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pranabefall · 14 days ago

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ノㅤTHE DEVIL'S ANESTHETIC ;; blade.

syn. [ 22.2K ] you were just a doctor, at the start of it all. then came the chaos, the knife, the bits and pieces of madness and coming horror. and in the center of it all, stood him ( a gentle cruelty ).

CONTENT WARNINGS. slight yandere + dark content ahead. reader is south asian coded, blade is a little fucked up and inevitably fucks the reader up a little too. murder, corruption arcs i suppose, medical terminologies i only half know spare me i'm studying in aslp not pediatrics, breaking of medical ethics, the reader is a wet cat and is absolutely pathetic, gang violence, death, kafka being a manipulative milf, angst, acts of murder and mentioned dismemberment, suicidal ideation, SMUT ISTG SMUT, dub-con, non consensual kissing, hatefucking, blade having violent thoughts bc mara, seriously the reader is not daijobu, blade getting off on being killed.

ENTRIES. HAPPY HALLOWEEN! this work has been marked mature for containing smut & dead dove content. readers below the age of 18 / ageless blogs and antis, do not interact. PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS BEFORE PROCEEDING. ( this is my THIRD fucking repost because tumblr KeePS EATING MY TAGS )

playlist ノ author's notes ノ masterlist.

"you can hold yourself back from the sufferings of the world, that is something you are free to do and it accords with your nature, but perhaps this very holding back is the one suffering you could avoid."

— FRANZ KAFKA.

I. NEWLY DECEASED

“We have another one.” The receptionist echoes out from the front desk.

Another one. The words still the twitch in your muscles, the incessant cleaning and arranging and scrubbing away blood from medical chairs and forceps that should not be here. There are thoughts in your head. They’re dangerous ones, lingering in places that are grimy and soaked in something tarred. They should not be there.

Another one and that’s enough to coat your stomach with ugly, stifling coldness. You don’t reply, keep your eyes down and let the man walk in.

There were never any faces to your clients. They had hands, ringed, tattooed, scarred. Some had suits. Some stank of iron. And they all had guns, or bats, or rusty crowbars and attitudes that were knife edged and brutally coarse. This one is much like the rest. He tells you he was shot in the waist and his voice is static and white noise and discord leaking out of your ears in droves till —

“— will you get moving?! It fucking hurts.”

“Yes.” you choke out. “Yes of course.”

It comes easily to you now, after months of repeating it over and over with varying degrees of perfection and prompt. Find the shrapnel, pull it free, clean the wound, suture it. Find the shrapnel, pull it free, clean the wound, suture it. Find the shrapnel, pull it free, clean the wound, suture it. Find the —

( Your thoughts unravel and they’re a mess in your hands like several bits of coloured petals. The scent has washed away. They almost seem to wither, bit by aching bit. )

You step away. “Done.” you tell the suited man and ask for no payments. Your receptionist does not either when he strides outside and it’s smart because patience was a whim when you reeked of viscera. That brazen naivete was drilled out of her a long time ago ( and you too ) and the rules were set forth, rules that must never be broken. You’d seen too many zipped up body bags scattered in the gutters to dare to. You do not want to be one of them.

( Coward, that spiteful half of you snarls and you know it’s right. )

Only he does reach in and throw some loose notes against the counter. You shuffle up to her, nails crusted with brown and red and count fifty kaas. It’s peanuts. It will do.

You were a doctor.

Or at least you’re certain you were. You’d spent the better part of your decade rooted within a small university where standard IPC dialect was taught as a secondary language and the fans hadn’t been replaced for the last thirty years. It was torture during the summer and the hospital adjacent had patients who spoke in tongues you didn’t quite understand. But you manage. You tried, you graduated.

You were a doctor. Your license reads you specialised in paediatrics. Children were all you needed to deal with, some too loud to listen to their parents' chides for silence. Some so young they were small enough to fit in your desk drawer. Some of them liked to talk too and ask questions during checkups and vaccine appointments ( nerves, you reason and you answer the questions ). It wasn’t much. It was peaceful. It was alright. This is your clinic, something you'd built from sleepless nights and mountains of referral literature.

Then you’d see less children and more of those suited men as the streets grow with a cacophony you can’t call safe after this. The carpet was worn down by blood and heavy footfalls, over the thread work and your mother’s faded name in the bottom.

You weren’t treating children anymore.

Still, you hold it together. This is yours, all of this. This is yours and it's a feeling locked away in your beating heart.

When the man returns — and you know it’s him because the birth mark on his hands were hauntingly similar — he brings company. The company in itself would have seemed unassuming, and they were, lingering by the doors speaking in words too fast to comprehend till the gunfire rang out and the windows shattered.

A part of you is thankful that it’s so late, where the streets are silent and the bustle is calm. The files you were rearranging fall to the floor. You duck beneath your desk and stay there, enclosed within tumult, within chaos, within something you wanted no part of ( and you grip your hands tight, quietly wondering if that persistent cat would be fed, if your father would care to know what happened to you ).

You hear glass break, fall, fall and hit the floor with a sadistic sort of tinkling.

You hear frantic footsteps thundering up by the door.

You hear the screaming.

( You hear your heartbeat. You want it to stop. )

Something crashes into the storeroom. It was large, heavy, clothed and it let out a strangled cry before iron clogs up your nose and heat and cold fizzles up and hammers into every crevice and pore and turns your chest inside out. The man tries to shift, to get up and out of the way, shoulders knocking against the shelves in panic that feels painfully palpable. He’s crying. You see that when you bundle into a corner, eyes burning.

His body jerks and is dragged to the door.

“Don’t,” he begs till the desperation chokes his reasoning and it meters into panicked threats. “You’ll be torn apart by this, I swear, you’ll be hunted down — ”

He’s pulled at again, his limp form slipping out of sight. You hear a sick sound — a squelch, the dripping of blood and viscera and the gamey crack of bones. Your teeth dig into your cold fingers. The stinging is numbed, dim and distant, while you press against the wall and try not to wail.

There is only a single set of footsteps now. It paces like a starved animal, like a caged beast. Leave, your thoughts scramble and correct themselves. Just leave. And it repeats, over and over like a maddening chant. Please leave, leave, leave. The footsteps stop at the door followed by a slow scrape against marble. A shadow falls over the doorway. That’s when you see him.

You think he could have been pretty. But there's terror beneath that veil of frozen numbness. You don’t think he’s pretty now, when he’s stalking into the room, bloodied sword in hand ( it’s mired and cracked and mended like kintsugi but twisted and terrible ). He walks like a man who’d been broken and sewn together and he reeks of death and a sickening sweetness.

His gaze meets yours for that fleeting moment.

( it felt like that throbbing helplessness. Of everything going wrong. )

One of the suited men had not died. Not yet, in some inane act of stubbornness. He’s tackled down immediately and you flinch back and finally scream, watching the writhing pile of bodies smack each other down with ease. The swordsman ends it. There’s a chilling disparity in strength with how his bare hands tear into flesh and rips his opponent’s arm off. He’s laughing, laughing like a madman and the insane hysteria sparks a primal instinct nestled in your mind.

You’re moving before you realise it, when you spot his fingers twitch for his fallen sword. Your hands close around metal. You’re surging forward, taut at the edges. That part of you screams into the void, stripping away morality, reason, the simpler parts of shame that could have stopped you then and there.

When your fractured mind pieces together and lets the spinning room rest into clinical stillness, you’re aware of the hysterical laughter that man trembles into. He slumps against your legs, weighted, boneless. He’s still laughing, like the world had whispered a funny joke into his ear and left him to rot.

The dislodged pole slips out of your hands. You watch him crumple down onto the floor, staining the tiles. A swing, a hit to the back of his head, a break to the vertebral artery, a medullary haemorrhage, a stroke, neuron death —

You spend the next hour tucked away in that storeroom, watching the man’s body convulse, then his breathing still and his body run cold.

II. DISTENSION

Once upon a time, you told yourself that you could get by. You could get by and let yourself think you were a good person despite the ugly cracks tucked away and the bated disappointment breathing down your neck. It’s the human experience, a conditioned way of convincing yourself, a way you wish to live in the quieter corners of you.

It’s a lie. A lie. A lie.

The body does not move, as dead bodies usually do. As a frame of reference, dead bodies don’t do much to begin with. You stand back up and feel nausea coat the back of your throat, then wordlessly stumble to the man. Your fingers press against his pulse. Nothing.

A part of you wants to laugh at yourself for hoping.

The police take it all away. They don’t know what you did. Or maybe they do and care so little they swat that detail aside. Death is so natural here, so common and where is the sympathy for the damned when the damned were everywhere and your kindness wears thin?

( You’re left to pick up the pieces. The cracked photo frames, the toys and magazines salvaged, the bowl of tamarind candy tipped over. Bits and pieces gathered together and sewn back together. There was a heart in these walls. The pain was always there, but a dogged part of you loves this place. )

You answer what questions were asked and let them walk away, knowing they’ll do nothing about the situation to begin with. They never do. Most policemen were tucked up in the pockets and played dogs to gang members. Some lost themselves to apathy. Money could buy loyalty in droves. It was an open secret.

You get back home and let the hot water run into your bucket. You feed the visiting cat. You wipe the counters down and unearth some food from the previous night. You turn the water off. You bathe. You eat.

( “I’m fine.” you lie to Aleena when she calls you, frantic, scared. More frantic and scared than you present yourself to be. You don't tell her you’re a murderer.

“I don’t think you should go back tomorrow. I’m not saying this to get off of work or anything but after all that?” she falls silent.

“Maybe. But I need to keep the income coming in somehow.” )

Walking into the bedroom feels harder than it should. Lead bleeds into muscle as you patter along and try to keep yourself steady against the walls. For a moment, you stop and lean your forehead against it and tell yourself not to cry ( because cowards cry, and idiots cry and it was a pointless endeavour anyway because nothing — nothing about this would change ). Your degree falls into your line of sight, framed up against the wall.

You are a doctor. You are a doctor. You are a doctor.

That guilt knocks you in the knees. The guilt, the disgusted guilt that comes from killing a man.

( It’s engulfing, like tar and cloth pressed up against your face. The breathlessness, the storm rattling against the window, the messiness of it all. You’re screaming at the pillow. You’re clawing at it. You swipe till your arm bleeds and the cacophony dies down. )

The veneer shatters and the frame is clenched and thrown to the floor. The casing cracks. You heave, look at the mess at your feet and think to yourself :

What were those eight years for?

You killed a man.

A gasp tears through. It's painful, heavy and it's glass and shrapnel. The voice in your head whispers. Nothing. It's all for nothing.

Another one crackles through the muffled distortion, straining and rattling. A clear “I told you so.” grating past the chaos, disappointed, smug, knowing.

You shut your eyes and dream of jasmine and marigolds.

( You listened to Aleena when you passed the register and took a day off in the end. It’s the one kindness you let yourself have.

You did not eat for most of the day. Your gut gnaws. Your limbs feel weak. But food, as delicious as the thought seemed, invoked a visceral response. Of corpses and blood and things that you thought yourself too far removed to disgust you. A caved in skull did all this. A caved in skull made you retch and empty your stomach out into the toilet.

You think you deserve it. )

Your watchman stops you when you head back out again a few days later for a grocery run. "Are you alright?" he asks, peering through sleep. The cat curls round his legs and he gives it a gentle pat. You can hear the content purr it lets out from where you stand, and you venture a little closer.

"A little." you reply, smiling a little. The watchman tilts his head in consideration. You'd lost count of how long he's been here. Some of the older tenants mention he'd settled in over a decade ago, when the building still had four floors instead of five and a little more space to park out back.

"You still seem scared is all." he glances over at you again. It's the worry in his furrowed brow that makes you give pause. He reminded you of your grandfather then, strong jawed, stern eyed before that softness pervades through when he'd let you scoot over next to him to sneak a look at the newspaper ( cricket scores and stock prices were all he looked at. And the Sudoku ) .

You shift in place, tugging at the hem of your jacket. "It was a little jarring. The sudden attack, that is." you admit. You don't tell him about the death, the way deceitful monsters do.

The watchman shakes his head. "Horrible thing to go through, I agree. Especially for one as young as you." The cat slinks pat his legs and under the bed. he leans forward, tire heaving at his bones and his joints. A decade. One would assume he'd retire at this point given his age. "Try not to let it wear down on you, is all."

"It's easier said then done." You mumble.

"It is." the watchman snorts. "I told my daughter about you though. She's taking medicine too…Oncology. I scraped together every Kaas I had to pay her tuition fee off." he flexes his arthritic hands. You keep listening, that sliver of curiosity winning out. "She hasn't met you…but she knows about your clinic. the children your helping…suited men aside. It gives her a bit of spark at least. So you keep going too."

You feel gutted, eyes stinging a bit. He puts too much faith in you, you realise. But there is a small touch of warmth against the rattling cold. "Thanks…" you nod. The watchman leans back.

Keep going. What a mess, really.

You return to your clinic, the day after. You decide it's the last time you'd let reckless hope bar the instinctive tearing in your gut.

There is a woman sitting on the waiting room chairs with a dangerous smile. She’s dressed well, like those elegant omen-bringers or dapper businessmen. She’s dressed like the coming consequences and it’s there, that sadistic delight, hidden behind that lazy tilt to her head.

“Good morning.” she greets, like she hadn't broken into your clinic. “Hope we’re not intruding.”

You look to her companion next to her.

The dead man ( and he was dead. He was supposed to be — you were certain ) stares right back.

“Do you have anything to drink?”

“There’s a coffee machine…”

“Hm, never mind. I was never too fond of the instant stuff. What do you think Bladie?”

'The man named ‘Bladie’ does not respond. You’d have laughed a little — if your nerves weren't frayed. You’d have laughed over a silly, inconsequential nickname slapped onto some scary looking man, then gone on your way. But the scary looking man was a murderer. And you were certain, so certain, that he was dead.

( His blood coated your hands days ago. You can’t have imagined it — not something so innately ingrained within your psyche like some sadistic firebrand.

How is he alive? How is he alive?! Why is he — )

“I could pick up some tea.” you suggest, because playing meek was the way of a coward and you were that in the end. You still had to open your clinic in another half hour. There are still parts of the storeroom that need cleaning and a window that needs replacing. The woman laughs. She looks at you like you were an adorable specimen. A pet…or perhaps a bug to be stepped on.

