma and confidence seemed to eclipse your efforts. He didn't even need to try, and yet he was good at everything: making people laugh, being the life of the room, or picking up skills with the ease of someone who had been born with them. Despite your own efforts, you felt like you were always running to catch up.
The feeling gnawed at you, hollowing out the space inside you where your pride used to live. It felt like your efforts had been in vain, as though everything you had worked for was being overshadowed by his natural ease and ability to succeed without struggle. You tried to ignore it, but it wouldn't go away. Every time he succeeded, every time someone praised him, it was a reminder of how much you were lacking, how far behind you seemed in comparison. The stark contrast between your hard-earned skills and his innate abilities made you question everything. Was all your time spent honing your talent just an illusion? Did it mean nothing in the end?
The self-doubt began to seep into everything, making your accomplishments feel meaningless. It wasn't just his success that triggered this—no, it was the ease with which he embraced his own flaws, the way he wore them like battle scars rather than something to be ashamed of. You, on the other hand, were still trying to patch up the gaping wounds inside you, pretending that everything was fine when it wasn't. You couldn't help but feel that, despite all the work you had done, you would never measure up to someone like him. The pressure to be something, to live up to expectations you had set for yourself, felt suffocating, like an iron vise tightening around your chest. The more you tried to escape it, the worse it got, until it felt like you were choking on the weight of it all.
The room felt like it was closing in on you, the walls pressing in as that familiar suffocating panic rose again. You caught yourself staring at Ronin in moments of silence, watching him move through life effortlessly, never stumbling, always confident, always so much more than you. The comparison became unbearable, your chest heavy with the weight of your inadequacy. You had to push those thoughts aside and tell yourself that you were enough. But it was hard to believe when the person you loved seemed so effortlessly perfect in ways you could never be. The jarring dissonance between your self-image and reality was like a song out of tune, every note grating against your soul.
The ache in your chest deepened and you retreated into yourself, withdrawing into the darkness that had once felt like home. Ronin noticed, of course – he always did – but his responses were different. His words were sharp again, tinged with the same cocky bravado that had first drawn you to him, but there was something underneath them, a vulnerability that he wasn't ready to show. He didn't ask what was wrong, not directly, but he would brush against you when you least expected it, a gentle reminder that he was still there. It made you feel torn, torn between wanting to pull away and needing to stay close. You didn't want to admit that you were slipping into the same dark hole that had threatened to swallow you before, but you could feel it – a familiar, suffocating sensation, creeping at the edges of your mind, just waiting to pull you under.
There were nights when the darkness felt unbearable, when the weight of it threatened to consume you entirely. Ronin was always there, sitting by your side, making sassy remarks that revealed an unspoken understanding. But even his presence, which once felt like a balm, started to feel distant, like something that was too far out of reach for you to hold onto. You wanted to push him away, to shut down, but the silence between you both grew louder. Every word, every gesture, reminded you of the gap between who you were and who you wished you could be. The talent you had once cultivated with such devotion felt irrelevant, like it didn't matter anymore. Ronin had a way of making everything feel effortless, and it made you wonder if your hard work and struggle had been pointless.
Ronin was a constant presence, and while his presence seemed to magnify your insecurities, he also offered something else: a quiet kind of solace. His cocky smile, his sassy remarks, his way of being both broken and whole at once, reminded you that you weren't alone in your mess. You had never realised you needed this: not perfection, not skill, but someone who could see the pieces of you that were still broken and love you anyway. It may not have erased the storm within, but it certainly made it more manageable. Perhaps that was all you needed: someone who understood what it felt like to fall apart and could help you put the pieces back together, one by one.
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As the days blurred into one another, the discomfort of your self-doubt lingered, like a lingering bruise: tender to the touch yet always there, always raw. Ronin was a constant presence, never forcing you to confront the swirling chaos inside your mind, but offering quiet support in his own sassy, cocky way. His laughter was a challenge, daring the world to oppose him, daring you to find joy in the midst of your darkness. But each time he flashed that grin, that unrelenting confidence, it was a sharp reminder of your own fragility. You appreciated him, no doubt about it, but the more he thrived in his untouchable confidence, the more you felt like you were crumbling beneath the weight of your own expectations.
You could see him moving through the world, unfazed, unaffected by the storms you fought within yourself. This was in stark contrast to your own ongoing battle, which felt never-ending. No matter how hard you tried to claw your way out, you simply couldn't break free. Your hard-earned triumphs felt small in the light of his effortless ability to navigate life. You couldn't help but wonder: had you missed something? Was there something more you could've done, something you could've been? As Ronin's life burst into vivid colours, yours became just another shadow in his radiance. Every moment of achievement that should have filled you with pride felt like an echo of something lost. You had cultivated talent, but it was slipping through your fingers and dissolving in the void that had taken hold of your heart.
Even when you were alone, you could feel his presence—like an electric pulse beneath your skin, reminding you of the unspoken distance between you two. You tried to silence the voices in your head, the ones that said you weren't enough, that you'd never be enough. They echoed louder when he was around, when his laughter vibrated in the air and his confidence bled into every space he entered. You hated it. You hated that he made you feel like you were drowning in the sea of your own insecurities, every wave of his presence pulling you under further. You couldn't keep up with him. His ease and effortless charm left you feeling like you were gasping for air in a world that was constantly moving faster than you could manage.
You felt isolated and lonely, as if you were drowning in your own insecurities. You withdrew, retreating into your own world, afraid of what might happen if you showed him just how much you were hurting. You wanted to tell him, to scream at him that everything felt like it was falling apart, that you felt like you were losing the very essence of yourself. But you never found the right words. They lingered in your throat, held back by the fear that if you let them slip, if you revealed just how broken you felt, he would leave, just like everyone else. It wasn't his fault, but every day you spent with him felt like a silent contest, a competition you could never win, no matter how hard you tried.
There were days when the storm inside you would quiet, just long enough for you to catch your breath. You laughed with him, got lost in the banter, and for a brief moment, you felt whole. But then, without warning, the doubt would creep back in, twisting its fingers around your heart, tightening until you couldn't breathe. It was in the way he talked about the future, how he spoke of his dreams and ambitions with such certainty. It was in the way he would glide through the world, effortlessly charming and full of life. And you would wonder—where did that leave you? You, the person who had spent so much time moulding and shaping yourself, only to watch it all fade into the background of his brilliance. It felt like you were constantly scrambling to catch up, but you were always two steps behind, chasing something that was just out of reach.
Ronin could sense the distance between you. His sharp eyes noticed the way you pulled away and the way your smiles faltered. He would always call you out on it, teasing you with that cocky smirk, trying to coax the real you out of hiding. "What's wrong?" he'd say, voice dripping with a challenge. "Afraid I'm gonna outshine you?" His words were always followed by that glint in his eyes, the kind that dared you to answer, dared you to admit that you felt small in the shadow of his light. You never answered him. How could you? How could you say that you were afraid of losing yourself in the midst of his brilliance? The fear settled deeper in your chest, a weight that seemed impossible to shake.
There were nights when the battle inside you raged hardest, when you found yourself staring at the ceiling, your thoughts a cacophony of self-loathing and doubt. Ronin would call you, his voice warm and comforting, and for a moment, you'd feel the sharpness of your isolation fade. But even then, you knew he was out of reach. You knew the gap between you two was widening. His voice was gentle, but there was an undertone of something more. You couldn't quite grasp what it was, but it made you feel like you were standing in his shadow, forever. You didn't want to admit it to him, or anyone else, but you were terrified of losing him. It wasn't because of what he might do, but because you didn't know how to be yourself in the space he occupied.
The longer you stayed in this space, the more fractured you felt. It wasn't just the obvious difference in your talents and lives; it was everything, every little piece of yourself that you'd spent so long trying to put together. In his presence, they fell apart, crumbling like sand beneath your fingers. You had to stop pretending you were whole and fine. Ronin embodied everything you weren't, and it terrified you. You loved him, but it felt like you were drowning in the space between you, caught in the wake of someone who had everything you lacked. Every time you tried to reach out, to bridge the gap, it only made the distance feel that much greater.
Ronin remained. He would never stop being himself, never stop teasing you, never stop pushing you to confront the parts of yourself you didn't want to face. In a twisted way, he was helping you. But deep down, you knew this wasn't the help you needed. You wanted to be enough for him, to stand beside him without feeling like you were less. But the more you tried, the more you realised that the gap wasn't between you and him – it was between who you thought you should be and who you truly were. You weren't sure how to fix it.
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Ronin was initially perplexed. He had always been confident and charismatic, never breaking under pressure. He was certain you'd overcome your struggles and find a way to handle the inner chaos. But then he noticed the cracks appearing: flinches to the smallest comments, smiles that no longer reached your eyes. It was as if you were disappearing right in front of him, your laughter hollow and your movements stiff and distant. For the first time, Ronin felt frustrated, not with you, but with the world and the circumstances that had brought you to this point. He didn't know how to fix it, didn't know how to reach you when you had built walls so high that even he couldn't climb them.
The tension between you both became suffocating. Ronin could see it, but every time he tried to approach you, to offer a hand, the distance between you seemed to grow. You didn't outright reject him, but you stopped letting him in. He sensed a coldness in your touch, a look of apology in your eyes, a sign that you were no longer the person he had fallen for. His resentment grew, not toward you, but toward the reality that you weren't the person you used to be, that the vibrant spirit he had fallen for was slipping away. He hated seeing you struggle, but he didn't know how to help. He had never been used to feeling helpless, and yet here he was, watching the person he loved unravel.
One night, it all boiled over. You were sitting together, the silence between you so thick it was suffocating. Ronin had always been the one to fill the silence with his cocky comments and playful teasing, but tonight he just watched you. His eyes were different; softer, as if he could see right through the facade you had put up. You stared at the floor, refused to look up, and it was like a mirror of his own struggle. Then he realised that your silence wasn't about him, it was about you—it was about the battle you fought inside every day, the war that had taken its toll on your soul. It broke something inside him, a crack that spread, deep and jagged.
Without warning, Ronin moved closer, his body warmth radiating against yours. You could feel his presence, the way he hovered near you, almost hesitant, as if unsure how to breach the wall you had built between you. His hand reached for yours, and for a moment, you tensed, the coldness of the world rushing back in. But then, something in his grip steadied you. It wasn't firm or commanding, but there was a tenderness in his grip that caught you off guard. Ronin didn't say anything at first—he didn't have to. His eyes locked onto yours, raw and vulnerable, the cocky bravado replaced with something deeper, something real. The silence hung thick and heavy, and then Ronin's voice broke through, thick with emotion.
"You don't have to do this alone," he said. His words felt like a slap in the face, not because they were harsh, but because they revealed a truth you had been denying for so long. You had convinced yourself that you were stronger alone, that relying on someone else would only lead to disappointment. But Ronin didn't see you as weak. He saw you as a person, as someone worth fighting for, someone who didn't have to hide their pain to be loved. His words hit you like a wave, crashing over your defences, and for the first time in a long while, you felt something shift. His eyes never left yours, not even when you tried to look away, not even when your breath hitched in your throat.
"I'm not going anywhere," he declared, his voice soft but firm. "You can push me away if you want, but I'm staying." His tone was direct and unyielding, devoid of any teasing or smugness. It was as if he had finally seen the real you, the broken parts of you that you tried so hard to hide, and he didn't turn away. His fingers gently brushed against your skin, the touch so light, yet he was reaching inside of you, pulling out the pieces you thought you had buried too deep to ever see the light again. The vulnerability in him was a mirror of your own, and it terrified you, but it also gave you something you hadn't realised you were missing – a reason to stay, a reason to fight.
Ronin wasn't perfect. He wasn't the answer to everything. But in that moment, he was exactly what you needed. His cocky smirk had become a quieter, more genuine expression. His eyes, usually full of fire and challenge, now held only concern and a deep-seated desire to see you heal. He wasn't trying to fix you or save you. He was offering you something far more valuable: his presence, his belief in you. You didn't know how to accept it, but you felt the warmth of his hand against yours, the solidness of his touch anchoring you, grounding you in the moment.
Your insecurities didn't just disappear, but they were acknowledged. But Ronin was there now, his steady presence a shield against the darkness that had so often consumed you. But Ronin was there now, his steady presence a shield against the darkness that had so often consumed you. He didn't have all the answers, but he was there. He listened. He comforted. He reminded you that it was okay to be broken, to be flawed. His touch was a constant in a chaotic and uncertain world. He didn't try to fix you, but his presence alone was enough to start the slow, painful process of mending what had been shattered.
It wasn't easy. There were moments when the fear returned, when you felt like you were slipping again, when the urge to hide behind your walls was stronger than ever. But Ronin was always there – quiet, patient, his arms a refuge from the storm inside you. You never had to ask for it. His presence was a silent promise, his actions louder than any words. His cocky remarks were still there, but they had softened, edged with something kinder, something less about proving a point and more about showing you that it was okay to let go of the need to be perfect. He didn't need you to be anything but yourself, broken and whole all at once.
As time passed, the walls between you began to crumble, little by little. You began to believe that you didn't have to carry the weight of the world alone. Ronin had shown you that there is strength in vulnerability, that there is power in letting someone in, even when it feels terrifying. Though the scars were still there and the pain lingered, you felt something shift inside you. Ronin's quiet dedication to being there for you—without judgment, without trying to change you—made you start to believe that you might one day feel whole again. Maybe not perfect, but enough. And for now, that was all you needed.
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The more Ronin stayed, the more you couldn't ignore the nagging feeling that everything you had worked for, everything you had fought to perfect, was slipping away. You couldn't silence it. It was relentless. It echoed in your mind with each passing day, a constant reminder that you weren't the person you once were. The burning need to be the best, to always have something to show, something to prove, had morphed into a weight, a pressure that threatened to crush you. The moment Ronin's easy laughter or his wild ambition brushed against your ear, the feeling in your chest grew heavier. You tried to ignore it, but the weight of it all pressed down harder, louder, like a hand on your throat, squeezing just enough to make every breath shallow and painful.
You had tried to escape the suffocating reality of your diminishing sense of self through distractions, through Ronin's presence, through fleeting moments of joy. But every time you let yourself feel just a little lighter, the darkness returned. It came in waves, relentless in its assault on your mind, feeding off your insecurity, your fear that you were no longer enough. You couldn't remember the last time you felt proud of what you had achieved. What you once deemed talent now felt like a hollow echo, a shell of its former self. Every skill, every accomplishment you had poured yourself into felt distant, like a faded photograph you could barely recognize. The more you tried to grasp it, the more it slipped from your reach.
Ronin noticed the change in you, though he never said anything directly. He didn't need to. He saw how you zoned out during conversations and how your shoulders sagged in defeat when you thought no one was watching. The way you spoke of your past achievements now sounded like a confession, like you were ashamed of them, as if you had no right to feel proud. It was clear to Ronin that this was bothering him. He wasn't subtle, not usually, but he didn't have to be. His eyes darkened with concern, his lips pressed into a thin line whenever you started to spiral, whenever the despair threatened to spill over. His concern was evident, but there was also a clear frustration at not knowing how to help someone who wouldn't let themselves be helped.
One night, as you sat on the edge of your bed, staring out the window at the relentless rain, you felt that crushing sense of inadequacy settle in again, and this time, it felt like you were suffocating. Ronin had gone quiet after a playful remark had been met with your empty response. You had withdrawn so far into yourself that even his sharp words didn't have the usual effect. He noticed the shift, saw the way your expression hardened, the way your eyes seemed to turn inward, like you were battling something he couldn't see. The silence between you stretched, thick and uncomfortable, until he finally spoke, his voice softer than usual. "Talk to me," he said, not with his usual swagger, but with genuine concern. "What's going on in that head of yours?"
You hesitated. You wanted to tell him, wanted to scream it all out, but you couldn't. The words were lost somewhere in your throat. Instead, you shook your head, unwilling to speak. You didn't want to admit it, not even to him. The emptiness inside you was too much to ignore. It had been building for so long, too long, and now it felt like you were hollowing out from the inside. "I don't know how to keep up anymore," you muttered, barely above a whisper. "It's like everything I've worked for is slipping away, and I can't stop it."
Ronin's expression softened, his usual bravado faltering as he moved closer. His fingers brushed against your arm, just enough to ground you in the moment. "You don't have to be the best all the time," he said, his voice quiet but firm, like he was trying to convince both you and himself. "You're enough as you are. But you can't keep hiding from it. You don't have to run from it." His words were like a balm for your wounds, yet even as he spoke, you couldn't shake the nagging feeling that he was wrong. You weren't enough. Not for him. Not for anyone.
As the words hung in the air, the weight of the past few months and your own disillusionment pressed down on you like a boulder. You couldn't remember the last time you had felt proud of what you had done. Your achievements felt like hollow ghosts, like fragments of a self you didn't even recognise anymore. Moments of success felt like distant memories, blurred by self-doubt. In Ronin's presence, the emptiness became deafeningly obvious, the silence in your chest a constant reminder that you couldn't keep up, that time was running out. His eyes met yours, and for the first time, you saw the frustration and helplessness there – the same helplessness you had been feeling.
You had kept your composure for so long, convinced yourself that the work you had done was enough, that the talent you had once honed so fiercely was still there. But the truth was that it wasn't. It was fading. You couldn't figure out how to stop it. Ronin's constant presence and unwavering belief in his own talents only made it harder. You couldn't compete with that, couldn't even keep up with your own life. In that moment, as his fingers grazed your skin, trying to comfort you in a way that felt too soft for your jagged reality, you felt yourself crack. The walls you had built around your brokenness crumbled, and a flood of despair and guilt surged through you: all the fears you had kept hidden for far too long.
"I'm not enough," you declared, the words tumbling out before you could halt them. "I can't do this anymore." Tears welled up in your eyes and you couldn't stop the silent sobs shaking your body. Ronin's hands were on you then, not in the way he had been before—playful, teasing—but gentle, holding you as if he knew that you were breaking, that you were slipping further away from yourself with every passing second. You felt him wrap his arms around you, pulling you close, the warmth of his body a sharp contrast to the chill that had taken root in your soul.
His lips pressed softly against your forehead. The gesture was so tender it made your chest ache. "You are enough," he whispered, and this time, his voice was different. It wasn't just an empty promise – it was an anchor, trying to pull you from the depths of your own despair. But even as his words rang in your ears, you couldn't quiet the voice inside that told you he was wrong, that you were never going to be enough. You wanted to believe him, but the pressure of losing yourself was too much to bear.
Ronin spoke, but you could barely hear him over the storm of emotions raging within you. You couldn't hear him. Not clearly. Not with the storm inside you so loud, so chaotic, drowning out everything else. The noise in your head, the constant screams of failure and inadequacy, overpowered anything he said. His attempts to pull you back, to remind you that you were more than this, more than the emptiness inside you, only pushed you further away. His voice became a distant echo, a reminder of something you had long since stopped believing. The more he tried, the more it felt like he was speaking to a stranger, like he couldn't reach the parts of you that were still intact.
You retreated into silence, creating a cocoon where the world outside didn't matter. The numbness became your refuge, your escape from the never-ending turmoil. You stopped engaging, stopped pretending, stopped trying to meet the expectations that had once driven you. Everything felt heavier, like the weight of the world pressing down on you, but you couldn't care. You felt the blood drain from your body, leaving you cold and hollow. The days blurred together, each one indistinguishable from the last, as you drifted further into the void of your own mind.
You didn't want to see anyone. You couldn't face the world with the pieces of yourself you had discarded. The talent you clung to, the identity you built around it, was nothing more than a cruel joke. It was all a lie, a hollow construct you had worn like armour, hoping it would protect you from the inevitability of failure. But now that the armor was gone, all that was left was the raw, unprotected skin of who you were. It was as if the very essence of you had been peeled away, leaving only the jagged scars of past attempts to hide the truth. You couldn't bear to look at those scars or face the pain they represented.
You pushed Ronin away, not with words, but with the coldness of your silence. It was easier to turn inward, to shut yourself off from everything and everyone. His presence was a constant reminder of what you had lost, a painful reminder that you had failed to live up to the expectations that had once been your everything. You couldn't stand looking at him without feeling like you were drowning, like you were suffocating under the weight of your own inability to be what you thought you should be. His love and attempts to pull you back only deepened the sense of guilt, as if you were betraying him by being broken. The more he tried to hold you and comfort you, the more you wanted to pull away and disappear.
The darkness within you took on a physical form, consuming you from the inside out. The once comforting embrace of isolation became your prison, your cage. You felt trapped in your own skin, consumed by failure. Your limbs felt heavy, as if the blood in your veins was turning to stone, weighing you down and making every movement a chore. The world outside felt like it was moving at a pace you couldn't keep up with, and you didn't want to. It was easier to disappear into the shadows, to fade away into nothingness, than to confront the wreckage of who you used to be.
You couldn't stand to look in the mirror. Every time you looked, the reflection was a stranger, someone who had no place in this world, no reason to exist. You couldn't recognise yourself, couldn't see the person who had once fought so fiercely to be noticed, to be valued. All that was left was a shell, a broken vessel, empty and hollow. The eyes staring back at you were cold and lifeless, having seen too much, felt too much, and having nothing left to give. The rawness of your pain was reflected in the shattered glass, in the emptiness that you had become.
The numbness grew, becoming a suffocating fog that clung to you, making it harder to breathe, harder to feel. It was easier to sink into it, to let it consume you, than to fight against it. The idea of facing the world, of having to explain what was happening inside your head, felt impossible. You didn't have the words. You didn't have the strength. Every conversation felt like an assault on your fragile psyche, every interaction a reminder that you were failing at the most basic human connections. It was easier to retreat into silence, to close off every part of yourself that could be touched by someone else.
Your body felt alien. The sensations that used to ground you, the warmth of someone's hand, the softness of a hug, now felt like too much. Your skin burned with the discomfort of being alive, the rawness of the emotions you couldn't escape. Your heart pounded erratically in your chest, not a sign of life, but a countdown, a reminder that you were reaching the end, running out of time. You were desperate to escape it all. You didn't want to feel anymore. You didn't want to be alive in a world that was too big, too bright, too loud for you to survive.
Ronin's presence, once a balm to your wounds, now felt suffocating. His attempts to reach you and pull you back from the abyss only deepened the sense of alienation. He was incapable of understanding. No one could. You had to have lived with this emptiness, this constant struggle to hold on to something that had never been real. You weren't even sure if you wanted to be saved anymore. You had accepted that you were beyond help and that the pieces of you that had once been whole were irreparably shattered. In the quiet moments, when everything else falls away, you can almost hear the final snap of the last thread that connects you to the world.
The remnants of your former self, the version of you who once held on to talent and ambition with white-knuckled desperation, began to fade into the background. Your former aspirations now dance like shadows, haunting you from the periphery, reminding you of something that was never truly yours. It was not just a loss of talent; it was a loss of identity, of the very foundation that had held you together for so long. In the silence that followed, as Ronin's presence faded into the distance, you felt nothing but the weight of your own emptiness. The world outside was loud, chaotic and unyielding, but in your mind, all that remained was silence.
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The silence deepened, engulfing you completely. It wasn't a peaceful quiet; it was a heavy, oppressive stillness, a vacuum where sound, thought and feeling no longer dared to enter. You could feel the air thickening around you, pushing against your chest, making it harder to breathe, harder to think. Ronin's presence, once a source of warmth and comfort, now felt like a shadow that lingered just out of reach, a reminder of a life you no longer had the strength to hold onto.
Then, the walls you had built around yourself tightened, closing in, locking you away from everything you had once known. You were no longer aware of the world outside, the frantic beating of your heart, the sounds of rain against the window. All of it fades, leaving you in silence. No words. No tears. No Ronin. There was nothing but the relentless gnawing of emptiness.
Deep down, you knew this was it, the final unravelling, the moment when you let go. The once fierce battle you fought, the desperate struggle to hold onto something, anything, had slipped away with the darkness that had consumed you. You realised you had given up. You had let the silence win.
Don't make any more attempts to reach out. You are not okay. You must not continue to struggle to find a reason to breathe, to feel, to exist. The weight was too much, the hollow spaces inside too deep. You simply let yourself fall. You let the quiet take you, like a tidal wave, drowning out the last of your thoughts, the last of your humanity.
And in that final, suffocating breath, you disappeared.
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thatdebaterguy · 9 months ago
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Coming back from a trip to Austria, and oh boy I've discovered some rather interesting things
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Just remember the part where it says trustworthy then read this
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So, the terrorist owned group counting the deaths in Gaza, which the mainstream media and WHO have been happy to accept as the truth without third party verification, is now reporting that possibly up to a third of their entire calculation of the death toll is inflated and incorrect. Meanwhile, Israel and the US intelligence estimate between 10-12k Hamas fighters have died in this war. If the previous figure was about 33k, and is now down to 22k, with 10-12k being soldiers, it's around a 50-50 civilian military casualty ratio, which in urban warfare in the modern age against terrorists who have years worth of hundreds of millions of dollars worth of tunnels and infrastructure running through buildings and under the entire city, is a literal miracle.
It's true that because of the unlikeliness of a 50-50 ratio, I personally think not all of those 11k are falsified or inflated, however it's very likely a large amount of them are, since Hamas have been using global perception of Israel as a means to cut off its military aid since day one, and have been manipulating the divides in the west to stoke up support for their war. The question is now, if they can so easily fool WHO into believing their now falsified and inflated statistics, then what else is fake? Are there less or more fighters than we fought? How many of these clips of civilians dying are false? How many of these stories are manufactured to paint a bad picture of Israel? Once you're caught in a lie like this, your reliability, which was near zero to begin with, becomes undoubtedly tarnished permanently.
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weksey · 5 months ago
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⭐️ mini ask post (sorry some of these are late)!
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i'm glad you found it helpful! i work full time as a studio designer now but as a freelancer it would depend on the project... a lot of times clients would have a budget, so they'd set a flat rate and i'd negotiate from there (with varying results). disclaimer that these are junior rates and i live in the uk where the pay is notoriously bad, even in london:
for context, i mostly did hand-drawn animation for social media/marketing/tv ads - i had jobs ranging from £2k for ~12 secs of animation (though this was inclusive of storyboarding and character designs) to £600 for a whole-ass 90 sec film (also including storyboards/designs/edits). i wouldn't use the latter as a reference point because i was definitely being lowballed and if it were up to me i'd charge way higher LOL but as a graduate i ended up taking on those briefs for my portfolio and they did lead to me getting more work, for what it's worth. for comparison, i've talked to more established freelancers who'd ballpark £8-12k for a 2 min animation over a ~2 month production schedule.
my illustration work (mostly editorial gigs) would vary depending on the drawing's complexity/usage/client budget... but it was typically about £100-150 per illustration (also not great, but people kept telling me this was normal for a graduate so i just accepted it, despite being, like, fully rendered illustrations with bgs). again, i would price things differently if it were completely up to me, especially since i'm more confident with my style now, but i would honestly ask more experienced illustrators for better reference. i wanted to offer up my experience anyway bc i think it's beneficial to have transparent conversations about pay in this industry.
oh, and i do basically all of my illo/animation work in photoshop on my 8 year-old laptop (+ premiere pro for compositing), with a wacom intuos tablet... i don't necessarily recommend this equipment because 1) adobe is dudu, and 2) i recently started drawing on an ipad with procreate and it feels so much better than drawing on desktop, and i will probably upgrade my setup when i can comfortably afford to lol
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in reference to these figurines - i used white air dry clay from hobbycraft! painted over with acrylics (and clay varnish, though that didn't seem to do much)
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yeah... i salute akechi fans who are like, "i like akechi but i don't condone his actions" etc. because he could kill another 5 people and i'd be like, "that's literally iconic"
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thank youuuuu! 💛 i'm glad people like my p5 art... even though a lot of it is old and ooc... i'll always keep it up because i like that others still enjoy it... goro akechi foreverrrrr
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nomaxart · 1 year ago
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Happy Birthday, Conway!
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Happy 1st Birthday to Conway!
Yep! It is the 1 year anniversary of the release of version 0.01 (or whatever the versions were called back then) Let's have a talk, shall we? February 8th is when I uploaded and released it on itch. Why February 8th you may ask? Well, I had only planned January as an experimental month for myself, with the oil painting and the VN test. So I'd release it on february 1st... And then it, naturally, took longer. But I guess it works out so that we don't have the anniversary right on update release days.