( It’s a cruel sort of beauty that edges her face. You’d hate to admit you were staring a little longer than you should be. )

“There’s no need for that.” she looks to the side for a moment. “Bladie was here a few days ago, you know.” you flinch, perhaps knowing the ugly scene to follow. “Got into a bit of a tussle. Of course, I wasn’t worried…he’s got a knack for seeing things through, you know…” She’s staring straight at you now. “And he’s good at not dying, one could say.”

“That’s nice.” you mumble, shifting uncomfortably. Your cheeks are cold. Don’t look at me, you try to tell the should-have-been-dead swordsman. Like that would have worked ( he keeps staring ).

The woman continues. “It's funny though. After that affair at your clinic, I had to pick Blade up at some hospital’s morgue of all places. Quite the detour if you ask me.”

You still.

She knows.

Fuck. She knows.

“I…I see.” you play into stupidity, wring your hands a bit and force a far away smile. “I wonder how that happened.”

“Yes.” she nods, solemnly flicking dust off of her velvet coat. The playful lilt to her tone is back, delicately poking and prodding away and you feel the walls close in bit by bit. You can see the man tilt his head. You want to disappear. “I’d think you know though…so how about you tell us?”

You don’t look at her. You can’t, with that horror filtering through and spotting your vision.

“Now….listen to me.” she stands, saunters up to you and you stay rooted. Your mind fogs over with cotton wool and the aftertaste of wine blooms through your mouth. There is consideration there, her pointedly dragging her eyes across your figure and taking a sick pleasure in the fear that trembles at your fingertips. A tiny part of you that still remains too torturously aware recoils. “Were you the one who killed Bladie?”

“Yes.” you reply and it isn’t you. You wouldn’t have said that. You wouldn’t have.

Her lips curl. “How did you kill him?”

“I hit him on the back of his neck.”

Her face glows. “Good girl.” she pats your cheek. “We have a favour to ask you. How about you hear us out?”

She gives your shoulders a squeeze and you’re gasping for air. “That wasn’t so hard.” she grins. The cotton wool strangles and is caught at the edges, whisping, grasping, stubbornly trying to stay. You still pull at it incessantly while you back away from her touch. It burns. What did she do to you? What did she fucking do to you —

You’re pulled closer. It’s just a tug, a simple coil of her fingers round your arm. “I’m sorry.” you blurt out. “I’m sorry. I never meant it.” There are cracks against the surface, a spiderweb and it keeps going and going and going the more you talk ( you need to shut up ).

“There there.” She coos. “How about we sit down, hm? Bladie, think you could make some space?”

You don’t want to sit down with them. You try to pull back, to run because that’s what you should have done in the first place; instead of entertaining a pair of strangers with that stupid, naive hope of safety. She pulls back. Bladie catches your wrist when you try to squirm free and you’re half dragged onto the seat between them. “Honestly. A drink would have been nice. Oh don’t worry. I could hardly blame you for that.”

The woman fixes her sleeve. “I take it you don’t know who we are?”

“No.” you admit.

“Ah. the IPC influence here isn't as deep, huh? I heard there was an overhaul a few decades ago. The revolt drove most of them out…I wouldn’t count on it staying that way.” She passes you a measured flash of her teeth. It’s all good manners and etiquette you can’t return. “But we’re not here to talk politics. I’d like you to babysit Blade for a while.”

Blade seems to be expecting it. He does not mirror your dismayed shock.

“Why — ”

“Can’t say. It’s all a part of some very important work.” She holds a finger to her lips. “Would you be a lamb and do it?”

You grip at the metal armrests hard. The room is a blurred scape, a watered down stain ( ink tracked against damp paper ). “I won’t.”

“Come now. After that stunt you pulled with him, it’s the least you could do.”

It settles hard. “I told you I didn’t mean it.” you snap. “I didn’t mean to kill him. I didn’t mean to kill you.” Your unravelling seeps into something dangerous. You try to step back. To keep it together. It tangles, knots, frays and snaps and tangles again and the foundations crumble. You cannot think despite the clarity slowly creeping and the fog metering out. You cannot think because the man you killed is alive and right next to you and dead men don’t just come back to life.

The woman forces you to turn her way. “You didn't mean it?” she repeats, inquisitive, amused. “Doctor please, any normal person would have gone for the head. You made a very calculated move there…and I'm sure that pretty little brain of yours knows the consequences that come with it.”

It’s a coveted part of you that dies there, withering, burning, clipped away and cast aside and you shake your head as you’re retrained. “Don’t touch me!” you scream. “Don’t touch me!”

Because humanity despises the naked truths in the world. They’ll deny, deny, deny what stares them in the face for those fleeting, selfish little comforts skewed in ignorance. Better the downy coverlet to the thin blanket, better the sweeter lie that bitter sincerity. You’re no different. Not really. You’re not different at all.

And that woman was not a liar.

III. RUPTURE

Aleena doesn’t take well to a strange man lurking within the backrooms. Her eyes always flit to the doors and her shoulders stay tense as she directs a few straggling patients to the waiting room and updates their details into the salvaged computers. “I don’t like the look in his eye.” she whispers hurriedly. “Doctor. Have you seen him?”

“Yes . I have.” you reply simply. “Could you pull up the files from a month ago? We have a follow up due today.”

She hums, and you nod to the messy clattering from the keyboard. “He’s not from here, is he? His clothes aren’t local.” her voice dips. “Is he an outworlder?”

“Yes.” You flit through a case history. The ink has run a bit, the edges flicked a dirty red. Bile and acid sears the edges of your mouth. You don’t think throwing up here and now would be professional. And your receptionist has a very nice shawl on. “Have the police called?” you add, helplessly rubbing away at the browned stains.

“You know they won’t.” she clicks her tongue, wrinkling her nose to the injustice of it all. You bite back your tired humour. She might descend into an angry little ramble then curse those men in three different tongues. You were guilty of listening in ( it’s amusing, and she had plenty of anger for the two of you, and then some more for the smaller things ). “They’re too busy sipping cha at the local angadi.”

She keeps tap tapping away. “Do you want me to send a soft copy? Or will you directly look into the logs?”

You cease flipping through the files. “Just send me a PDF.” you mutter. “You still have a few cases to input from yesterday right? I won’t hold you up.” Another report is pushed your way. Two more patients, two more medical histories to pore over. The throbbing in your forehead is incessant and stubbornly clinging on.

Gang activity in your neighbourhood has stifled from its initial raucous to a cautious thrum. There were still glimpses and the ignored nods, and that delicate rope-work still standing strong despite men from their brackets dying some terrible death. They don’t suspect you. It would be stupid to ( because you could hardly hold a gun in their eyes, or fight back. Your claws are chipped and your fangs blunted. It’s not a mystery ).

It does not stop the occasional loitering goon up front as parents grow a little braver and a little more desperate to bring their sick children in.

You settle with your work email, tapping your foot against the faint buzz from the streets outside and the waiting area. There is the occasional loud call. Kids being kids, shushed by mothers and fathers with warnings of naughty ones being fed the nastiest medicines for bad behaviour. You’re not cruel enough to do so maliciously, but it quiets them down amidst the worried ogling.

A ping pulls you from sinking further into your pit of thoughts. The document pops up in your inbox and Aleena slows her typing to two finger taps. “Can I take a week off?” She pipes up, nervously picking at her fingers. “Next month, that is.”

“For the agelu?” you guess, a new sort of weariness settling. “I suppose you can.”

Aleena stifles away a relieved smile followed by a : “You're not going?” She looks a little surprised, then lets her eyes sweep across the clinic. “I mean…yeah I guess you won't, given the state things are in right now…”

You wince. Your father had sent a text in. He asks for you, in his own, distant way. Maybe he misses you. Maybe you miss him beneath the hurt and the anger. But feelings were messy, scary things and it was better to look away and stick your head into papers and books and words that could be read. “I’m not sure.” is the soft admission. “It's a little early, I think, for me to make a proper decision.”

( Going home feels like a fever dream now. You’d almost come to loathe the smell of marigold and incense smoke. )

That and you can't be certain if Kafka would pick your guest up any time soon. She never gave you a timing, or any sense of clarity and control in this mad scramble. Blade was to lurk in his little window in the backrooms with all the year-old files for as long as he should.

“Besides.” You finish with a hint of good humour. “I'll take full responsibility for any ancestral hauntings after. Maybe my great grandmother could make a nice home on my couch.”

Aleena purses her lips. It’s says enough. A little more if you squint hard.

“Okay that wasn’t very funny.” you admit.

“No. It wasn’t.” She tilts her head sympathetically, pressing the pads of her fingertips to the edge of the desk, half pushing up against hardwood and paper. “I have plenty to say…but you’re my boss and that would be unprofessional.”

You bite back that twitch to your lips. “A wise choice. Take care of yourself now…and don’t forget about the rest of the reports.”

Primal fear rear its ugly head and scrapes at the bars when you meet Blade’s gaze.

“I have two patients due in the next hour.” you manage to pull out, turning your heel immediately after. Any inch for a quick escape, really. “So don’t come out. You’ll scare them.” you add for good measure, like he’s a child himself, or a feisty dog muzzled and chained up.

( The kind of dogs who bite at anything and everything. The kind who quietly bare their teeth at cruel hands and kind. You aren’t certain of Blade’s stance here and now, if he was pleased with his arrangements — stuck in a room too small for him, with someone who clearly didn't want him here.

Because you don’t. There’s something about you and your face and the way it’s a traitor. It gives away your thoughts, your heart, the things you want to keep tucked away at the back but seep under the doors and stain the carpets. And your displeasure seeing him is on full display.

His corpse comes to mind. Still, dead, cold took the touch with the beginnings of rigour mortis settling when he was hauled over the stretcher and wheeled away. )

He says nothing back, unsurprisingly. He didn’t even bother speaking out as much when Kafka came in and dropped him off with all the unceremonious sneaking and threatening. You think he’ll carry on with his silence, letting whatever this delicate little semblance of distant amiability stay within its stagnant state. An untouched web.

You turn. Keep walking. You really don't want him here, you think miserably. The paradoxical warmth in his body now, when for a moment there was none. His gaze, unsettlingly intense. You don’t want him here at all.

Still, you turn once more. You speak. “Is there anything else you need?” be polite. Be polite.

Blade considers it. He looks at you. You fool yourself into believing the hunger simmering beneath harsh vermilion does not exist.

“No…” he finally relents. His voice is coarse, heavy, the whisper of a growl.

( You leave faster than you should have. )

He follows you home after the day is done ( you wish he didn’t ).

Blade keeps you within his line of sight — just within reach and just close enough to feel that faint prickle of body heat against the back of his neck. It’s an uncomfortable itch. It’s unwelcome. So you turn your head back to his silent figure and test your fingers against your bicep.

“Could you walk in front of me?” you ask.

Blade seems to consider it. “No.” he finally decides with finality edging every word. “You might run.”

“I don’t think you’d let me get very far to begin with.” you mutter under your breath. His footsteps are heavy, kicking aside loose concrete you avoid. Blade still stays an unwanted spectre behind you, treading in a way that is too soft to be human.

“I won’t.” he agrees, sounding sure of himself. Bored even. There is a scuffing sound, cloth against cloth. You’re tense again, anticipatory ( and yet, you don't dare to look back, to look at him ). “It saves inconvenience. That is all.”

You decide you’d like to be an inconvenient annoyance. That should drive him back to wherever he came from.

“I still don't think you should walk behind me though.” You repeat. Your fingers curl. You wish you had a taser. Your last bottle of pepper spray was spent as is on a few other thugs the past couple months. “You look like a creep. And a stalker. You might mug me.”

“I won't.”

“How do I know that?” You keep rambling, hysteria trickling down. It's a leaky tap, that anxious mess in your chest.

Blade blinks. “Kafka told me not to.” ( like it was the most obvious thing. You might be imagining the heavy condescension oozing through ).

That does not make you feel better. Kafka seems as reliable as a tsunami, or a flood, or any natural hazard creeping into its first few stages of utter destruction. It shows on your face, that muted mix of disbelief and horror. Blade's gaze is sharp, not quite the disconnected distance it held before. Kafka was suffocating as is but blade feels like rubble bearing down, down, down. You hate it.

“And it would be pointless, trying.” He continues. “Killing you would change nothing.”

You wordlessly rub at your knuckles, at the pulled skin of your hand. You do not talk to him for the rest of the walk. You should be more polite, you tell yourself. Be more polite. You killed this man, watched him die as his brain slowly collapsed in on itself. The least you could do after those fifteen and a half dumpster fires is extend some basic human decency, right? Be polite.

A scream ringing out gives you another thing to focus on. They're normal to hear, even as it wrenches open your viscera and leaves something sick on your tongue. It continues, growing increasingly hysterical, then stops.

( You almost run for the source, You want to. You do not. )

By the time you slip into the parking lot of the apartment and head for the elevator, you’re half hurrying Blade along. There’s nothing glamorous about the place — a standard five storey tall building just like the other projects lining most lower middle class neighbourhoods. The watchman was found out back, half passed out from his shift and stinking of beedi smoke, leaving the dog that frequented the neighbour's doors to rip into any intruders.

You don't think Blade is wholly impressed as he nudges at him with his foot. The watchman jolts with a huff and a startled snore, then passes out, head lolling to the side a little. The dog does not bark, simply trotting up to accept a few pats on the head. And indignant annoyance flares up. You sharply tug at the hem of his sleeve.

Blade jolts. The vermilion of his stare burns you.

"Leave him alone." you warn, giving his sleeve another tug for good measure. Blade's lips purse, his displeasure a quiet shift on his face for the most part, burying away immediately into the corners and crevices where things were never brought up again. "I hope you like cats." you add. "I have one who visits sometimes. She's a terror and a half…"

He grunts, stepping to the side as you fiddle with your keys, pulling away the string from your key chain and getting your door open. It’s a welcome ritual, feeling the cool breeze from your apartment filter in after a while. The cat is passed out on the balcony floor, cracking open a single yellow eye in greeting when you shuffle forth to take a peek.

“Hello, pretty girl.” you coo, feeling that heavy warmth in your arms and the softness of her fur against your palms. It eases you just enough to face Blade again.

Be polite, you tell yourself because you killed him, because he could snap your neck in two, because you think that the last thing you need is pissing off a pair of seeming psychos. “You won’t mind tea, right?”

Blade leans against the wall, maybe trying to make himself as small as possible within the cloistered rooms. “It’s a waste.” he replies, ignoring everything else; the hum from the streets below, the occasional flicker from the lights, the cat settling on the couch and sleeping an arm’s length away.

“Okay.” you mumble and set down two cups anyway.

You do not like Blade’s silence. His silence means he’d rather think about something and him thinking could involve certain death. There is a disturbed sheen glossing over his gaze. He does not look wholly there, the less he talks. Most conversions your parents had with guests were about the weather, then delving headfirst into some obscure gossip about a family three kilometres away.

Another fleeting glance at Blade has you reason that he’s not one for gossip.

( You let this silence settle in. It’s still a suffocating thing, an unwanted presence and an unwelcome guest. You think of the suited men and the gangs amok in the dirty corners and you think the silence looks like them. )

“So…our first meeting wasn’t…wholly ideal.” You speak up after a while, handing him his tea. Blade looks vaguely surprised when he takes it. “I don’t think ‘ideal’ would be the right word for it…”

“You killed me.”

You swallow. “Yes.” your voice shakes. “I killed you.” Your legs are drawn a little closer to you before you talk and you lower your voice, all that shame and guilt subduing the last bits of that cocktail of fear and tumult and annoyance. “I’m sorry for killing you. Even if you’re still alive…somehow…it wasn’t the best course of action, to be fair — ”

Blade’s lips twitch. He takes a sip of his tea, letting you stew there with your fumbling, your shame. It still goes unspoken. That damning ‘how are you still alive’. You don’t bother asking it. He can’t stay dead — Kafka said so herself. The very notion feels like an existential terror moulded to the shape of a man and you want it to stay far away from it.

“Four days.” he finally utters out, inspecting the last bit of tea staining the bottom of his cup. “I was dead for four days.”

Oh. Oh that stung.

“I’m sorry.” your voice cracks and your eyelids start to prickle. Stupid. Stupid stupid, you curse at yourself, claw at the offending load inside.

Blade snaps his head towards you. There is a twitch in his hands, slow, dog-like in the way strays jolt in alarm. You do not comment on it, awkwardly pressing at the surface of your cup while the tears are quickly wiped away and smudged against your cheeks. There's no use crying over it, you scold yourself. Grow a spine.

“Spare yourself the pity. It is not an uncommon occurrence.” is his uncomfortable dismissal. The words are nonchalant and his forehead crinkles to match the perplexed hitch to his shoulders. He probably wants to say more, speak more, tear you apart. Or he was just too put off by how pathetic you are.

“You’ve been killed before?”

“Yes.”

Horror stirs deep in your gut and a small sliver of morbid fascination shunting beneath the murky waters and glimmering up in those seconds of resurfacing.

( Can he not die? He’s still here after dying from a stroke. Does he regenerate? How does he do that? Do his cells simply have a faster metabolism? That means his neurons can too despite their limited replication in most normal people. Does he — )

The tear tracks are drying. Your face feels stiff.

“I was trying to protect myself.” you even talk like a guilty person ( it does not help. It’s subdued, the way you speak. Beaten down, half hearted. You wonder if you even want to protect yourself at all ). You don’t want to look at him anymore.

“I don’t blame you.” he replies. It’s soft, missable, sympathetic and you know that can’t be the case. Blade blinks slowly, setting his cup aside. “Would you do it again?” he asks solemnly. His hands twitch again, out of its usual bent stiffness. Beneath the dim lighting, the paleness of his skin is a corpse like macabre; greyish, sallow. He seems starved. “Would you kill me?”

Your lips part. Bile and acid burn your throat. You shut it again and shake your head and the desperation, you assume, is enough. No, no never again. You don’t want that nausea. You don’t want any more of the griping aches in your stomach and the incessant pound of your capillaries.

Blade straightens up and gives you a long, thoughtful look. He steps back and returns to his stony silence without a word. The air is restive, poisonous in how it melts away the peace.

You really should pray to that nameless god, to soften that blow. You really should pray because nothing good ever comes out of this. There’s that brush of scale against your foot, the shrinking courage when faced with dour vermilion. It’s wolfish; its jaws bear down. The cat cracks open an eye again, letting out an annoyed mewl.

No, never mind that.

IV. EXUDATION OF BLOOD

You should have prayed. The questionable existence of a god or not, maybe you'd have given yourself that tiny bit of assurance.

Even your ancestors would have done well enough. What would your grandmother say?

( Her old spirit's possibly disowned you, if she hasn’t already. She must have burned your seat in the afterlife and spat on the ashes. Bringing a man into your home, no matter the circumstance would have incited all the wrong reactions. )

You learn quick enough that Blade never sleeps. The third night after spent between lurking within the stuffy storage space and wedged next to old folders, you’d spotted him sitting upon the couch in the middle of the night. “What are you doing—” you croak out after the initial scream. He scrutinised you with clinical indifference, sweeping over your bare legs to your face. You tamp down the urge to pull your shirt down, cheeks burning.

“Thinking.” he says. There is no further elaboration to it. Blade turns to peer outside your window and the dead streets below. There is a faint echo of the strays barking trailing behind the occasional hum of a passing car. Your little town was far sleepier than the cities, where the traffic continues on, long past the morning calls and the reedy music from 24-hour bars.

“You scared me for a moment.” you purse your lips, picking at your hands. Blade blinks. “I mean, you're just standing there.” You try to justify it, fumbling a bit and coming across as far more slow than anything else. Blade tugs at his sleeve and smoothens over the damp spots.

“I'm not trying to kill you.” he reasons.

You dig your thumb down into the thicker skinned parts of your palm. It reeks of iron. He always reeks of iron. “Startled me, then. I thought you were asleep.”

Blade considers it. “I do not need sleep. Not more than what is necessary.”

Uneasiness filters in. Your throat bobs with it, unsure. “Everyone needs sleep.” you stumble out. Blade shifts, tracing along his nape with a purposeful look. His regeneration. Yes, his regeneration. Tissue rest and repair would be unnecessary with that, wouldn't it? Sleep, food perhaps, the little necessities taken for granted — peeling that away and pulling back the blinds to peer down that gaping hole, it's strange.

The grislier parts of his curse seemed to strip away those human needs. It likes to gnaw out any sense of humanity from his bones, in fact, scavenging away the bare ligaments and swallowing it whole.

“So…you’re just going to stay there then...” .

“Yes.”

Blade’s shoulders are set into its perpetual hunch. There’s something unfettered about him, roiling within deeper confines with a sense of wildness and entropy. You take your cautious step back and steel the nerves you have left ( there aren’t many to begin with — you still try ). It’s far from the moodiness he usually holds himself with and the cyclical introspection. “Could you be less…disturbing, then…?” you ask.

Silence. “Disturbing.” he echoes, tasting every breadth of the word on his tongue. You feel metal coming to rest in your mouth and dig into the insides of your cheeks. There’s a flicker from the apartment across and sterilised white shines upon the side of his face. He looks worn down, worse for wear. The darkened spots on his clothes are dyed red round his torso and dried blood crests across the rim of his fingernails. Red. Red on his clothes. Red on the floor. Red on your couch. Red —

“Did you leave this room?” it’s not a question. You’re not asking questions.

“No.”

You don't quite realise it, the scrambling and the frantically locked doors till the cold nip from your room settles against your skin and your shaky hand holds up your phone. It takes a moment for the buzzing numbness to fade to a tumultuous undercurrent and for you to dial down that emergency contact, seconds away from calling —

— a notification.

It's an unlisted contact, and a single message.

Unknown. I wouldn't do that if I were you.

A moment of pause. You don't move, balking at the sight of it.

Unknown. There's a good girl. I hope Bladie isn't giving you any trouble. If he's made a mess, just help him get cleaned up, please.

You. Is this Kafka?

Unknown. Look at you playing detective! That's cute. It is, by the way.

You. How did you get my number..

Unknown. Oh I have my ways. And I wouldn’t call the police. I can’t say I’ll stay quiet and pin the blame on you. It would be easy, hiding a few bodies in your storeroom. I like Bladie, you know. Can’t have him getting arrested and all.

It feels like you’re grasping at ice, with the way it feels cold. Cold, so cold and uncomfortably harsh against your cheeks. You want to tear into something, into your pillow, into yourself. You want to throw your phone across the room and scream till your lungs are hoarse. You want to call the police anyway and shove that into Kafka’s face. You want to cast them out into some forgettable void and be done with this fear and this painful grip in your stomach and…

…you do none of that.

Some small defeated part of you whispers its comfort. You ignore it, cast it aside, call it a fool. You’re gutless, maybe a little brainless and honestly, you half consider going back to your hometown and — no. You will not think about that. Not now. Not ever. You broke that life apart, stepped over the fragments and let your bloodied footsteps lead you here. All that hurt is not worth the quiet defeat.

The door creaks open. You peer back out at Blade. “Sorry…” you mumble. He glances up at you. “I just…i was shocked…there’s blood all over you.” You think about what you should say next. You chose your words carefully. “Did you…”

You don’t get to finish. Blade leans back and shakes his head. “I did not kill anyone.” A wry little tug twitches at his lips. “Not now at least.”

It takes a tentative step, then another for you to exit the room completely. Blade doesn’t look bothered, content in his solitude where sits. You look down at the tiled floor trying to summon forth whatever blind insanity you had. It takes a special sort for this, for this specifically where the cracks fissure into the sides and down down down to the foundations. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” A lie. There’s blood on him for crying out loud.

Still, you do not pry. “Should I…” you stop. It takes some struggle, reaching down deep and wrenching the words out into something stringed and legible. “Do you want to clean up?” you offer softly, motioning to the bathroom. “Just…a shower, I guess. I can get those washed.. Blood’s really hard to get off after all and they’re nice clothes…from my personal experience at least…”

Blade watches you, tilting his head a bit. He does look a little like a dog now, one with a wrinkled muzzle and dark, serious eyes. “Fine.” he relents after some consideration, impassively getting to his feet. He follows you to the bath, delicately sidestepping your frame to enter. You let the water heat before letting it run into the bucket, offering him a pitcher and some soap.

“You’ll have to make do with the towel…I might have some spare blankets around.” you add, because you will not have a naked man walking around your house. There’s so much your ancestors might allow at this point. This would be toeing the line from possibly being dragged into the afterlife.

He spares a grunt in response while bandages come undone. You chew against the inside of your cheek, inhaling stale metal and collecting blotched brown linen from him. He’s hesitant, letting you close, but it takes a quick turn of his wrist for you to pick out the worst of his wounds. These ones do not heal away the rawness and the sick pink of flesh. These ones still bleed.

“Can you manage?” you peep out. Blade stares at his hand, at yours grasping his.

“Yes,” he says after a while. His fingers brush against the inside of your palm as you let him go, and you take that shaky step out of the bath, leaving behind a clean roll of bandages and antiseptic at the door.

V. PUTREFACTION

The woman beside you looks tired, worn away at the eyes and around the edges of her face. “Stay still.” she whispers hurriedly, stuffing her phone back into her purse as she gathers the skirts of her seere.

The boy on the bed does not stay still, tapping his fingers away at his lap as you shoot him a reassuring smile. There’s plenty of nervous energy stuffed away in the cracks and crevices of that tiny body of his, and it barely abates with the ticking second hand from your analog clock. “Are you nervous?” you offer, taking a knee beside him. The boy purses his lips, brown eyes focused wholly onto the floor below.

“No.” he decides to be brave and squares his shoulders up. You appreciate the effort as you press at the inside of his arm.

“That’s nice.” you nod. “But it’s okay to be scared sometimes. I know how scary needles can be.”

“I’m not scared.” he insists. He challenges you, looks at you dead in the eye with the most determination he could pluck away at his reserves and gather together. “Last week I chased a ghost away from my room. I turned the lights on and screamed at it.”

You crack a smile. “Is that so? Did it try to come inside?” you entertain the thought, poke away at his imagination till you find the faint blue of a vein. You see how his mother bows her head down, looking a little sick. The boy doesn’t seem to catch on in the way his eyes light up and he draws himself up. You don;t think she wants him to see. Sometimes there are instances where you see parents squirrelling away those bits of childish innocence like uncut diamonds; biting down at grimy hands that try to snatch it away.

You cannot fault her for wanting him to be happy. He was only four.

“Yeah. I was all GRAAAAAHHHH’!” you flinch at his spirited demonstration. He’s pleased with the audience and the invoked emotion as his mother winces and tries to pull at his ear to keep him quiet. It’s too late given his excitement, ducking down to continue his babbling. “And it went ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH’! Then it left and I went to see if amma and appa were alright. They were and I hugged them to make them feel better.”

“That is brave.” you nod. “You be careful out there, okay? Don’t stop hugging your amma and appa. I’m sure they love your hugs.”

“After this, can I have the chocolate at the desk?” he asks, batting his lashes. He flashes you a cherubic grin, and you might have caught yourself smiling a little wider. It’s a rare instance of silly happiness after the mounting strain on your shoulders and the urge to rip your eyes out bloody and raw. “The one in the big bowl.” he adds for clarity; because adults, he might be thinking, needed plenty of that.

You look over your shoulder to the door with a thoughtful little hum. “It’s not chocolate. It’s tamarind candy. The sweet kind. But it’s sour too.” You admit. “Do you still want some?”

The boy draws his lips back. “I’d still like some. I like tammy-rind.”

“Well, listen to your amma and stay still, okay?” he does, his small hand reaching out to grasp at her seere’s pallu. She holds her hand out and he takes it, tugging at her fingers, then her thumb as the nervousness slowly trickles in and scrunches away at his brow and nose. “Don’t get all stiff. Deep breath in…deep breath out. You can tell me about things you like if it helps…what games do you like playing?”

“I like football.” he offers. “My cousins say I'm a baby so I can't play with them. But I'll grow big and tall one day and I will kick their legs and show them.”

“Don’t start there.” his mother warns. “You’re not kicking anyone.”

The boy makes a face just as you give him his shot, then yelps a moment at the pin prick. His eyes squeeze shut for a second, his grip white knuckled till you finally pull the needle out and pat his cheek. “Done. That’s his DTP vaccine done with. He’ll need to get his booster next year as well so keep a reminder on for that.” His mother nods, handing in the little booklet as you scribble away the recommendations and mark away at the sheet.

The boy grumbles, poking at his arm. “Do I get the tammy-rind now?”

“Of course. The brave kids always get an extra one too.” you appease, walking them out.

“Great.” he’s mollified at least, wiping away any residual tears with a discreet turn away. “And i think you’re brave too. I saw a ghost here. In the door at the back.”

You freeze up a bit. “Did you now?” you’re feeling your voice crack a bit at the end of that question. Even the mother glances over, unsettled. You shake your head and the reassurance returns. It’s nothing, nothing at all, you try to say.

“Yes. He looked super scary. But he just looked at me and told me to go back to amma.” the boy sighs.