The past 
And yeah, what a year it's been! Thank you to all of you first of all for making this possible. Quite simply it wouldn't be possible without the support of all you generous peeps here. As it turns out, developing a game is a fuckton of work, and if I would need to pay the bills through commission work or what have you there would be no way I'd find the time and energy to work on Conway on the side. And I've mentioned it before in a few places, but for a while around May, June-ish it did look really dicey. The first half of the year I was bleeding about 500-700 bucks a month of my savings. The game didn't really pick up and a good amount of my walks were spent contemplating just when I'd have to see a sign before pulling the plug. End of June? Maybe it's worth to stretch it to July? At the lowest point, we were about a month away from pulling the plug on Conway. But right around that time, the trend in people subbing here started to pick up. While it's only in the past month or two that I've reached the point where I'm not actively bleeding money each month, the trend was the bit I needed to see that maybe people are interested after all!
The present
I've attached the itch stats of the past year. So those of you who would like to have a peek can do so. As you can see, Update 10 was a massive success at least in terms of numbers for the game. Update 9 was already the first one to break the record for downloads that the release day set, but Update 10 got picked up by the algorithms and sat in the most popular furry games for a while. Soooo, yeah, quite chuffed with that spike! We'll see what the long-term effects are, but for now I just enjoy the aesthetic of -BIG SPIKE-. And yeah, the game as a whole is just sitting in a good spot. We've had about 12k downloads in total, around 80k page visits, and a rating of 4.8/5 with 127 ratings (which btw, easy way to help, is to leave a juicy 5* rating on itch. Does wonders for the placement of the game in the different categories on the site, plus it gives me a fuzzy feeling in my tum tum.) It's also been such a joy to see that all characters end up having their share of fans judging by comments and that nobody is left in the dry. Of course, some of them have a bit of an easier time, like Samuel and Julian being the more sociable lot they are, and just the screen time they've had so far. While others like Raj or Arthur are slower burns and even they get some mentions as the favorites of some people, and that just makes me chuffed. Naturally, they're designed to cover different interests and preferences, but I'm always nervous if the characters are good, resonate with people and hope that they can be fun to be around. So any time someone mentions a character it just makes me so goddamn giddy. Some of them will be difficult to handle with grace, and I'm not perfect, so I'm sure for at least one of the main cast what I've planned will fall flat, or I mess it up in some fashion. But fuck it, I'll try. Not everything has been peaches and roses recently though, so I have to admit Updates 10 and 11 have been/are a bit of a struggle. I just messed up planning for my support writers, and it's been more or less just me handling everything for both updates 10 and 11. That's why art has been a bit sparse... Because most of my time is just taken up doing writing duty, and I'm not the fastest writer, unfortunately. Like, at this point, with the game having all the branches and 125k in total word count, the story for the characters and how they've interacted on the two initial days. It makes it a bit more difficult to actually get people on board in a timely manner. I can't just go and say, "Hey, write me a scene where this character and that character are involved, and they do that." Since a new writer knows absolutely zero about all the stuff that's been there before, all the stuff that's planned for the characters and all that jazz. So if one support writer is busy or just has writing block or whatever, it may be, my solution so far has just been going, "Well, shit." :') Not the fault of my writing buddies, of course. They've been absolutely invaluable and I can't offer nearly enough to expect to be the highest priority for them. I'm just happy they want to help out AT ALL for what I can pay them in return. I should have planned contingencies but didn't. Simple as that. So, I've made the decision to bring on another writer in Televassi, and also want to hopefully integrate Robert Baird more again going forward. With more of them willing to help out I will be able to assign things to people as they're available. Which hopefully will avoid me having to do whole updates on my own and take the pressure off of wonderful peeps like Rubric. So yeah, I learned my lesson there, but since it just takes time for people to get familiar with the Conway world and characters, it ended up with me being a bit swamped with EVERYTHING for Updates 10 and 11.
The future
Speaking of what's planned, then? Update 10 closes out day 2, and Update 11 starts after our first time skip. I don't know if you've ever looked at how slow these ships were, but if we ever want to make it to Cape Town, then we'll need those time skips. Not only that, but it also allows for characters to just develop in the meantime, and also their relationship towards the player character. While Characters like Nomax and Julian ended up having some raunchy scenes right away, it wouldn't exactly fit to have others throw themselves at you on day 2. So skipping ahead just keeps things moving, keeps things interesting because we can focus on specific parts more, and just show the development of characters at a more natural pace.
So the next sections are this first post-time skip section that subbed patrons already get a taste of in the WIP update, and then next up on the itinerary will be Morocco. Both sections I'm really stoked about! And I hope you are too. :)
Stretch goals? Patreon did away with them a while back, but we'll just make our own stretch goals, with blackjack and hookers. Just instead of blackjack and hookers, how about we talk Animations?! Hell yeah! I'm no animator, and it's not really a discipline I particularly enjoy either from the times I tried. So, since Patreon is currently about break-even, we can start thinking ahead a little, and I think the first point I want to tackle is some simple animations. Stuff like moving tails, ears, and eyes. Stuff like that.
So how about that, we're currently floating at around 1250 USD a month, and if we're crossing the 1500 USD mark, I'll be holding out my feelers to get these small animations into the game. If you like to contribute to making animations possible, consider supporting the Patreon over here: https://www.patreon.com/Nomax
Possibly animations, an exciting new section of the story, some more v2 character art, some more maritime menagerie characters. Sounds good for a year 2 plan?
I certainly hope so and hope that you all will be along for the ride, as it's been an absolute blast, and I can't thank you enough for making it possible. I just want this thing to be the best it can be for all of you. :)
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fanfictwins · 1 year ago
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SDR2 - Halloween Special 2023
Summary: “As the victim of an honestly moronic prank, you end up somewhere you’d rather not be. Your fear and annoyance keep you chugging along, but, man… you just want to go home.”
Word Count: ~12k
“Ugh, this is just the worst…”
The tapping of your shoes against the tiled floor echoed as you walked through the halls of the abandoned school building, your only source of light being your phone’s flashlight; the beam of light shook with each step you took, illuminating everything ahead of you — the cracked tiles of the floor, the peeling paint on the walls, the dust floating in the air. None of it was an ideal sight.
The thought of being stuck here, in a supposedly-haunted, crumbling old building, would have terrified you if you weren’t already annoyed by how you got into this situation in the first place.
It was more than obvious to you at this point that those so-called new “friends” of yours were anything but friendly, getting you to come here just to trap you inside because it was “funny”.
“I swear, when I get my hands on them-”
The sound of skittering behind you made you tense up, your mouth snapping shut as you swiftly turned on your heel with your phone pointed out to try to catch the source in the light. You felt an intense shiver run down your spine at the idea that rats were crawling around this place, an idea made worse when you thought about what else could be residing in such a dilapidated building.
“...okay, I need to get out of here soon or I’m going to lose it.”
You quickened your pace as you continued to make your way through the halls, checking each and every classroom you passed by in case any had a viable exit, but it appeared that all of the windows — all broken to various degrees of severity — had been boarded up. You had a pretty strong feeling that you would end up with a myriad of splinters and cuts across your body if you tried escaping through them, the rotting wood and jagged glass the opposite of an inviting exit.
Even if you were desperate to get out, you weren’t that desperate… yet.
- - - - -
You wandered around for a short while before you found yourself at the end of a hallway, where you were met with a large entryway with a sign stating that it led to the dorm area right next to it.
“Oh… so this school was one of those schools, huh? …fancy.”
You figured that there was a pretty good chance of there being some sort of fire escape within the dorm area, the image of whatever board of education that used to run the place wanting to make sure their students — the children of a bunch of rich and influential families, no doubt — were completely safe in every way possible floating around in your head, and you entered into the area with little hesitation. The sight that you were met with was nothing much, the edges of the beam from your phone’s flashlight soon trailing off into complete darkness, though the faint outlines of a few doorways located in your immediate surroundings didn’t escape your notice.
And then a sudden scent in the air caught your attention.
“What the…?”
The scent clashed heavily with where you were, being so warm and rich that it reminded you of what it felt like to settle down at the kitchen table for dinner as a child while the building that you were in was both dusty and musty to the point that just being in here was a health concern. Your initial confusion over the scent of cooked food soon melted into unease after a few seconds had passed, the presence of such deliciousness in a place this dank somehow being very unsettling.
But maybe the scent was wafting into the school through an opening somewhere.
That made it worth checking out.
You followed the trail with your nose, giving the air a few good sniffs as you veered to the right within the darkness of the dorm area, until you caught sight of light coming through the crack at the bottom of a door. You lowered your phone, turning off its flashlight, as you hurried through the door, and then came to a halt when you recognized the room as must being the dining hall.
There were tables and chairs placed about the area, a kitchen entrance on the other side from you, but the main attraction had to be the makings of a full spread that covered half of a table in the middle of the dining hall; that was obviously the source of the mouthwatering scent in the air.
“...yeah, okay, this is weird.”
You furrowed your eyebrows at the sight before you, before moving your attention to the source of light in the dining hall: large windows in place of one of the walls. Unlike all the other windows you had seen so far, the dining hall’s windows seemed to be mostly intact with just a few visible cracks here and there; that meant that you couldn’t use them to escape unless you took a chair and used it to smash through them, but that was a course of action you were hesitant to take.
You were hesitant… even if the sight of the sun setting past the horizon outside, the sky above becoming a stunning gradient of orange and red at the bottom to purple and blue at the top, was taunting you as you continued to be cut off from the glorious outdoors you now bore witness to.
Hesitant.
Yeah.
You let out a long hum of disappointment as you shifted your gaze away from the windows, now instead returning to look at the trays of food sitting in the middle of the dining hall, which were as much of a feast for the eyes as they were for the nose. You swallowed as you felt yourself begin to salivate a little as your eyes scanned over the various dishes present, though you knew better than to try sneaking a bite or two from the spread. You would probably end up turning into a pig or something if you did, and you were not taking that risk, no matter how tempting the food was.
The floor then came into view when a huge figure darted past you, its force knocking you to the ground. You let out a small groan as you pushed yourself up onto your knees, before looking to where the figure had run and came to a stop, which was in front of the table with the feast on it.
And you froze.
The figure was tall with a feminine body shape — for a couple of obvious reasons — but it was the several nonhuman characteristics you noticed as your eyes scanned over her that was what drew your attention: furry ears sitting atop her head of unkempt hair, claw-like hands attached to furry forearms, and a tall that relentlessly wagged behind her as she tore into a cooked chicken.
Despite having barreled past you to get into the dining hall, the canine-esque girl didn’t seem to notice you at all, being too busy devouring whatever she could get her paws on; various sauces and juices splattered down onto the table and the ground around her, some even dribbling down her chin and onto her clothes. The way she ate was more akin to a wild animal than to a person.
“A-Ah, Akane!”
The sound of a voice that had a thick Southern accent spoke from elsewhere in the dining hall, the mild panic within it unable to draw your gaze to its owner as you watched the girl — Akane, as the voice called her — down an entire party-sized platter of assorted meats and cheeses.
“I appreciate the enthusiasm about my cooking, but please leave some for the others!”
Akane stuffed a few more bites of food into her mouth before she spoke, her voice coming out completely muffled from how full her cheeks were. “Can’t you just make more if they want any?”
“I mean, I could-” The sound of metal trays being placed onto a table reached your ears as the voice paused for just the briefest moment before continuing. “-but you should still limit yourself.”
You finally managed to get back onto your feet after your shock faded slightly, though your heart was still beating a bit faster than you would have liked for it to, and you leaned on a nearby table to steady yourself before you directed your attention towards the source of the Southern voice.
He didn’t look nearly as threatening as Akane did — the fact that he was much shorter than her being a big reason as to why — though the sight of a pair of goat legs being where human legs should have been made your stomach churn. His attire consisted of a classic chef’s outfit on his human upper-half, with a red apron around his waist and a red handkerchief around his neck; to finish his ensemble, he had a tiny chef’s hat on his head with two horns poking out from his hair.
“Hey, you gonna eat that?”
You jolted out of your thoughts as Akane spoke again, and flinched after you looked over at her just to see her staring at you, the red sauce dripping down her chin making the sight of her look a lot worse than it actually was. You blinked before you looked down at the table you were using to keep your balance, your eyes drawn to the steaming plate of kebabs sitting right next to you.
“U-Uh… no…?”
“So I can have ‘em?”
You stared at Akane for a moment before you nodded your head, removing your shaking hands from the table and instead keeping them close to your chest. The wide grin that Akane gave you in response only made you more nervous as you saw the sharp canines she had in her mouth.
“Aw, nice!”
The kebabs never stood a chance as the canine-esque girl immediately made a beeline for the plate, everything but the iron skewers — which Akane tossed to the side — disappearing in the time that it took you to blink. She then resumed eating as if that entire interaction didn’t happen.
“Hmm? Who might you be?”
Your attention was grabbed by the half-goat man as he spoke, and you flinched again after you turned your head towards him just to see that he was now standing next to you. He was leaning forward as if to inspect you, one of his hands raised to his chin as the other rested on his hip; he let his eyes briefly wander you up and down, before they came to their final stop on your face.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around before…”
“I-I, um… I’m… nobody important?” You struggled to turn your lips up into a smile, your nerves still a bit shot as you took a shaky step back away from the chef. “Uh, I’m just… well… I-I, it’s…”
The chef let out a small chuckle, a smile coming to his face as he dropped his hand from his chin. “Now, now… no need to get nervous. It’s always exciting to meet new people, you know?”
His voice had an almost comforting quality to it as he spoke, though the fact that his Southern accent disappeared and was replaced with an accent that sounded a bit more posh made alarm bells ring out in your head. You couldn’t think of a single normal reason for a person to do that in a normal conversation, especially after he talked to Akane without doing anything like that at all.
“How about you relax with some of my delectable cooking? You won’t taste anything better!”
You shifted your gaze from the chef and towards the feast, seeing Akane still going ham with it as she devoured an actual cooked ham like it was nothing, before you looked at the chef again.
“...y-yeah, sorry, I’ll have to decline. I’d rather not get between that girl and her food.”
The chef looked over at Akane himself, his smile faltering as he furrowed his eyebrows and let out a small sigh; it only lasted for a moment, however, before his attention returned to you and a smile reappeared on his face. “Oh, don’t worry! I’ll just make an extra-special dish just for you.”
The way he said that made shivers run down your spine, and not in a good way.
“Nope. I’m leaving. Goodbye.”
Without waiting for a response, you turned on your heel and began to walk away, hearing the chef start to call out after you before you suddenly heard him yell at Akane about paying more attention to what she was putting in her mouth, the sound of gagging and silverware hitting the floor following after it. You just ignored the commotion and focused on leaving the dining hall.
- - - - -
The area outside the dining hall was no longer bathed in pitch-black darkness; the lighting that came from the ceiling was dim, but it was enough for you to actually see where you were going.
“Huh… I didn’t think that this place still had power, but…”
It was definitely the least surprising thing you had run into so far, though you chose not to focus too much on what you had witnessed just moments before as you looked around the small area, squinting your eyes to try to get a better look at everything. You decided to start moving towards the dorm rooms, the thought of a fire escape coming back to your mind to fuel your every step.
You passed by a set of stairs — finding an escape on any floor but the first floor was only an “if there’s no other choice” option, so you didn’t have to resort to that yet — before you entered into a hallway with multiple doors on both sides; these were the rooms the students had stayed in.
The doorknob of the first door you approached rattled in your hand as you tried to turn it.
Locked.
You had never felt more like a horror movie protagonist than you did then, only you didn’t have to worry about trying to fit keys into a lock with shaky hands as you went from door to door and simply wiggled the doorknob of each one just to find that they were locked like the first, until you eventually found one that wasn’t. The door hadn’t even been closed properly, being slightly ajar.
The lightest push was all that was needed to fully open the door, the creaking it made from the movement making you cringe as you stepped into the room… which was odder than expected.
You saw the expected items — a bed, dresser, and various personal items neatly placed about — that any dorm room would have, but even if the school catered to rich students, the fairy-tale theme was a little juvenile for a teenager’s bedroom. The bed had a canopy that let shimmering curtains flow down from it to shield the bed from sight when they were drawn, and vines covered the walls, intertwined with fairy lights to create a magical atmosphere; the color palette had been limited to vibrant greens and warm browns, but the walls were painted a light blue like the sky.
The entire thing made you feel as if you were in a children’s storybook rather than a school.
It took you only a moment to snap out of your surprise, the charming nature of the bedroom not enough to distract you for long from the windows located on a wall to your right, but keeping you from hurrying over to throw open the curtains and escape to freedom was the sound of a door opening to your right. The thought of another door being in the room aside from the one behind you caught you off guard, but the steam flowing in from the connected room connected the dots.
The school was clearly for the rich and influential, and personal bathrooms fit in with that image.
You could only silently stare as a figure exited the bathroom, her back to you, and even though that was all you could see, it was almost too easy for something within you to admit that she had an unusual beauty about her. The long blonde hair that flowed down her back, the fair skin free of even a single mark or tiny blemish… and the shimmering wings fluttering ever so slightly from where they sprouted out of her back; it was like you were looking at some kind of fairy princess.
The girl was brushing her hair, the dampness making it clear that she had been taking a shower along with the presence of the steam, and she hummed a tune happily to match the beats of her strokes with the hairbrush, ignorant to the intruder was standing just a few paces away from her.
That was until she turned around, a gasp leaving her mouth as soon as her eyes connected with yours, the hairbrush falling from her hand. You heard a small squeak escape your own lips when you stumbled back, your back hitting the dorm room’s door with a thud as your face warmed up.
“Ah, sorry-!”
“O-Oh my goodness! My apologies!”
Your voice overlapped with the girl’s voice as you and her spoke simultaneously, but while your words were filled with embarrassment at being caught in her dorm room and nervousness about her nonhuman appearance, the girl sounded a lot more concerned instead. You kept your gaze trained on her as you tried to navigate around the open door behind you, your legs a little shaky.
“M-My name is Sonia!” The girl tried to smile to ease your obvious unease, her hands carefully brought up to her chest with her palms facing towards her. “Could you please give me yours?”
Her eyes widened after that passed through her lips, and she raised a hand up to her mouth.
“W-Wait, please do not answer that!” Sonia took a step back, her smile faltering briefly until she recomposed herself. “I mean, could you please tell me a name of which I may address you by?”
You finally managed to break your eyes’ focus on Sonia and turned around, your mouth sealed shut as you bolted from the dorm room while ignoring the shouts coming from the fairy princess; the only thing on your mind was to get as far away from her as possible, something about giving her your name eliciting a deep sense of fear in some region of your being, and you just decided to abandon your plan to find an exit in the dorm area, your feet carrying you past the dining hall.
The sound of multiple unfamiliar voices coming from the dining hall — you shook a little at the thought of there being more strange creatures in the building — only fueled your pace as your feet pounded against the tiled floor. You just continued to run even as their voices got fainter.
You only hoped that no one would follow you.
- - - - -
You slowed down once you didn’t hear anyone coming after you, the once-creepy silence of the school now a relief; even though your eyes were starting to become used to the dim lighting that the building had, you still couldn’t see that far down the hallway, so the lack of footsteps heading in your direction was the best indicator that you were safe… or, at least, you were safe for now.
The thought of using your phone’s flashlight again to make navigation easier passed through your mind for a moment, and you reached down to grab it from your pocket, but instead of the glorious cellular metal slab full of electricity and the internet, your fingers only met with fabric.
“O-Oh… oh no, no no no, this can’t be happening…!”
Your voice came out as a low hiss as your heart sank, the fact that your phone was missing the scariest thing that had happened to you yet. You had no idea where you could have lost it, your phone having been in your hands the entire time… that was, up until Akane knocked you over.
“...it’s fine, everything’s fine; it’s just a phone, I can survive without it.”
You placed a hand against the wall to stabilize yourself before you started moving again, trying your best to push back the panic and keep your mind focused on the goal of escaping the place of horrors you were trapped in. You focused on minimizing the sound of your shoes against the floor, on keeping your breathing steady, and on trying to quell the jackhammer inside your chest.
And then you heard voices coming from down the hallway.
The sensation of your entire body tensing up to resemble a stone statue was not comfortable in the slightest, but you forced your body to take a few steps forward anyway. When you were just a few steps away from the corner, you leaned forward to take a peek at the source of the voices.
“I just thought…”
There was one girl and two guys walking down the hallway in your direction, the girl’s face being visible due to the light from the attachment on the video game handheld she held as she spoke.
“...a video game tournament with the class could be fun.”
“That sounds great!” The guy on the girl’s left smiled at her, the dim lighting making it hard to make out anything specific about his appearance, though his silhouette seemed normal. “But the outcome seems a bit obvious if you’re playing. No one here’s as good at them as you are.”
The girl only let out a small hum in response, his gaze cast down at her handheld.
You squinted as you continued to look at the three figures — they appeared to be around your age, but you couldn’t be completely sure yet given everything you had seen so far — and after you had done so for a brief moment, you had to admit that there didn’t seem to be anything that was nonhuman about them; that normally would have been reassuring, but the three were still lurking about an old abandoned school building in the dark of night, which wasn’t normal to do…
…and while you were also doing that, the difference was that you didn’t want to be here.
“Oh?”
The guy on the girl’s right caught the attention of the other two, the both of them following his gaze to see you peeking from around the corner at them, your body freezing at the attention.
It felt as if the world stopped for a moment, the three of them staring at you as you stared back at them. Your chest felt empty, your heart devoid of beats and your lungs devoid of air — maybe they really were as frozen as the rest of your body, your head feeling light to a sickening degree.
“Ah, hello?”
It was the girl who broke the silence first, movement slowly returning to the world as she tilted her head; the light attached to her handheld revealed the pale mauve color of the hair framing her face, and reflected off of the small Galaga pin clipped to a lock of it. Her face remained the main point of focus to you, her dark hoodie blending into the dimly-lit hallway with minimal effort.
The second thing to break the silence was a weak cry that escaped your throat as you shrunk behind the wall, only the top half of your head still visible to the three as you still stared at them.
The girl furrowed her eyebrows, concern on her face. “W-Wait, there’s no need to be scared…!”
“Huh? Are they a new student?” The appearance of the guy on her left became more defined as distress sharpened your senses, your suspicions of him seeming normal confirmed; while it was a bit rude to admit, he had a pretty unremarkable face, and even his outfit of a simple white shirt with a nice tie and dark pants was extremely basic at its very best. “I don’t recognize them…”
The girl shook her head after a moment. “We would’ve been told about a new student…”
You shrunk back a little further as the girl took a slow and careful step forward, leaning forward to get a better look at you. The way she held herself was very calm, not a hint of hostility seen in her body language or on her face, with even her gaze softer than expected when it met yours.
“Hey… my name’s Chiaki. Do you need help?”
Her voice was very soft as she spoke, her tone sounding too genuine for it to be part of some ruse to get you to lower your guard; she was even avoiding getting too close for comfort to you.
“That… that depends.” You peeked your head out a bit more around the corner, returning to how you had originally been before you shrunk back in fear. Your gaze flickered over to the two guys, before you refocused it on Chiaki again. “This might sound a bit strange, but… are you human?”
Chiaki paused as she blinked, and the three shared a glance with each other, the silence shared between them holding some sort of unspoken conversation. They then resumed looking at you.
“Uh, y-yeah…?” The guy with the unremarkable face spoke up, his lips pulled up into a smile that didn’t look entirely convinced of what came out of his own mouth. “We’re… we’re human…”
Despite how hesitant he was with his words, you felt a little calmer than before at the knowledge that there was a fellow human nearby, and you stepped out a bit more from behind the corner; a shaky smile made its way onto your own lips as well, the first step to confidence. “Ah, really…?”
The guy on Chiaki’s right caught your attention as he raised a hand slightly, and you were taken aback by how sickly he looked now that you could see him better; the unusually-fluffy hair on his head was a strange off-white color, and his skin looked too pale to be healthy. He almost looked like someone that should be on strict bed rest rather than hanging around a filthy place like this.
“I think the better question would be… are you human?”
And you suddenly felt not so calm anymore. “W-What?”
“Ugh, Nagito…” The other guy looked at Nagito as he narrowed his eyes into a glare, his lips now turned down into a frown that had clear annoyance written all over it. “That’s not helping.”
“Oh, I just think it’s rather important to know.” Nagito had a slight smile on his face, his posture relaxed despite the obvious tension now present in the air. “Because I’m sure we’ve all figured out what’s going on here, and it’s best to not keep anything hidden in the dark, right, Hajime?”
Chiaki ignored Hajime and Nagito as she kept her gaze trained on you, a soft smile coming to her face as she held a hand to her chest. The light attachment on her handheld was no longer casting light on her face as she held the device by her side, and due to how dim the lighting in the hallway was, you had difficulty deciding if the light blush dusting her cheeks was real or not.
“Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.” She extended a hand for you to take. “Let’s get you out of here.”
You blinked a few times, staring at Chiaki as surprise washed over you, and that was when you felt your nerves finally starting to settle; even if everything else within this old abandoned school building was making you freak out, the girl in front of you seemed to be a real light in the dark as she provided you respite from all the craziness you had witnessed. You hesitated for a couple of seconds more before deciding to go for it as you reached out your hand towards Chiaki’s hand.
The moment you were just an inch away from her, you felt a spark shoot from her to you.
It almost felt like static electricity.
“I-I saw them go this way!”
You flinched at the sound of a familiar voice echoing through the halls, retracting your hand towards your body and wincing slightly at the sight of Chiaki dropping her smile from shock.
“Don’t worry, Miss Sonia! I’ll catch them!”
“Hmph, as if a mere calcium crusader could catch the culprit that the lady saw! Go, my Four Dark Devas of Destruction, and find the intruder that has dared to roam these accursed halls!”
It took less than a second for your body to start moving again, your footsteps pounding against the tiled floor as you darted past the trio of maybe-humans; your mind felt blank aside from fear as you ran, hardly able to make out Chiaki’s words as she called out to you, her voice becoming mixed with various other voices that sprouted up somewhere behind you — you almost felt as if you were an animal, acting without thinking at the first sign of possible danger presented to you.
You just hoped that Chiaki wouldn’t think of you as rude because of this.
- - - - -
You hunched over where you stood, grasping at the wall and gasping for air as you felt your heart pound in your chest; you could still hear voices echoing in the hallways, the sound only helping to keep your heart rate elevated as you tried to figure out where exactly you were.
“Ugh… I-I think I ran past the entrance hall…”
You let out a small groan as your eyes scanned over your surroundings, the corridor completely unfamiliar to you. There was a staircase a few feet from where you stood, but you weren’t dumb enough to ascend it and get trapped on a higher floor where your only option of escape would require jumping out a window; even from just the second floor, you would have to hope that you could stick a safe landing in your panic-filled state. That left a door next to where you stopped.
There was a sign sticking out from the wall above it, but you couldn’t focus enough to read it.
“The others should be in the dining hall by now, young master.”
“Hey, I thought I told you not to call me that…? I cut your strings for a reason, ya know?”
You tensed up at the sound of a pair of voices coming from the staircase, footsteps starting to descend accompanying them, and your thoughts turned to finding a place to hide as you turned on your heel towards the closed door next to you, flinging it open as you attempted to run inside.
But you only took a few steps before crashing into something and getting knocked backwards.
You placed a hand on your head, rubbing it as you blinked a couple of times and looked at the sight in front of you; in the dim lighting, you were able to make out a girl wearing clothing similar to what a nurse would wear — or maybe it actually was a nurse’s uniform, you didn’t really know — who had also been knocked back onto her behind, a small whimper soon escaping her lips.
“A-Ah, I’m so sorry!” You pushed yourself up onto your feet, crouching down to keep yourself on the same level as the girl. “I-I didn’t mean to knock you down, honest! Are you alright? Hurt?”
You were, unsurprisingly, unable to make out much in the dim lighting, but from what you could tell, the girl was relatively unharmed. You did notice bandages wrapped around a couple of her limbs, but given that they were already there and the girl seemingly had no time to patch herself up after running into you, you assumed that they must be from previous injuries she had gotten.
You crawled a bit closer to the girl as she continued to tear up, stopping only when your hand touched something other than the cold tiled floor. The girl’s cold fingers twitched at your touch as you gently took a hold of her hand, the girl herself quieting down too as she looked at you.
You stood up, your grip firm on the girl’s hand. “H-Here! Let me help you up-”
The weight you pulled up in your hand was surprisingly light, and you looked down at your hand to see the girl’s hand still clinging to yours… and you saw only her hand, with part of her forearm attached to it. Its grip was weak, just barely seeming to hold on without falling to the floor below.
“W-What…?”
You slowly let your gaze fall from the hand you held and down towards the girl still sitting on the floor, your eyes immediately going to focus on her arm that was closest to where you had picked up the hand from to see that she was, indeed, missing an entire hand and part of her forearm.
That of which you were currently holding.
It moved slightly in your grasp, the fingers attempting to tighten around yours, before your own grip loosened completely and the hand fell to the floor. Your knees shook before giving out, your eyelids drooping to partly consume your vision with blurry darkness as you lost your balance.
The last thing you heard was a nervous voice shouting before it all went black.
- - - - -
“Wow, humans are even uglier up close!”
“Hiyoko, don’t say that!”
“What? It’s true!”
You let out a groan, shifting your aching body before noticing that you were laying on something soft, the plush surface under your head feeling like a pillow. Your fingers twitched for a moment before grasping at the thin sheets under you, and your mind finally realized that you must be on a bed right now. That didn’t really explain why you could smell food from the dining hall, though.
“Ah, they’re waking up!”
You opened your eyes and blinked a few times, your vision clearing up before you squinted at the fluorescent light that filled the room; this was the best lighting you had seen so far within this abandoned school building. You rolled your head over to see two figures standing at the side of the bed, and your body immediately reacted by making you sit up and push yourself away from them, but you snapped out of it when you almost fell off the other side of the bed, only managing to barely catch yourself. You glanced around at your surroundings, realizing that you were in the nurse’s office, before you refocused your attention on the two unfamiliar figures, still a bit tense.
The first was a girl with red hair — actually, they looked more like petals that wrapped around her head from the top to form a bob — and skin that had an odd green tint to it that made you feel a bit squeamish. The only other thing attention-grabbing about her was the camera hung over her shoulder, the device resting at her hip with her hands free and clasped in front of her.
The second was a smaller girl — who looked much younger than anyone else you had seen so far — dressed in a traditional kimono; however, ruining the otherwise innocent appearance that she had were the horns sprouting out from her head, the bat-like wings flapping from where they stuck out slightly below her shoulders, and the scorpion-like tail swaying side-to-side behind her.
You froze when the small girl grinned at you, her grin filled with unbelievably sharp teeth.
“H-Hey, you don’t need to be scared…” The redhead smiled at you when you shifted your gaze over to her, her smile much less threatening than the small girl’s grin, even though it seemed to be unsure at the moment. “I’m Mahiru, okay? Everything’s fine, and no one’s going to hurt you.”
“Says who?”
Mahiru looked at the small girl next to her, her smile shifting to a stern frown. “Hiyoko-!”
“E-Excuse me…” The sound of a soft voice cut off Mahiru before she could say anything else, and you looked over at the source, seeing the girl you had bumped into earlier standing a little ways away from the bed you were sitting on. You raised your eyebrows in surprise to see that you had guessed correctly that she was donning a nurse’s uniform, before you noticed that her posture appeared very timid; she was slouching, shrinking in on herself as if to make herself seem as small as possible. “I-If you don’t mind, I need to check to make sure you’re okay…”
Not a single sound escaped you as you stared at her, the girl staring right back at you.
The presence of a proper light source above you allowed you to now notice the varied colors of her skin, all being varying shades of pale green, with stitches connecting the patches that made up her body. You even noticed how her limbs were attached to her body with thin strings as well, meaning that, due to your sudden collision with her, her arm had completely detached from her-
The girl widened her eyes in panic. “Wha-?! I-I’m sorry! Did I do something wrong…?!”
You took a deep breath, your vision blurring slightly as tears pricked at your eyes, and your hands tightly gripping the sheets of the bed you were sitting on, your fingers digging into them.
“No, no, Mikan! You didn’t do anything wrong!” Mahiru looked at the nurse, her lips pulling up into a rather successful reassuring smile. “They’re just scared! It’s okay, this is totally normal!”
The sight of the zombified nurse almost breaking down into tears did help to calm your nerves the slightest bit, undeniable humanity within her action that broke through the dread pooling in the pit in your stomach. You attempted to relax your grip on the sheets beneath you as Mikan wiped at her face with her hands, and you did the same to your own face after a few moments.
“I’m s-sorry! I didn’t mean to-”
“N-No, I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have s-scared you…!”
“Oh, god, there’s two of them now.” The small demon girl — Hiyoko, as Mahiru said — rolled her eyes, her lips pursed in annoyance. “I don’t know if I can handle having two crybabies around…”
“See? Everything is fine!” Mahiru ignored Hiyoko as she kept her focus on you and Mikan, her reassuring smile still present on her face. “There’s nothing to be scared of, or to worry about.”
You sniffed, taking a few breaths to calm down before you focused your gaze on Mikan. “S-So… um… you said that you needed to check to… make sure that I’m okay, or… or something…?”
“Y-Yeah!” Mikan nodded, her voice determined despite the stuttering. “I-If you’ll let me…”
You flinched when Mikan drew closer to you, though you still tried to stay as still as possible as you let the nurse check you over for injuries; her touch was ice cold — if her appearance wasn’t enough to tell you that she wasn’t alive, her lack of body warmth was — and you shuddered as you tried to repress the urge to gag at the thought that an undead body was touching your own.
You tried to focus on something else, anything else, to distract your mind and stomach during the inspection, only to find your eyes drawn towards the stitches that littered Mikan’s body. The main thing to draw your attention to them was how they looked unusually loose, the strings that kept her limbs attached to her body specifically appearing to lack the tension needed to keep them from detaching like they did earlier, and it was a little odd that she hadn’t tightened them.
“E-Everything looks fine…” Mikan removed her hands from your body, clasping them together under her chin. “I-I don’t think that you’ll have any lasting injuries from w-what happened…”
“Great!” Mahiru looked at you with a gentle smile. “That means you can come with us!”
You blinked in surprise. “...huh?”
“Yeah… Mr. Fool’s Gold says that we’ve gotta have a meeting!” Hiyoko too had a smile on her face, though hers was a lot more unnerving than Mahiru’s as she smiled wide, letting you get another look at all of the sharp teeth she had in her mouth. “And you’re the guest of honor!”
- - - - -
You looked down at the plate of food that was now in your hands as you left the nurse’s office with Mahiru and Hiyoko, the food being the culprit for why the nurse’s office had smelled like the dining hall — apparently a “Teruteru” had dropped it off for you while you were unconscious after hearing that you fainted, but while it was a kind thing to do, you weren’t very hungry right now.
“Alright, we’ll escort you to the dining hall.” Mahiru was a couple of steps in front of you, looking back over her shoulder at you with the calm and friendly smile that you had come to appreciate greatly from her still present on her face. “It’s where our class always holds our meetings.”
The reason why you appreciated the plant-esque girl’s smile so much was that it was nothing like Hiyoko’s smile, which was always filled with either disgust or malicious intent; you had only known her for about ten minutes or so, so you were baffled as to why she was so mean to you.
The small demon girl raised her hands into the air happily. “Yep, it’s time for you to die!”
“What?!”
“No, that’s not what’s going to happen!” Mahiru put her hands on her hips, leaning slightly towards Hiyoko with her eyes narrowed into a soft glare. “Don’t joke about things like that, Hiyoko. It’s not funny, and we really don’t need them passing out again like they did earlier.”
Hiyoko looked to the side, her lips forming a small pout. “Aw, but that’s no fun…”
Mahiru glared at Hiyoko for a few moments more before she let her lips turn up into a smile again and straightened her posture. “Now, with all of that out of the way, let’s get to the-”
You blinked as Mahiru cut herself off, before you suddenly became very aware of a presence behind you, a shadow being cast over your shoulders even with the dim lighting in the hallway; the lack of fear on Mahiru’s and Hiyoko’s faces was reassuring, only slight surprise within their expressions, and you hesitated for just a moment before turning around to see a familiar face.
There was a hungry grin on Akane’s face as she looked down at you — or, more precisely, the plate you were carrying. You felt your body tense up at the sight, the way the canine-esque girl was towering over you making her expression seem more menacing than it actually was, but when you caught sight of her tail wagging excitedly behind her, you almost felt the urge to smile.
You held the plate out to Akane, your hands shaking just a little, and watched her grin grow as her tail wagged even faster. You felt the plate be hastily torn from your grasp before it clattered on the floor, the food completely gone; not a single morsel or crumb was to be found anywhere.
“Aw, thanks! I was starving!”
“We ate half-an-hour ago-” Hiyoko pointed accusingly towards Akane. “-you overgrown fleabag!”
“Oh, really? Huh, it felt longer than that…” Akane flashed a grin at you and the two girls, the sight of her canines a lot less scary to you now. “Well, training makes me hungry, you know?”
“AKANE! Your speed is admirable, but you shouldn’t run away from your training!”
The ground shook as a figure arrived around the corner in the hallway, both tall in height and wide in length; the silhouette of the new arrival was rigid and jagged, the dull gray of his stone body becoming more obvious to you as he drew nearer to you and the three girls around you.
“Sorry, Coach Nekomaru!” Akane continued to grin as she turned to face the stone man, her demeanor casual without a single care in the world, though her tail was still wagging slightly as if she was an excited puppy. “My nose caught wind of good food and I couldn’t control myself.”
“A healthy appetite is a good sign…” Nekomaru looked down at Akane with a frown etched onto his stone face, his facial features all being very sharp and serious. “...but that’s NO EXCUSE!”
“Hey, that’s enough yelling…!” Mahiru raised her voice as she put her hands on her hips, her lips pulled down into an annoyed frown. “You might scare our… er… guest? …yeah, guest! You shouldn’t yell inside anyway. Now, since they’re awake, we all need to head to the dining hall.”
“Gah-hahahaha! Okay!” Nekomaru shifted his attention back over to Akane, the jagged stone features of his face turning up into an excited grin; it was both unnerving yet fascinating to see stone more so fluidly, appearing both uncanny yet natural at the same time. “Akane, we’ll use this as a part of your training! Go around the school and inform the others to head to the dining hall pronto. I expect you to finish and be in the dining hall yourself within the next ten minutes!”
Hiyoko piped up, an innocent-looking smile on her face that didn’t fit the patronizing tone that came out of her mouth. “Yeah, Akane! And if you manage to do that, we’ll give you a treat!”
“Treat?”
The werewolf let out an ecstatic howl before taking off, disappearing in the blink of an eye and leaving nothing but dust in her wake, which you accidentally breathed in and had to cough out.
Mahiru let out a groan. “Come on, let’s just go already.”
- - - - -
You plopped yourself down into one of the chairs in the dining hall, and fiddled with your hands in your lap as you glanced towards the large windows you had seen earlier; unlike the beautiful sunset you witnessed before, there was just complete darkness on the other side now, the light of the lights inside only helping to make the night outside look even darker than it actually was.
The dining hall wasn’t completely empty when you arrived here.
The chef you saw earlier — who you learned was the “Teruteru” that had dropped the plate of food off for you in the nurse’s office, and had been in possession of your phone that you did, in fact, drop after Akane knocked you over earlier — was still there, cleaning up after having made the whole buffet by himself. Hiyoko had actually taken the effort to point out to you that Teruteru was the class pervert the moment you crossed the threshold into the dining hall, and it was nice to know that your gut feeling about him before was correct, and not just a product of your terror.
But at least he seemed decent enough to return your phone without trouble.
That said, the fear bubbling up inside your stomach still had quite a lot of fuel left.
Due to the lights in the dining hall being brighter than the ones in the hallway, you had to bear witness to what everyone truly looked like as they filtered into the room over a short period of time. You already knew what Mahiru and Hiyoko looked like in good lighting, the nurse’s office also one of the few rooms in the building that had some, but Nekomaru took your breath away when the light revealed the cracks and scratches on his stone body, which he just laughed off.
You had to admit that, even with how unsettling their monstrous appearances were, there was also something so intriguing about them that appealed to the natural human instinct of curiosity within you… but then there were the cases of those who appeared so human on the outside.
Chiaki looked as normal as any girl you might run into in a gaming store, and she had taken a seat right next to you after noticing your obvious discomfort with your current situation. The old handheld was still in her hands, the light attachment removed due to the better lighting, and she tried to pull your focus towards her video game to help distract you and calm you down; it might had worked better if it weren’t for the tingly “static electricity” sensation you got around her that you had felt earlier, the sensation a clear sign that she wasn’t as human as she appeared to be.
Nagito just looked even more ill than before, the bright lighting only making his pale skin stand out a lot more, and his behavior as he conversed with the others — he was seemingly ignoring you, which you couldn’t complain about — made it clear that he was a little off in the head. On the other hand, Hajime both looked and acted like a normal guy, though there was a noticeable scar on his head that was only partly hidden by his hair, the sight of it making you shiver a little.
It didn’t take long for Mikan to enter the dining hall after those three, stumbling a bit like how the zombies in classic horror movies often did when walking around. “S-Sorry for taking so long…!”
Mahiru smiled at Mikan reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Mikan! The meeting hasn’t started yet.”
“O-Oh?” Mikan looked around with a nervous frown on her lips, seeming to take a moment to check who had arrived in the dining hall before she did. “S-So… I didn’t keep you waiting…?”
“No, you didn’t.” Hajime also piped up to reassure the zombified nurse from where he sat at a circular table. “Most of the others aren’t here yet, so… you could say that you’re actually early.”
“A-Ah, okay…”
The nurse looked both relieved and slightly disappointed at that revelation, but she didn’t say anything more as she took a seat at the table Hajime and Nagito were sitting at — needing at least three reassurances that she was actually allowed to sit with them instead of on the floor.
The next to enter was a girl who you had never seen before, and the moment she opened her mouth, you were honestly surprised that you hadn’t at least heard her during your time here; the windows in the dining hall were already cracked, but you swore they grew a bit when she spoke.
“Whoa-ho! It’s true! It’s true! A human’s inside the school!”
Chiaki looked up at the girl calmly. “Ah, Ibuki… you might want to lower your voice a bit.”
You had to take a few moments to focus after your eyes stopped ringing — thankfully, your ears didn’t start bleeding from just how painfully loud Ibuki was being — before you managed to look at and take in the sight of her. Her appearance was a mess, her hair particularly wild with some of it having been dyed pink and blue, though she somehow managed to make it all work for her.
“Oh, sorry!” Ibuki sent you an apologetic smile, rubbing the back of her head as she made her way towards the table. “Ibuki sometimes forgets that humans can’t handle her natural voice.”
You raised an eyebrow as you stared at Ibuki. “Your natural voice is… screaming?”
“Haha, yeah!” Ibuki plopped herself down in the seat opposite to you. “It’s kinda hard to control, but don’t worry! I just gotta use my indoor voice, and then everything’s gonna be all rock ‘n roll.”
She appeared to focus for a moment, closing her eyes and putting her hands up to her head as she repeated the words “indoor voice” to herself over and over again. Even though you were still a little confused, you appreciated the effort she was making to not absolutely destroy your ears.
Your attention was pulled from Ibuki when you saw Sonia enter the dining hall with a nervous anticipation about her, her wings fluttering behind her and sparkling beautifully in the bright light of the dining hall. The worry laced in her expression only lessened the moment she saw you.
“Oh, thank goodness! You are alright!”
There were two guys that followed Sonia into the dining hall, who were also people that you had never seen before, but then you remembered hearing her voice in the halls accompanied by two others earlier; these had to be who she was talking to. The one to draw in most of your attention was a skeleton that had glowing pink hair that was only partially hidden under a beanie, and the other was a guy who had almost every inch of his skin that was visible wrapped up in bandages, though the attention that you gave him was soon lost to the hamsters that sat on his shoulders.
The hamsters were also wrapped up in bandages, which admittedly made them cuter.
“So… this is the foolish mortal that has dared to enter onto this accursed land?” The guy that was wrapped up in bandages crossed his arms as he stared at you with an overly-intense gaze, only breaking it from you when the hamsters sitting on his shoulders squeaked as if responding to him. “It is! My Dark Devas say that their scent is the same as the one lingering in the halls!”
The skeleton let out an annoyed sigh, and you silently wondered how he did that. “Geez, dude, Miss Sonia could’ve just told us if they’re the one or not. She did see them in her room, after all.”
“Oh! Uh…” You looked at Sonia again, your cheeks beginning to warm up from embarrassment that you had almost forgotten you experienced earlier. “...s-sorry about earlier. For both entering your room and then just running off like that… that was probably super rude of me, wasn’t it?”
“It is quite alright.” Sonia smiled brightly at you, her wings fluttering again and sparkling more as they caught the light in just the right way. “As long as you are uninjured, that is all that matters.”
Sonia then sat down in the other seat next to you, and it only took a couple of seconds before the two guys started arguing over who would get the seat on the other side of her; it was hard enough to keep up with the argument as they spoke over each other, but the fact that the guy with the bandages was spicing up his language only added another headache to the situation.
You hesitated for a moment before gesturing to them. “Is this normal, or…?”
“Yes, but please just ignore them.” Sonia continued to smile as if it was nothing. “Kazuichi and Gundham tend to often get into… tussles with each other, so please do not pay it much mind.”
“Kazuichi’s the skeleton and Gundham’s the mummy!” Ibuki piped up, her voice loud but not at all like the painful screeching you heard from her earlier. “They fight over Sonia all the time! It’s a classic love triangle, though… heh, Kazuchi refuses to realize that he’s on the losing side!”
“I’m surprised that both of them aren’t on the losing side.” Hiyoko had a smug smile on her face, her hand held up to her mouth and barely obscuring it from view. “It’s just corpse number one or corpse number two. Tell me, which one would you prefer? A bag of bones or a rotting fleshbag?”
“H-Hey!”
Kazuichi tore his attention from Gundham to look towards Hiyoko with shock on his face, and you were surprised to see how expressive he could be for a skeleton with no facial muscles.
“I’m not a “bag of bones”! I’d say my bone structure is actually quite good!”
Gundham crossed his arms, his hamsters following suit soon after. “Hmph… I’ll have you know, my corporeal form has been purified and treated with the salts of this mortal plane, and wrapped in these mystical strips of flax, to prevent the curse of organic decomposition from taking place.”
“I made it!”
That shout bounced off of the walls of the dining hall as Akane dashed into it, her tongue sticking out of her mouth as she panted crazily and her tail wagging violently behind her.
“I did it in under ten minutes, just like you said to, Coach!”
Nekomaru let out a loud laugh. “I expected nothing less! Your speed is always improving!”
“So…” Akane glanced around the dining hall, an expectant glimmer in her eyes to match the excited smile on her lips. “...where’s my treat? All that running around made me super hungry!”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t forget!” Nekomaru turned in the direction of the kitchen, where you could see Teruteru drying the last of the dishes from the feast he made earlier. “Teruteru, how about whipping up something to reward Akane? I’m never one to discourage a healthy appetite!”
“W-What?” Teruteru widened his eyes as he stared at Nekomaru, before looking between the dishes he had just cleaned and the stone man. “B-But I just finished cleaning up from dinner…”
The chef just stared at Nekomaru, the stone man staring back at him, before he let out a small sigh and began gathering the cooking equipment and ingredients needed to whip up a quick treat for Akane. He soon disappeared into the depths of the kitchen, and your focus was pulled to the entrance of the dining hall as two more — again, unfamiliar — people entered the room.
The girl appeared to be made out of some kind of wood, her movements a bit stiff with a faint creaking sound emitting from her joints as she crossed her arms; she was clearly a puppet of some kind, but lacked the expected strings. “So… this is the human who entered our school…?”
“Well, that’s idiotic of ‘em.” The guy seemed human at a first glance until you noticed the few reptilian features he had, such as his tail and the horns atop his head, which still seemed like they needed more time to grow. He also appeared to have a few scales peppered across his cheeks, which made you think of freckles. “This place is obviously boarded up for a reason…”
“Oh, oh! Almost everyone’s here!”
Ibuki smiled wide as she looked at you, pointing a finger at the girl and then the guy.
“The babe’s Peko and the little guy’s Fuyuhiko!”
Fuyuhiko almost immediately glared at Ibuki, going from zero-to-a-hundred quicker than most would; his temper seemed to go hand-in-hand with his height. “The fuck you just called me?”
“Greetings.” Peko was much calmer in comparison to Fuyuhiko, seeming to pay little to no attention to how Ibuki introduced her, but the way her gaze pierced into you was much more intimidating than you would have expected, and that was when you noticed the sword on her back. “I hope you aren’t here to cause trouble. I would prefer to not have to take you out.”
“Then you can take me out, Peko-Peko!” Ibuki sent a peace sign to Peko, then winked. “Wink!”
You looked around the dining hall as everyone began to mingle with each other, you no longer being the main center of attention, and you realized that if it wasn’t for their — most of their — appearances, they would look like a normal group of teenagers hanging out. It actually caused you to seem even more out of place, being both human and an obvious outsider to their group’s dynamic; you actually started to feel a bit jealous of how close they all seemed with each other.
“Ah, good. Everyone’s arrived in a timely manner, I see.”
“Whoa! You’re the last to arrive?” Hiyoko looked at the last arrival to the dining hall with mock shock displayed on her face, widening her eyes slightly. “That’s not like you, Mr. Fool’s Gold!”
“Hmph, I was just finishing up some last-minute business before coming down here.” The last person was rather large, an almost intense aura of seriousness and regality surrounding him as he stepped further into the room. “This was just an outlier in my otherwise-punctual reputation.”
You couldn’t help but admit to yourself that he looked somewhat familiar, like someone you had seen before somewhere but didn’t personally know. However, there was something seriously off about him, something uncanny that made you tense up as your gaze was solely trained on him.
His footsteps were heavy as he approached the table you were sitting at, and you shrunk a bit in your seat from his piercing gaze, his eyes zoning in on you easily since you stuck out so much.
“Ah… so you’re the human who’s gotten inside our school?”
You swallowed as you stared at him for a moment, before you hesitantly nodded.
“And why exactly are you here? The boarded-up windows and doors clearly suggest that you are not to come inside, and should’ve been warning enough to prevent such irresponsibility.”
“I, uh…” You swallowed again, your mouth feeling dry as your eyes flickered around at all the people surrounding you. You had people sitting on both sides of you, and some even standing behind you, so you couldn’t exactly run away from this. “...I came here with some new friends- well, not really “friends”, but some people I met at my new school. They… they tricked me into coming here and locked the door behind me, so I was just trying to look for a way out…?”
“Hmph.” He crossed his arms, averting his gaze. “...so you’re here because of a juvenile prank.”
“...yep.”
Hiyoko stifled a laugh with her hand. “Oooh, so they’ve sent you to your death?”
“Please stop saying stuff like that!” You clasped your hands in front of your chest, keeping your gaze cast down at your lap. “I’m sorry if I did something wrong! I-I didn’t mean to come here!”
“Hey, it’s okay.” Chiaki placed a hand on your shoulder, and you winced as you felt a small bit of static electricity come from her touch. “You didn’t do anything wrong. There’s no bad guy here.”
“Well, prank or not, this is still a serious matter.” Nekomaru put his hand to his chin, seeming to think for a moment. “This human’s gotten inside the school and seen all of us. That’s not good.”
“To be perceived by a mortal’s eyes…” Gundham crossed his arms, his hamsters resting on his shoulders and snuggling into his scarf. “Truly a troubling situation, a fortune most unfortunate.”
“Oh, I don’t mind being perceived-” Teruteru finally joined the group, placing a plate in front of Akane before wiping his hands with a dishtowel. “-especially when it’s by such a darling human.”
You scooted slightly closer to Chiaki, leaning towards her for comfort.
“I don’t get what the big deal is.” Akane stuffed her mouth full of her “treat”, which turned out to be some kind of meat that smelled really good. “I mean, we let Hajime and Nagito hang around.”
Hajime let a faint smile onto his face, his hand raising to touch the scar on his head with his fingers, letting them trail along it. “Yeah, but… I think our cases are a bit different than theirs.”
“The only thing we share with them is biology.” Nagito also smiled a bit, his elbows resting on the table in front of him as he leaned forward. “But besides that… there’s nothing in common.”
“Well, if you want them silenced…” Fuyuhiko smirked. “I’ve got methods.”
The dining hall went silent aside from a few gasps escaping from some of the members of the group, all eyes on the reptilian boy; the fairy princess sitting beside you notably put her hands over her mouth, her eyes widened, while Chiaki furrowed her eyebrows. There were a few jaws dropped, Ibuki’s and Kazuichi’s more prominent than everyone else’s, and you couldn’t help but be thankful that most of the people here seemed to not want your human blood on their hands.
Peko blinked as she looked at Fuyuhiko, her eyes widened slightly. “Young master…?”
“Huh? What?” Fuyuhiko dropped his smirk as he looked around at everyone, genuine confusion on his face before brief realization and then a glare. “Goddamnit, I don’t mean killing them! I just mean blackmail and threats! There’s more than one way to keep someone silent, you guys!”
The presumed ring leader of the group, Mr. Fool’s Gold — no one had called him anything else — let out a hum. “While that is a solution, this situation doesn’t really call for that kind of action.”
You felt another zap of static electricity shock your shoulder as Chiaki gave it a gentle squeeze, and you looked at her to see her smiling at you; even though her presence meant having to get zapped every so often, she was definitely one of the more approachable people you had met.
She then turned her attention to her friends, her smile unwavering.
“I don’t think that’s necessary. They’re not a threat, and we can definitely trust them… I think.”
“I second that!” Sonia put a hand up into the air, a smile gracing her lips as well. “I do not believe they mean us any harm. Punishment for being the victim of a prank is not needed.”
“Well… if Miss Sonia says so…” Kazuichi looked a little uneasy, scratching his neck before he gave a thumbs-up. “Then they’re also good with me! Miss Sonia’s never wrong, after all!”
The hamsters on Gundham’s shoulders squeaked, and he chuckled. “Both the Dark Fae Queen and my Dark Devas say that the mortal is trustworthy… their judgement is not to be questioned.”
“Ibuki trusts them too!” Ibuki was shouting again, and had to pause briefly as she lowered her voice. “Though Ibuki hasn’t known them long, they don’t seem to be anything to worry about!”
“Well, duh!” Hiyoko giggled. “Even Mikan could easily take them out. They’re totally pathetic!”
Mikan nervously smiled, fidgeting with her hands as she kept her gaze averted from everyone else. “N-No, I’m sure they could maybe fight back… a-a little. If they tried really hard to do so.”
“I don’t think they would fight back.” Mahiru adjusted her camera in her hands, a smile also on her face. “They don’t seem like they want to hurt anyone at all, that picture’s pretty clear to me.”
“Well, then.”
The attention in the dining hall was brought back over to Mr. Fool’s Gold, and you shrunk a little under his gaze, though the feeling of another shocking squeeze to your shoulder comforted you.
“You. Do you have any intention of telling anyone what you saw here?”
You shook your head. “No…”
“You’ll make no mention of anything that happened? About the school or the people here?”
You shook your head again. “No.”
Mr. Fool’s Gold seemed to think to himself for a moment, his arms still crossed and his posture still perfectly straight, and after a few seconds of pure silence in the dining hall, he let out a sigh.
“Then I suppose you may go… but if you do happen to reveal the truths of this place to anyone on the outside, we will find out. That would be troublesome, though, so please do not do that.”
“Okay…”
He glanced around at the others, everyone still focusing their attention on him. “Now, will someone please escort them out? And check the doors while you’re at it as well, please.”
Chiaki stood up, her hand still on your shoulder, and you stood up soon after her, the others in the dining hall beginning to chat with one another again — though some still had words for you.
“Oh! Oh! Since you know everything now, you can totally come back if you want!” Ibuki jumped up from her seat, climbing atop the table to look down at you from her new vantage point as she formed glasses with her fingers. “Ibuki’s spotted a new friend, and she can’t just let that go!”
“It would be lovely, if you could!” Sonia continued to sit in her seat, her hands in her lap before she raised them up to clap them together once, her smile bright. “We don’t get to show our true selves to others often, so it’d be nice to have another person we can just be ourselves around.”
Gundham let out a low laugh as his hamsters squeaked. “The Dark Devas of Destruction give you their blessing to return, if your mortal heart would even be able to withstand their power.”
“Just… stay safe and all that.” Hajime had a slight smile on his face. “You should probably not sneak into any “abandoned” buildings again. You’re kind of lucky that we’re all you ran into.”
Fuyuhiko put his hands in his pockets, his lips turned down into a stern frown as he approached you. “Remember: keep quiet. You don’t wanna know what might happen if you don’t, ya hear?”
You just gave a slight nod before Chiaki escorted you out of the dining hall, the sound of various goodbyes and farewells ringing out from everyone; the shift from a bright crowded room to a dim empty hallway was jarring, but the dusty old building seemed a lot less intimidating than before.
You were finally going to get to leave.