“I’m sure that was just one of the boys who helps the doctor.” his mother reasons, her words taking a sterner edge. She’s bustling him out, putting away at his back as she straightens her pleats and fixes her pallu. “It’s not nice saying things like that now. You’d better apologise to that man if you said that to him.”

“I didn’t say anything.” the boy insists as you pause by the door and see them off after handing him his hard earned candy, ( “thank you, doctor. Say thank you to the doctor auntie.” the mother urges. The boy echoes it drolly then slips back into his stubborn insistence, pulling at her arm ). Their voices fade into the faint music playing at the lounge and the chatter in the waiting room. Aleena turns to call for the next person, peering down at the files.

A hush filters through. One of the men stands over the row of seated people. They draw some of their children closer, muted shock and fear splayed across and you feel flayed open. “Tell the clients to leave.” you mumble. She nods and sends the word out. Some of them seemed to catch on quick and pack away their folders and gather their companions. A line of men and women mill out, leaving that sole frame standing, arms crossed in wait.

You keep your eyes down as you motion to the doors. Aleena hides away as she usually does ( you’d torn into her when she’d gotten too mouthy, too brave the last time ).

“Is something wrong? I’m sure I paid off the fee two weeks ago.” you test out.

The suited man doesn’t reply yet, sinking into the backdrop of static and the panicked thudding in your ribs. You vaguely remember Blade hiding away within the archives and hope he doesn’t wander back out again. He takes his time, dragging out the seconds as he idles past your framed degree and a few photos from your childhood home.

“A few weeks ago there was an…altercation in your clinic, correct?” he states more than he asks it, rubbing at his chin.

Oh shit.

“Yes…” you nod when you sense his wait. Your nerves wither away and you lose your sense of touch.

“Some of the men on my side died here. I was sent in to get to the bottom of it all.” His narrowed gaze settles on you. “It’s funny. We know there’s a third party involved but his body went missing from the morgue before he could be ID’d. Any footage of him? Wiped clean, and aeons forbid the police trying anything when it comes to getting witnesses to speak a consistent story.” His footsteps are an echo in the back of your mind, too loud, too distracting. Blade, dear lord, his presence here is a mistake. “Now, I'm here to ask if you had a hand in it, doctor.”

“No.” you choke out. “I don’t.”

“Were you working with that man who killed them?”

“No — ”

“Did you see him?”

You're too slow to respond and it takes him grabbing a fistful of your hair to rattle it out faster. “No I did not!” you insist, squeezing your eyes shut. You recall what you tell the boy, and the empty words about bravery. You feel like a liar steeped in bitter hypocrisy. It makes you want to rip your insides out and claw at your viscera.

Nails dig into the softer parts of your cheeks as your face is slammed into the wall. It draws out a choked, gasping wheeze from your ribs and white hot pain screaming at your skull, your muscles. The small, scared animal in you is crying, crying, crying away into bleak emptiness. It tries to run, eyes blown out and mouth hung open. It tries to make you run before you’re gutted clean through. “Are you lying?” the man asks quietly.

“No. No I didn’t.” You stutter it out, pressing your fingertips into the chipped paint. “I was hiding…I-I was hiding till t-they took the bodies.” The pressure against your head builds, builds till you yelp and struggle, terrified of him digging down hard enough to cut away at your airflow and snap your neck in two. For a moment, you wonder if he’ll do just that when he finally, thankfully, lets you go…

( Your eyes flit up, desperate, moving things and you look at him, actually look at him and the cold death in his gaze. You never assumed someone could look like that — empty and scooped clean of any humanity lingering at the edges. He’s hollow, and angry*.*

You made your mistake. )

…You’re slammed back in. The scream in muffled into your wrist. “You saw nothing?” he repeats, guttural in how he addresses and enunciates every word. It’s like reasoning with a man eater. You nod, nod because it’s all you had. “Nothing at all? No faces?” another nod and the man slips back and lets you crumple to the floor with that warning.

“You better not be lying.” he tells you, slipping to the speedy notes of your local tongue. “There will be hell to pay for that.”

You’re lucky, you think, for getting off that easily. The buzz in your mind builds and smothers you against your spot and you shift a bit when Aleena presses a hand to your shoulder. Blade is right behind her and she’s flattening her lips.

“You’re a nuisance.” you tell him, annoyance and anger and all that frustration meandering and stubbornly oozing through the cracks. Blade fixes you with a glare, drawing his mouth back to a half sneer.

“Who did this?” he asks, voice dipping to trembling danger, entropy brewing underneath all that. “Who did this to you?”

“None of your business.” you snip in turn, wobbling to your feet. Your coat is blotched red around the collar and the shoulders. You didn’t realise you were bleeding till your fingertips came away sticky and wet ( you feel like you’re careening off of the edge of a cliff, in a car you have no control of ). “You’re more trouble than you’re worth.” you add, croaking through your words and the buzz and the annoyance. “So just leave. Leave, tell her I can't babysit you if this…this is what I have to deal with.”

Blade narrows his eyes. “I cannot.” he states and leaves no room for argument as his hand grabs you at the scruff and half tugs you alongside him. You’re not spared any more dignity around him, and he treats you like a wet cat nipping and scratching at his arm. “You.” he adds, turning to your receptionist. “She needs to be tended to.”

Aleena mumbles something under her breath but seeks out the first aid kit. She swats Blade’s hands away once she approaches you again. You appreciate it. You don’t want him touching you and the crawling chilliness of his body invites an ugly sort of desperation that blocks away your throat and nudges at all the parts of you you’re less than proud of.

Blade does not leave. He never does, on that bitter note, looming over the two of you by the wall, that beast twisting in his eyes like a snake.

He unsettles you with the way he stalks the emptiness of your apartment rooms, pressing his body to the wall with shaky breaths. You watch him from the crack of your door and wonder if this is what unravelling sanity looks like. If it is the face of a man ripping open his chest and screaming through the guts until that beating heart is carved clean from the cavity.

Blade is more animal than human in how he walks. The room smells strange too. You do not know what it is, in its pungent notes and the unpleasantness of it all. It’s not rot, you’ve smelled rot before, and tasted that stench of decay lain thickly on your tongue.

This is more rancid, like regurgitated food and butter. You spot a single leaf on the floor, fan shaped and dipped in sunlit gold. Then more at his feet.

His form flickers by, rustling past your door. He’s at the balcony, then he’s not. You pad out and scan the dark streets, spotting his hunched frame nestled within the alleyways tucked at the side. There is a glimpse of purple from Kafka’s hair as she presses her lips to his cheek, whispering something to his ear.

Blade seems to melt and you watch on, half transfixed from the scandal, cheeks warming when Kafka leans to the side and waves, a playful grin curling on her face. She whispers something again and has Blade turn too, and you think you’re almost drawn in, dizzyingly close to the edge of your balcony rails till reason snaps you back and you return to your apartment.

( “Bladie…” Kafka coos at him, her gloved fingers pressing up against the seam of his lips. Blade tries to hide away the dry hunger in his stomach and his mouth. “Do you like this one?” she asks.

He thinks about it. The release of death. The warmth of your hands. The tears. He thinks of the man sawed apart on the concrete, down to tendons and bones and muscle and flesh. He thinks of the scattered limbs and the bruise and your blood.

Her hands press to his cheeks. “Listen to me. Push the mara down…we don’t want to keep upsetting her now do we?” she asks, teasing in how her teeth flash. Kafka feels like a dream lost in the haze of it all. He leans into her touch and lets the flowering roots in his chest rupture and decay.

“No.” Blade admits, surreality dragging him under. He does not spare her a reply to that question. Kafka already knows. )

VI. DISCOLOURATION AND DESICCATION

“Tell me who did it.”

“No.”

Blade looks annoyed, scraping and haunting the walls of your apartment as he follows you through the kitchenette like a ghost. The brewing…whatever it was…from the past couple of days seemed to have cowed after that visit from Kafka, nothing more now than a placid beast ( as placid as a rabid mutt could be ). You clench fist into your knife’s handle a little harder than you should have.

She could have taken him back, her little lover boy guard dog and his strange balcony crawling ass —

Blade hovers close, so close. There’s an absence of heat beside you. He’s always cold, colder than a man, warmer than a corpse. That in-between he seemed to linger in. His limbo. “He hurt you. He will do it again. Tell me who it was.”

“Absolutely not.” You state, voice flattened against bemusement. “You'll just kill him.”

He stills, his eye letting out something of a neurotic twitch. He might just strangle you now, carve you open with that sword, eat your insides…maybe. “He suspects something. He must die.” He says it slowly, irritation budding through the dryness of his countenance. Your nose wrinkles at this.

“That's nice and all but you stink of death enough, and ‘enough’ is still far too much.” You angle your knife, pressing into the tender outer layers of the onion till you slice through it. The blade shudders against the impact and your hand strains into it. You bite back a curse.

( You're thinking about too many things.

You're thinking about Aleena turning in her resignation letter, and her apologies. A marriage, she'd said. And how could she turn down her parents’ demands after everything? They care. Despite the pain, you knew that too. It's that painful kind of love where you'd hurt and hurt and keep hurting them when the choices seemed so sparse. Better a bloodied knife, they'd try to say. Better a few cuts than being torn apart.

She only just found out, she admits. There was an uncomfortable shift in her body. She looked ready to crumple into herself and shatter into a million pieces. She's meant to meet him during the agelu. It's been arranged for.

How did you? you'd asked. You were afraid to ask. You shouldn't have asked. That meant looking ugly things in the eye through to the nauseating technicalities. Aleena swallows. She looks more distressed than she should. You let her weep a little and nurse those gaping cuts. Your bruises don’t smart anymore. You’d forgotten they were there.

She shows you a newspaper. And you stare on with an empty kind of apathy as you spot her details within the bridal adverts, down to her college degree and the colour of her eyes. )

( You were reminded that there's a kind of love fuelled by bitter hate. You were reminded of the sight of her shrinking back and fading into the walls of your clinic, like a collapsing black hole. It's how daughters and duties were here, a little better than the north but broken in a way where broken things couldn't be fixed.

You've seen it in a mirror once, hollow and void and dead in your eyes, and your mehendi stained hands tearing apart the the jasmine in your hair. )

Blade tilts his head and angles the knife just a bit before you could cleave a finger straight off. “I’m being reasonable. He won’t hurt you if you let me.” he tries to reason, playing clumsy diplomacy. But Blade still pauses between his words with that perplexed unsureness. He didn’t know what to tell you when you were sobbing on that couch. He doesn’t know what to say now, when your insides were burning away your peace.

You brush him away and viscerally visualise grinding him to a bloodied pulp with your grandmother’s mortar. The violence in your head helps a little.

Blade keeps watching you, turning his head away from the spattering chillies and the sour notes of tamarind staining your hands. The onions are still a bother. You think it can't quite get worse at this point, with stubborn tunicated bulbs and a dull blade. The over-stimulation you're half subjected to feels like claws on a chalkboard, gratingly demanding every bit of your attention.

“Give it to me.” It's not a request. He takes the knife before you could really mutter out sneering ‘no’. He slices through the onion, passes you a pointed look and keeps slicing ( why does he make it seem so easy? Why??? ).

“Give it back.” you try.

“No.”

“Please…?”

He nudges at your shoulder, towards the stove. Your shoulders sag and a frustrated lump gathers at your throat. At least he’s helping, you reason. You shouldn’t be so angry over this. A normal person wouldn’t want to throw a fuss over a stolen chore and a stubborn wraith. You light the stove and gather what you’d prepared. Blade was done with onions. It’s only been a minute.

…You decide to not question that.

( Please don’t kill me, you add in your mind for good measure. )

There’s something therapeutic in indulging with this familiarity. Your old home smells like this, like comfort and nostalgia in the idyllic sorts of memories. They’re the ones you lock away in a box, nestling that key deep inside your ribs. Even so, that horrible weight swells up like a tumour. It could burst any minute. It’s wearing you down and frying the ends of your nerves.

“Aleena is leaving.” you blurt out. Blade blinks. “My receptionist.”

“She told me.” Blade nods.

“She’s getting married.” you continue.

Blade considers this. “She is…young, yes?”

You nod. “Twenty four.” you swallow. Your throat is parched. “Some families do marry their children off at this age. Not all of them, of course…and not every arrangement is all that bad…I've seen some good ones.” He keeps listening, you know it in the way his head tilts ever so slightly to you. Your senses are clumped together, messy, messy, messy. “It’s none of my business.” you add feverishly. “I shouldn’t be getting upset.”

“...why aren’t you?” the question is sudden. You feel your confusion knock away reason. Blade tries again. “Married. Why aren’t you married?”

“That’s a very impolite thing to ask.” you reply quickly.

“I see.” he struggles, pondering over his next few words. “I will not push further.” You purse your lips, the conversation delicately fraying and fading out. You let the silence stagnate, hovering by the stove with your vessel-full of coconut milk.

Something inside you tugs.

“I was supposed to be.” you mumble. “He was a nice guy, was working for a stable job and had plans to buy a house close to the beach. The kid you’d see in movies, you know?” you laugh a little. “And maybe I was a little swept up. But then we talked and we both realised that…we had dreams of our own. Things we weren’t willing to let go of, a relationship he was serious about.”

The chicken goes next, as the gravy settles into a shade of brown-red. Blade is staring, something in his face set in an odd way. He looks off putting. Hungry, like those night spent pacing through your living room.

“We parted ways. There weren't any dramatic rejections…he seemed just as pleased with it, to be fair. I hear he’s settled nicely with his boyfriend…good for him.”

“So you came…here…” Blade works it out.

“Quite. Those choices weren’t wholly supported by my family. They kept trying to find someone and I kept pushing it away…I was scared I guess, and people got angrier and insistent and I started feeling less…human.” you take a deep breath in. “So I left one day. They never contacted me. My father only started again after my grandmother died. And I opened this clinic up…”

The room is blurred out. All you see are splotches of colour and a blemished, dark blue whee Blade stands, rimmed by the sunset.

You wipe the tears away.

“It’s all I have now.” you whisper, a painful crackle coating the peaks. “All of it. And it’s a nice place…I used my grandfather’s photo frames in the reception…my mother’s carpet too. It was a souvenir from the north. And…and some of the toys were my own. It took some digging and cleaning and repairing but they’re just as good as any other…” It’s flaking at the surface. You aren’t a strong person. It’s always been so easy to crumble with the weight ( like a paper doll ). “So please…please just leave before you make it worse.”

Blade regards you. He always is, watching, watching, watching, like there’s nothing else that could tug him away, take up his mind when he’s not snapping necks till they shatter.

“I cannot.” His brows are set, pulling together just a little.

“You can.” You insist, feeling stupid, childish. Its pointless trying to convince him otherwise anyway, Not without feeling hacked down and near helpless beneath his looming shadow. “You can leave. You and Kafka can, it's not that hard.”

“We have work to do and it must be done.” driven finality settles deep. He feels so far away, repeating words like a robot. It's hard to think of Blade as human in times like these, where he's either too robotic or too animalistic. It feels scripted, all wrong, all twisted up and chewed apart. “You wouldn't understand it. Leave it be.”

“I won't, if it's my business you're intruding on.” You set the coconut milk down, the steel vessel striking polished granite with a sharp ring. Your teeth grit together ( you hate feeling angry. You hate the cloudiness that comes with it ). “What if I run then?”

Blade's glare is cutting. “You will not run.” He asserts, scruffing you so easily, tugging you just a little closer. You fight back the urge to swat at him. At least you could think a little. At least you still had a tiny hand digging it's claws into your self control. “I'll drag you back. I will keep dragging you back till you cease this foolishness.”

( How were you being foolish? All you have are fragmented snapshots, the lingering sense of dread, the knowledge of something sinister brewing beneath the surface. You have a man in your house, a murderer. You have a man in your house you swore you killed. You have a man in this house who doesn't die.

How were you being foolish? You want to scream at him till your vocal chords fray and your arytenoids collapse. But Blade has probably never felt fear. You can't imagine his sympathy.

And you still killed him though. You stop. The guilt is back, and the anxious Turn of it, and the seething edge of your rage burning, burning, burning. )

“Did Kafka tell you to do that too?” poison burns holes into your words. You and Blade are sinking deeper and deeper beneath it, boring holes through your skin.

( You need to stop. You need to stop talking. )

“She wouldn't be as kind.” He asserts simply, rolling his eyes at the mention.

Defeat comes for you from the corners. You huff. “Let go of me.” your arm is shoved back, elbowing his ribs. Blade doesn't flinch, but his grip loosens and he dips his head down in acknowledgement. “Are you ever going to leave me alone?”

“When we collect what we need, yes.”

“...get it over with quickly then.” You mutter, stalking away from him. “Tell me when the chicken is cooked. Leave me alone till then.”

Blade takes a moment. “Alright.”

“Bladie, you're upset.”

Is he? Blade doesn't quite see it. But there is an ache where his heart should be. It's been there since you'd locked yourself away and he’s left to stare at the curry bubbling at the edges. Kafka laughs from the other end of the line, light, airy; she's probably wiping blood away from her swords.

“You are. Has the doctor been softening you up?” She's playful, prodding, poking, stringing along her words. “Cute. Is she why you’re calling?”

“She’s asking questions.” he steadies his phone. It’s so easy, how it slips between his fingers. It’s not the firm immovability of his sword hilt and it’s slippery, almost unusable with his twitching. Blade hears Kafka hum against his ear, kneading away at the issue before her voice picks up again.

“You know you can’t give too much away, right? We need to follow the script and if she meddles too much…”

“I know.” Blade cuts in, apathy sinking deeper. The script, yes, the script. There’s that flash of familiar awareness. The script is something to be followed, right down to the bare details. If pinstripes needed to be worn, then pinstripes must be worn and if Blade must cut a hand off, that hand must go. But even he knows of the variables being difficult, breaching at destiny’s thin skin.

“And she’ll only get hurt, Bladie.” Kafka coos it out gently, placating the tenseness building in his shoulders. “It’s unfortunate how scared little things tend to bite more. Listen to me, try appeasing her a little, yeah? I’m sure a treat or two should keep her from stepping too out of line.”

“How much longer do I have to stay here?”

“You want to leave so soon?”

Blade does not. He can feel the roots tugging at his feet, fixing him down here, leeching, leeching, leeching. The fluttering ache in his stomach has grown worse. Blade fears never slipping away and that won’t do. Wolves aren’t to be leashed. That fractured memory, the writhing ocean in those eyes…there is no place for him here.

( Destiny, destiny, destiny. The unattainable, the inescapable…Kafka whispers something else. He wants to break his wrists. )

And still, Kafka knows. He can practically see the cheshire curl to her lips. “Cute.” she repeats, drawling the word out. “I’m almost done. Just a bit of the usual…we’ll have the stellaron collected in no time and we can head out. Till then, lie low and be a doll for me before I come to collect you, okay?” he can hear the faint echo of her footsteps echoing past empty hallways. She might spare a visit soon, he realises. “And again. Try not to upset the doctor too much, yeah?”

Blade dips his head down, mollified. “Alright.”

The phone cuts away. You’re still in your room, cut away from most of his conversation. The chicken looks cooked so he turns the stove off and gropes about absently till he feels a plastic handle. Then he knocks on your door.

It takes you a moment to open it for him. “Is it done?” you ask. Blade stares down at your wide, tired eyes. “Yes.” he replies, dizzy and blotted out in the centre all at once. He can’t quite stop it, the rapid undergrowth, the rustling call of mara, that need to seize you by the face and tear into the softness of your cheeks, to bite, to taste blood, to break your bones and devour you. To feel the dig of your nails against his arms, something sharper, you scooping out his chest, his ribs and his heart till it’s beat ceases and he curls into your warmth —

“Do you hate me?” he asks quietly, unwavering. Its swelling. “Do you want me gone?”

You swallow, halfway out of your room. Blade wants to grab you, taste —

“I do.” you mumble.

Appease her. Kafka’s echo fades out once more in the back of his head. Blade presses the knife to your hand, holding its edge just over his stomach, pressing till he feels its prickle numb out. It’s where the fluttering was, unfettered when he tore his intestines out upon your couch and let the blood seep into the fabric ( you hadn’t liked that, so he stopped ).

He stops, gripping you just above the beat of your pulse. It speeds up, vivacious, so alive ( Blade is used to his steady thrum, slow, so slow unlike that of a human ). “You can kill me then.” he tells you. “If it pleases you.”

There’s a shift. The handle slips away and you snatch your hand back, face twisting to what he recognises as distress. Then you look angry, slamming the door back shut. “Don’t talk to me.” You scream through, muffled by hardwood.

Blade feels empty. He collects the knife and turns back into the kitchen, temptations spilling out when he lingers a little too long and thinks of sweet oblivion.

He muzzles himself as most dogs should be. His teeth are blunted, his claws filed.

He doesn't want to scare you.

VII. CONSUMPTION

Aleena hasn't spoken much since she'd told you about 'the arrangement' ( you make it sound like some cold business deal. A travesty. Maybe you were being far too pessimistic with this whole ordeal, putting in too many chunks of those ugly memories into that basket. You could be wrong. You could be wrong about it all ). It's an all too familiar disconnect, a silent misery that you'd watch every day after. She's letting it fill out her whittled spaces, and it worries you. Worries you in the way your heart twists and your insides turn.

( Won't you be coming, he'd asked again over a messy phone call. There's a lot of things to catch up on. We'll lay off the insisting, we'll let you choose the groom this time. That would be far better, right?

And your father's words meter out to warbled static, spilling through your ears and onto the floor. )

Maybe you should put something out in penance. Let those ghosts keep to themselves and continue their silent vigils. You're not superstitious, and rituals like these feel more a far away dream since you'd moved away.

"Aleena…"

"Yes?"

"How about we go get some cha during our break?" you offer a kind smile, tired, a little neurotic but you think it will ache a lot more if you say nothing at all. That wound up and coiled-away thing in her, pulling at the set to her jaw and the firm stoicism she displays — it slowly lapses. She looks down at her feet, back up at you and blinks a long, slow blink.

"That sounds nice." she croaks out, pushing aside a stack of papers. You check the analog clock above the two of you. A lunch break was due in another fifteen minutes and there a few checkups and medical records to fill in for school diaries. You could finish soon enough."Is it at the local place? I like the one with the cardamom."

"Sure you can."

Aleena seems to think a thousand thoughts all at once. "Thank you." she whispers when you step back, trained down to the keyboard. She's not typing, tracing the plastic frame itself . You leave her be, let her stew a while before gently gathering her up and leading her to the closest stall.

( Blade was cornered in the stores. You tell him not to stir up any trouble.

"Where?" he asks.

"None of your concern. I'd like some time alone with her, please." He reaches out, curling his hands into the sleeve of your coat. His eyes look like smelted iron. You tell yourself not to flinch, to skitter away because you will not be a rabbit. For once you will not be a rabbit. "I'm going." you repeat with more purpose. "You can't tell me otherwise."

Blade lets you go. )

It's crowded as is, and you try not to let yourself be pushed out by the squeezing throng. Not until you and Aleena leave with your tea and a packet of glucose biscuits to sit by a roadside ledge beneath the tree cover.

She takes a few bites before she starts talking again.

"Sorry about the suddenness of it all."

"The marriage?"

"Yes." She picks away at some of the crumbs.

"It's okay." You pat her hand in assurance. "I was wondering if you were doing alright

Aleena seems to ponder over it. "A little. I know him. We went to the same school…so it's not all bad." She drains the last of her tea, throwing the Styrofoam cup into a dustbin. "I'm just…angry I suppose."

"At your parents?" You guess.

"Yeah." She swallows. "They've been pestering me since my second year in college. I had to keep telling them that I wanted more stability…a job. Something. I can't just keep relying on my spouse for money and all that, you know…my parents said I could do that after. That I was being selfish for putting it off."

You purse your lips. "It's good to be stable." You agree. "Sometimes it's easy to point fingers and blame it on unnecessary worry and paranoia…but from my experience, marriages like these are a gamble. You can't be too sure, even with people you think you know." You must be rambling. Embarrassment floods into your cheeks. You have the grace to look a little sheepish.

"Right! And I told them that and…" She shakes her head. "They don't get it, I guess. I mean…I don't mind settling down, really, but they keep pushing me and rushing into it and then they just put up that advert without saying anything and..." Her wide eyed hysteria is palpable. You might want to hug her, steal her away. Familiar pains tend to do that, stinging at your soft insides.

"Am I not a good daughter?" The fragility spotting it aches, unfurling, spreading forth. You shut your eyes.

"I'm sure you are." You tell her honestly. And she is. You know she is.

Aleena's face stretches, pained. "It feels the exact opposite. I might be making it all more difficult…I should be grateful, shouldn't I? They care about me, I know that and…this…" The words are turned over, thought upon. Her hands twitch, gesturing at the air with wild frustration. Aleena is shrinking by the second, cracking at the corners. "What do I do?"

Your throat dries.

"I don't know. I ran away from mine and now my family refuses to talk to me." You tell her. "There's a lot of different ways this could go. Parents react in different ways…all I can say is…you need to trust your instincts."

"I don't want to lose them." She admits shamefully, wiping away a tear. "I'm a coward."

You purse your lips. "I think we all are." You sigh. Your tea has cooled against your fingertips. “But…but I'd say it's better than being miserable the rest of our lives. It's selfish, I agree…” you feel defeat trickle down — defeat, hopelessness, a cocktail of too-many-things-at-once.. “it could work out too. It could work out and it will be alright after that. But there's a lot more before it all as well…I'm sorry. I'm not very good with advice.”

Aleena shakes her head, rubbing at her eyes. "It's better than people telling me that I'm being a nuisance."

"You said you knew him too." You add.

She scoffs. "He might have changed. The most I remember is him pulling at my hair and calling me ugly."

"Oh. Hopefully for the better, then."

Aleena rubs at her knuckles, humming softly as a trill of birdsong echoes above the two of you. "Thanks for taking me in." She says, and it's spoken so softly you almost miss it. "I learned a lot working under you.and you were good to me. Better than some other bosses I had…hopefully I should still be able to work after…" She breaks away.

A gooey sort of warmth trembles inside. It's the sort that cracks you open. "You're welcome."

She kicks out her feet, letting her footwear flap shutter against the balls of her feet, then stands back up. "We'll head back then? I don't think I'd want to leave you with unfinished work on my last day…"

"That would be terrible." you agree, cracking a grin.

Aleena veers the subject away to the common pleasantries. She talks about the weather, the new park in the better parts of the city and the flowers there. She talks about the old lady who invites her to feed the pigeons. You listen as you do, till you slip back into the clinic and start the afternoon shift again. Clockwork, familiar clockwork. Still, you ache. It's selfish.

"Blade." you call out when you step back into the stores. You're greeted with silence. You're greeted with emptiness.

"Doctor? we have another checkup!" You straighten up, smooth away the frazzle, the jumbled nerves and the frayed ends. There is a time and place for panic. Not now. Not when you have work to do. So you work. You work till the minutes and hours bleed in and the sun spills past the concrete rises. You work till the night falls and you realise the silence in the storeroom seems to have grown past the occasional rattle from the shutters and the wind.

You heave in a breath. Aleena has left, pulling you into a final hug. You find yourself looking for him.

( Where is he? )

It's Kafka who drops by after closing. The anxiety nips at you, your face, your hands, everywhere, between Blade still not making a reappearance and now…this.

You hadn't met her face to face in a while and you've almost forgotten the weight she carries. She'd turned you around before you could walks away any further, her gloved hands snaking round your waist and her lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "Sorry for the visit, doc." she speaks out, like you're old friends. "Had some work to look into."

You hunch your shoulders, cowed of any initial annoyance. Something in you draws back, scared around her. It's the cat-like preening, the way Kafka smiles so emptily at you. "Right." you mumble.

"Bladie's been treating you well? I told him to be on his best behaviour."

"He's…he's alright. If you're here to pick him up…well he's been missing since this afternoon. I…i swear I didn't — "

Kafka shakes her head. "Oh no, I sent him on a little errand." she assures you, sitting down in the waiting room. She pulls you down next to her. "I've noticed he's been doing his best around you too…granted I'm sure some of his habits are a little…of putting." That smile is back, razor edged.

"It's fine." You try to say.

"Mhm. If you say so." Kafka crosses a leg over the other. "I've been souvenir shopping between work and all. I might pack up a larger haul after this final matter is dealt with. So many things to do…" She trails off, drumming his fingers against her chin as if deep in thought. "Have any places you recommend visiting? I've heard the silks here are to die for."

You hadn't known that either. "That's…nice." You lower your head, that far away beeping growing louder and louder against the chills clawing up your spine. You breath in, feeling the point of her nails press up against your cheek and turn you around to face her.

"Oh dear. I don't think you're very happy to see me." she coos. "Bladie hasn't been very good to you, has he?"

You open your mouth.