- - - - -
The front entrance door was covered in wooden boards, the glass cracked with some pieces of it missing underneath; it was just like you remembered it being from all those many hours ago.
Chiaki pushed open the door, letting a cool breeze of the night air blow into the entrance hall and into your face — the air was so fresh and crisp compared to what you had been breathing for the last couple of hours that you could almost start crying, but you were also too tired to do so. The area outside the door was empty of life, the sound of city life echoing in the distance.
Those “friends” from before were gone, almost as if they had never been there.
They probably left hours ago after getting bored, while you had been fearing for your life.
“You okay?”
You snapped out of your thoughts as you looked over at Chiaki, a curious look on her face as she tilted her head. You blinked a few times as your brain thought about what she asked you.
“...yeah, I’m fine.”
Chiaki let a smile onto her face, letting out a small hum as she placed a hand on her chest. “...you know, you really can visit whenever you’d like. I don’t think anyone here would mind.”
“That’s… a nice offer.” You smiled back, shifting a bit in place where you stood. “Though… do you guys always meet up in the middle of the night, or was this a special thing, or, like, what…?”
“Yep.” Chiaki nodded her head. “It’s the safest and most convenient time for us to gather at the school. We all have lives during the day, so nighttime is pretty much the only option that works.”
“...got it.”
You took a few steps out into the cool night air, taking in a few deep breaths of air that made it feel as if your lungs were singing at how fresh it was, and you shivered slightly before hugging yourself with your arms. You then looked over your shoulder at Chiaki, who still smiled at you.
“I… don’t know if I’d be able to come here often, but… I could visit every once in a while…?”
Chiaki seemed to perk up as her soft smile brightened a little under the moonlight as she closed her eyes and removed her hand from her chest. “That’s great! We’ll all be looking forward to it!”
You managed to wave at Chiaki, the gamer girl returning it, before she closed the entrance door to the school, a loud click sounding as she made sure to lock it properly. You let your eyes linger on the school for a moment, taking in how it really did look abandoned; there was no hint or sign that there was anyone currently occupying the building, the school grounds just quiet and dark.
You then turned away from the school and let out a small sigh, beginning to walk away from the old school building. Your footsteps crunched under your feet from dead leaves and branches.
“...I really hope I’m not going crazy.”
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lilacmingi · 9 months ago
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Oh my goodness! Words cannot describe how beautiful and well-written this masterpiece is! Fics written as wonderfully as this one are so hard to come by. I just know you spent a lot of time writing this one. I mean, over 12K words and it’s written in such detail??? Not to mention the research I’m sure you did on all the artists and paintings mentioned throughout the fic. That had to have taken a lot of work and it most definitely paid off because it shows through the writing! This was worth every moment I spent reading! It was incredibly well-written and romantic and ughhh Seonghwa being such a regal and gentlemanly vampire is so fitting for him 😭
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🩸 pairing: vampire!gallerist/collector!seonghwa x art historian!gn!reader 🩸 genre: fluff, noir, soulmates, supernatural, strangers(?) to lovers, art nerding 🩸 summary: a post-graduate student specialising in impressionism, you were a regular visitor to the many art galleries in the city. who knew that among the paintings you would encounter your favourite, timeless work of art? 🩸 wordcount: 12.3k 🩸 warnings/tags: questionable editing, mention of blood, fangs, wounds, suggestive, many pet names (love, darling etc), art theory/history ponderings, time skips, mention of rituals, philosophy, hwa is centuries-old, yearning hwa 🩸 taglist: at the bottom of the fic 🩸 a/n: happy birthday to @starrysvn!! lheo, ilysm, and i hope you enjoy this little rambling <3 hugs to everyone, all reblogs, notes and comments appreciated! 🩸 playlist: nfwmb - hozier, who is she? - i monster, keep on loving you - cas, la vie en rose - edith piaf, a l'ombre de nous - pierre barouh, les feuilles mortes / sous le ciel de paris - yves montand, moon over bourbon street / until - sting
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‘Love and Pain’ - an enigmatic masterpiece that was painted by Edvard Munch, the famous Norwegian artist, in 1895. In vibrant oil paints a dramatic scene interpreted by millions as something more sensual, darker, revealing was immortalised. Perhaps quite literally. You leaned back on one hand, feeling the coolness of the bench located in the middle of the gallery hall, careful to not let the notebook in your hands slip from your lap. ‘Vampire’ - first, it was a label for the woman with the alluring, long red locks that was leaning over her supposed lover, then it turned into a second name for the work. It was comical how Munch himself had initially stated the piece depicted nothing more than a woman kissing the neck of a man, and yet, the tale had told itself. What followed were six versions of this same subject, with a woodcut titled “Vampyr II”, followed by paintings titled ‘Vampire’ and ‘Vampire in the Forest’, and then through common acceptance that this indeed was the ‘submission of a man to the bite of a vampire’, if you were to paraphrase a critic who had been in an astoundingly similar position as you, except without the decades upon decades of other material to refer to. They had been the firstcomers, the initial perceivers to set the tone for society’s consumption of the artwork, the louder of the many voices in the artwork who often had the final say. In some senses, they were your long lost colleagues - they were there to create history, and you were there to study it.
While it was not exactly a part of the movement you had decided to specialise in, you nonetheless would never reject the opportunity to learn more about the stunning world of visual arts, trying to guess how the artist had felt in the moment, what did they see beyond what they presented to the world, how did they translate the heart into brushstrokes. You were taken by all forms of art since you were little - having grown up surrounded by items that were far removed from what you called your air, you were intrigued by anything that was external to your version of ordinary. In your case, it just so happened to be the little private gallery that you had spent almost all of your monthly allowance to visit when you were a school kid - you had been so dedicated, in fact, that the elderly guard who had often also acted as a guide to the visitors had become your first friend in the art world, something of a grandparent figure, and on multiple occasions - when the lack of eyes would allow, simply let you through with a grin and glance out of the entrance doors.
And so here you were, many years later, many hard decisions and conversations behind you, regarding artworks with an unprecedented soulful closeness that you had initially thought was unattainable. Had you believed all those who remained outside of the walls of your personal paradise, you would have been immersed in the same cycle that had been drilled into the majority of your family members, except maybe a handful who you had never met for the exact reason that they had chosen something for themselves. But you regarded your dream as the thorned path - undoubtedly more challenging, not immediately fruitful, but in the long run leading to the heaven of your design. What more could you ask for?
It was enjoyable to be alone with the paintings surrounding you, portals to new realms that any visitor could have the pleasure of exploring. And what was even more inspiring, was that in the eye of every beholder was a different universe, and no matter who one would speak to, their version of the painting would be different, even if just slightly. You huffed, amused. When was the last time you had visited a gallery with anyone else? You could not quite recall - it was likely that you had never seeked company from another because you were more than satisfied with the company of the legendary works that were regarding you from the many walls. It was possible to compose oneself, spend limitless time on every piece, study the details, and drift into one’s own musings when there was no one to ground them. This was when you dared to say you got your best work done. Even though you, of course, conducted research within university and ventured out to galleries, museums, collectors or auctions only within professional bounds, the bulk of the thinking process was carried out in times such as this. When it was just you, your notebook and pen, and a new point of focus. However, this time, you could not say you were fully attentive to the painting that you had decided to focus on, as a certain someone was appearing to share your level of interest in ‘Love and Pain’ too. 
A gentleman who could not be much older or younger than you, at most a couple of years, stood off to the right of the bench, unmoving, gaze fixated on the painting. Dressed in a pinstripe navy suit, light blue dress shirt, lacquered dress shoes and a matching navy tie, he was nothing short of being a moving work of art. Hints of a glimmer from his thin framed, elegant silver spectacles gave the man a scholarly aura, while the slicked back dark hair - evidently a lot longer than the styling would suggest, added notes of business, entrepreneurship, perhaps leadership. Nothing was out of place, not a crease, not an exposed thread in sight. Needless to say, your curiosity had been sparked.
Much like you found joy in exploring creations in the realm of the visual arts, you were fond of crafting stories about the people who were strangers in passing. You could not help it; perhaps this affinity for creative internal ramblings had come as a package with studying the degree you had selected, or perhaps this was a naturally occurring guilty pleasure that you simply had not had the chance to entertain before you cut yourself off from expectations and predetermined patterns of thought. But now, you had the full pleasure of wondering, letting your mind travel to lands far away as you took the real life masterpiece in, and pondered why the man could be here, what he could be thinking as he studied Munch’s work, and what resonated with him, and only him. 
There was a melancholia with the weight of centuries resting upon his shoulders, that much you could decipher in the stranger’s stance. Even then, there was a gentle burning flame within his heart judging by just how dedicated he was to inspecting the artwork. Like he was seeing an old friend for the first time in years, and was attempting to memorise them anew and recognise each change, bit by bit. You suppressed a chuckle, entertaining the possibility of this man finding a kinship with the painting, but chose to set the idea aside for the time being, instead focusing on sketching his emotional landscape. Was the stranger remorseful? Lonely? Perplexed? You could not quite pinpoint the answer, at least not before you noticed the man’s head starting to turn, and soon enough, his eyes were peering into your own.
They were two pools of deep chocolate, an all-consuming shade that, due to the ever so slightly dimmer lights than in the general halls of the gallery, appeared to be approaching a captivating onyx. The gaze that originated from behind the glasses, and glided across the room that was suddenly too small for two struck you, and you could feel heat starting to rise on your face, blush threatening to reveal the effect of the man’s spontaneous act of confidence. Lowering your head, you gave the stranger a sheepish grin, and pretended to make a random note, pen erratically scribbling over a filled page. He continued to regard you with that same unwavering expression, and only when you looked up again did he seem to catch himself and give you a closed-mouth smile, equally as bashful as yours, and crossed his arms. One step, another, and he was right by the painting, though careful to not obstruct your view - instead, he took his time to read the brief paragraph on the information plaque that had been stuck to the wall off to the side of ‘Love and Pain’. With the same familiarity that is common among those grieving, or in a state of existential sorrow. A bittersweetness prevailed in his aura, one that reminded you of autumn - the falling leaves in red and gold, twirling to join a magnificent carpet, but nonetheless, making a departure, albeit a nearly unnoticeable one. Had he seen many fallen leaves? Was he himself approaching the season? You gasped, but even though the sound was barely audible, you caught the stranger making a minuscule turn in response. 
His footsteps were louder than your thoughts, his departure an irrevocably impactful act that left you breathless. You did not know him, and yet you felt as though you had gotten a glimpse at multiple lifetimes, and were part of a moment that was greater than yourself. In the wordless exchange, question after question had found its root, and something told you that you should not dare attempt to craft him a backstory, and choosing to believe in anything but what would be declared by him would be a gross misinterpretation, much like one that was carried out by those who did not wish to reflect on art and look beyond a first impression. For the first time since you had made your initial discovery of the arts, you felt like you were not alone in the gallery, the other visitor’s presence remained so intense that he could be sat right next to you, scrutinising the same painting, entertaining the same thought. Was the woman with the bright tresses indeed what she had been declared to be over the many years she had been introduced to many venues, many variations of public, and finally finding a home on this wall? Did she settle with her lover, or perhaps a carefully selected victim? Would the man have an answer?
______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ . It was unlike you to retrace your steps a mere few days after a visit and return to the same gallery, amble down the same halls, and seek for a new source of investigative inspiration among the same selection. This obviously did not mean that you would never return, definitely not, that would be almost criminal of you to possess such intentions, but you tended to try to cleanse your palate with alternative movements, contemporary takes and avant garde interpretations between searches which were more directly related to your studies. And yet, for the first time in a while, nothing was stopping you from your return. It felt only natural, and so right. Moreover, you felt no unease when you headed straight towards the section that housed the impressionists. An individual with an unspoken, mysterious mission, you were on the hunt for the creative streak, something that would help you ponder the next section of your hefty dissertation, and you could sense that it had to be somewhere here. And, like always, you were right.
‘Bazille’s Studio’, one of the most famous works painted by the so-called ‘tragic artist’ of the impressionists, Frédéric Bazille in 1870. In fact, it had been a collaboration between him and Édouard Manet, another gifted artist, though more renowned as a figure leading modernism, and depicted a scene of discussion and creative collaboration in the studio that Bazille had shared for a certain period of time with other spectacular figures of the visual arts, Claude Monet, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, who could also be found in this painting. On the walls were works rejected by the Salon, which at the time had been the one of the most influential, famous art exhibitions in the Western World, administered by the Académie des Beaux-Arts in Paris. Interestingly, above the piano on the right hung a painting which Bazille had purchased from Monet, potentially hinting at the material ties between them, and the importance the young artist had because of his familial wealth. In a sense, Bazille expressed his support, as well as showed an intimate, platonic scene of the art world where there was a moment of calm, of mutual appreciation, despite the financial troubles and tensions due to character that had been experienced in those walls.
You stepped closer to the painting, trying to detect the transition from Bazille’s to Manet’s hand, the latter of whom painted in the former to take ‘centre stage’, palette in hand. Truly seamless work, though what else could it be? This painting had been a new addition to the permanent collection, and after strenuous, detailed restoration work to give the oil paints their original vibrancy and for impeccable strokes to forget the burden of time, you had the pleasure of seeing it in person. You were an arm’s length away from yet another work essential to history, culture and the arts as a societal colossus.
While it was easy enough to appreciate the technical detail, you found yourself halting to remember the names of all those depicted in the painting, failing to finalise the list in your head. Starting from Bazille, you had determined for yourself the presence of Monet and Manet in his vicinity quickly enough, however where Renoir was, or what were the names of the two other gentlemen in the scene, slipped your mind. You rocked to the side to lean closer to the plaque that was meant to provide you with the information, however you only found the name of the painting, the artist and the medium, much to your misfortune. Clicking your tongue, you returned to studying the faces of each individual, and furrowed your brows in agitated concentration. It was simple to take out your phone and search for the answer, though you knew that just as neutral that action would be, so would be your reaction unless you were to remember, or somebody were to-
A presence to your side caught you off-guard, and you felt a shiver run up your spine. One glance was enough to determine that it was the same man from yesterday, only the outfit revealing a change. Other than that, he had the same impeccable posture and stance, as well as a thoughtful look towards the painting in front of you both. His arms were crossed, though not in a defensive manner; instead they offered an interpretation of philosophy, as though this man was carrying centuries of wisdom with him, history having pummelled down on him and yet needing to support it like Atlas; the titan carrying the world.
Today, he was dressed in a mahogany coloured suit, with a white top underneath and some black boots with thick white rubber soles - quite the transition from last time, when he had been a manifestation of a sleek and pristine office gentleman. Hair, now let down and wavy, neatly framed his face, accentuating the regalness of his features. It was astounding how you were still sure that it would be more likely to find a man of this fashion in a painting, rather than standing beside you. You kept quiet, not wanting to interfere with his musings. Perhaps it was just a silly coincidence that the two of you were at the same place and at the same time again - how else? You did not know him, and you hoped that he did not know you. Though, you truly did not mind his company, and maybe it could serve as your motivation to figure out the rest of the characters in the painting. Once again, your attention returned to the task at hand, but before you could even begin to list off prominent figures of the art world during the era of Impressionism, a deep, honey-like whisper halted you and made you hold your breath. 
“Auguste Renoir is the one seated, Emile Zola, the writer, is on the stairs, Monet, Manet and Bazille are, as you likely know in the centre, and that,” he paused to raise his hand, gesturing in the general direction of the far right of the piece, “is Edmond Maitre. Pianist, art collector, and Bazille’s closest friend.”
“I- uh- thank you. How did you know I was trying to recall? Pardon me, I must look so clueless-” you trailed off, eyes finding the floor, an action which seemed to be your automatic response to being under inspection of the man, though this time, he captured your gaze quickly by stepping closer towards you. Looking up, you found concern and apology in his eyes.
“No! Not at all, I… sorry if I misunderstood and I am sorry for forcing you into such erroneous conclusions,” he gave you an ever so slightly crooked smile, charming, very disarming and so suiting this beautiful stranger, that you were instantly prompted by your instincts to return it, dismissing doubt. 
“You saved me,” you joked, though the phrase contained within itself an unlikely compassion. Two people, alone in the same gallery, sharing a precious dialogue was something to cherish, and with all your might you wanted to make it last.
“Just as you made me regard the painting in a new light, for which I thank you, greatly,” he bowed his head, the smile not leaving his face for a moment. There was a recognition in his gaze, as well as an inexplicable admiration. What did he discover?
“I guess it might be true that no matter how many times you see a painting, every viewing brings something new,”
“Well said. Are you an artist? A critic, perhaps?” He inquired, moving closer to stand level with you, head turned slightly in your direction to spare the occasional glance. You shook your head slowly, wondering if in a retelling of your destiny you could have pursued either of the careers he had mentioned.
“I am in the arts, though rather than looking at the present I remain in the past. Art historian, well, a postgraduate. Nothing too fancy.”
“Oh? But that is marvellous, and what are you focusing on?”
“I like to call it the painting in plenair during the turn of the century. I focus mainly on impressionism, though do sometimes stray into its interplay with post-impressionism, modernism and expressionism.”
“Ah, no wonder I have been seeing you here often. Enjoying the new collection?” he asked, eager to hear your opinion. There was excitement in his voice as though you were a renowned expert and were about to bestow upon him a priceless evaluation. And this was without considering the technicality of you having only half-met. Just crossing paths twice in one week.
"Yes, of course… The collection is unlike any other I have seen. I keep wanting to return and stay here for ages." You explained, glancing at the stranger while he nodded along.
"Incredibly happy to hear it. I swear I have seen you around quite often during the past month that the exhibition has been open? Am I correct?" evidently, your rapid blinking was interpreted rather quickly as perplexion, for the man gasped ever so lightly, as if to catch his own speeding thoughts.
“I- how do you know? I do believe this is our… second time meeting?” you uttered, one eyebrow raised in suspicion, which, to your disbelief, revealed something akin to fear in the beautiful stranger’s features. Nervously, he adjusted a strand of hair that was threatening to cover his right eye.
“Not quite… you were present at the opening event, right?” he quizzed.
“Indeed, my depar- wait. But how? Respectfully, I am starting to think you know me.” you enunciated with newfound caution, while the man pursed his lips. One second, another passed in near total silence, until a chuckle escaped him and he shook his head. It appeared as though he was mentally scolding himself - his eyes held no malice, instead glinting with hope, that melancholic wisdom, and something unidentifiable, ethereal, supernatural.
“I think it is high time I introduce myself before this gets out of hand. See, in some sense I work here, and most of my days are spent in the gallery or labouring for it-”
“Ah, I see-”
“Park Seonghwa, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” with one arm folded behind his back and the other on his chest, he bowed to you like how you imagined princes in the numerous portraits you had studied would bow. And the most enthralling part was how the gesture flowed, and was so befitting. Quickly, you bowed in return, but while raising your head, you froze. It hit you why he would know. And know a lot. And would remember you, and likely anyone and everyone who visited. In a low whisper, you asked:
“Am I… correct in assuming that you are ‘the’ Park Seonghwa?” quickly enough, you realised that it was a mistake to find his eyes again - clearly, you were not ready for the intensity, nor for the intrigue that was contained within them, nor for the fact that he moved another step closer to you, the rubber of his boots dampening any sound produced.
“I never knew that there was a ‘the’ attached to my name. I simply love art.”
“Well that love translated into the creation of what is possibly the greatest gallery in the nation, if not worldwide,”
“Oh you flatter me too much, ah, your name-”
“L/N Y/N, and I, too, love art.”
“Elated to hear it,” he gleamed, and you swore the room exploded with the illumination of a thousand stars.
Stunning, awe-inspiring, ever so elegant. He was a walking dream. In that smile was concealed a certain something that had been taboo, a well-kept secret until a couple of decades ago, when those like Seonghwa had started to be fully integrated into society, and no longer had to hide, changing identity from one century to another. With that came Seonghwa’s success - you had read in an article that advertised the permanent exhibition a short blurb of his story, and how for many turbulent decades, the man single-handedly collected masterpieces, crafted a meticulous network and introduced genius artists to the world, and the world to the artists. The gallery was a magnum opus for Seonghwa - a presentation of what he had achieved as a collector, as a patron of the arts, and a celebration of his personal culture. 
You could not help but hone in on the fangs, and recall the original reason why it was even possible for Seonghwa to obtain such legendary works and have as much influence as he presently did. It was not spontaneous; submerged in turmoil, he had personally approached artists who, previously abandoned by critics and other prospective buyers, had never considered a future beyond a mysterious tomorrow. Hiding his own true nature, he crafted the tale of a ‘Park’ dynasty, and rose again and again to continue his work. Perhaps, now, some might argue that once he had revealed himself as a vampire the velocity of Seonghwa’s developments had fallen, but you would passionately argue the opposite. It was challenging to believe that any move by this stunning artistic mastermind was not strategic - the announcement had given the gallery more partnerships, more donations, and in turn, an even greater prominence in the community both among professionals and enjoyers. 
“Thank you,” the phrase spilled from your lips inadvertently. It seemed to be the only thing that was reasonable to say in that given moment. You pondered the pains that must have been suffered to make the world that you were consumed by come together, and the painting in front of you, aside from what was contained within the frame,now shined in a new light externally too, possessing its own story, resembling a search for a kindred spirit, a true home. 
Seonghwa remained quiet, the words of gratitude echoing in his heart. It was endearing, encouraging to hear such warmth from you. So, you did know him, at least the parts he had shown to the public - as was expected from someone so deeply ingrained in visual arts and history, but he could not help but identify it as something much greater than mere awareness. The openness with which you had welcomed conversation with him, the kind charm that radiated from you as you engaged in the careful verbal waltz reminded the vampire of times long, long ago when all that existed for him was drive, enamourment and art. Oh, how your eyes glimmered. His heart clenched into near unbearable agony as he read your expressions, and wondered how much you have seen, what have you yet to see, who you were in this temporary life. If only he could ask fate to tell him how much you remembered of who you had been before. 
“No, thank you, for giving this,” he gestured to the gallery around him, graceful hand unfurling as though revealing a delicate flower, “meaning, and reason to exist.”
“I highly doubt I am of much significance, Mister Park,” you responded, a soft smile on your face.
“Would anything hold the same meaning if there was no one to behold it?” he responded. You chose not to answer, catching onto the rhetoricism, “and please, call me Seonghwa. I’d like to say we are to be good friends.”
______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .
Sitting across from Seonghwa in the cafe that was located on the top floor, above the main halls of the gallery made you feel strangely serene. Today he had foregone the straighter hair styles that you had begun to get used to, surprising you with a head of tousled, almost curled locks that embodied the world’s softness, though remained to be quite the contrast to the more formal and highly fashionable attire that adorned his stature. A suit, tastefully oversized with a buttoned double breasted jacket that was simultaneously serving as a shirt, the plunging v-shaped neckline revealing perfectly smooth skin, and what you noted to be a solitary freckle right in the centre of his collarbone. The trousers, at least from the glimpse that you had allowed yourself when you had met at the entrance to the cafe were of a loose fit, defining his waist at the top and falling to form an almost skirt-like silhouette should he stand how he usually stood: the echoes of what would be called the ‘third position’ in ballet, more relaxed, but still retaining an elegance that only he could carry. The biggest shock to you, however, was Seonghwa’s choice of shoes - a refreshing point to the visual, he had selected to contrast the formalwear with a pair of limited edition, geometrically intriguing Converses. You could catch a glimpse of one of them from over the edge of the table whenever his slightly shaking leg, positioned over the other, would rock forwards just that tiny bit stronger. 
While the setting was meant to be casual, the circumstances in which you found yourself were nothing short of miraculous. Never in a million years would you have imagined for it to be possible to be sat across the table from, quite possibly, one of the most legendary contributors to art restoration, collection and exhibition. On top of that, Seonghwa was a figure who actively bridged the gap between disparate communities, finding a common language, and using the arts as a salvation. You were in awe, and could not hold back on regarding the handsome vampire as he quietly reported your and his orders to the waiter who had floated to your table.
“Are you sure you do not want anything else?”
“Yes, I am sure. I do not wish to exploit your kindness-”
“-Not at all. I hope you do not mind that I… must make a rather unconventional order,” he smiled sheepishly, clearing his throat so as to attempt to hide his doubts, though you were uncertain as to how much of such emotions could possibly be left after what had to have been centuries. 
“An unconventional order is pouring a sugary energy drink into a triple shot espresso and calling it dinner,” you answered, eyes travelling from Seonghwa’s face to the mural on the wall a few tables away that wrapped behind him and to your left, disrupted only by the occasional floor length window that provided city vistas - rather gloomy, compared to the optimistic illumination of the restaurant. Perhaps out of pity, or out of genuine entertainment, Seonghwa chuckled.
“That does sound like an acquired taste, indeed. Thank you,”
“No need. Thank you for inviting me,” you turned back, nodding a polite bow as he softly waved your gesture off.
A silence settled across the table as you waited for your respective drinks. Your hand, had you not consciously restrained yourself, would have probably reached for the phone that you stored in your purse, but now was fiddling with the sleeve of your shirt, finding the buttons to stress test the threads that had them sewn tight to the fabric. You were not bored, in fact, far from it. You needed a barrier. The grandeur of this man’s presence was almost overwhelming. He was not a mere individual in a room, he consumed it. Had you just walked in, you were certain that your gaze would still settle on his form. Just like the concrete outside was grey, and the pause retained a divine ambiguity, Seonghwa was unforgettable. In an attempt to calm your clouded thoughts, you studied the mural once more.
“May I inquire into your thoughts on the decor?”
“The choice of ‘A Sunday on La Grande Jatte’ is wise. I am guessing you were the one to make the decision?” you heard an exhale, and once more your attention was captured.
“Alas, I cannot take full accolades for this. This stemmed from a discussion that a good friend of mine and I had one late night. Seurat just so happened to make an appearance amidst the chatter, and so… this was born,” he gestured at the surroundings. Clearly, the interior was picked carefully to fit the theme of the legendary painting. 
From the colours to the textures and the greenery that had been intricately set up across the restaurant, every detail had a meaning and a place, and did not take away from the spaciousness of the hall. It was breathable, while still giving the illusion that you were stepping into a whimsical impressionist paradise. Perhaps that was another reason why you could not quite contain your disbelief firstly in your encounter, secondly in its progression, and thirdly in your interlocutor’s warmth. 
“Spectacular, truly. I have heard you have an eye for detail, however this surpasses all expectations.”
“Oh? There is more you have heard?” he interjected, leaning closer to you and placing an elbow on the table, simply to rest his head on his hand. While this could potentially be seen as slightly unceremonious, it hinted at well-kept confidence, ownership, control. A healthy undercurrent of motivation that came with indirect praise.
“I-oh y-yeah of course,” you did not mean to stutter, but some part of you was grateful you did, for the smirk that had threatened to burst on Seonghwa’s lips was enough for you to feel ignited to elaborate, “if my memory is not failing me, you were the one to distinguish a reproduction of a piece some time ago, no?”
“Ah- yes. That was a Degas reproduction. I must say, the attempt was sincere, however when I saw the-, hm, you will not be startled, will you?”
“Please,” you urged him to continue, intrigued by the story. 
“When I saw the original, as it was being made and when it had been finalised, it would be shameful of me to not spot a fake,” he fell back into his chair, just in time for the drinks to be served. 
A coffee for you, and a non-descript beverage concealed by a semi-opaque, tall glass for him. Though, you did not need to be a detective to guess what it was that Seonghwa was bringing to his lips, and what he took a tentative sip of. The only mystery that was remaining for you was what ‘type’ he had picked - was it O+? B-? Whatever else? You joined him in the tasting, lifting the mug and indulging in the wonderful aroma of your americano. It did not strike you as necessary to opt for something fancier and lie to yourself - so you settled for your regular order, much to your joy. Familiar taste and the reliability of the caffeine hitting your system painted the scene in more comforting colours, and gradually, you found yourself easing into the dialogue more and more, until life stories, musings and a surprisingly large common ground came pouring. 
You discovered that Seonghwa possessed a unique sensitivity and attunement to those around him. Focused on the emotional experiences, he felt through time and could recount emotions like the memory was from a mere few days, rather than decades ago. He was well-spoken, eloquent, intelligent, polite in every right as he navigated through the linguistic landscape and guided you like a partner in a dance. You were spiralling oh so quickly, intrigue catching up to you and prompting you to sacrifice all of your senses to the man and the pleasantly intoxicating atmosphere he captured you in. He was enchanting, and it was far too easy to give in. 
“May I reveal something?” in a hushed tone, he inquired, a finger absent-mindedly tracing the rim of his glass. 
“Oh, a little secret?” you raised your eyebrows in jest, lightening the initial seriousness with which Seonghwa uttered the question.
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Depends on how you take it. A confession might be more accurate,” he waited for you to take the final sip of your coffee before continuing, unphased by your unwavering focus, “if I were to be honest, I have been meaning to approach you.”
“Pardon?”
“As you know we have a… common awareness of each other thanks to what is housed under this roof, but ever since we first unknowingly crossed paths… I wanted to speak to you.”
Confused, you did not speak, though the words contained an unparalleled affection within them. What could he possibly mean? You chose to refrain from commenting, your hesitation prompting the vampire to continue.
“Do you remember the most recent opening night? Of the exhibition? I believe you were with someone…” he trailed off, hoping you would continue for him.
“Ah, yes, a friend of mine from university. So?”
“This might sound strange but, I distinctly remember you mentioning a name. An artist from the same era, dubbed as L/N Y/N?”
“Goodness, you overheard that? I am so sorry, it is just that said artist has intrigued me for some time, and I was half-hoping to encounter their work. Maybe it is because our names are the same but still….”
“Elusive, aren’t they?”
“To put it softly, yes. I only vaguely recall seeing… maybe one piece in my lifetime, when I was little, and then… nothing. And there is barely any information on the artist online, let alone libraries and archives.”
“Hm, indeed. I guess that makes two of us…”
“Two of us who are searching?”
“That’s right. It brought me happiness to know that I am not alone in this endeavour.”
“Then we can keep searching together.”
While you were positive that you could not conceal your interest, Seonghwa’s did not go unnoticed either. It was of course possible that he was simply well-versed in political correctness, but the burning depth of his pupils told you otherwise. Enthrallment, the discovery of a kindred spirit, recognition, the rekindling of a bond that had existed at some point long ago - all fantasies that played out in your mind as you returned that look with subtle fervour. You wondered how many people he graced with those charms. How many had succumbed to his influence, becoming a marker on his infinite life path, a fleeting second? How many had his lips known, how many had turned into a decadent treat for a genius man with natural peculiarities? While the researcher part of you was perplexed and aching for answers, the you that was caught in the moment simply let it go on, and the feeling of Seonghwa’s leg brushing against yours, and the pride blooming in your chest as he praised the few articles and papers you had published upon having claimed that he ‘knew some things about you too’ preoccupied you in the most magnificent way.
Naturally, you agreed to meet Seonghwa again. On your journey home, in the privacy of the anonymous metro, immersed in the cacophony of deafening rails and the millions travelling to anywhere, you pressed your phone to your racing heart as the vampire, the man, the beguiling Park Seonghwa sent you a message confirming so. Who knew a simple selection of words could be so captivating?
______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .
Under the comforting thrum of raindrops on the large umbrella, you walked down the streets of the grey-coloured city, your hand lightly holding onto Seonghwa’s arm while he ensured that both of you were protected from the elements. Despite the dull light and bitterness of the cooling season, Seonghwa appeared radiant, truly timeless with every gesture and stride. The elegant angles of his face that you could tirelessly study stood out against the monotone buildings and overcast skies. His voice drowned out the sound of droplets racing one another to the ground. A miraculous gentleman who appeared in your life much like a portrait, or a landscape - a masterpiece you wanted to explore in every spare moment, and better yet, this masterpiece was equally as open to you as you were to him. 
“...essentially, yes. It is like another nationality. A marker of species isn’t too far isn’t it? Just another line on a stack of documents. Nothing more,” Seonghwa concluded his explanation, pursing his lips for a moment before letting an exhale turned dragon’s breath escape into the afternoon.
“Makes sense. So would that mean there are separate medical papers and treatment too?”
“Well… when regeneration fails us or when a given case is severe enough… yes. Though it is handled by private clinics run by other vampires.”
“There are private clinics?”
“Of course. Often they are connected to donation points too, and that is how we remain on the right side of the law and stay alive,” he nodded to himself, giving you a bittersweet smile when he noticed confusion overtake your gaze. “Blood,” he stated as-a-matter-of-factly, “I mean blood.”
In a nervous stupor, you cleared your throat and focused on a droplet that was hanging onto the edge of the umbrella, right in front of you, all the way until the gentle motion of Seonghwa’s amble provoked its abrupt descent onto the stone under your feet. 
“Ah, yes, I see-”
“If you find this disturbing, we can forget the conversation ever-”
“-I want to know you better, Seonghwa, truly-”
“Careful-”
“Sorry wha-” 
With an extraordinary swiftness, you were tugged abruptly by the arm. Not registering your surroundings, you merely went with the inertia, caught off-guard by the proximity of your face to the vampire’s as he held you against him with the arm that you had previously been resting your own on. A hand that you raised on instinct went limp and landed on Seonghwa’s chest, feeling the thick felted wool of his coat. The ringing of a bell, going farther away from you by the second, incessant but at least waking you up from the blur, was enough for you to put two and two together - a cyclist who thought they owned every part of the street, like always. You sighed.
“Reckless… my apologies I did not mean to-” Seonghwa tried to detangle himself, refusing to remain in your personal space for longer than necessary no matter how much he did want to, but his efforts were reduced to nothing when your hand moved to a hold on his upper arm - reassuring, comfortable, accepting.
“Thank you,” you interrupted, “that bike would have definitely run into me…”
“It’s nothing,” a low chuckle echoed in your ears as Seonghwa peered into your pupils, confidence that had previously wavered out of habitual caution now restored, growing into a pride as you continued to hold onto him, “the man was slow enough for there to be no risk of harm. I hope you are not too startled though.”
“Oh? You have super powers too? Do elaborate,” you jested, resuming your walk.
“I would call it more like… being a finely tuned machine. Can’t say I have bad reaction speed. Though I must say, it was a little challenging pulling you out of the way,” there was an evident intent behind the words. However, you were too curious to pay it any mind, instead preferring to find out their meaning live.
“How so?”
“I think this,” dropping his arm, Seonghwa’s hand reached for yours, and without a moment of hesitation, his fingers were intertwining with yours, his palm pressed against yours, “would be better. You know, for safety.” As if you could ever reject him. This was a fact you had established for yourself with an unprecedented certainty. His gallant disposition, attentiveness all confirmed a care for you that was impossible to ignore. 
There was something picturesque about the present after meeting this wonderful, infinite pool of art and humanity. You found yourself leafing through articles, art books and biographies with a more wistful and sentimental perspective, imagining what it would be like if it were you who was immortalised in the thousands of brushstrokes, or if you were on the other side of the canvas, how would you go about depicting the scenes unfolding before your very eyes. Timelessness - a quality shared between the art you so adored, and the man you had encountered and over the weeks, let your intrigue be transformed into a shy flame of infatuation. Perhaps it was the underlying reason why you did not reject his advances, nor cower in fear of his true nature with which he was upfront. The other, of course, was the search for the mysterious artist, an adventure that fuelled many of your dialogues, and prompted you to spend more time in the library and the archives of your university than you had ever done before - to the point where Seonghwa himself had encouraged you to take a break from your intellectual expeditions and step into the world as a casual observer. So, you let yourself drift; it finally hit you, what scenes your once again tranquil stroll reminded you of, and you smiled to yourself as you recalled the intricacies of the not quite commonly discussed representation of the Impressionist movement. 
‘Rue de Paris, temps de pluie’, painted by Gustave Caillebotte; his most famous work. Not quite as widely discussed, despite still technically being created in the Impressionist era, perhaps due to the meandering through form, realism and reliance on stronger lines rather than broad brushstrokes and the study of light. You did find it fascinating how Caillebotte’s passion for photography had seeped into this piece, however. Much like how, in recent days, you could easily find a way to mention Seonghwa in conversation, be it related to the arts or not. From the subjects in the foreground being slightly out of focus while the middle ground was crystal clear, to how the shapes of some passersby were cropped were all characteristic of photos, rather than paintings, making this particular work all the more dear to you. It was a reflection of life, of behaviour and of what had been daily back in the late nineteenth century.
Was it any different from now, aside from those grand, global topics that historians dedicated their lives to studying? If one were to whittle down to the intricacies, the miniatures that ornamented the span of a human existence, was it so terribly far away from what you were born into, and Seonghwa saw develop and had adopted? How people shielded themselves from the rain with umbrellas, and then used them as a tool to isolate themselves from other urbanites who were in a rush to take a day-long route out of their homes… and back again. The latest silhouettes of dress and accessory; the same rush to be with the times as now.
You felt your companion’s arm move, prompting you to let go and leave your hand hovering as though you were awaiting some kind of change. You bit back an unprecedented sliver of disappointment, only to be caught by surprise once again as you felt the hand settle on the small of your back. Cautious, like you were going to melt from any more pressure than the brush of a feather. A quick glance was enough to determine that you were being studied intently for any sign of discomfort - Seonghwa was ready to pull away at any moment, any sigh, and most definitely at any word. A meek smile settled on your lips, and you shyly used an oncoming stranger as an opportunity to affirm the gesture, stepping towards the vampire, and sensing the confidence of his protective measure be solidified. With glee he followed your every tilt and turn, angling away from the passing form that neither of you could focus on. The touch was electric, somehow monumental despite being so common and barely present. Your mind was on fire, pondering what it would be like to put your head on the elegant man’s shoulder, and let yourself be carried away into a terrific fairy tale.
“This really is a rainy day,”
“Seems quite sunny to me,” you respond with sarcasm, realising only after the fact that your phrase still did retain an element of truth within it. 
Sunshine did not have to be literal. It was easy to see, you just needed to return Seonghwa’s gaze, and watch as another spring flower blossomed in the soul of one you had initially assumed to be so cold, so distant. In the darkest winter was a safe haven that you could not help but lean into, and regardless of what you had initially thought, with him, you felt more human, more safe and alive than ever. He listened without fail to your ramblings, and could easily pick up the ball and balance it with his own musings that you could listen to for many lifetimes.
Lifetimes; immortality, the one concept you couldn’t quite wrap your head around. Well, the latter was technically not true, as Seonghwa had elaborated some few days ago: vampires did age, albeit at such a slow pace that to the run of the mill human being, it was impossible to notice, and if they did, it would be someone very close, and only over a matter of decades. Maybe it was this exact inability that made you want to stay and learn all there could be about the gallerist - you thought that would make you feel like you have been living forever. His wisdom was beautiful. The kindness with which he treated you, akin to that of how a spouse treats their long-time sweetheart with a mellow and comfortable affection, was not something you asked for nor expected, but something which he introduced himself with through every action, progressively more amiable when you allowed him to advance.
“Mm, no wonder I can’t quite look at you,” he mused out loud, dramatically looking off into the distance. You raised an eyebrow, curious about what was going to come after his theatrical pause, “your brightness is unparalleled,” Seonghwa chuckled, satisfied with your sigh and the way in which you pretended to be annoyed, only to dissolve in a mute giggle. “So, I do suggest we get out of the rain for a moment and stop by that book shop over there, shall we?”
Following his hand, you spotted an antique bookshop a few doors down, marked by an iron sign and ornate shop window decorations that glistened with each hit of the dancing droplets. A warm golden light emanated from the inside, the hue comparable to a summer’s day. An odd feeling of deja vu washed over you, as though you had been in this store before, even though this was quite the distance away from your home, not on any of your usual commutes and in a part of town you barely visited aside from the occasional brisk walk. It had been established over a century ago, sporting a historical plaque and detailing original to the era the date on the sign suggested. Suppressing your internal monologue, you simply nodded, fond of Seonghwa’s excitement as he pushed lightly against your back and walked on ahead. If you were any more of a romantic, you would have assumed that the shop was a representation of his heart, but you couldn’t allow yourself to think that way, at least not when you felt heat rise to your cheeks as he whispered your name, openly planning what you could look for amidst the rare editions together. You and him turned into a ‘we’ so naturally, you barely had time to blink. A new brushstroke on a canvas, brave, bold and bright. Impressionist.
______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .
The hypnotising improvisation on a semi-acoustic guitar, followed by a launch back into the theme of a well-known jazz song had you tapping on the counter, unknowingly following every drum beat. The bar turned cosy music venue that Seonghwa had invited you out to was proving to be every bit a wonder of the world, and paradise inside of the otherwise gloomy city which had been plagued with miserable weather and lack of daylight for atrociously long. The classy establishment was a well known favourite among the vampires residing in the city, especially those aligned with a more bohemian and art-focused lifestyle. Critics, painters, collectors, musicians, poets alike all gathered to share ideas and energy, and reminisce days long gone, while the band - one that had not changed since the bar’s establishment, revived legendary pieces one after another. 
With ease, Seonghwa had ordered your favourite drink, having memorised it after your many outings that had smoothly transitioned into dates and shared nights. He remembered every detail about you, holding each one tenderness. Your lover gazed at you as he ended a conversation with a fellow collector who had recently come to town for a few days, stretching out his hand until it just touched yours, guiding it to lie flat on the counter. Seonghwa’s palm, still retaining a pleasant coolness despite him having had a couple of drinks of his own, was another reassurance that in the buzz of the venue, you still had your person by your side. Feeling his digits tap and then proceed to brush the back of your hand, you hummed in contentment, and let your eyes travel over the beautiful vampire, who leaned back, tempting you just for fun, knowing full well that you were wholly his, and even when you turned to look elsewhere, it was his face you saw in the crowd, it was his voice that rang in your ears, it was his touch that ghosted over your skin. 
The bustier from Alexander McQueen, the gorgeous flowy shirt with ruffles and cuts so tastefully sewn and executed, the statement necklace that was worthy of being displayed at a gallery and must be the envy of many, the high heeled boots that were concealed by elegant trousers - Seonghwa was your favourite work of art, and you could never deny it. Each one of his gestures was worthy of marvel, and the care with which he approached everything - even the tending to the items which he painstakingly selected and matched for tonight made your heart skip a beat. It was boggling how each garment and accessory was either an original, or a one of a kind piece. But at the same time, you did not expect anything less of Seonghwa.
He must be impossible to depict in paintings, you concluded, shamelessly staring at your lover’s face, from the shape of his nose, to the plushness of his lips, to the waviness of his night-like inky locks. You bet many had tried, but judging by the lacking evidence in the art world, they must have failed, miserably, to create something more immortal and invincible than the model and muse. You understood them, and Seonghwa gave no signs of being perturbed. 
“So, was that the intent behind our spontaneous trip to this bar tonight?” you gestured at your surroundings, taking another sip from your ornate glass. A sharp exhale accompanied a contrasting soft answer:
“Not at all,I had the business sorted a couple of days ago, and tonight was a lucky crossing of paths to secure the deal,” cryptic as ever, Seonghwa only alluded to the matter at hand.
The matter, or how he had referred to it as ‘business’ was a particular artwork that he had been hunting, by the elusive artist you had been investigating, first in your lonesome, and then joining forces with Seonghwa. Apparently, one of the pieces, by some stroke of unimaginable luck, had been kept safe in the private collection of a ‘Mister Kim’, at least that was how he had been initially introduced to you. Until you put two and two together, and when the very well dressed and styled character had entered the bar and made a beeline towards your partner in artistic musings and romance, recognised the man as a world-famous designer and fashion icon, Kim Hongjoong. And of course, another vampire and kind soul in one. 
Their conversation had happened outside of your earshot; whether it was on purpose or just so happened to unfold that way was for your ruminations to determine, but you did overhear enough to figure out that this was a portrait, a never seen work, and was completed by the artist who as it had turned out had been closer with Seonghwa than you had initially thought. 
“Seems to be very important, and not just in a ‘collector’ sense…” you trailed off, watching as the ice in your drink cracked, “is this why you were interested, you know, back then?”
“If I were to be honest, darling, I was, and still am, a lot more interested in you. The artist was something of an excuse to get a conversation going. And I do hope,” Seonghwa turned and sauntered towards you, “this conversation does not end.” 
Even though you were sitting on one of the bar stools, the heels and stance still left him some room to look downwards, and his sultry expression, orbs glinting at you through dark lashes left you transfixed. In moments such as this, you hated to be mortal. There were so many things that you could not possibly know, and no matter how hard you would try to comprehend the vastness of the angelic man’s mind, you would always remain theoretical, and accept the grand majority of intricacies as axiom.
“I hope so too,” your voice barely rose above a whisper as his gloved hand landed on your neck, gliding upwards to caress your jawline.
“I’m so glad I found you,” his thoughts were elsewhere, you were sure of it, and yet, his gaze remained unwavering, “my eternal love”. Lips stained with bittersweet worship, the words stumbled from them to strike you repeatedly in the heart, forcing it to lose its rhythm. He was regarding you like he had stumbled upon a priceless treasure, a divinity, a paradise. Something far from you and from this planet, but by Seonghwa’s careful selection, etched in your features.
Were you the embodiment of something greater for him? You would not consider yourself to be a model example of a human being, neither were you a pretty statue to display in an exhibition. You were you, but Seonghwa kept on convincing you that it was exactly this that had captivated him and showed him a new beginning. Did you wish to believe that? Of course. But a vampire who was hundreds of years old could keep a grand variety of secrets beyond your understanding, even if he were to exclaim them right in front of you and sketch them out. His eternal love - your version of eternity, or his? A life the duration of a butterfly’s abstract dance to the heavens.
“Love?” he called out to you, eyebrows knitted in concern due to your prolonged silence. You had set your drink down, and were staring at the shine of the glossy chrome silver and pearl on Seonghwa’s necklace. “Talk to me, say anything.”
“I- hm. I think I am just tired. Yeah, that must be it. Tired so I am overthinking, no worries. I’ll just be right here and-”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?” you tilted your head, noting how Seonghwa immediately straightened out, and instead of attempting to tower over you stepped over to the side to set a protective hand over yours.
“This is a majority vampire bar, full of unfamiliar individuals, this whole deal with the artwork is up in the air and-”
“First of all, I don’t care. Second, you are here with me. And third, I want to trust in the fact that you would not do anything foolish nor harmful. Am I right in my evaluation?” you uttered, still not quite able to look into Seonghwa’s infinite pools of brilliant sienna and dark brown.
“I- I am honoured, but that still does not detract from the fact that we can go get some air and come back. Shall we?”
“You don’t have to-”
“I want to. Hell, need to. Let us have a quick wander?”
“...I’d like that.”
In no time, the winter air hit your cheeks and you were wrapping yourself as tightly as you could in your oversized coat. In your ears the pleasant sound of the vampire’s heels rang out, echoed by the stunning road onto which you were spat out by the heavy black front door of the bar. Warm-toned streetlights liberally decorated the sidewalks and painted the night in honey, gold and copper accents. Reflections of an artificial summer in the puddles and winter chill. Downright magical. Seonghwa seeked out your hand, holding it tight and guiding it into the pocket of his own coat, smirking when you raised an eyebrow. 
“What?”
“Nothing at all.”
You were certain that you were walking through a landscape painting, every element captured by your vision falling into its rightful place, harmonising with the rest. The mumbling and music was long gone, only to be replaced by conversation of other late city explorers and the occasional rumbling of a car lazily rolling past. 
“Pissarro.”
“Hm?” Seonghwa kept looking ahead, but squeezed your hand to ask for you to continue.
“Boulevard Montmartre at Night. Painted in 1897, no?” you pointed at the surroundings with a tilt of the chin.
“Ah, indeed! Your perceptiveness never ceases to amaze me.”
“Well, thanks to you I got to see the original, so how could I not make the visual analogy?” you nudged his shoulder, earning a chuckle.
The painting was the only example of a landscape at night from the artist Camille Pissarro, making it all the more special despite it being part of a series of 14 views of the same location. Snow, rain, fog, morning, varying seasons, but only one glimmering night. It was one of the works that Seonghwa had managed to provide for your studies, resulting in a more than impressive academic outcome. Like Pissarro kept on painting the vista, your lover kept on giving, never asking for anything more than for you to share your hours with him, something you did not need to be prompted to do anyways.
“...I’m sorry I cannot reveal more than I do, at least not just yet,” he apologised, as though what he was committing was the greatest crime known to humanity and the supernatural.
As you looked up at the starry night sky, you swore you had heard these words before, uttered by the same voice, the same fingers interlocked with yours. A stabbing sensation in your cranium made you gasp, but you regained your composure quickly enough to not make it a priority for either of you. At the same time, Seonghwa’s expression altered to a semblance of… hope? Longing? You could not pinpoint it, but one of the many glowing dots above you clearly landed in his shining orbs, and he eagerly waited.
Waited for longer than you could realise in your present state.
On their own accord, your lips moved, forcing out a subconscious acknowledgement, previously suppressed. You swore the phrase belonged to another being, but it was as refreshing as the breeze tousling Seonghwa’s locks.
“I know. I can wait too.”
“Soon, my love.”
“I-I know.”
“I miss you.”
“I-” vision growing hazy, you reached to the vampire for support, which he readily provided, “I- too.”
One blink - oil paints decorated your hands, and those alluring eyes were staring back at you from a canvas. Another blink - Seonghwa was repeating your name, pressing his cheek against yours as he shielded you from falling into darkness with his strong arms.
______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .
Your office was inviting and offered a secure haven: a collection of neutral and wooden tones, with dashes of greenery to relax the eyes. From a potted ivy plant settled on the top of a large wall-length shelving unit to an indoor palm tree enjoying the rays in its designated corner, the room was a miniature paradise. You ran your hands over the thick birch desk, cautiously avoiding the stack of documents you had arranged for yourself to go through this day. Artwork restoration reports, contracts, exhibition plans for years to come… everything you thought you would never see, and yet it was right here in your palms.
Time moved slower, or at least that was how you began to perceive it now that it was in abundance. A fountain that did not cease to bestow gifts upon you - again, something you would have never imagined prior to the curious series of events that were your previous life unfolding the way they did. One fateful meeting, and you were a changed person, staring into the horizon and labelling it as a continuation rather than as a termination of all you could achieve. The world was your oyster, and loving dedication was the price. But when the price was so sweet, and so easy, who were you to say no? If you had to pick a concern, it would be the bandages and binding on your right arm; friction from the sleeve of the turtleneck and blazer you had worn today applying uncomfortable pressure to the delicate wound concealed within. 
You stood up from the leatherbound office chair, adjusting your clothes and stepping to the window behind you to look out at the garden belonging to the gallery - a recent expansion. Grand, regal, and as the papers had emphasised, now returned to its rightful owner. You wondered just how much of the city had belonged to vampires at least for a portion of time, and you had no doubt that you would be making more discoveries soon, but for the time being, you were happy with the re-acquisition, or as Seonghwa had called it: your ‘turning’ gift. A particularly strong shift of the arm made you wince, and your other hand shot to nurse your sore arm.
“I’m so sorry darling, does it still hurt?” Unbeknownst to you, Seonghwa had slipped into the office, and immediately rushed towards you, concern painting his beautiful face through furrowed brows and a tiny scowl.
“N-no, barely. The sweater is silly-”
“Let’s not disregard ailments, shall we?” your partner gingerly lifted your arm, and after gaining permission through a few lethargic nods, pushed the sleeve upwards to reveal the bandages, “I- really, we need to apply the ointment again, that must be it-”
“Seonghwa-”
“Work can wait, I just need to-”
“My love-” Seonghwa paused his ramblings to stare back at you, puzzled, “it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Literally just a bite, isn’t it?” you smiled, the action instantly being mirrored, albeit with a tinge of remaining worry.
“Mm, perhaps I am overreacting, I can’t help it,” your thoughts were numbed by the silken touch of his lips on the back of your hand, wool against cotton as he pulled you into an embrace, “it should heal well once you get used to your new form, I am sure of it,” his tresses tickled your nose, but you ignored it, instead letting your head fall against him.
You stood almost completely still aside from the rocking side to side that was habitual for you both. A lulling motion, one that either of you revealed only to each other. A secret reserved for intimate, loving moments such as this. You shook your head in amusement and buried your nose in Seonghwa’s sweater, inhaling the aroma of his sweet perfume, recalling ‘Love and Pain’ - the painting that had marked the tightening of the invisible string tying you together. Or was it? Coincidentally, on the wall behind your lover was the real inception of your union, one that you had forgotten from one lifetime to the next. A portrait. The one that Seonghwa had been chasing, and what had been his decades-long mission came to an end.
Signed with your own hand, were initials of your name and the year of completion of the painting. None other than the beloved collector and muse, Park Seonghwa, who had posed for you, or rather a version of you, and ever since then, you were the only one on his mind. You had been the master both of the arts and of his fate.
“Please, I am embarrassed…” your partner mumbled, settling for futile attempts to position you in such a way that you would be looking out at the garden, but to no avail. Poking him playfully at the side, you induce a halt, and question him:
“What is there to be embarrassed about? That’s you. Painted by me.”
“Exactly. And you have it in your office, of all places.”
“Well I can’t exactly have you, in the flesh, on display all the time and I would like a work of art around here-”
“Shh-”
“Don’t shush me, Park. Be grateful I don’t keep the sketches out too.”
In all honesty, He would not mind if you did. You could do anything, and the vampire would adore and honour it. Whether it was in your blood or in his nature, he had never regretted almost losing himself in your favour. In your last life, he had gone against all rules set up by vampires, playing against what he swore was the devil in order to have the sliver of a chance to start again and, this time not lose you. Had his plan not succeeded, it was highly probable that he would have been erased from this planet too. But he would rather call himself a masochist than be law-abiding when it came to you.
“Next, you’ll be threatening me with a showcase of just my face-”
“What if I do?” you quipped, pulling back to boop his nose with yours, “I think it would look very pretty. Besides, now that I remember my apparent mastery of the visual arts, can’t I be a tiny bit proud, hm?”
“I would be terribly disappointed if you weren’t. Now, may I put that ointment on you?”
As if you could refuse those sparkling eyes. Promptly following him to the loveseat, which unfortunately for Seonghwa was situated right under the portrait, you sat down and waited. Your partner rushed to the medical cupboard - another new addition installed exclusively to support you as you were getting used to the vampiric nuances in your day to day. With well-practised motions, the required kit was in his hands, and in a blink, set down on the plush cushioning of the miniature sofa. You held back a chuckle as you saw the pout you so loved appear as he focused on unwinding the bandage with utmost care. Before you could feel any hurt, Seonghwa would already let go, or alter the angle at which he was tugging on the material. As soon as the plaster was peeled, you were met with the reason for your eternity and reawakening.
Two deep punctures, still a little irritated, not quite healed, but nevertheless a marking of your future and something you regarded with fondness. Wounds did not hurt when they were merely physical, especially not when you had someone who had bound their immortality to yours to tend to them. Seonghwa bit his lower lip, discontented with the ache as though he could feel it too, and took numerous pauses while cleaning up the wound to glance at you. 
“I’ll be applying the ointment now, tell me if it stings, okay?”
“Okay,” you knew it wouldn’t. You had never heard a man be so adamant on checking ingredients at an apothecary before following Seonghwa after your first appointment as a vampire. But just to appease him, you followed this small spoken routine. 
“You know… I was scared,” his voice was barely audible, and he could not look at you.
“What were you scared of?”
“Losing you again.”
“Well, I am here, aren’t I?”
Even before you were aware of Seonghwa, let alone the truth behind the portrait, all the roads still led to the same resolution. The arts, art history. Virtually synonymous, for without creation, there would not be the past, and without the study of the past, there would not be the celebration and respect of creation. Finally, you understood the beauty of evolution that Seonghwa had undergone all while remaining the same vulnerable yet legendary figure, dedicated to his vision of the arts, having recollected your own. 
“So many things could have gone wrong,” Seonghwa’s mind was reeling from the sheer terror of possibility. He had taken advantage of his high social standing as an aristocrat and pulled rank to avoid waiting for any ritual guides to step in - it was not the first time, but still only the second. And both cases were related to you. 
The first time might have been a foolish decision in retrospect, but considering the dire circumstances the extreme solution was the only one. With one foot crossing to the afterlife he was combatting the reapers, and was not going to let go of you even if it meant being pulled in. This time, when you had approached him a number of nights ago with your final agreement to his tentative proposal and kissed his ruminations away, he was ready. Years of study were not going to waste, after all. And yet when he studied the same irises as those from a time long gone, when he held the same hands, his blood ran even colder. What a gambling man he had been back then. The procedure to regift life to you had been risky, and Seonghwa, having never practised those elements of the dark arts bestowed upon his kind, had been taking shot after shot in the dark. How dare he play with your being like that? How dare he hold your existence on a sinful scale?
“But they didn’t.”