"You don't have to say anything." she cuts in with what seems to be kindness. You were almost fooled by it, set adrift, running straight into that tangle of webbing. Kafka feels predatory the way Blade does, and in ways that doesn't feel like him either, spinning you around and around in circles for those simple little amusements.

"He scares me." you blurt.

"Is that so?" Pity weighs in her sentence, cloying it together like resinous amber and sundew. She looks delighted.

"He does." you nod, feeling helplessness undo your seams. Kafka leans in close, close enough for the warmth from her breath to spill over your jaw. You want to push her off — you should, given who she is. But she clings so close, drinking it all in with strange euphoria. She's still holding your face, and Kafka was far stronger than she presents herself to be.

"You poor lamb. I hope he didn't bite you too hard." She smiles, caught in a trance as you sink further into magenta and pink and the smell of her perfume. "Then again, Bladie's always rough with the things he likes. I'm almost tempted to take you with us."

You shutter, blank out, flail about internally before all reasoning bears down with the impact of a comet. "I don't want to go with you though." You squeak, the words sinking in so quick and it shocks you.

Kafka considers you, tilting her head with assured grace. "Are you sure?" She asks again, thumb pressing up against the apple of your cheek. "It complicates things quite a bit for you. I'd say you'd be more miserable staying here than giving in, no? For one…" She's enjoying herself, her lazy gaze scanning the clinic again. "…you'll be loosing all of this."

You seize up. "…What — "

"This." Kafka repeats. "All of this. It'll be gone soon enough. Bladie and I have dipped into businesses that most should keep out of…I'll spare you the details, really…though you might just have more popping up in that little head of yours." She taps a nail against your temple.

"What are you talking about." You croak out, falling into a gaping bit. The vestiges of horror start taking root in your lungs. Kafka bites her bottom lip, playing coy.

"Oh dear, I've said too much. May as well let you in on it then." She croons. "The IPC don't have much of a hold here, do they? No wonder…granted it made going through this operation far easier." Kafka lets you go. You lean back, back away from her, sputtering. "To keep it simple, we were here to collect something. A very important something…and out of all the possibilities we had…your little route happened to give us the least amount of grief to deal with."

You grip at the armrests hard. "I don't…I don't understand…" You choke every syllable out with a tongue that feels like lead. "I don't understand." you repeat, the mania arching your higher notes. Your clinic, this clinic, the only thing standing between giving up and going back and…Your clinic ( You remember the money, the scraping together and the loans upon loans and that less naive part of you still folded into the walls and corners ).

Kafka shrugs. "I don't expect you to. You've been a tucked away and coddled into this peace your planet has blanketed you with. There's plenty more in this universe you can't quite comprehend; and there are plenty of big bad things out there that Bladie and I could hardly hold a candle to…" She grins. It's a vicious, predatory thing. Your fear is a feast to her, one lazy bite after the other.

"I don't want this. You're lying — "

"In another five minutes…" Kafka begins. "Bladie will come back , dragging a little friend of ours along with him. He'll have sustained a hit to his head, half healed. The hem of his coat will be ripped off." Her gaze darts to the clock. "Tick tock. I'll be busy after that so you'll need to be quick with what you have to say."

You're stunned to silence. Blade. An associate. It's a nightmare in the making. strangling every bit of air from your lungs. Kafka seems terrifyingly sure, watching the way you move, scramble, feeling disjointed and not all there or all quite present in your body.

"I don't want this." You tear up.

She kisses your cheek. "I know, sweetie." Kafka gives your shoulder a condescending squeeze. You may as well be stabbed in the stomach too, revulsion burning your throat, jerking you away from her. It makes you want to grow claws, to make her hurt somewhere, anywhere. "It's too bad, really. Maybe if you were a little braver, a little more gutsy, we might have struck you from that list." She laughs. "Honestly, I find it adorable. You're like a scared little stray…"

A sickening thunk suddenly echoes out back, soft against the tile, and moving trough whimpered struggles. Kafka's eyes narrow. "That seems to be our cue." she comments lightly. You look at the clock. Five minutes.

Your voice is stolen away, a failed note against the hand crushing your windpipe. You feel dizzy, dizzy, dizzy, almost stumbling over the chair. Kafka is drunk off of it, shoulder brushing against yours. It's just her, those footsteps, the smell of her perfume. "So…" she whispers. "What's it like?" Her touch sears at your wrist, edging higher. "Being scared?"

Blade steps between the two of you. His hand coming to grasp at your arm, smearing a brown, bloodied stain against the expanse and dwarfing your wrist ( he can break it so easily ). He stinks of iron and rot and you don't dare to face that monstrous view of him, just like that first day, feeling his pulse recede and the massacre he left behind under the fading colour of his eyes.

( And still, you feel guilty. Because Kafka is right. You are a coward. )

"Kafka." Blade utters, a warning stained against his stressed inflections. "Leave her be."

Kafka's lips pull at the corners, serene, seemingly innocent. She doesn't even try to hide the deception. "Jealous much?" she snickers, letting you go. Blade feels agitated, the beginnings of a riptide streaking beneath a still surface. He yanks at you, fingertips pressing at your cheek, the spot between your ear and the column of your neck. It's the most he's touched you.

( Has she hurt you, he wants to demand. Has she? )

"Don't touch her."

Kafka holds her hands up in surrender. "Okay." she relents, content and entertained with the way things seem to be. From the corner of your eye, you see a mass…something close to human, move. A scream is lodged in your pharynx. Your nails dig into Blade's hand, a hoarse, wheezing sound heaving from the depths of your lungs. The mass stretches, tries to move away. You see red plaster the white tiles beneath it.

Blade's gait shifts to awareness, sharp eyed, watching the man try to escape.

"You didn't break his legs?" Kafka asks.

"I did. This one is stubborn." Blade snarls. He looks dog like, wolf like, fangs borne between a drooling muzzle. Your eyes sting as you try to tug away, away from him as Kafka stands and saunters over to the body, that elusive little smile still present.

"Well, we have plenty to ask of him. He still has a few details to give away now, doesn't he?" She hums a little tune, yanking the man by the hair till his broken whimpers turn to miserable screaming. "Come on Bladie, I need help. And you…" She fixes that stare on the man. "Listen to me. You can't speak anymore, or scream, or cry. Not till I tell you to."

The man's cries fade out into open mouthed gasps, his face a bruised and bloodied mess of tears and snort. Blade was not kind in handling him, not with his torn tendons and the unearthly jut his legs were angled at. Your skin crawls at the sight. You reach for your bag, your phone, shaking past the initial terror to give a final call for help.

Blade looks at you. It's enough to completely shatter it, unwinding, undoing, pressing down harder against the fragile cracks in your walls and letting that mess slip away past the desperate grasp of your arms and down away on the floor.

You shut your eyes and tell yourself you saw nothing.

VIII. SKELETONIZATION

You don't hear much of the man, save for Kafka's questions muffled behind the walls. The whats, whens, wheres and hows that you can't keep track off without giving too much of yourself up ( you're afraid you do, a thousand different things will split. You tell yourself there's nothing there ). You focus in the clock instead, watching minutes after minutes pass beneath the incessant sound of it ticking, ticking, ticking.

Minutes after minutes after minutes.

There's a final exchange of words. You hear a tumble, a body hitting the ground. Kafka walks out, hardly bothered in the slightest and pristine save for that dampness of her gloves. She shoots you a charming smile, taking in how you'd tucked into yourself. "Well you're a sight for sore eyes. Scared, lamb?"

You're scared of a lot of things now, of the woman in front of you and the man outback and the man whose words they stole and the impending aftermath predicted. You're trapped in your own burning house, doors jammed shut and the window too high to take a jump. You'll suffocate in here, choke till your lungs collapse and your organs scream and fragment.

Kafka cups your cheek. "Hm, a pity. Scripts have to be followed though…sorry about that doc." She draws away and you let out a wet little sob. "Don't be too sad about it." She coos, patting your cheek. "On the bright side, I'll be leaving soon. Stay close to Bladie, okay? Can't have you running off and throwing a fuss now."

Dear lord no. Not Blade. Not Blade after all this. It feels like a joke and a half, an empty attempt at drawing out any laughter from an unenthused crowd of blank eyed faces. You stay seated, wide eyed and insistent. "No." you choke for good measure. Kafka's expression glows.

"No?" she echoes, a hand resting against either side of the armrest. You try to make yourself small, edging away from her farther and farther till her knee slots between your legs and you nearly cry out and kick her off. "Come on now." She coaxes, hand tugging at your waist, sitting you up proper. "Don't be too difficult. Bladie's not half bad."

You shake your head, blanking out through her crooning as your struggle intensifies. "Stop it." you repeat, shaking your head, seized and maniacal till your nails dig in. Kafka doesn't flinch. She's still smiling. "Don't you dare tell me I'm being —" You sob. it's messy, so messy and that pain in your chest only grows, spreading across like blooming rot. " — that I'm being difficult." You spit. "After all this, I'm allowed to. You're both insane, you fucks, I — "

Kafka presses a thumb over your lips. You bite, hard.

"Listen to me." She keeps talking. She won't stop. "Stop crying."

You stop crying. Your mind is empty white and fuzzy static stretching out like elastic. You feel her laughter against you. "Good girl." She praises. "Now, go on along with Bladie, okay? He'll do a good job looking after you."

You claw at the walls, trying to protest as your body lifts, padding out back, trapped within the long winding of corridors that didn't quite look like that once. "Kafka." you hear Blade echo again, his hands resting heavy on your shoulders. It sounds exasperated? Why? You're fine. You think you're fine. You see a magenta blur flutter around you and words spatter apart and stitch back together into nonsense and noise.

Blade takes you by the arm. You're half leaning against him, the soft, shaky breaths against his ribs and his heartbeat ( it's a slow, faint sound ). He seems to linger in place, letting you be as your nose screws against the smell of blood spotting his clothes. Then, he's leading you along the less crowded roads, shuffling past the harsh blaze of streetlights. Vaguely, you remember where this route takes you and you try to join the pieces — the memories feel so far, far away.

The mass tucked under Blade's arm moves. You look the man straight in the eye and do nothing. Your mind, your ribs are barren spaces.

You smell salt, hear the sea, the waves, the wind. The man in his arms struggles ( you're not here ). You see the panic stretched across, the way he pales to what looks like ash grey ( you're not here ). You watch Blade turn your face away, annoyance sparking in his eyes ( you're not here ). You look on anyway, as his fingers claw at his throat, so easily tearing apart soft flesh and tendon and muscle till his hands are stained warm red ( you're not here ). You're lain bare to those death throes, a wheezing from a broken windpipe, the yellow of subcutaneous fat and the ruptured arteries ( you're not here ).

"You should have looked away."

Blade's voice pulls you out. You finally breathe. Take it all in again as the cotton and the fuzz and the silk web is untangled from your notches. The man falls to the sand, nothing more than dead weight at this point.

( This could be you. )

You take a good, long look at him, at that tear stricken, marred face, that distended jaw and the awful angle to his limbs. The sand is already soaking up beneath him — he was alive once. You didn't know this person, you'd never met him and…

( You let him die. You're a doctor and you let him die. )

Blade's brow furrows when you take a shaky step back, two clear words; 'do not'. You look around you, spot one clear rout of escape amidst that hopeless need to collapse, the world spinning faster and faster and fraying and burning away at the far extremities. You try to run.

He doesn't lie when he says it's easy to catch you again.

You're drawn close, your back practically colliding against his chest before you could make it too far. That rabid, scrambling beast in your snarls and you sink your teeth into his wrist, kicking wildly till your foot connects with his shin. Blade grunts, and you slip away just a little, an inch, one more. But he's bigger, bigger and stronger and it takes a moment for you to fall to the floor, swiping into the buzz and feeling his heaving chest pressed against yours.

His hold closes round your throat. "No — " You burst out,. "No, no don't — "

Blade doesn't move as much against your kicks, face drawn to stony apathy while you try to pry his fingers away, vision blurring against tears and snot. His thumb presses down against your thyroid, breaths unevenly paced to an animalistic rhythm. He doesn't seem all there with how he seems so steeped in madness and…

…fuck it, you're terrified.

Your hand gropes to the side, closing round the uneven surface of a stone. You drive it into the side of Blade's skull, a faint crack ringing out. He falters, wide eyed as one hand presses against the wound and comes away wet. You take a gasping breath in, pushing yourself up but Blade drives you down hard, down to your back till it hits something soft, and still and dead —

( No no no nono no no no NO NO. )

The vermilion of his gaze burns you ( just like all those nights ago ).

It's already started to heal, collapsed parts of his skull scraping and pushing itself back out, repairing damaged bone and muscle. And Blade looks half drunk, sunken into rapture and starvation, his hand sliding up from your throat to press at your cheeks. You freeze, ceasing your assault to his chest and stomach.

He curls over your form, shrugging and swatting away your hands to pin you down proper. There is a wet squelch against your arm pressing against that open wound. "Stop…" You whine, trying to tug him back. "Blade. Blade stop — "

He presses his lips to yours. You slam your fist into his sternum, tasting his blood in his mouth. His teeth come next, biting against your bottom lip, taking, taking, taking. It feels infecting, like a disease, like something that shouldn't be there and you squirm. Blade's fingers tangle into your hair, giving it a sharp tug. You feel your back press against the corpse's shoulder, practically crushing you against it.

He's not gentle. Blade can't be gentle with the violence that comes with him. It's too deeply embedded into the crevices of his bone and marrow and in his veins and blood. It's the oxygen he breathes in, the lead that poisons his alveoli and files away at the pliable parts of his abdomen.

His tongue peeks through, pushing past your lips to take a taste. There's that heady taste in you, disgusting, curling in your guts and just about threatening to batter out. You kick him again.

His eyes flash, dyed more red than orange. He comes away with spit and blood smeared across his lips. You heave, staring up at him, then break down, sobbing openly. Blade keeps you still, bending down to kiss you another time, just at the corner of your lips.

"Enough." You beg him, sounding small. You feel defeated, the load wearing down the bones of your shoulder till you're crushed and collapse. "Please."

Blade blinks. He sits up and sits you up with him, nestled between his legs. You look behind you, the man's larynx having come turn free from your struggle, hanging out a hairs breath and cushioned by fat and crushed muscle fibres. You croak, tipping your weight over and emptying your stomach out onto the beach; till all you are retching out is acid and bile. He pulls your hair back, halting your mess from getting caught in it.

"Done?" he asks, drawing you back close to him, his gaze lidded. You shut your eyes.

"I want to go back home." you whisper.

"Alright." Blade promises you, putting you back down on the sand. "Don't move." You don't think you can. Your limbs weight down more and more with the passing minute. Blade drags the body out into the ocean, for a moment, disappearing beneath the surface. He returns, of course. He can't drown, or die ( He's not human, never will be ). "Come." he tells you.

You allow it, him gathering you in his arms. You don't make a fuss, or shout. "Keys." he reminds you. You hand them to him, leaning your head into his shoulder. Your tears prickle beneath your eyelids.

He takes you back home.

You don't know how he'd avoided the security guard's questioning, or the neighbours, But Blade sets you down on the little stool, pulling the bucket beneath the tap to let the hot water run. You draw your legs to your chest, thoughts collapsing into each other, fracturing and splintering as your trembling grows worse. All you can think of is gargling till the taste of blood is gone and the memory of that kiss is gone.

Blade fixes his attention on you. "You need to bathe." He says, taking a knee. You're exhausted, too exhausted to protest, trembling when he pulls away at your jacket and your pants, letting it pile up by the door.

"I can do it myself." You mumble. You question the necessity of it. He won't listen, after all.

He unhooks your bra and tugs down your underwear. "You're tired." He states. "Your attempts will not be as effective."

"Does that matter?"

Blade hums. "Kafka mentioned the need for hygiene. You could fall sick. Besides, you are a doctor." Not anymore, you nearly snap. He moves on to himself next, unbuttoning his jacket. "Detergent?" he asks when you squeeze your eyes shut and refuse to see any more. The sound of his belt buckle is next and his trousers being pulled down.

"Cabinet under the kitchen sink." you mutter. Blade steps out and you lean up against the bucket, watching the water steadily fill till it reaches your fingertips. You hear the beeping from the washing machine and Blade's returning footsteps. He settles behind you

"Turn around."

You turn. You do not look down.

He spends a moment regarding you, then empties a pitcher-full of water over your head. It's warm enough and you let your eyes slip shut as he works on scrubbing away the blood and sweat from your hair. That rotten thing curls in your belly, ringing round like a centipede crawling.

Blade's thumb wipes away the smudge on your cheek with sandalwood soap and he tips his chin up. "Don't fall asleep yet."

"Okay." you passively reply, opening your eyes. he hums and continues to wash you, treating your body with clinical indifference. You don't know what's worse, the hunger or the distance. The act of being viewed as anything but human leaves a sour taste in your mouth. "What about you?" You ask, filling the empty space. You don't want to think about tonight. You don't want to think at all.

Blade hums. "You can help." He shrugs right after. "We will be done sooner at least."

"Okay." You echo, reaching for the soap. You come to realise that he does need the help. Pulling the bandages off of him was a hard enough task. They were messily strewn on, almost cutting away his blood flow and he sweeps it aside. His wrists and his forearms are next. You don't undo the one on his thigh, furiously washing the dried fluids off of him.

What are you doing?

A part of you laughs at the obscene humour. A few hours ago, you'd have dropped dead at the very idea of doing this, if the hopelessness wasn't torn away from you the reins and left you on the backseat of a crashing car.

"You can…turn around."

Blade grunts and turns. you spurt too much shampoo into your hands. Some of it spills over. "You're scared." He says.

"I am."

He bends down a bit. It's easier to reach his head this way. "You should be. You should have killed me." He states, severity weighing his words.

Your shoulders slump, fatigued. "Please. Just stop." Your voice dips into a whisper. "Just stop. I want to rest, alright?" Blade falls silent, knitting his brow together. He nods wordlessly as you rake your fingers through his hair, undoing some of the knot building up against the shampoo suds.

( Blade thinks you're still too gentle with him, in how you trace one of his scars. But he feels the shudder, the roiling beat under your skin, the fear. He sees how easy it is to bring the tears out again and turn that mind of yours off.

He turns a little, pressing his fingertips to the softness of your thigh, just in case you try to run again. )

When you're both done, he has you swaddled in your blankets and deposited on your bed, clothes in tow. It's horrible, this tenderness. You don't think he's used to it either, in how he shuffles and cautiously pads at your arm like you're a fragile little thing, like he wasn't the one who took the mallet to it in the first place.

"Will you hurt me?" You ask, dead eyed.

Blade's lips part ( sometimes he does, when the mara blooms forth florets in his chest and stomach and he wants to break something that breathes beneath his hands ). "Will you run?" he asks.

"If I do, will you hurt me?"

"Yes." he replies bluntly, his hand resting on your calves. You know what that means. You squeeze your eyes shut and nod, laying down on the bed and curling up into yourself.

"You're a monster." you tell him with a shaky, illegible slur. All this for a preordained destiny, for convenience, because you're a coward. All this and you'll be left with nothing tomorrow. You think of your clinic and what you'd salvaged before opening it. It's foundations and the grey walls of the empty rooms it once had. Your heart poured into it all. "Both you and her."

Blade lowers his head. "We know."

IX. DISJOINTING

You did not sleep at all, last night. Blade still stalks the hallways at the unearthly hours you wake at ( five thirty on the dot ). A man is dead, a man you barely know, whose body now below the ocean's surface. Maybe the sharks ate him. And your clinic…you curse it all, and you curse that compulsion that has you reaching for your phone.

It doesn't take long to find it after browsing the local news network. A few live footage of the collapsed interior and the busted furniture. Years of work torn apart ( At least Aleena quit. At least she doesn't have to see this ).

"Do you know why they did this?" you ask, your voice scratchy when Blade comes to linger by your door frame. He'd washed his clothes last night, having pulled his trousers back on with a loose fitted tank top. Kafka must have dropped by.

Blade looks away.

"You know." You spit out, fury bubbling up, clouding your eyes, painting it all red. "You know, don't you? Look me in the eye and tell me you do, you little — "

"The man." Blade cuts in. "The man who hurt you."

You grip the sheets. "What did you do?" you whisper, numbness taking foot and taking away more and more reasoning.

"I killed him." he passes you a sharp look. "Letting him live would have put both of us at risk."

You let out a mirthless laugh. "So it's your fault then. You…you come in and just assume I would be fine with you just…" You laugh. You laugh and laugh and laugh till your ribs hurt and your sides ache because it was so unnecessary, all of this. He must be sick in the head, him and Kafka, to twist apart your livelihood and step all over it. Monsters, the lot of them. Monsters.

"Oh god you're a fucking riot. Now what should I do? I have no job…should I go back? Maybe you could get a kick out of me being sold off again, right?" You flash him a bright little smile, mania at it's finest, and anger. So, so much anger it boils your body alive.

He narrows his eyes. "You will not be leaving. They'll come after you next."

You giggle. "Of course they would." You whisper. "Of-fucking course they would. Then I'll just die. Let my father douse my ashes, if there's even a body to cremate because that just seems the best way to go." You lay back down, tugging at your hair with frustration. The mattress dips as he lays next to you, lips drawn against your nape.

It's possessive, demanding of every little thing and every little part you had to offer.

"I won't be leaving." You snarl, feeling all that spite gather. "I can't because of you. remember?"

"I know."

You press your cheek against your pillow. You're tired again. You want to sleep. "You may as well just kill me at this point." You state flatly. "There isn't much use keeping me alive. I've served my purpose right? What was it, some glorified shield?"

His grip on you constricts. You're pulled closer to his chest. "You will not die." He tells you, his nose pressing up against your neck. Blade inhales, tangling his fingers into your hair. "And I won't kill you."

You bare your teeth at him. Then you stop, and press your face to the pillow again. "Enough." you tell him, feeling angry and tired and empty and more. You try to push Blade off of you, the small of your back brushing against him. Blade lets out a hiss, nails digging into your forearm and you freeze.

He's pressed up, half hard against you.

You throw yourself away from him.

Your eye sockets burn as you flinch and struggle. "Stop." He rasps his order, pressing you stomach down against the mattress as you curl over the edge, letting out a panicked whimper, a migraine searing through your forehead. It turns into an ugly sob, into cries that bleed into the sheets, tracking saliva down as you're dragged back.

His weight bears down hard on your back, his mane curtaining your line of sight. You try to elbow him off and he wrestles your hands down, pinning them behind you. He's panting, letting out a stray growl every now and then. The edge of his nails dig a little deeper into your wrists, just as the other hand fixes itself firmly against your thigh.

You shake. You don't try to hide the glassy eyed look. You only shake.

Blade's annoyances seem to mount, his forehead pressing against your temple. ( Appease her, Kafka's voice whispers to his ear. Blade feels too much of you beneath his palm, and it stokes a selfish hunger that comes down violently ).

He trails his hand upwards. You lay slack, surrendering to it with a tense form. It tugs your nightwear down, spreads your legs a little more. You cry a little, then give up on it, his fingers exploring the softness of your thighs and slipping to the inside. He lets your hands go and you come to grasp at the pillows, nipping down at your bottom lip.

"Blade…?" You whisper, unsure.

He traces the seam of your cunt, dipping a finger inside to toy at your clit and you squeak, grabbing his arm. "H-hold on that's — "

Blade turns you over, draping your legs on either side of his hips. You look at him, pupils shrunken down at the sight of him surveying you, his lips pressing over the curve of your knee, then further down. You squirm beneath him, movements stilled by a firm hand on your belly. Blade bites hard, tearing into the skin of your thigh, breaking capillaries and drawing blood.

He pulls away to witness the bruising and the wet wail you shudder out, soothing you with his tongue brushing over the wound like a dog. You slam your foot against his shoulder. Blade simply grabs it and hoists it above his shoulder.

"Let me…" he mumbles, groaning up against your skin, spacing your thighs apart some more. You're squirming, and he roughly pulls you closer. "Stay still."

You can't, you want to say. You can't when he's touching you like that and —

He stills. "You haven't done this before, have you?" he guesses. You want to sink, sink down into a place that was far away from here. Blade's eyes are unnaturally bright, burning like coals against the dim lighting.

"Shut up and get this over with." You rasp. There's nothing here, nothing between the two of you. Maybe a few sick feelings from his side. You want it to be done with and let the maggots eat away at your body after ( if that makes it easier for him in the end ). Blade huffs, vague amusement flitting past his expression. His cheek is smushed against your thigh.

"Your first…" he mumbles, a vague story playing out in his eyes. Your legs are pushed back, and he sits himself down before you, teeth grazing through soft flesh till he latches his mouth to your cunt and presses the expanse of his tongue over your bundle of nerves. You mewl into it, jolting under his touch as his hands come to massage circles at your hips.

You stay steadfastly quiet after that, as the assault continues and he licks a strip up your slit while gauging every little shift and twitch on your face. You could have fooled anyone else with the forced apathy, fooled Blade with you looking at anything but him. He suckles at your clit, rolling it over the tip of his tongue and you twitch, bucking your hips into the grind.

Blade demands. He demands and keeps demanding, eating you out half starved and at a pace you couldn't keep up with; feeling that appendage slip into you at some point of it all. You moan ( this doesn't feel goo. It shouldn't. How fucking pathetic are you?! ) trembling at all the new feelings blurring out your mind.

You tell yourself to take it. Take it and let him leave you be after that taste of satisfaction. Blade nuzzles into your cunt, smearing your building slick against your outer lips till smelted orange meets the fatigue in yours.

"You're being stubborn." he comments, pulling away for a moment. You grit your teeth, open your mouth to snap back. Blade dips down then, a finger slipping into you, massaging your insides and pacing himself with more gentleness than you'd expected. Gasping and grasping at the sheets, your narrowed gaze fixates on his, fuming, fuming.

You push his face away when he leans in close and he persists, teeth latching over your neck, licking a delicate strip up the column of it. His chest seems to vibrate — it's not a purr. It rattles at you, it's unnatural.

"Make it quick then!" you sob. "Please."

His finger curls inside you and you curl your toes into the sheets, keening into his hair. You hate this. You hate this. There is a warmth in your insides that stirs and seeps through the cracks. Blade seems to notice and takes it in with a hunger that terrifies you. He presses his pads against that sweet spot, a thumb returning to your clit. You whine, shake your head.

"Good?" he asks. It feels like a taunt.

"Shut up." you grimace, rocking your hips in pace with him. It's little jolts of that buttery feeling that has your mind sink further and farther away. Blade kisses your neck, grinding up against your ass through it all. It's awful. It's all wrong, this facade of gentleness.

You mumble, grinding at his hand as another finger is added and he stretches you out a little, testing your limits with rapture. That heat grows, grows, grows bit by bit, tuned to the way his finger curls into that spot. A moan spills out, then another and you spa a hand over your mouthy, shaking your head. You want it to stop. You want this to stop now and —

Blade's digits nudge against your cervix and he bears down on your clit hard.

It snaps, that warmth. You tighten round his gingers, clenching, sucking him in deeper and his lips part as he watches you fall apart with a jumble of words and begging. You fall back into the sheets as he pulls his hand away, laving at your mess while he undoes the buttons of your shirt. It spares a peak of the sweet of your breasts, the soft expanse of your stomach. He's seen it before. There's nothing new to it.

He bites again, not as deep this time as he pulls his pants down. You spare a glance, snapping out of the afterglow when you catch sight of him. "That won't fit." You whisper.

Blade shudders, his cock resting at your stomach. It's hot, an angry res that makes you feel uneasy. You half expect pain when he slides down to breach you entrance, you expect tears and you expect it with hunched shoulders. Blade is slow instead, thoughtful, almost. He keeps his progress slow, watching you wince against the stretch before he thrusts in deeper, finally nudging his tip to your cervix and staying there a moment.

Somewhere between all that, his hand finds yours, pressing down at your palm in awkward assurance.

You can't take it.

"What are you doing?!" you demand, whining against how full you felt. It's strange, so strange and you think you see the mad ramblings from friends and gossip over how good sex felt sometimes. But this is Blade. Blade, with his violence and his slashed wrists and the way he stank of death.

Blade pushes some of his weight on you. "It's your first time." he replies.

Your first time. A rare consideration. An emotion that bud out too late for your tastes. "Why should you care then?!" You snap, grabbing his tank top. "For fucks sake, stop treating me like I'm your lover! I'm not! You're not doing this to me because you have feelings do you?!"

The question was wholly rhetorical. It's a harsh accusation, mounted by everything else he'd done wrong. Blade falls silent, eyes wide. You leer up at him, then chortle with disbelief. "Oh god, you are." You choke out, feeling violated in a way. Feeling more violated than you were already. Blade keeps staring at you as you cover your face, cackling. "Oh god, oh god this is just unbelievable! You like me? Me?!"

You feel venom drip into your words. You feel that ache, the urge to tear his eyes out then and there. Boys will be boys. The words keep echoing through and it makes you physically ill to think of it.