No they did not. Your confidence in him had aided considerably, he had to admit. The positioning of his fangs was perfect, and he had memorised all incantations down to the inflections. Second time a charm, but much more anxiety-inducing. Turning was not the same as revival, either. He could not stop himself from imagining the many scenarios of where he would have gone wrong, and cemented your identity only as a name on manuscripts, dissertation, paintings and reports. 
“Even the ritual, what if you did not remember-”
“I would love you just the same. Whether I had all my memories or not. That much I can assure you of. That is why I trusted you in the first place, Seonghwa.”
You did not need to be a mind reader to know what he was thinking. All you could do was suggest a brighter palette, and be by his side no matter what colour scheme he were to decide on. It was an artist’s duty to know when to set the tools aside and consider a painting finished. The luxury of a collector was to live through many paintings, unify the souls contained in each and sustain a chronology of expression. The keepers, the scholars, made to observe change rather than induce it directly. This was why you were all the more grateful for Seonghwa daring to change your mortal fate not once but twice, risking himself and his image in your favour.
When your partner was satisfied with his medical care, he hummed to notify you and began to clear up, at least until you placed a weak hand on his leather-clad thigh to gain his full attention. He searched for a hint in your features, eyes darting across your face at lightning speed. Relief came when you grinned brightly, whispering sincere gratitude.
Impressionism - the movement and path made by legends. A rejection of traditional practice, a new vision and interpretation of the outside world in the hues of the soul. Light, reality, immediate action. A breath that reset the arts, magnificent and radical for the time, and now, much adored. From its conception to its establishment, you were there to witness and fall in love, and now could look back at the beauty that had bloomed. His irises, your favourite colour. The speckles of various shades, your favourite details. You stared into Seonghwa’s eyes and did not dare blink. Your favourite impression.
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purplesurveys · 3 months ago
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1934
Would you ever kiss someone with facial hair? Sure.
Have you ever drooled in public? It's happened a few times but thankfully I've been always alone whenever it occurred, lol.
Have you ever yelled at an electronic as if it could hear you? I mean I'll ask Siri to do stuff sometimes, like play a certain song, but that's it.
Have you ever been bitten by a dog? Yeah Cooper bit me in the face before. Cost me 12k to get shots all over my arms and thighs – HORRIFYING for my needle-phobic self – and it's become a running joke in the family that Cooper will always owe me 12k lol.
Would you ever shave your head? I mean if something miraculous would come out of my doing so, like getting to cure cancer or overthrow the government, then I would lmao. Otherwise I don't see a reason to.
Have you ever burnt yourself with a lighter? No, that sounds horrible. I never want to experience burning myself by accident.
Would you ever meet someone you met online? I have! I met Jila and Rafie at a wrestling show and they were both sweethearts. Javi I met when I lent him one of my wrestling books but I didn't like how he acted, so I stopped talking to him shortly after. Didn't even feel like asking for my book back anymore.
Where do you wanna live when you grow up? It'd be cool to experience living somewhere else in SEA at some point.
Are you wearing jeans, shorts, sweatpants, or pajama pants? Shorts.
Is there anyone you want to see right now? No.
What were you doing 12 a.m. last night? Watching Culinary Class Wars.
Are you a mean person? I mean never as a default, but I'll be mean if I have to.
What are you looking forward to? This week ending.
What color are your eyes? They're dark brown.
When you shut off your alarm clock, do you tend to fall back asleep? No. If I had plans to fall back asleep, I'd snooze it, not shut it off. Otherwise I'd be fucked.
Is your last name extremely common, like Gonzalez? I'd say it's very recognizable, but likely not anywhere near anyone's first 50 surnames if I asked them to list off the top of their head.
How often do you drink water?: On weekends when I'm freer, I drink constantly. I'll have my own pitcher next to me since I'm always needing refills. On weekdays when I'm tied to work...I tend to forget to drink and only catch up with 1-3 glasses' worth at night.
Name something that is on your bedroom wall?: Nothing, currently.
What accessory do you want in your bedroom?: I'd love a floor lamp and a reading chair.
If you could paint your walls any color what would it be?: The white I have now is okay. It makes the place look clearer and cleaner.
What are you drinking right now?: Just water with me at the moment.
What does your phone case look like?: It has purple edges and the back is opaque. There's also a ring thingy in the middle that I can take out so that it can be a phone stand. I have a Koya pop socket attached at the back.
What do you take the most pictures of?: The dogs and cat. But tbh, my camera roll is mostly screenshots.
Where do you want to go next for vacation?: I'd love for my next trip to be South Korea, as planned. We want to go when the boys all come back by June.
What do you do when you are stressed out?: I like to drown myself in YouTube videos so that I don't get caught up in my thoughts, which can get very noisy. The more stressed I feel, the more likely I am to turn on multiple things on multiple devices; worst case scenario I have something playing on my laptop, something else playing on the TV, while I'm watching/doing something on the phone. I know it's not the unhealthiest...but it's what works for me.
If you get into an argument what is it usually about?: I only argue with my mom and it's always about stupid things that she always blows out of proportion that people with healthy mother-child relatioships would never fight about.
Place you love to go?: Any coffee shop that also serves good pastries or meals.
What do you really feel like doing right now?: Reading. I might go back to my book after this.
What is the last thing you ate?: Lumpia with rice.
Something weird you eat but love?: Froyo but without the yo, because I only get the cookie butter/cookie toppings and give the rest of the sour crap to my mom, lol.
Are you on a diet?: No.
How much weight have you gained in the last 5 years?: Not much. Maybe by about 2-3 pounds? My face definitely looks fuller now but not by much. Just enough to be noticed.
What kind of athletic things do you do?: I mean...I play table tennis, but I haven't done it in years. That's it.
If you could be a professional in any sport what would it be?: Table tennis.
Would you rather write your own book or make your own movie?: . I'd go with the book.
What is one of your goals for the rest of this year?: I really I hope I get to secure a new job.
Why are you proud of yourself?: I've acknowledged a lot of things in my career at a stupidly young age. Most times I wish it took time for me, but I can't change the past anymore. All there's left to do is to be proud.
Why are you ashamed of yourself?: I don't have a lot of confidence in myself.
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5sosfanfictioncatalogue · 11 months ago
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Body Worship Masterlist
Art Affair (ao3) - Hoodie, orphan_account michael/ashton E, 3k
Summary: "Why the fuck would you want me for a model?"
"Because you are exactly what I would want. A rebel but you have class and you aren't like everyone else. I would really love to paint you."
Body of a God (ao3) - ashton_cuddles94 luke/ashton E, 1k
Summary: To Luke, Ashton was a god. He wasn't just beautiful, he was a gorgeous oil work, every brush stroke delicately painting him. Ashton was a statue carved from marble, every bump and curve meticulously creating his silhouette.
Drowning in You (ao3) - beendreaminglikeafool luke/ashton M, 2k
Summary: Never thought he’d trust a random guy he met twenty minutes ago to have his way with him, but Luke just wanted to stay in that euphoric headspace that showed no sign of stopping. And Ashton looked like one of those people that any soul could trust, even in all his naked glory.
or: Luke gets fucked at a Halloween party
Endlessly (ao3) - thesoulsailor calum/ashton, michael/luke E, 27k
Summary: Calum is the undisputed king of his high school, Ashton speaks through colours, Luke doesn't let anybody touch him and Michael is so getting killed by for hiding that snake in their teacher's drawer.
Everything Is Blue (You're Spilling Like An Overflowing Sink) (ao3) - Migs michael/luke, michael/calum, calum/oc E, 1k
Summary: The thing about Michael Clifford is that he is undeniably beautiful. He shines with the power of thousand stars and burns brighter than the sun. Calum would do anything to be part of his solar system.
Follow You Down (ao3) - lilacpages michael/calum E, 12k
Summary: It’s so stupid, because Michael knows these people are insignificant, and yet, he so easily allows himself to be persuaded by them. His mind races as he reads through the various criticisms, overanalyzing and coming to paranoid, disheartening conclusions that yeah, his voice was completely off and his guitar was out of tune and that all of these people are right.
In The Dark (Like Meteorites) (ao3) - dafeedil michael/calum/ashton E, 26k
Summary: Ashton falls for Calum at a nightclub, and then for Calum's boyfriend, too.
I Only Wanna Talk (ao3) - dafeedil michael/calum E, 16k
Summary: He thinks it should feel wrong, kissing Calum here in the dark, when the thousand dollars he paid to have this is sitting neatly in its envelope just feet away. But it doesn’t feel wrong, not at all. In fact, it feels unnatural not to be kissing Calum.
Or, more simply, Michael falls in love with a prostitute.
lend me your eyes (i can change what you see) (ao3) - mywonderwall luke/calum E, 5k
Summary: “You’re thinking too hard,” Calum murmurs, even though Luke hasn’t said anything. He pulls his lips off to bite at Luke’s lower jaw, just how he likes it. “You’ve got to relax.” He places a warm, solid hand on Luke’s chest, and Luke can feel his own heartbeat bounce up into Calum’s hand, then back down into his ribcage. Thump, thump, thump.
like a prayer (for which no words exist) (ao3) - satellitesunset (awkwardcaterpillar) ot4 E, 2k
Summary: It's overwhelming, being kissed, grazed, and revered in a manner not unlike worshipping like he's something divine and holy, someone worth praising and devoting to, he's both the saint and sinner, the painting and temple being venerated.
- or ashton-centric ot4 gang bang
More (ao3) - orphan_account ot4 E, 1k
Summary: 3 times that Ashton’s boys have been appreciative of his body
+1 time Ashton looks in the mirror.
Pamper (ao3) - mikeyreject T, 1k
Summary: Michael takes the day to spoil and take care of himself
that’s why you like it (ao3) - merlypops michael/calum, bryanna/ashton E, 69k
Summary: Calum starts doing workouts in the garden over the summer and Michael spends the whole time with his hand down his pants (until Calum takes matters into his own hands).
You Lit a Match with Your Nails on my Back (ao3) - macandgay michael/luke M, 3k
Summary: Michael snickers, “Shut up. I don’t fucking know. I never scratch peoples backs.” But he follows Luke’s request anyway, almost digging his nails into the cool skin and gliding them down his best friend’s side.
“Mhm.”
“Don’t bust a nut on me.”
“Shut up dumbass,” Luke snorts, blushing immediately. He was glad it was dark or Michael would probably tease him even more. “Just feels good. Don’t stop.”
You Need Some Get Right, Mama (ao3) - orphan_account michael/calum E, 2k
Summary: Calum Hood didn’t mean to walk in on Michael Clifford, his best friend, his band mate, his crush, while he was sleeping. He didn’t know he was going to sleeping on his stomach, wearing something that was definitely not boxers. But, he’s glad he did, because it is the hottest sight he has ever had the privilege to have.
OR the fic where Calum walks in on Michael sleeping in panties. Sex ensues.
You On Top Got Me Feeling On Your Booty (Give Me That Sugar With The Sweet Talk) (ao3) - Migs luke/calum E, 3k
Summary: Luke is a camboy and Calum is his bodyguard.
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jishyucks · 2 years ago
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Walls, Brawls, & Sudden Rainfalls (Teaser) ‣ hrj
‣ pairing: renjun x reader
‣ genre: enemies-to-friends-to-lovers, slow burn, college au
‣ teaser wc: 1.9k
‣ final wc: expected to be 15k+ (could be more), currently 12k
‣ summary: Your first impression of Huang Renjun wasn’t the greatest. In fact, the first two encounters you did have with him were enough for you to conclude that he was just some cold-blooded boy who genuinely didn’t care about anyone else but himself. That was, of course, before the (damn) universe brings you both together to work on the local daycare’s mural.
↳ Alternatively where first impressions blind the fact that you two actually fit quite well together.
‣ warnings? (so far): Brief mention of underage drinking, Renjun and reader argue really childishly lots, when I meant slow burn, I really did mean slow burn ‣ an: I've never done teasers for my longer fics, but maybe I do want one for this because I've worked a little too hard on this one, so pls enjoy!
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“Chalk, white paint, string, ruler,” Renjun mumbles, taking the supplies up into his arms. 
You grab the paint brushes, “Why do we need half of what you just said?”
Renjun’s walking out of the room, paying almost no mind to you and your question. 
“Huang Renjun,” you say firmly, “Can you answer my question?” You both are outside at this point, “Or… or else I’ll chuck this brush at you!” Although it was a joke, you subconsciously knew you would if he seriously didn’t open his mouth within the next minute.
“So I can draw a grid?” He speaks to you as if you were stupid.
Oh, he’s going to get it, you think, but your thoughts and your body think and do different things. Your body decides to stay grounded where you were, “And why would we need a grid?”
Renjun huffs and turns to his bag. He fishes out the draft you both had made last week, only there’s a graph lightly drawn over it, “So we can replicate the picture onto the wall.” Renjun thought this over the past few days. If he and you wanted to mural to turn out exactly how you both had drawn it, eyeing it wouldn’t be the best to go about it. Hell, even drawing out a rough sketch of it could be difficult through eyeing it. 
“Can’t we just free-hand it?” You’re not understanding why Renjun wants to make the job more difficult than it was. There were only two of you. If there were maybe four of you working on the mural, then sure, go ahead and draw a graph, but there were only two of you.
Renjun shakes his head, “I think it’s worth it to draw the graph, that way there’s no chance of messing up.” He fiddles mindlessly with the string he’s been holding. You can tell by the expression on his face that he’s serious about this. You want to tell him that, ‘bro, this is a mural for a daycare, it doesn’t need to be one-hundred-percent perfect,’ but Renjun looks like he’s ready to fight for what he wants. 
“Fine, let’s draw the graph,” you say. 
Renjun looks at you confused. Why’d you back down so quick? “Huh?” 
“But you do it all on your own.” 
Ah… There it is.
“I’ll just sit here and wait for you to finish.”
Renjun wants to laugh out loud, not because the situation was funny, but because he can’t believe you’re actually saying what you just said. “Are you serious?”
You sit down at a nearby bench and nod, “Why would I be joking? You sure do act like you know what you want to do… so, go ahead. Do it.” A spiteful smile rises upon your lips and you wave for him to go on with his task. Being the stubborn boy he was, Renjun gives you one firm look before turning towards the small ladder. He drags it towards the right end of the wall and begins preparing the materials.
You watch him out of curiosity, wanting to know how he’ll manage to do it all on his own. You want to see if he’ll ask for your help, or end up wanting to free-hand the rough sketch in end. But as you do observe Renjun, it’s clear that he’s not going to ask for help or give up.
Renjun measures out string that’s about the height of the wall, 3 metres tall, and then the length, which was nearly 4 and a half metres long. Grabbing measuring tape, Renjun uses the ladder to measure and divide the wall into foot-by-foot squares, marking the corners of the squares with dark chalk lines. The job’s going to take long, that’s for sure, and watching him move up and down the ladder, while he tries his best to keep his marks aligned, you can’t help but feel bad for making him do it on his own. 
But then again, he wasn’t asking for help. 
Renjun on the other hand is struggling and he hopes you don’t see it. Yes, two hands were enough for the daily tasks he has grown accustomed to, but two hands weren’t enough to do this very task efficiently. There’s a voice at the very back of his brain that was itching him to ask you for help, but as always, Renjun and his stubborn ass refuse to do so, even if he’s on the edge of falling off of the ladder. 
“Can you hand me the black paint?” Renjun asks about forty-five minutes later. His hairline is drenched from sweat and the lack of expression on his face reveals how tired he was, “Please.” He hopes that you’d at least help with this. 
Without another word between the two of you, you stand up and pick up the bucket of black paint. You quickly plop it down next to the foot of the ladder before looking up at him, “Are you done with the graph?” You try your best to sound disinterested, eyes moving across the wall.
Renjun blinks down at you, “Does it look finished?”
There’s a caring instinct in you that notices the exhausted look in Renjun’s eyes. His eyelids are drooping, and he’s sniffling from the constant moving he’s been doing. Renjun’s sweating profusely from the sun beating down on the both of you, and you’re brought to wonder if he was prepared to be worked up to this degree. 
When your eyes meet his, you’re instantly pulled from your thoughts and you remember that you’re not supposed to give a single fuck about Huang Renjun, even if he’s working his ass off like this. He looks like he’s waiting for you to answer or leave to go sit back down. But a rogue idea somehow assembles itself in your head and you decide to just go with it. You roll your eyes, “Well, I’m going to the washroom if you aren’t.”
“Whatever.” He gives you one last glare before turning to the black paint and the string. 
You start making your way to the front door of the building, sending Renjun sneaky glances. The second he’s paying you no attention, both direct and peripheral, you make a break for it and start sprinting towards the centre of campus. There was no doubt that you look like a madman right now, zooming past students who were still on campus despite the day of the week, but you didn’t care. If you want to pull this off, then you need to do this quick—and quick means running like you were in a life or death situation.
Finally reaching your destination, you decide to take a breather, hands on your knees and everything. Your mind wanders back to the day you applied for the gig, getting deja vu from the exhaustion you’re feeling right now. 
Once you finally are able to catch your breath, you make your way into the building and sigh at the air conditioning. 
“Y/N! Hi! The usual?” The Starbucks worker, one you’ve obviously seen plenty of times, looks at you in an odd way but goes with the flow nonetheless. She’s smiling at you, finger hovering over the screen in front of her as she waits for a response.
You nod and add, “Add an iced matcha latte to that too. Make it venti, please.” She nods and continues on with the usual routine. 
You left as quickly as you came, although this time, you’re sprinting with a bit more caution, not wanting to spill the drinks you’ve used your own money for. You can’t help but wonder what Renjun was thinking right now—what were you doing in the washroom for so long? 
The two drinks you were holding in both of your hands said it all, though there was still no explanation why you decided to sacrifice some of your time and money for Renjun. It was just the nice person instinct inside of you that decided to do so. 
You’ll complain about it to yourself later.
When you finally return from your little mission, you’re lucky enough to arrive when Renjun’s distracted with the graph. You notice he’s done the vertical lines within the time you were gone.
“That was a long washroom break,” Renjun muttered rather loudly. He’s pressing the paint-soaked string against the wall, face angled slightly to the side in focus, “I was beginning to think you ditched me.”
You shoot him a glare behind his back and contemplate whether you should throw the drink that you bought for him at him. Instead, you say nothing and put the drink down next to his things, making sure it was in a spot that was safe from the surroundings. 
Renjun looks back at you, instantly noticing that you were now holding an entire Starbucks drink in your hand, completely missing the one sitting by his things. “Didn’t know they had a Starbucks in the washroom.” His tone is dripping with sarcasm and hints of irritation. He still can’t believe he’s actually been working on the graph for almost two hours on his own. 
“Oh yeah, they just opened one a week ago,” you shoot back. You plop into your previous place and sit there, taking out your phone to distract you from Renjun. 
You don’t realize how much time has passed when you see a pair of feet stop in front of you. You’re brought to look up at the owner, “What do you want?”
“I want a break.” Renjun answers flatly, “I’m done with the graph. Now work on transferring it.” He holds out the same draft he had shown you earlier, waiting for you to take it. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to show his shoulders and he’s using a small towel, that was originally supposed to be for the paintbrushes, to wipe his forehead. 
“Sure” was all you said before snatching the draft from his fingertips. 
All the hard work was done for you. Transferring it was easy. 
Gathering the supplies you needed, chalk, paintbrushes, and white paint, you get going on transmitting the draft onto the wall. The moment you start the rough sketch of the mural, you feel a wave of nostalgia hit you, remembering the countless activity books you completed as a kid. You can distinctly recall the pages where one side displayed a cute drawing of an animal or character of some sort, overlaid by a graph, while the page next to it shows an empty graph in which you were instructed to redraw the completed picture. This was exactly like that, only bigger and not for leisure. 
Your delight in starting distracts you easily from Renjun, who you unknowingly finally notices the drink you had gotten him not even thirty minutes earlier. Although he’s a bit puzzled by the drink, remembering damn well that he never got the drink himself, he lets his line of sight drift to your half-finished drink sitting by your things. When realization begins settling in, he does one more thing to confirm his thoughts.
Twisting the drink in his grasp, Renjun faces the sticker label towards him, eyes instantly finding what he was looking for. 
*Y/N*
His eyes flicker up to you, standing firmly at the top of the step ladder, unaware of the fact that his eyes have widened and the corners of his mouth have climbed higher on his face. Despite the fact he’s thankful and a bit sorry that he was giving you attitude the second you got back from your ‘washroom break,’ the larger part of Renjun that’s still certainly irritated with you doesn’t say thank you.
Not out loud at least.
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tea-academy · 3 years ago
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The sate of housing in this country is a sick joke.
Landlords are truly the worst breed of parasite, hoarding housing and charging an arm and and a leg each month for the privilege of living in a poorly-painted apartment with no ventilation or direct light.
Then, they have the gall to turn away applicants for not having 3x the absurd rent they demand in the bank and a credit score less than 800. Just. How fucking dare they?
If I had 12K in my account and a perfect credit I'd be looking into buying a house, or a small condo, not renting from an asshole who just wants to milk people for all they're worth.
I was on the phone with someone just asking to see an apartment and she was all "uuuum but do you have good credit?" in such a snobby tone. Excuse me Jessica I don't even know if I want to apply here yet. So sorry, is it a drag having to leave your place in Glendale and spend 30 minutes in traffic to open up a house you don't live in for the sake of people that **gasp** have a credit score of 690? Want to make sure it's worth your fucking time first?
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twopoppies · 4 years ago
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Hey Gina! Hope you’re having a wonderful day/night :)
I’m so bored so I come to you for a fic rec, I’m not looking for something specific, so just pls recommend me something good... it could have smut or not idc about it, but with a happy ending haha ;)
Load of love to you! 🥰
Ah, darling. You beat me to it. I was just about to make a recently read post. Maybe this will give you something new. If not, clearly I have a lot of other things to suggest on my masterlist. 
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Diamonds and Pearls by superglass (NR, 7K) Absolutely gorgeous writing. Tender, delicate, dreamy. Set in NY in the 1980s, so read the tags. I just really loved this one and look forward to reading more of this author’s writing. 
Everything You Do by jishler / @snowjosh (E, 7K) This is my favorite of a 3-part collection (all of which are good), and wow. The author explores gender struggles in way that is incredibly tender and emotional, while still writing a super sexy fic. Loved this one.
Per Aspera by sedfierisentio / @estperpetua (E, 11K) Canon time stamps set between 2016-2019. This author’s writing is something really special. The language is so rich and the visuals they paint all feel so alive and so real. They work in real-life canon moments in such an elegant way that you’re not pulled out of the story and you’re just left to soak in the headiness of the scene they’ve written.
Remind Me Again by momentofclarity / @gaycousinlarry (E, 29K) Every sentence in this fic is so effortlessly beautiful. I love that the miscommunication between them is done in a totally realistic way. The fight and make up like real people do and that makes the angst more painful and the making up more emotional. One of my favorite authors.
Lovely, made from love by @userkant (T, 1K) This was so lovely and so moving (yes, I cried). This author wrote so much emotion and, frankly, so much love for Louis Tomlinson, into this short fic. Please give it a read, I really loved it
Mon Petit by coffinofachimera / @belialsmiracles (E, 4K) This author writes so beautifully. Even though this is a short fic full of kink and smut, there’s such a delicacy to the way they describe everything that it’s just as loving as it is sexy.
stop the world ('cause i wanna get off with you) by devilinmybrain (E, 12K) This fic has such perfect characterizations and pacing. The set up felt so realistic––you could just feel the desperation––and the final sex scene made it all so worth it.
The bed and the carpet by orphan_account (E, 8K) So, this was written a while ago, and because of that there are some things which... irk me (like the use of “orbs”). But it’s really gentle and sweet and sexy. Thanks to the anon who told me they cried reading it. I did, too. 
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buckupbuttercup · 4 years ago
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Wow guys! Touch prompts was amazing. Thank you so much to everyone who sent in a prompt. That was a much needed writing (and serotonin) boost. I officially wrote over 12K words in 8 days (edited and posted in ten!) which is a lot for me. Lately I’ve been struggling to write so this really lit a fire under me. And I had so much fun doing it! Once Big Bang is over (and I go through the rest of the prompts in my inbox, I promise you guys I see them!) I will definitely do something like this again.
Touch Prompt Master List
A Gentle Touch (T; 596 words; hurt/comfort, TW for implied domestic violence) @fleurdebeton requested (2) running fingers through hair and (20) bandaging/stitching up an injury
Everything looks worse in the harsh, bright lights of the bathroom and this is no exception. The cut slicing through Buck’s eyebrow is still weeping blood, a trail of rust stained into his skin from the corner of his eye down across his temple and along his jaw. Already the red, irritated skin is darkening with the promise of a bruise that will no doubt crawl up the side of his forehead by the morning.
The Cadence of Beating Hearts (T; 758 words; Buddie emotional hurt/comfort, angst) @fleurdebeton requested (9) listening to the other’s heartbeat & (36) lifting the other one up
The house is quiet as the first light of morning filters in through the curtains. Just the soft hum of the ceiling fan spinning above the bed and the quiet shuffle of sheets as the body next to him shifts. It’s in moments like this, where the world is standing still, that Buck can give in. His worn out heart can unclench in his chest and he can finally breathe, knowing that they’re all safely tucked away in this bubble. Even if it’s only for a little while.
The Girl on the Ledge (T; 994 words; emotional hurt/comfort, TW for suicide) Anonymous requested (8) shielding the other one with their body
It happens so fast. One second she’s there and the next second she’s … gone. Just gone.
When they arrive on scene, she is already out over the ledge, barefoot and emotionless as she stands on the steel crossbeam of the bridge. The salty sea breeze whips her blonde hair up into a tangle, white sundress billowing around her knees. Her eyes though, bloodshot and haunted, paint the picture of desperation that will never leave their minds.
Kisses Interrupted (T; 1199 words; Buddie; fluff, slice of life, two tired dads) Anonymous requested (44) sitting in the other's lap
He scoots around Eddie to place the leftovers in the fridge and pulls out two beers. It might be a school night for Chris, but neither of them have shift tomorrow. He doubts they’ll stay up much longer than an episode of True Crime and a beer, but it’s worth a shot. They haven’t spent any time together in … weeks it feels like. And as lame as it sounds, he wants nothing more than to snuggle on the couch, wrapped up in Eddie’s arms. Or …
Dinner Plans (T; 1140 words; Buddie; domestic fluff, Eddie cooks!) Anonymous requested (27) pulling the other towards them
Buck eyes Eddie, and the disaster he’s making in his kitchen, with no small amount of suspicion. It’s not that he doesn’t trust the man, because he does. Every day on shift he puts his life in his partner’s hands when they run into burning buildings or scale down a cliff with nothing but a rope keeping him from plummeting to the rocks below. He trusts Eddie with his life and, more recently, with his heart. He just doesn’t trust the man with his stove.
More Than A Jeep (G; 1281 words; Buddie; mild hurt/comfort, car accidents) Anonymous requested (1) touching foreheads, (2) running fingers through hair, (3) hiding face in neck, and (21) kissing the other’s brow
A gunmetal grey Jeep sits in the middle of the intersection surrounded by skid marks. The back is smashed in from a pick-up truck rear ending it, but the worst of the damage is on the driver’s side. It’s crumbled in from a second impact, frame of the Jeep bowing inward, part of the roof and door cutaway. Just seeing the damage makes Eddie’s stomach twist into knots. Officer Williams’s eyes go wide in understanding, fingers releasing their grip. Eddie only spares a moment to nod a thanks in his direction before he’s sprinting away.
Shout It From The Rooftops (G; 661 words; Buddie; fluff, idiots in love, relationship reveal) @221bsunsettowers requested (14) putting an arm around the other’s waist & (44) sitting on the other’s lap
It’s not that he’s ashamed, because he’s most definitely not. Eddie loves Buck, that is a sure fact. Loves the man with every fibre of his being. And if he were a ‘shout it from the rooftops’ kind of guy, he would scale the highest mountain just so everyone would know.
Eddie Diaz, Terrible Patient (T; 1248 words; Buddie; sick fic, mild hurt/comfort) Anonymous requested (17) holding the other’s chin up & (45) feeling their temperature
Eddie is a pretty awful patient.
There is only a small window of time, twenty minutes to be exact, where he’s left unsupervised from the time Carla leaves the house with Chris in the morning until when Buck gets home from shift. Twenty minutes in the early morning in which most sick people would just stay curled up in bed. Not Eddie. No, instead Buck finds him hunched over in the kitchen wheezing through congested lungs as he tries to empty the dishwasher. Hence, terrible patient.
They Left A Scar (G; 771 words; Buddie; emotional hurt/comfort) Anonymous requested (17) holding the other’s chin up
Buck’s past lives in him like a knot of scar tissue, harmless and unnoticeable most of the time. Talking with his parents, though, is like poking and prodding at it until it strikes a nerve. Then they just seem to press all their weight against the tender flesh until Buck is crumbling under the pressure, body rocked with phantom pains that echo for days after.
Miles From Okay (G; 1120 words; Buddie; angst; hurt/comfort) @stellarm requested (28) feeling for each other in the dark
It takes a monumental amount of effort, but Buck’s able to move his arm, the one not pinned under his body and raging in agony. He slides it slowly across the floor in front of him as far as he can reach, fingers scrambling in the darkness in hopes of finding his missing partner.
“Eddie,” he moans to the shadows.
Scrapes and Bruises (T; 1387 words; Buddie; mild hurt/comfort) Anonymous requested 20) bandaging/stitching up an injury & (22) falling asleep on the other’s shoulder
“Any headache?”
“Other than the one you’re giving me?” Buck quips back.
Eddie cuts him a stern glare to which Buck just groans.
“No headache. No nausea. Never lost consciousness,” Buck tells him, monotone. “I’m painfully aware of every embarrassing second, thanks so much.”
Code Word: Penguin (G; 1458 words; Buddie; fluff, boys in love, marriage proposal) @buddiextarlos requested (2) running fingers through hair & (38) stroking their leg
And he knew, on a lazy Sunday morning with the early rays of dawn streaming in through the bedroom window, just the two of them tangled beneath the sheets in a quiet house, that he loved Buck. He had opened his eyes to see Buck’s face smushed into his pillow, blonde curls sticking up in all directions, lips parted as he snored away, and felt the world shift into focus once again. This is what he wanted forever.
Thank you all so much! Happy reading!
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omiscurls · 4 years ago
Text
prom queen
sakusa kiyoomi x reader
word count: around 12K i apologize profusely 
 "Did I just hear Sakusa Kiyoomi say my ass? Oh god the world's end is upon us!"
i’d just like to add that english is NOT my first language so i apologize for the simple constructions and mistakes every now and then, although i did check it all before posting 
"Quit smiling at me, I can't stop messing up my sentences if you keep looking at me like that" you heard him say, almost embarassed, but still not quite, going back to explaining something to Komori, after the comment.
"I wasn't smiling at you" you responded, crossing your arms at your chest, pulling out the best pout face you could. You almost heard Sakusa's eyeroll.
You, in fact, were smiling at him, for two very simple reasons. One, volleyball was one of the things you geniuenly adored watching him talk about, and two, you knew how rattled it made him and enjoyed his face turning bright red as he tried to ignore you, but failed miserably and loosing the subject he was talking about.
Even when he finally figure out that you were doing it on purpose, he still couldn't seem to get over your wide smile. But what he truly couldn't get over was people, mostly Komori, teasing him about it all the time.
Sakusa's one weakness — your smile. And the germs, of course, that too, but it made the quote so less romantic.
"You were saying, Sakusa?" Komori asked, smiling as well, watching him being all miserable, and knowing that question will push him off his tracks even more.
"Nevermind, you meatheads, you aren't worth my time" he cut him off by pulling out his headphones and then proceeding to plug them into his phone like he was alone.
"Hey, I know you're a douchebag, but be pleasant to your girlfriend!" his friends intended on hitting him playfully, but he dodged it in absolute shock. Then, when the words finally hit him, he turned even redder and looked at Komori with disgust.
"She's not my girlfriend". he just added, leaving, but grabbing your sweater, so you'd follow him.
"Sure she isn't!" the other boy yelled as you two were walking away. Sakusa showed him his middle finger without even turning around.
You were still laughing while leaving the school campus, with him holding a scrap of your sleeve between his fingers, eyes glued to the phone.
"Would you mind stopping already?" he finally lifted up his head.
"Oh, I'm sorry Omi, it's just fun seeing you all so flustered"
"I'm not! And enough with the Omi already" he said coldly, it would almost hurt you didn't know him long enough to know being unpleasant was just his coping mechanism.
"Oh yeah? Then let go of my sweater, Sakusa-san" you said in the most chilly way you could, before jerking your hand away and walking in a different direction than the one you two usually took when going home. Both ways leaded to the same train station, cause you needed to take the same train to get to your block, only after leaving your station did you need to part. The route you took now was longer than the usual one, but you didn't care, you didn't need to make it before Sakusa's train if you weren't coming home with him, right?
"Oh god, don't get offended!" he said while you were already leaving, even tried to catch you, but gave up. After coming across a turn, you looked behind you to see if he was following you, but he wasn't.
It kinda hurted, how fast he gave up. Made you feel as if it didn't matter to him whether you went home together or not. Maybe it truly didn't, sometimes you had no clue what was happening in his head. Did he truly get embarassed when Komori called you his girlfriend? Or was he just annoyed? Maybe he ment it every time he insulted you in some way, and you just tried to explain it to yourself in other ways so you wouldn't lose him?
Maybe, just maybe, he was as much of a douchebag as everybody described him to be.
**
Meanwhile Sakusa was still looking in the direction where you disappeared a couple of minutes earlier, letting the crowd of students pass him by.
Did she really leave like that? Did I offend her?
Oh, whatever, girls were so easy to offend, anyway. You knew how much you ment to him, right? There was no need to say it.
Right?
Komori interrupted his thinking, by running up to him and slapping his back, much to Sakusa's displeasure.
"What're you still doing here? Aren't you walking with Miss Girlfriend today?" he asked unbothered by the murder look on his face.
"She's not— No, no I'm not" he gave up on trying to convince Motoya you weren't his girlfriend. Or maybe he didn't want to convince him?
"Why's that?"
"Well, she left and went the other way" he explained, starting to walk. He and Komori lived almost next door to each other, so even after leaving the train station, they'd still be going together, and Sakusa already predicted that this conversation is going to haunt him all the way until reaching his door.
"Oh my, what did you do now to piss her off? She never gets annoyed with your shit"
He wanted to yell at him that he did nothing, and you're probably just in a bad mood, not by his fault, but words couldn't seem to get out of his mouth.
"I might've accidentally hurt her on accident"
"You said accident twice"
"No I didn't!"
Komori laughed, suprising his friend. How could he be laughing right now, when you left him just like that, and he didn't know what to do next?
"Anyway" he finally said, and suprisingly caught Sakusa's attention "I'm not the one you should be explaining yourself to, so let's shift the subject a bit. Saku, your my socially awkward friend, and you know I'd do a lot to help you out once you actually found somebody who keeps up with you, but I can't be dropping her hints forever. How're you gonna ask her to prom?"
If Sakusa were drinking at the moment, he definitely would've choked.
"I'm not asking her to prom" he denied. What kind of an idea was that? Did he loose his mind? Sakusa? To prom? Hell no.
"What do you mean you're not asking her to prom?!" Komori stopped in his tracks, putting both of his hands on Sakusa's shoulders, so he'd stop as well. "Are you dumber than I already preassumed, Saku?"
"Are you? I'm not going to prom at all." he replied before starting to walk again.
"Why?!" Komori tried desperately to keep up with him.
The black haired boy stopped once more and threw a deadly glance at his friend.
"Because, you idiot, I hate crowds, I hate people, parties, shared drinks, dancing, highschoolers and not being able to talk, because the music is so loud it could be heard from the fricking moon. Because prom is everything I am not. Because it's gross and overrated and not that fun at all, it's an old custom that parents use to tell their kids they need to have a boyfriend or a girlfriend at eighteen or else they'd waste their teenage years, and the popular kids use to mock the less recognizable ones. The thing that makes both girls and guys loose sanity and adds twice as much complexes to their mental health than they had before. And besides, she would've said no anyway. Satisfied, you moron?"
Only after finishing the sentence did Sakusa realize his hands had started to sweat uncontrollably, and a hot feeling flooded his insides, causing his heart rate to increase significantly. It took him a minute to catch his breath, even though he was standing in place, not even walking.
Komori was looking at him with a dumb expression, not really sure how to respond to that outburst of frustration.
"Well that part with saying no isn't certain, is it? he finally mumbled, but Sakusa only snorted sarcastically and speeded up. "You never know unless you—"
"Komori! I'm not fucking asking! Do you understand, or is it too difficult for your peanut sized brain? Well let me spell it out for you: I'm not. Asking. Her. To. Prom. Understood?" he didn't even realize he was yelling, and two or three old ladies were staring him up and down from the distance, with disgust. He was so shaken up he didn't care.
He noticed the other boy wasn't walking beside him anymore, but standing in place and only looking at him in disbelief. He slowed down as well. Komori's normal and bubbly expression and aura suddenly shifted, and the taller boy noticed that he looked like a serial killer when he didn't smile.
"Well, now that you're done with that pathethic little whining, let me tell you something as well" the boy trembled at the coldness of Komori's voice, as he was walking up to him. "And you better listen to me carefully, Sakusa fucking idiot Kiyoomi."
Now, that was unnecessarly direct.
"Prom isn't the only dumb tradition this school holds. You know what happens a week before the party? A game. "Honours Homecoming Match". The team that has the most successes on it's account by the end of the semester has a game. And what is our school so famous for? Volleyball. So who's gonna have a game, for the third years to show off one last time before graduation? Us. And you know who's the most awaited person on the prom night, besides the prom queen and king? The athletes. The captains, the aces, especially of the teams that are popular right now. And who's the ace of our most significant team?"
Silence fell upon them.
"That question isn't rhetorical, Kiyoomi. Who's our volleyball ace?"
"I am" he responded, now regretting ever getting into volleyball.
"Exactly. Now get your act together and acknowledge the fact that coach is probably going to FORCE YOU to go there, and you're going to be way more miserable all alone with Cap and his girlfriend, than you would've been if you took you precious little friend along with you."
"I gue—" Sakusa tried to agree, although, he still hated the idea, but Komori cut him off once more.
"And if that's not enough for you, then fine, I'll paint you an even worse picture. Go on about how you are not interested in her in any way, but I see the way your eyes light up when she shouts your name from across the hallway. I see how you smile every time after telling her you don't care about the compliments she gives you. I see how focused you are when she's watching our games."
"I'm always focused"
"Shut up, did I finish? It's a different kind of focus. You really think I don't notice you constantly checking whether you got notifications, even though you never did that before meeting her? And even though you tell her it's annoying when she randomly texts you? Well, I do. I see how important she is to you and I see how much you try to hide your feelings, even from yourself, because you're scared, which is understandable, you never felt like that before. I get it all, really, I do, Kiyoomi. But imagine this. Imagine how she would feel if everyday, while hanging out with you, she'd wish for you to ask her that one simple question. Maybe sometimes you'd even unconsciously lead her on, and then at the end of the day not say it, imagine how she'd go home with her hopes crushed, only to hope for the same the next day. And imagine it going on and on until prom week, when she'd suddenly stop wishing for it to happen anymore, because everything around her seems to say it won't? And then some lame ass guy's gonna ask her two days before and she'll eventually say yes, because well, it's better than going alone, right? And then she'd dress up the best she can, do her make up, all that, all for a guy she doesn't care about, but she still wants to have prom memories? Then she'd go, and see you there, alone, which wouldn't even mean you have someone else, no, it would only mean you didn't want to go with HER."
"Stop! That's not why I'd be alone!"
"Did I say it was why you'd be alone? No, I say she would've thought that, because well, that's how it would've looked like. And imagine her waiting for that lame ass guy to ask her for even one simple dance, but she'd be busy trying to get attention from a girl that already rejected him. And even though she didn't give a single shit about him either it still would've hurt her, because she'd feel objectified, someone only wanted to go out with her because it would be a shame to go alone. Imagine her not taking it anymore and running of to the bathroom, all her carefully done make up flowing down her face, but she wouldn't care anymore. It's not like anyone wanted to see her all pretty, was it? Imagine her crying in the bathroom, hearing the slow song playing and only wishing she'd dance to it with you, but she'd know that was impossible, since you didn't even respect her enough to tell her you ARE going, but alone.
Sakusa's face was all pale, his eyes not able to focus on one point. Wait, would it really hurt you like that? Does a girl's mind really work like that? Was he really such an asshole?
"Am I really this bad of an asshole?" he asked, not realizing it was out loud until he heard Komori laugh. He raised his eyes to see his face back to normal, a smile across his cheeks.
"Yes. Yes, a thousand percent you are"
"There can only be one hundred percents"
"That's exactly what I'm reffering to. Thousand percent." Sakusa rolled his eyes, but Komori knew something big was on his mind, much bigger than his puns.
He was silent for a good three minutes, during which he'd start going in circles, running his hands through his hair in distress, looking up at the sky as if he was blaming god for the fact he was ever born, and of course facepalming like a crazy person, until he finally looked up at the other boy, chest puffed, shoulders raised and a confident look on his face.
"Alright, you won. How do I ask her?"
Komori jumped in excitement, hugging his friend.
"You have two seconds to get off or I'm reporting abuse to the police"
"Sorry, bro, I got carried away. You're growing up so fast"
"Call me that again, I dare you."
"No, sir."
"So, how're we going to do it?"
"Oh, man, get ready, this will be some serious Mean Girls meets Disney shit"
***
Never once before a game has Sakusa been this nervous. That's because he always knew that he had only his abilities to depend on, but now, there were so many unknowns, so many possible outcomes.
"'Supp, Omi-Omi?" he heard a giggle behind him, and someone touching his shoulders.
"I told you not to say that cursed nickname. It's Sakusa for you" he replied, turning back to look Komori in the eyes while he said that.
"Someone's in a bad mood"
"Only because you made that someone not only step out of the comfort zone, but fricking jump a hundred metres below it" he mumbled, crossing his arms at his chest, and looking down at the floor, a distressed look on his face.
They were already waiting in the back of the gym arena, dressed in their tournament uniforms instead of the practice ones, as it wasn't a normal practice match, but the last one they'd ever play with this squad. It was Honours Homecoming match, after all.
But that wasn't what worried Sakusa.
It wasn't the team they chose as opponents, either. He was in fact, happy to see a familiar face on the enemy team. His concerns that day didn't regard the game itself, but whats was to happen after it.
And the fact that for it to happen, they really REALLY needed to win.
They heard a voice of the commentator, (again, honours match, all the fancy stuff needed to be there) through the walls.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the students of Itachiyama Academy, the teachers, and all our dear guests. It is my pleasure to welcome you to this year's Homecoming Match. It has been a productive and succesfull year for our volleyball club! They returned from Tokyo National Gymnasium as victors, after the Interhigh..."
Clapping and cheering.
"... and won the silver cup at Spring National Tournament! Today, some of them are here for the last time, so please, do your best in cheering on our dear soon-to-be-graduates, and the rest of the team as well! But first, let me introduce the guest team to you. Ladies and gentlemen, I request a warm welcome for the team of Shiratorizawa Academy of Miyagi!"
Sakusa smiled ever so slightly, as sudden motivation flooded his mind. He was going to crush Ushiwaka-kun that day, and you were going to watch it happen.
"Let me introduce the starting order. Number 14, libero, Yamagata Hayato! Number 12, Kawanishi Taichi! Number 10, Shirabu Kenjiro!"
"Oh, so it's the same order they had against Karasuno" Sakusa whispered. Komori looked at him in disbelief, once again forgetting he was able to watch EVERY match his opponents ever played when nervous.
"You're unbelievable."
"...Number 8, Goshiki Tsutomu! Number five, Tendou Satori! Number four, Ohira Leon! And the ace and captain, ladies and gentlemen, number 1, Ushijima Wakatoshi!"
"Now, they needn't have added that. That's unproffesional, it's the commentators job to call someone an ace, not the official speaker." Sakusa complained.
He heard "Ushijima-kun!" coming loudly from the audience. Oh, so they came with their support team?
Even better, said his competetive side. Damn, am I turning into Miya?
"Now now, ladies and gentlemen, our dear Itachiyama students! Please welcome..."
He was going on and on, reading the names of every single one of his teammates that were assigned for that match, and Sakusa was forced to high five all of them while they were leaving for the court.
"Do your best there, Sakusa-san" he heard some of the first years say, and managed to smile at them a bit, which turned out to be so out of character for him, the first years were more scared that encouraged.
"...and lastly, our own ace, please welcome, number 10, Sakusa Kiyoomi!"
He heard cheers while running out of the gate, waving slightly at the crowd. Damn, Komori didn't lie when he said a lot of people will be watching. Never once had he seen the gym so full. People were sitting on the stairs, Standing next to the doors and some even out of the stands, near the court.
He even heard his fans shout, his fans who's existence he frequently denied, shouting "Omi-kun" as loud as the girls who were screaming Ushijima's name.
Don't you have anything better to do, he thought, but then he heard a familiar voice yelling on top of everyone else's.
"Omi-omi! Do your best!"
It was obviously you who was shouting, and you noticed him smile a bit, which suprised you a lot. You always yelled that, but he never EVER payed it any attention. But now he was looking directly at you, noticing even the Itachiyama colours painted on your cheeks.
And then he waved? What was up with that boy, did the aliens finally take him home, where he belonged, and replaced him with another one?
Ushijima went over to the net to shake hands with Itachiyama's captain, Tsukasa, a third year, so for the both of them it was the last time they ever did that.
Well, not for Ushiwaka, he was promised a career. But you were certain so was Sakusa, even though he was only in his second year, he was already a better spiker.
"Pleased to see you again, Kiyoomi-kun" Ushijima said louder, for him to hear. Everybody was even more suprised when he responded, with a smile on his lips.
"Any opportunity to crush you is a good one, Wakatoshi-kun"
"And now you sound like Miya" he replied before returning to his team.
Oh. Well, not like I care.
**
They lost the first set, 23 to 25, so they almost won, but it was still enough to make Sakusa's hand sweat like crazy from stress.
"Sakusa-kun" he heard captain Tsukasa behind his back. He turned to face him and notice a deadly expression. "It's my last time being able to scold you like that, so don't mind if I will. I don't know if you care or not, probably not, but we need to win that.
Oh he cared. He cared loads.
"To be honest, it doesn't matter to me what kind of motivation caused you to bite back at Ushijima like that, but I need that energy back for the second set. Drop the act for once, and try your best like it was Tokyo Finals. Like it was the fricking Olympics. I know you don't care, but I really do, and even if it's foolish of me to hope you'll actually liste—"
"You got it, captain." he cut him off and notice his pupils widen and mouth open in disbelief "I'll do my very best to win. I can be humble all I want, but I am the best, after all. No, we're the best. We defeted Shiratorizawa not once, not twice, and we'll beat them again. You'll leave like the true champion you are."
"Sakusa-kun I— I didn't think that would actually work on you..." Tsukasa lost his words.
He just shrugged his shoulders and turned away, as Ushijima came to say something to him.
"What's up with you, Kiyoomi-kun? Are you not at your best today?" he asked. Sakusa would've been annoyed if he didn't knew he was actually honestly concerned, in his own, weird way.
"I am, Wakatoshi. You'll see"
"I hope to"
Well, I hope to, as well. He looked at you in the crowd, checking your phone. A spring of jellousness stung him in the heart. Look at me, his eyes screamed, watch me, I need you to look closely as I win this foolery for you.
**
He was on fire, it seemed like the ball was his and his only once he touched it. It was beautiful thing to watch, really. They won the second set and were already near the positive end of the third one, going 22 to 20.
You noticed that Sakusa's newly found enthusiasm really tired him, as he was standing there, catching his breath, with both his hands on his knees, facing the gym floor. What has gotten into that boy you knew, always distanced, only showing his best when it was obviously needed, freaking everybody out. Here he was, giving his heart out, but in a different way than usual. Like he was actually invested emotionally in that game, not only wanting to win out of competetiveness.
Minutes later you watched him getting ready to spike the final point, as did the commentator describe it.
"...ladies and gentlemen, we're here to give a warm goodbye to the third years, but as an unwritten rule says, the last point belongs to the ace! Will Shiratorizawa's block use that information? As you can see, now near the net we have the undefeatable Ushijima Tendou duo, I'm sure Sakusa's frustrated by that fact, they might interrupt his glorious point streak!"
"Undefeatable my ass" said Sakusa, causing Komori to break into laughter.
"Did I just hear Sakusa Kiyoomi say my ass? Oh god the world's end is upon us!"
"Did I ask?" yelled Sakusa, focusing his eyes on Tendou. Ushijima just had strong arms, but Tendou, he was truly a blocker to be feared.
Shut up, Kiyoomi, you're the ace here, not Tendou Satori.
He checked quickly if you were looking. You were. And that was all he needed.
He clapped, telling the team to start already. Shiratorizawa's pinch server, Semi Eita was serving, but that was no suprise to Itachiyama's block, and the ball got passed on to the setter. Captain Tsukasa tossed it with a slight spin, but that wasn't a problem for Sakusa at all.
Now it wasn't a question of his abilities, but strenght. He wouldn't outjump Tendou and Ushijima, both tall as towers, they obviously left no room for a spike, but he felt reassured. Tsukasa could toss to anyone else, knowing they'll focus on Sakusa, but he still believed in his ace. And he didn't plan on disappointing the captain on his last day of duty.
"And that's not even my best, Wakatoshi!" he yelled as he took all the energy left in him to spike the ball right into Ushijima's fingertips.
If he didn't give it so much power, Ushi could've easily blocked that, but that was truly an ace's spike. Worth someone called "Japan's best".
He fell on his knees, feeling as tired as ever, catching his breath, but noticed the ball fall into the enemy field.
They won.
You shouted, alongside everyone else, yelling Sakusa's name.
You knew he didn't like the attention, but well, what could you do, you were proud. And he managed to suprise you yet again, when he actually checked whether you were scanding "Sa-Ku-Sa" along with the whole gym. He actually checked, he really looked worried you wouldn't, but how could you not?
What happened to him today?
The Itachiyama team, as well as Shiratorizawa's came to their side of the stands to bow to the people cheering them on for the last two hours, and then they all started to walk towards the coach.
"Now, Sakusa, while you still have the adrenaline"
Oh right, he was supposed to do it now.
Just like in the movies.
He nodded, feeling the stress rise inside him once again, already feeling saltiness in his mouth, as if he was about to throw up.
You were suprised when you saw him walk back to the edge of the court, looking in a different direction.
Other people around also noticed him walking over and were now silently watching.
That stressed him even more, but well, what can you do.
"Hey, Smiles!" you were suddenly so shocked, hearing the nickname he only used when you were alone, and even so, with embarassement, now using his full voice, with a confident look on his face. You raised both your eyebrows and bent over your seat to hear him better. "I have something important I need to ask you?"
Well, couldn't you wait? Your team is waiting, you thought, but nodded.
"What is it, Sakusa?"
Something itched inside his heart. Why, though? He liked his last name.
"First of all, never call me that again. It's Omi for you." he said, completely serious and official, making you pinch your arm to check whether this wasn't some kind of a weird dream. He hated that nickname, didn't he?
"And second, Smiles, will you maybe... I mean, if you're not busy or anything..."
"Sakusa fricking idiot Kiyoomi! That's not how they do it in the movies!" you heard Komori yell, making you even more nervous.
"Right! Right." He shook his head. "Smiles, go to prom with me" he said super fast and super loud, making people around you gasp for air in shock and then clap their hands. He looked embarassed, hearing the cheers. Right, other people were there. He didn't think that through.
What?
Well, you'd love to, but... what? You thought he'd never ask! You thought he wouldn't go at all...
"I mean, don't you hate crowds, Omi?" you asked, concerned.
"Smiles!" he yelled, getting more and more comfortable with calling you that. "That's a yes or no kind of question!"
You noticed everybody around looking at you, as well as the Itachiyama team, waiting for Sakusa to join them.
"I— well, uhm... I'd love to, actually" you answered, your smile couldn't be cointaned anymore and painted your lips. You felt heat coming to your cheeks. You weren't prepared for that.
"Great!" he laughed, so geniuenly, you were even more suprised, if that was possible. "Now if you're excuse me, I have to get my ass kicked."
You waited for him outside his gym room for good fifteen minutes after the last member of his team left, and were starting to worry he somehow escape not wanting to face you. But you were so, so happy, you didn't let that thought bring you down. However, you started to get a bit impatient. You decided to knock.
"Omi? You there?" you asked gently, and waited for the response.
On the other side of the door Sakusa looked at his displaced finger and wonder why didn't he feel it hurt before. Was that from his last spike? He knew it was kind of unproffesional and coach already scolded him for that, but well, he put so much strenght into it that the form he was so famous for somehow disappeared. He didn't care about it, only wanting to score and win, and now the painful consequences got to him.
Then he heard you say his name and started packing up rapidly.
"Coming!" he only responded, tears forming in his eyes as a piece of his shirt got over the hurting finger, causing it to bend and hurt even more. "Fuck" he whispered, clenching his teeth. He put the sports bag over his shoulder and left.
You noticed that he had just showered, which was rare, because you knew he'd rather die than set his foot into a public shower. But there was no doubt, he smelled like his coconut shampoo and the cologne was fresh, you knew he wouldn't spray cologne onto a sweaty body, because he personally despised people who did that. His curls were still a bit wet and were closer to his face than normally, weighted down by the humidity.
"Did you shower, Omi?" you asked straight forward.
"I never want to speak of that again."
You noticed his sports bandage wrapped over his feet. Oh, so that's how he went into the shower. Understandable.
"Look at you overcoming your fears. Did you hit your head or something, now that you're acting so different?"
He giggled, letting down his guard at once, with what he satisfied you to the point a proud feeling filled up your chest.
"No seriously, you could've just waited until you got home, like you always do, why'd you do the one thing you hate the most?"
No, the thing he hates the most was only just coming for him, he thought, looking down at his finger. Then he lifted up his head and looked at you.
"How could I invite you over if I was still sweaty? That would've been disgusting"
"How could you WHAT?" you shouted, which really took him off his tracks, confusing him.
"Uhm... yeah, unless you don't want to, then I guess I'll be going then" he explained quietly, and rushed to get in front of you, but before he could you already noticed the blush forming on his cheeks.
"No wait, Omi, I was just suprised!" you caught up with him and grabbed him by the hand, which caused him to curse underneath his breath.
"Fuck"
You let go instantly, not knowing what you did wrong.
"I'm sorry?"
"No, no it's nothing, it's just... my finger hurts a bit. Forget about it." You stood in front of him, not letting him keep walking.
"Show me" you said in a demanding tone. He hid his palm behind his back, but you managed to grab it anyway, looking at the fingers in shock. "That looks concerning, it's not supposed to look like that."
"What're you, a doctor?"
"No, but I'm taking you to see one."
"What? No, no you're not!" he yelled, and you saw fear in his eyes.
"Yes I am! Omi, we need someone to look on this, for the sake of your future career! Do you know how easy injuries like that can ruin it?"
You had a point, but he was still not sure about it. When you tried to lead him out of the building, he froze in place.
"Omi! Act reasonable, please" you said, but he still wouldn't move, only shaking his head.
"I don't need a doctor, I don't need to go to a hospital, it's nothing serious, I can just rest it and it'll go away! I don't need anything else, I'll take a pill and it'll stop hurting so much, I'm a big boy, I can handle it like a grown up, no need to make a bit fuzz about a hurting hand, come on, hands hurt after every match, that's just how it goes. You wouldn't understand, you don't play volleyball! They're just gonna charge me for saying nothing, anyway! Or maybe they won't even agree to see to it without my parents and they aren't home, they're away visiting my aunt in South Korea! See, we can't go!" his breathing became very laboured and short, he started to get red, hands fidgeting and head shaking constantly, he started to speak very fast, you had trouble understanding.
You smiled at him.
"Omi... are you scared of hospitals?"
"What? No, I'm not, they're just so... full of sick people, and IV's and needles, and serious illnesses, and sadness and death, I just don't like them, who normal likes hospitals?!" he took a step backwards, almost falling of the stairs.
"Omi. Sit down."
"On the floor?"
"You showered in a gym locker room and have trouble sitting on the floor?"
He did as you asked. You kneeled down to him and took his face into your hands, causing him to twich a bit. Right, he didn't like that. You decided to put them on his shoulders instead.
You handed him his own water bottle and waiting for him to calm down a bit in silence.
"Omi, do you have any bad memories related to hospitals?" you asked gently, curling his hair with one finger. The one physical thing he really liked was you playing with his hair.
He shook his head yes, but didn't say anything.
"Okay. Do you consider them dirty, and that's why you don't want to go?"
He nodded again.
"Is there any other reason, besides these two?"
He shook his head no.
"Do you want to tell me what happened that made you hate hospitals? You don't have to, if you don't feel comfortable enough with me."
"I'll tell you later" he said quietly, looking away. He was speaking much slower and calmer than before, so you prevented the panic.
"Alright, now, listen, does it hurt more if I move it?" you asked, lifting his finger just a bit, and noticing tears form in the corners of his eyes. "Okay, it does. Now, Kiyoomi, I know you're a reasonable and mature person, and you understand the difficulties it might bring in the future if we don't check what's wrong now, right? It can be just hurt, but it seems like it's broken. If we fix it now, you'll be off for a month tops, and if we don't, well it may haunt you for a lot longer. That's logical, right?"
He nodded unwillingly, knowing where this is going.
"I understand your aversion, but some things are just beyond our control, right? So, you need to act like the man you are, and let me take you to a doctor. Alright?"
This time it took him a second to nod.
"Smiles... can you promise me two things?" he said so quietly you barely heard him, but as there was no one left in the hallway, you manage to understand.
"Whatever you want, Omi."
"Can you please, please not tell anyone about this? I'm really embarassed right now." He was still facing away, his eyebrows frowning.
"Of course I won't. We wouldn't like them to know you're not so tought and douchy all the time, right?" you laughed but he only smiled apologetically. "Hey, Omi, one thing. I'll like you the same, even if there's something in the world that you're afraid of. Even if there's a lot of these somethings. In fact, Omi, I'm sure there's nothing that would make me stop liking you, alright? You don't need to get embarassed in front of me. You don't need to get defensive every time you feel something. You're human, it's actually good you do. Understood, Sakusa?" you added the last part in a very demanding voice, as if you were scolding him, but you failed and giggled at the end.
"Understood." he responded, feeling a bit reassured. "Now that you've said that... for the second thing, uhm..." He started playing with his sweatpants' material nervously.
"Just say it, Omi, I already told you I'll do it all" you said comforting him, still pretending to give all your attention to his hair, so he'd feel more comfortable.
"Could you maybe... go into the examination room with me? I will freak out alone" he asked, facing the floor, but then got up quickly and turned away. "No, wait, forget I said anything."
"Omi" you sighed "Stop acting like a big baby already, of course I will, I would even if you didn't ask. Now stop pouting and give your prom date a hand so she knows you won't run away when she's not looking" you played it off cool and he turned back to you, smiling a bit.
"Right, my prom date. I never thought I'd have one"
"But I'm here, am I not? And now stop changing the subject and let your prom date take you to a doctor. Right now, mister!"
You left the school and went to the nearest train station, where Sakusa put on his face mask and pouted at you for making him do this. However heartbreaking he might've looked, you knew it was necessary and that you were doing the right thing. Your train arrived on time and after getting in, you noticed his leg was shaking unconsciously. You were really wondering what happened to him that made him hate hospitals so much, but this wasn't the right place to ask. If he wanted to, he'd tell you himself.
"So, Omi, what was that with asking me to come over before? You'd never done that." you decided to change the subject a bit to maybe loosen him up for a while.
"Well, that's a difficult question, actually" he answered very quietly, causing you to sit closer in order to hear.
"I'm only asking because, you know, many times in the past I wanted to do that but you always became practically furious while disagreeing, so it's a huge suprise for you to suggest it yourself"
"I know" he replied calmly, playing with the string of your hoodie with his one good hand. "Well I just figured, if I am to take you to prom, and there's going to be way too many people for me to be comfortable, maybe it'd be easier if I started with smaller things, like maybe show you my room, or hold your actual hand instead of the sleeve, so I don't freak out and let you down on the prom night" he mumbled, avoiding eye contact.
You felt your chest fill up with a warm feeling. Did he truly care that much about a highschool party? Did he care that much about, well, you?
"Omi, you don't have to push yourself too hard just to please me, I'll be fine if you just stay yourself" you said, taking the hair off his eyes. "And besides, it would be really hard for you to let me down, don't worry about that."
"It's just that... I know I can be a total dick sometimes, but truth be told I really do... like you, and care about you, and all that stuff" he stopped to hide his face with his arms and  bend over to face the floor. "Even if I say I don't. It's just a weird feeling I didn't want to face because it was new. But I'm not letting that ruin your highschool memories."
"Sakusa. Let me tell you something about girls and prom, alright? For most of us it's not the prom that matters. Of course, it's nice to have an opportunity to dance with your friends and classmates and have fun, but for that, we can go alone. That whole thing with waiting for a guy to ask you out is so, so cliché! We don't wait to be asked to prom just to be asked. We wait for that one person to show affection towards us by asking, that's what makes it so special. And you already did that! You wouldn't even be able to understand how happy that made me! Just yesterday I was texting with my friend, complaining about how pleased I would be if only you asked me, but I was certain that would never happen. And then it did, when I least expected it!"
"Did it really make you that happy?" he chuckled, shaking his head.
"Yes, yes it did, I'm a stupid teenager and silly things like that satisfy me. Got a problem with that, Sakusa?" you laughed, playfully hitting him on the arm.
"Oh no, no, please, do continue being an immature baby" he responded, in a much better mood, not trying to hide his wide smile anymore.
"You're the baby here, I wasn't the one who almost cried like five minutes ago..."
"Hey! I told you not to bring that up!"
"Sorry, sir, I forgot my orders" you saluted ironically, making him roll his eyes in amusement.
And once you said that, the train door opened and the mechanic voice inside croacked out the name of the station, which turned out to be the one you needed to leave on.
And once you did, you could already see the modern building of the hospital in front of you.
"I hate the fact that I was ever born, I'd like a receipt so I can return myself"
**
You somehow managed to get him inside the hospital, and even to get an examination, although he didn't even want to sit, only standed and while doing so, made sure he didn't touch the walls.
But turns out waiting for the doctor was the worst part yet. He was walking back and forth throught the corridor, hands in his hair, and eyes closed most of the time. You were constantly giving him worried looks, but he didn't seem to notice.
The doctor said he'd be back with the results of the x-rey examination in about twenty minutes, but has already been fourty and he still wasn't back.
"Smiles" you suddenly heard Sakusa next to you and flinched in shock, realising you have zoned out. "What if it's serious and I won't be able to play anymore?"
"Well that certainly would've been dramatic, considering you're the number one spiker"
"Smiles! That doesn't help, like, at all!" he looked at you with pure panic in his eyes, and you were then sure that his distress had something to do with his past memories.
"Okay, okay Omi, calm down, I'm sure it's not that serious."
"You were the one who said it was!" Sakusa shouted.
"Shh, Omi, you're being too loud. Hey, why do you keep your eyes closed like that? Are you tired?" you asked. Well, of course he was, he played an entire match, and has been under a lot of stress ever since, not to mention it was already evening.
He nodded.
"They why won't you sit?"
He shook his head.
"I'd rather have my insides bleached and washed mechanically than do that" he then added, making you burst into laughter. He also smiled a bit.
"Shh, Smiles, you're being too loud" did he just mock you? Such a baby.
"Do you mind telling me now why are you so nervous about hospitals? You're a semi-professional, you know even a broken finger can't put you away for long, and still, you're this upset."
He sighed, looking into the ceiling as if he was trying to find something there. He started to play with his fingers out of nervousness, waiting to find the right words.
"Do you remember when I said my parents went to South Korea to see my aunt? Well, they're working people, they wouldn't just leave in the middle of May, on a monday, like it was nothing. They actually went over there to celebrate my cousin's fifth death anniversary, so she wouldn't be alone on such a day. He was one of my closest friends, growing up, while they still lived in Japan, but he would get sick very easily, so we'd mostly play in his room. One day, he disappeared from his house, and my parents wouldn't tell me why for weeks. I was miserable, so finally, they decided to have a serious talk with me about why my cousin couldn't play with me anymore. They said he was really ill this time and had to be transported to a hospital. And you know what I said?" you noticed he was now clenching his fists and frowning, trying to hold back emotions. "Turns out I wasn't always such a douchebag. I said that's okay, but he must be really lonely, so I'll just come play with him there. And so, my parents would bring me to see him a few times a week until we were twelve. Then I started noticing that he was becoming thinner and thinner day by day, his complexion was as pale as the walls around, and he had no energy to talk with me anymore. I would just come there and sit by his bed for hours, waiting for him to even say hi to me, but it was rare of him to do it. One time, when I was there, it was already late in the afternoon, so my parents came back with my aunt to pick me up, but as they were talking to the doctor in the hall, I heard all the machines around start to make high pitched noises. My cousin didn't look pale anymore, I only took my eyes off his for a second, because I was tired, and he turned grey, like paper. So I rushed up to him and shook his entire body, but it seemed so weightless, I already knew something was off. And the machines, they wouldn't stop making that awful noise... I ran back to the hallway and screamed at my mother and aunt to see what was happening, so they went in there and told me to wait... I was sitting there, in the hall, for what seemed like an eternity, and turned out to be an entire night. After many hours, my mother left the room, her eyes red and swollen, and alltogether she seemed smaller than when she entered. I asked her what was wrong but well, she wouldn't tell me. She'd just hug me, but I remember it being terrible, not like these warm, fuzzy hugs she always gave, but suffocating and trapping, so I started crying. She told me she loved me and went back to get my aunt, who left the room crying even harder then I was, practically screaming. Then she looked at me with such hatred in her eyes, I could practically feel my heart shatter. My mother escorted her to a different room, and I was left there to witness my cousins bed being carried out of the room, a small figure of a boy all covered by a sheet, even his face... I even noticed a teddy bear, a birthday present from me, sticking out."
You were shocked, but to the point where you couldn't even bring yourself to move, listening to Sakusa tell this sad story with a voice washed from all emotions, but with one single stream of tears rolling down his cheek. You wished you could say something, but words couldn't get out of your mouth.
"And that's why I'm not in Korea with them right now. Not because I had a match, but because she never wants to see me again, even though I'm her sister's son. After all, I was the messenger who told her about her precious son's death, wasn't I? So what if I was a kid and didn't even understand what was going on, so what if I was heartbroken myself. It wasn't a grown up's logical decision, but her emotions speaking through her, my mother had told me, but countless times at the funeral, or after, before she finally moved, had she told me she hates me. I even remember one time at my mother's birthday party, she got really drunk, and when I went down from my room to get some water, I ran into her in the kitchen. She looked at me with no emotions whatsoever and just told me she wished it were me. Just that. And then she left." Sakusa began laughing "So yeah, you can say I hate hospitals."
You adored watching him laugh, but that scared you, that wasn't his normal, vibrant laugh, but a sarcastic one, full of venom.
"Kiyoomi..."
"I guess I just don't want to be bad news to anybody, I don't want to see any more suffering that I cannot do anything about!" tears started forming in his eyes as he smashed his fist against the wall.
Well, that was heartbreaking to watch.
What could you say to him that would make him feel better? There were no words right for explaining a trauma like that. How would you even begin?
"Kiyoomi, there's nothing we can do about that now. And there's nothing you could've done then. True, the world isn't fair. It takes away the people who had done nothing wrong when they didn't even start their life properly. And true, there are scary things waiting for us around every corner. But bad things happen, and you can't do anything about it. You just have to keep going... for the two of you. If you want to truly make a difference, and not let his short life go to waste. I'm not sure there's anything more I can say, because I know how much you hate sugarcoating. I—"
"Smiles?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm really proud you consider me to be the tough guy here, but... you're a better hugger than my mom" he whispered, still facing the ceiling.
"Sure, Omi" you said, wrapping your arms around his waist. It was difficult to give him a comfort hug, considering the fact you were tiny compared to his 6,2", but what could you do. You felt him lean over and squeeze you really, really tight, his arms shaking a bit, as he put his face in your hair, making you able to feel him breathe.
"Smiles?" he said quietly, smiling as he felt you holding the material of his jacket. You only mumbled in response, so he carried on with his question. "I'm really tired."
You didn't know how to react to that, honestly. You had never seen him like this before, he was always hiding behind a cold and douchy exterior.
"Just a few more minutes, and we'll be going home" you finally responded, patting his back. "The doctor has to tell you the results and somehow secure that finger from getting even more hurt"
"We'll be going home?" he asked, and you felt embarassement rise in your stomach.
"Well... you DID say you're inviting me over, and I don't trust you not to play with the bandage you're gonna get"
He laughed, as sweetly as normal, and you sighed with relief.
"I suppose I  might've said something like that."
"Well then be a man and live up to your promise"
"I never PROMISED anything"
"Oh come on, you know you want to, I'm your prom date!" You laughed, but all of the sudden you felt a movement and before you could object, you were mid air, held by Sakusa's tight grip, your face very near his.
"I suppose you are" you saw him smile behind his face mask, but were too shocked by this sudden burst of affection to be able to answer.
"Now, Sakusa-kun, I highly suggest you stop doing that to your hands, unless you want another injure to the list" you heard an adult speaking behind you, and the next thing you knew, you were falling to the ground, glaring deadly at Sakusa, who's attention was already somewhere else. "Come in, I'll show you your results"
Turns out the finger was just badly injured, but still not broken, so Sakusa only needed to take three weeks of holidays from playing volleyball, and as the season had ended, it wasn't a very dangerous threat. You were now walking home from your train station, Sakusa's eyes constantly closing, due to tiredness. Your heart was pounding it's way out of your chest, when he finally opened the gateway to his house, and stepped to the side to let you in. You felt blush coming to your cheeks while he turned the key inside his door's lock. You were looking closely at everything after entering the house. It was close to what you've imagined, designed in a modern style, the walls grey or white, black tiles on the floor.
"You must be hungry, right?" he said, leading you to the kitchen by the sleeve of your hoodie. "Wait right here, I'm sure there's something that I can make"
You sat on a kitchen counter, making him raise an eyebrow in slight shock.
"Practice, Sakusa" you laughed "I'm just helping you"
He rolled his eyes and put noodles in a pot on his stove.
"Move, I need to get my knife" he said, easily picking you up and putting you on another counter. You turned away, blushing uncontrollably.
"Oh my, okay, Sangwoo" you said, making him want to kill you with his look. "Wait, you understood the reference? Look at you, being a weeb"
"Well he was an interesting person after all" he said weighing the knife in his hand with a sarcastic grin on his lips. He then proceeded to prepare the best tomato sauce you've ever EVER eaten in your entire life. He turned as red as the tomatoes when you pointed that out, only telling you to shut up and eat already.
You helped him clean, but he wasn't so happy about it, claiming your "dishwashing habits" were different than his.
And then it was finally the time for you to see his room. You followed his up the stairs, and then entered a room you've least expected.
It was... completely normal. It wasn't clean on every centimetre, it wasn't all white and septic, no, it was just a normal teenage boy's room. His Itachiyama Team hoodies laying around on the deskchair, a big computer with gaming headphones, a small bookshelf with novels and even some mangas,  a huge bed in the corner, draped with black bedding and Star Wars and Marvel throw pillows. It was clean, of course, there was no dirty dishes or socks laying around, but besides being overall tidy, it was  totally normal.
But what suprised you the most, was the most beautiful being you've ever seen in your entire life, and no, not Sakusa. A fluffy, white cat.
It was a breeded cat, you knew that instantly, even having a heart as good as his Sakusa wouldn't allow a stray in his house, due to his problems with germs. From what you recognized, it was a Birman Cat. You gasped in awe upon seeing it, already kneeling down to pet it.
"Look at you, cutie, who're you? Awwe, look at your little paws, so soft!" the cat already crawled into your lap and sat on your thigs, purring with content. Sakusa laughed.
"You probably think we took in Lady because I needed a thoroughbred cat, not a stray right?" he picked up, throwing himself on his bed, leaving the jacket on top of other on the deskchair. He was now only in his grey sweatpants and yellow T-shirt, being a little loose, even on someone as tall as him. He groaned, realizing he forgot about his finger and now pinned it down weight of his body, whch caused it to hurt more. He then decided to sit, resting his back on the throw pillows. "Well, you're wrong if you think that. We actually decided on her because her breed has hair instead of fur, which my mother is allergic to.
Oh.
"The only thing I'm thinking right now is that Sakusa Kiyoomi named his cat LADY, and it's hillarious"
But what you were in for witnessing next was cuter than the cat itself.
"Well, that's because she is my little Lady, right?" he said in a sweet and high-pitched voice, deciding to ditch the comfortable bed and sit on the floor beside you, scratching the cat behind it's ear. "Who's my Lady? Who? Yes, you are!" he started to sound like a fourty year old lady with no family and nine cats. You bursted out laughing.
You suddenly stopped, when Lady decided it would be a great idea to... vomit on you. It was all happening so fast you didn't even notice, until you heard her clear her throat and then watched her walk away in shock. You looked at your dirty hoodie and then at the frightened Sakusa next to you, already as white as his walls.
"Oh... uhm... that was unexpected" you said, not sure what to do next.
"I am so, so s-sorry" he started to apologize "She must've e-eaten something b-bad while I was gone" he mumbled, getting up and walking around his room as if he was going to find something that could help him.
Normally he would get his mom, but she wasn't even in the country.
"Omi, it's okay, don't worry" you said, taking your hoodie off carefully, so it wouldn't mess up the carpet or anything else. "Just, would you show me where the bathroom is?" you asked, and he nodded, leading you to the door at the end of the corridor. "Thanks" you added, putting the material in the sink and running hot water on it. Most of it came off pretty easily, and nothing else got dirty in the process, but you noticed a big stain on the chest area.
"Shit, put it in the washer" he said, taking it from you, to your suprise, and turning on the machine. Then he went back to his room, all red, and took something out of his closet. "Here, take this, I forgot to turn the radiators on, and it's cold" and thus he handed you a black hoodie, with a single yellow stip on the side, and "Sakusa" written on the back, with smaller "Itachiyama Academy Volleyball Club" below.
You froze in place.
"Wait, why are you giving me your hoodie?" you said, after gasping dramatically.
"Just take it you idiot, before I change my mind" he answered bitterly, walking over to turn on his computer. "Do you want to watch something while we wait for it to wash?" he then asked in a much calmer tone, and you silently agreed. He put on some movie you spent twenty minutes choosing, because it needed to match both yours and his interests, and after he did, you sat on the floor, focusing on the screen. "Are you dumb?" he suddenly muttered.
"What?"
"Sit on the bed like a normal person" you were suprised, but he didn't need to ask twice. You sat there, uncomfortably, at the edge of the matterace, until you heard a sigh  and felt strong arms pull you back, almost to the wall. You noticed you were now half sitting, half laying on Omi's chest, legs over his, plus, he putted his chin over your head.
"Omi, what has gotten into you?" you laughed, making him sigh again.
"Do you have some sort of a problem?" he answered, visibly nervous.
"No, no I don't sir!"
"I swear I sometimes wonder why I'm attracted to a dumbass like you"
"You're WHAT?" you said, your heart skipping a beat.
"Nothing! Just watch already!" he shouted.
You giggled.
Minutes have passed and you two were just sitting there, chilling and watching the movie. You felt Sakusa's head slip over yours. Had he fallen asleep? You smiled, looking at the peaceful expression on his face. After seeing him so tired and distressed today, you were really glad he was finally getting some rest. You adjusted his head to lay by your neck instead, so it wouldn't slip all the time. The music in the movie started playing really loudly, so you turned it down and started to check your phone, while curling his hair with your fingers.
Oh, he's gonna be so grossed out when he wakes up, you almost felt bad for him for a second.
It was oddly calming to feel his even breathing on your neck, and you suddenly realized how much has changed that day. Twenty four hours before you were wondering if he'd ever even ask you out on a date, and now you were sitting on his bed, with him asleep on your neck, knowing he was going to take you to prom.
Oh, truly, what a day.
**
prom night, 6:28 PM
You were still fighting with your eyeshadow, when you heard the doorbell ring. Shit, that looks awful, you thought, trying to erase your mistake and do it once more. "I'll get it!" you heard your little sister shout, and smiled to yourself. The night was finally here. You were going to prom with Sakusa Kiyoomi, somehow, you still didn't know what heavensent force made him ask you.
"It's someone for sis!" she yelled.
"Tell them I'll be right there!" you shouted back, but she seemed to have ignored you, because soon after you heard your mother invite the two boys over. (Komori's sister had a licence and a car, so she was driving you all)
"Good evening, ma'am" you heard your prom date say. You almost saw him all nervous with the eyes of your imagination.
Fine, you thought, it won't get better than this. It was time to go. You took a quick look at yourself in the bigger mirror. The dress wasn't spectacular, and you did your make up by yourself, so of course you didn't look like Hollywood's next biggest star on the red carpet, but you definitely did look better than usual.
You took your purse, sprayed some perfume, and went down the stairs, watching every step,  because you couldn't seem to get the hang of walking on heels yet.
"Hi guys!" you said, still watching your feet, but got no response. It seemed like everyone was there, your mom, dad, sister, Sakusa and Komori, but nobody had said a thing. You finally looked up when you reached the bottom of the stairs, to see your parents smiling slightly, your sister pouting over how jealous she was of your spotlight, Komori watching Sakusa, and Sakusa, well...
He looked as if he'd just seen a ghost.
"What's wrong, Omi?" you asked, giggling. He was still silent, so Komori hit him on the back.
He didn't look so bad himself, all the loose curls that were always framing his pale face were now carefully styled to stay at the top, not the sides. His suit was a plain, black one, with a single yellow bow tie, matching Komori's.
"You look great, by the way" you added, upon still not hearing anything from him.
Only then did he smile a bit and take a bouquet from behind his back, then hand it to you.
"That's for you. They're your favorite—"
"Freesies" you finished, looking at the white flowers in awe. "You remembered" you added, already feeling all the emotions rushing to your head. "They're beautiful, thank you"
"Well, you're still the most beautiful in the room" he mumbled, his face red. You chuckled upon hearing that cheesy phrase.
"Smooth" Komori whispered, laughing, and Sakusa promised himself to kill him later that night.
Everything went as you'd imagine it to go, you drived to your school, saw the huge crowd of students everywhere around. You smiled at Sakusa while he opened the cardoor for you, and looked at him in shock as he took your hand into his and intertwined your fingers together.
"I thought you didn't like doing that?"
"That's what people do at proms, right?" he said, smiling at you widely "I'm going to do it all, prepare for the cheesiest night of your life" he then faced away, leading you towards the entrance.
Little did you know, inside, he was practically shaking, upon seeing all these people around. He was right, there were too many of them for him to be comfortable. He was already nervous and wanted to leave, and the night hadn't even started.
"Sakusa-san! I didn't think you'd come here!" You heard some girl said. You recognized the captain of the girls' volleyball team, smiling widely, while draped all over her boyfriend. Captain Tsukasa somehow appeared from the crowd, joining the converstation by hanging his arm on the boy's shoulders, which almost caused a shiver down his spine.
"Now, how could he miss this? He's our dear ace after all, right, Sakusa-kun?"
"Right, captain" he responded, the fakest smile you've ever seen colouring his lips.
"Enjoy the party, Saku!" said Tsukasa before leaving, heading back towards the main gym arena, from which loud music could be heard.
Enjoy, yeah, right, you idiot, thought Sakusa.
He only wished he could be enjoying the party like everyone else, because then he could just focus on you and making sure you wouldn't regret coming. But he wasn't made like everyone else, and the level of comfort he felt was descreasing at a very rapid speed.
The night was going great, at least from your point of view. Hours have passed, you laughed, danced, even watch the Prom Queen election. You didn't even wish it were you up there on that stage. You already felt like a queen.
But then it all decided to go to hell.
Komori had found his place with the kids who were spiking the drinks, and now came back to you two with a questionable grin on his mouth.
"Sup, my dear lovebirds?" he started the conversation by messing Sakusa's hair playfully, only for him to correct it with disgust.
"Good, but I seem you're even better" you responded with amusement, watching him rock from side to side.
"You know, Sakusa, I never knew why you insisted on calling her Smiles, it's such a dumb nickname"
"You're dumber."
"But! But now I get it! There's an old saying..."
"I'm sure whatever your about to say isn't an old saying"
"Stop interrupting me! There's an old saying that claims, that when a boy is in love, you see it in his eyes, but when a girl is in love, you see it in her smile. Is that why you insist on calling her that? Are you counting on that, Saku-chan? I mean, she is out of your league a bit, but, I'm rooting for you, buddy!" he said, and started to walk away slowly. "Besides, Smiles, watch his eyes up close!" he laughed, and began to dance to the music that changed suddenly when he finished the sentance. It was dark around you, but you still managed to notice Sakusa's face turning red.
"I'm going to kill you, I swear, I'll strangle you with your own vocal chords and make you wish you were suddenly Ariel and forgot how to speak!" he yelled, getting more and more nervous.
He was right, you were out of his league. And he embarassed yourself in front of you a week earlier, acting like a four-year-old, and needing your help. You probably considered him a pussy right now... So all the effort he did over the last few months was for nothing. He felt like throwing up again. Suddenly the walls around him started to get closer and closer, making it seem like there was even more people there, the music became louder and in a moment he only heard the base guitar trying to rip his ears apart. And in front of him were you, looking at him with that worried expression. He remembered himself saying, "Nothing sucks more than someone calling you a poor thing"
And your eyes were calling him that right then and there. He felt small, but furious, and overall miserable.
"Omi, are you feeling okay? He was just joking, you know that, right?" you said with a slight grin on your face.
"Oh, sure, because your little Omi is just a big crybaby for whom you're just waiting to snap and run away, right? Ever since this night started, you're all looking at me like at a fucking social experiment, counting minutes until I won't be able to take it anymore, right?"
"What? Kiyoomi, that's not—"
"Shut up! Oh my god, shut up, with your condesending tone and pretending to understand how I feel! If you so wanted to babysit someone then, I don't know, watch the neighbours kid instead of playing with me like that, you idiot!" he shouted, not noticing a couple of people closest to you watching him. "If that's what you're waiting for, then fine, have your satisfaction!"
And after saying that, he turned away and started to walk towards the exit to the patio. You knew you had to follow him, but didn't know whether he wanted you to.
You decided to go.
Once he found himself at the empty patio, he put his hands over his knees and looked up at the night sky, catching his breath.
"What the fuck was that, Sakusa?" he whispered to himself, realising he had now ruined his only chance with the one girl he actually liked. And how he did it, oh lord, like a total baby he so didn't want to be compared to. He decided to loosen up his bow tie, because it seemed like it was suffocating him, and tried to calm down. "Fuck, how stupid can you get? Oh my god!"
"Omi! Could you please, PLEASE, stop running away?" he heard your voice behind his back, and turned away as soon as he did, feeling tears rolling down his face.
"Go away" he said in an empty voice, but you just shook your head.
"I'm sorry I made you feel like a child"
There was silence for a long minute, as he was fighting with his emotions.
"I'm sorry for yelling at you on your big prom night"
"Silly" you laughed "It's only big if you're a part of it"
He smiled a bit.
"You know I didn't mean that, right?"
"I always know you don't mean that."
"Well, yeah, but I wish you wouldn't have to. I just felt super uncomfortable in that room with all these people, I am not that kind of person you'd want, I'm not the super fun jock guy to take you to prom and all that shit, that's just really not me, and I tried to, I really tried to become one for you but it's just... it's just not who I am" he sighed.
"Omi. For fucks sake. You don't need to change yourself at all, I like you for you, not for someone you're not! Where did you get that idea from, dumbass?"
Well, Komori, he thought.
You moved closer to him, and he sat on a stone bench,  making you stand in between his legs, looking directly into his eyes. "I would never, ever, EVER, trade you for anyone else. You're perfect the way you are, and well..." you felt the heat coming to your cheeks. "You're the Omi I fell for, after all"
You heard him giggle, and felt the warmth of his hand against your own.
"Yeah?" he said, looking up at you. "Go on then" a proud grin appeared on his lips that caused you to hit him on the shoulder in embarassement. But you did eventually go on.
"Well, there is one more thing I'd like to say but I don't think I have the courage to do it" you mumbled.
"Oh, I'm sure you do"
"Oh, you know, well... I, uhm, when I look... at... no wait, that's not how i wanted to say it. You know when... no, wrong again" You suddenly heard a slow song in the distance, coming from the gym. "Oh I love that song"
"Well" he said, getting up "I believe one of the prom night traditions is a slow dance with your date, right?" he then continued, putting both his hands on your waist and starting to sway, pulling you even closer than you already were. "And Smiles, one more thing" he adden, upon leaning over to your ear and whispering a simple sentence. You trembled, not even sure if it was from the cold, or from excitement, or from his lips so close to your face. "I do, too"
You laughed, hiding your face in his shirt and breathing in the perfume.
"You really did mean it when you said you were going to do all the cheesy stuff"
"Shut up, dumbass, I really meant it"
"I know."
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