"You're pathetic. You're absolutely fucking pathetic!" you cut through, grabbing his hair and pulling at it. Blade grunts, annoyed. You don't care, ripping at his face, his neck, his shoulders. "Fuck! Fuck you! After all this bullshit, fuck you!" Blade hisses, trying to shift a bit, move some more but you kick out at his thigh.

"Do not." he grits out, his voice low and angry. "Your anger is an inconsequential thing. I've seen far worse."

"You think I want your guilt, you ass?!" you demand. "You think I want you begging and grovelling for forgiveness?!" Blade thrusts. You dig down, fight against it and the sweet burn it brings. You feel that storm brew in your chest and you spit at him, jarring Blade enough with wide eyed shock ( it's a satisfying thing to see ) to slam your weight into him and roll the two of you over, your hands grabbing at his throat.

He nudges deeper into you and you cry out, feeling his tip coax into your g-spot. Still, you hold on.

Blade still watches, gauging the sudden shift, waiting to see you move. When you take a moment to gain your bearings, he grasps at your hips, guiding you down his cock and you almost falter, feeling his free hand tweak your nipples. sputtering a little, you persist, your thumbs coming to press against his Adam's apple.

Blade lets out a gasp, snapping his hips up again, drawing himself out then back into you. You feel him grind against those sensitive spaces he'd gauged out earlier and a few flustered cries sputter out before your grip tightens round your neck.

He sets his speed, increasing that pace to a faster rhythm, grasping at what parts he could, letting you take from him for a moment. You double over, teeth tearing into his cheek. "I despise you." You tell him. "I hate you for taking everything away from me. I hate you for ruining my life." You pour it all in, all the vitriol and the fury. Blade's eyes shut.

"I know." he grunts, feeling you clench down on his cock.

"I wish you'd stayed dead." You add, feeling it all pile up into a raw mass that eats you alive. "Do you hear me?"

"I know." He repeats.

"I hate you." You sob out, your tears splattering against his jaw. Your thumb presses down harder. Blade moans, his tempo increasing and catching you in it's midst, hitting your sweet spot over and over till it tumbles through to make a mess between the two of you, the baggage and the tucked away harshness. "You're pathetic. Absolutely fucking pathetic."

It feels so fuzzy, the heat, the faint warmth from Blade, blocking out his airflow. His movements grow frantic, almost, his grip on you bruising your hips till finally, you find you release again, legs weakening below you. Still, you hold fast, dragging yourself over the expanse of his body as he keeps up with thrusting faster and faster to a brink of near over-stimulation, all of it animalistic grunts and grows and teeth nudging at your chest.

You press down hard enough and Blade finally cums, his release coming in spurts inside of you. The cartilages in his larynx give out and you feel tissue collapse into itself ( just like that man on the beach with his throat torn out, poetic in a gruesome sense ). You watch him struggle to breath and you push down harder, hysteria bursting as you bare your teeth and drive him closer to another death.

Blade goes still below you. He's cold as a corpse.

You sway a bit, lifting yourself off of his cock, falling into a haze of cotton wool and sick satisfaction, tipping into the space next to him. He's dead. He's dead.

You shut your eyes, and you feel nothing.

You have better to do now, the unsaid and the undone. The empty buzz of pleasure slowly recedes and you grasp your phone between your hands, tapping at the message app. You let out a soft cry, shoulders shaking. There was a life once that felt far too distant. Where you'd been tugged away and folded into silk and gold till you were shackled down and told to stay quiet.

( There are many things you want to tell them. Many angry things, many quiet, introspective things. Many with a little more love lining your words, a little more longing. They still wait for you, even after shutting their doors. You know this too. )

So, you start to type.

Dear Appa…

Blade wakes when the sunlight filters in, and his arm winds round you in the silence, listening to the rustle down below and the coming commotion. Then, he rises, buttoning his pants up proper and drawing the blanket over your head. "Stay here." he tells you.

You listen to the angry voices and the encroaching footsteps from the staircase outside. Blade summons his sword, stalking out of the room, dog-like, wolf-like, his violence returned to him after briefly being cowed by your venom.

The doorbell rings and you draw into yourself.

You are not here. You tell yourself. You close your eyes and think of the garden in front of your childhood home.

#log. [ writing ]#blade x you #honkai star rail #hsr blade #blade #hsr blade x reader #honkai blade #hsr blade x you #honkai star rail x reader #tw dead dove #tw yandere #log. [ m-dni ]#blade x reader

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chokchokk · 1 year ago

Text

𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋 (𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐄) | choi san x fem!reader

a requested drummer boyfriend!san one-shot

“How do I feel like, Sannie?”

𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜 : With your eyes on his playing, San feels like a superstar.

You, on the other side, feel super horny. Mamma Mia…

“You feel like you're mine."

𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎 : fluff, smut

𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 : 7.8k

𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 : established relationship, a bit cocky but very sweet drummer!san, shy but not inexperienced girlfriend!femreader, sensory overload & deprivation, slight dry-humping (f), light-hearted teasing, pet-names (sun, sunshine, sunny, baby), explicit consent, verbal & physical reassurance, blindfolding, praise, cunnilingus, fingering, love-making, passionate sex, unprotected sex (not sorry), cussing; banging against the wall and mattresses squeaking used as a narrative and poetic device, barely plot just good fuck and tuck (aftercare)

𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎 : i wrote this in 4 long sessions while i had a very horny long distance relationship with drummer!san due to all the business i experienced while working on this lol. i missed him any time i couldn't write for him, which, over the course of almost 2 months (i'm sorry)... is long.... i promise it is sweet and love-making but uh. horny. i was drunk for a big chunk (like a half) of writing this (took care of obvious errors but tell me if you find anything please omg.) anyway lmao hope you have fun reading it <33 always appreciate reblogs, likes and comments/feedback xoxo

𝚝𝚊𝚐-𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 : @ateezstanforever : @sanwhalvr : @itsvxlentine : @jeonride : @r1kitti : @sanniesbunnie : @northerngalxy (thank you!!!)

masterlist link | join my taglist

[ what he’s playing : MAMMAMIA / FEEL / FOR YOUR LOVE ▸ Måneskin | playlist ]

OH, OH, OH, AUGH!

There he goes again, your boyfriend, his black earphone plugged deep into one ear, drum sticks held firmly in his hands, hammering down on the drums he's been abusing for the past, uh — gosh, how long has it been? An hour? A lifetime?

You love your Sannie, you really do, but when you signed up to be the girlfriend of infamous drummer “Sun Set”, you were expecting heated, secret glances from the stage to the audience, feverish making out-sessions post-concert, and while you do get those things in an overdose, listening to drum covers (without the vocals, mind you) on repeat until your ears actually fall off–? No, that one was not on the initial contract.

And, come on, it's finally the weekend after one long, exhausting week, which San and you usually spend trying to de-stress, relax and relieve yourself. So yes, if it was as usual, you would be spending your sweet time with your boyfriend right now— if it wasn't for his upcoming competition with his band.

Alright. It’s not to say that you are being forced to stay here in between these soundproof walls, covered by graffiti San's bandmates left to immortalize their jam-sessions, and don’t forget the pungent smell of tobacco that will without a doubt stick to the hoodie you fetched after he took it off— you do want to be a supportive girlfriend that’s worth winning those 1K for.

So, you’ll still give him a thumbs up and applause every time he finishes with a song, tilts up his head triumphantly, fingers running through his incredibly disheveled red hair that has formed singular spikes of sweaty strands, while the drum sticks still rest in his hands with his breath all messed up. He gives it his all, but what you understand is that San gives even more when you are there to watch him: At least that’s what you’re seeing right now, when he doesn't give himself more than five seconds to transition to the next track.

Lower lip bitten deep by his teeth, face pulled together to a concentrated frown, head rocking up and down, side to side, with his red locks waving around in the wind of his energy and feet aggressively stomping down the bass drum, your boyfriend feels his music, always, with his whole body, his mind drowns and explodes with the help of his loud instrument, and as you sit there, on the couch, a pillow clenched in between your legs– you try to balance out the overbearing noise by digging your nails into the cushion, and you deal with the “awe” you feel for your boyfriend being so immersed by his artistry, god, so astonishingly burning and afire— by pressing your thighs together so the beats of his drum can finally stop pulsating between them.

San doesn’t smile when he plays, you noticed it a while ago, makes an almost disgusted-looking face by scrunching his face together, especially when he really hammers down the cymbals and throws his head to the back, drilling holes into the ceiling with his eyes as if he’s challenging the gods to come stop him, his thick neck glistening in his sweat, his pulse pumping through the vein that is bulging out.

Oh, mamma…

You hope those gods do have mercy with you, because San looking like this does things to you that go beyond just feeling fear that he’s going to throw his shit to the floor. It makes you go into a craze that he’s also wearing a very drenched black tank top and pair of ripped jeans, his black bandana he had on his head is now tied around his thigh, and his arms are flexing with each time he’s thwacking down on his tom-toms and smashing the cymbals— fuck, where does your boyfriend get the time to go to the gym? Is it getting hot in here? You can’t possibly be enduring overheating on top of a headache, you’ll actually pass out or have to rip off your clothes in its entirety. But, shit, look at him— your boyfriend looks absolutely carnal right now and you can’t even slightly touch him, you’re going to melt. Like actually melt into mush.

… mia.

San is going through his usual cathartic euphoria, the snaring sounds of his drums and cymbals penetrate your ear cut and clean, but while you usually can bop your head to it, listening to him does slightly differ, when your brain clenches after each sound that follows the other.

It’s 1 AM. The weekend has just started. It’s been two hours of his practice now, with a small ‘make-out break’ that is already more than thirty minutes ago. San promised you, ‘just one last song and I’ll be there for you, yeah?’, but there goes he, your boyfriend, Choi San, Sun Set, drumming along to his tenth or something song, overflowing in intense passion.

You could have been lying in bed with him, San in your arms or you in his, smothered by his love or something, anything; Please, just… No more beating the skin. No more rudiments, diddles– you don’t want to hear none of it, and you know you’re being an immodest glutton for your boyfriend thinking of him like this, but there’s nothing else on your mind except him and how bad you want him to stop playing. Of course you can’t say that out loud, at least not that he could hear it over the sounds of his drums, especially over how loud the music in his earbuds is set, the vocals screech through the plastic so even you can hear the shouts.

San values his musical time with his drum, needs it to feel secure for the competition, it would be cruel to interrupt him just because you have a headache and an even more so aching cunt, right?

No, you dummy.

San is your boyfriend. Or no, you, dear, are his beloved girlfriend. He’s not going to let you sit here and suffer, even if you mean well for him and watch Sun Set be hot. Being his scarily attentive self, he catches the strain in your face and immediately stops stepping into the bass drum with his sneakers. A very acute quietude interrupts his playing and washes all of your boiled up headache away.

Silence.

It can sound so sweet, can’t it? Can feel so sweet, too…

“Hey, are you okay, sunshine?”, San asks, and after your ears get used to the lack of sound, you see his sweat drop from his forehead, hear his voice soft and molten, which starkly contrasts the overwhelming volume of the instrument he’s been playing.

“No, it’s nothing,” you murmur, failing at hiding your discomfort, as the pillow still rests in your hands, nail marks as visible as visible can be on the velvety surface. You’ve obviously been scratching that, don't even try to hide it.

“Oh, sunshine,” San sighs with a sorrowful smile that understands immediately, and after he swings his legs from the stool, he makes his way to you with open arms to slide them under your armpits.

You liquefy in his hug, the pillow tumbling out your groin, body going lax immediately as you wrap yourself around his neck, sinking into him. The couch squeaks a bit upon the impact of San falling into it, but the shrill noise is nothing compared to the beat of his drums. His embrace engulfs you, makes you feel sunken in remedy, reverie and warmth– and the slippery surface of his back only adds to the experience of having your lover in your arms. All that was a buzzing chaos— San makes it golden, melting your tense body, lifting it up to gently sit down on the couch side-ways with you on top, your ear listening to how his heart knocks against his ribcage, slowly, loudly, steadily.

“It’s past midnight already!”, he gasps silently, looking at the clock, “Why didn’t you tell me, sunny?”

“You had that look on again,” you whine, face planted into his breast, god, his pillowy, sweaty chest— and look up to him, as he strokes over your back.

“I have something like that?”, San hums, voice is kept low so he doesn’t irritate you in any way, though there’s a slight suggestive swing in the repetition of your words, “A look?”

His eyebrow twitches up and his lips are curled into a smirk, wanting you to tell him in detail what’s gotten you to fidget around with the pillow and whine in impatience, clearly bleeding in confidence that comes from having not missed even the slightest beat of the songs.

You didn’t think drummers were that sexy, since the usual limelight was kept on the flirtatious vocalists, powerful guitarists or the red-blooded bassists, but after San had invited you to one of his jam-sessions on the third date, your life had been tilted upside-down, rocked, and your fate settled. (It was really rough to not fall around his neck after his drum-solo, peculiarly when Seonghwa and Wooyoung kept making jokes about your red cheeks, but you still remember the way San asked you whether you were alright with his heavy breath, and, oh god, does it still turn you on to this day.)

If it’s not the look he has on his face every time he pounds into his instrument, the one which you can feel flutter in between your legs, it’s most certainly the look in his eyes he has on right now, the sultry, slightly taunting gaze that’s trying to make you sweat, and as if the room isn’t heated up enough, his dark irises spark in between his eyelashes, kindling a fire in you that definitely needs extinguishing— so best believe he should know it.

“Your fans tell you every day, Sannie,” you groan, embarrassment croaking your voice while you snuggle yourself deeper into his comfortable body, his thigh parked between your legs. You can feel the knot of his bandana stroke your core and you shudder a little bit, a cracked breath escaping out your nose. Your boyfriend raises his eyebrows– doesn’t seem to acknowledge how you inhale deeply– and San exhales out a chuckle, answering, with glittery puppy eyes that make you unable to say no any further, “I’d like to hear it from you though, sunshine…”

You slump deeper into his flesh and as his bandana grazes the thin layer of your booty- shorts again, you savor how slow he’s breathing and how warm he feels under you, sighing, “Sannie, when you play the drums… It’s like… W- wow, what do I say, you know…”

“Aww, don’t be shy now,” San croons and doesn’t acknowledge how he’s encouraging you to keep grinding needily on his thigh, hands skidding to your ass to cup them delicately, drifting and pushing you over slowly. “I don’t know, Sannie… You–,” you whirr and you have to inhale sharply after your sensitive bud tingles, “You… make my head hurt, Sann- n- nie.”

Alright, let’s be honest here. You’re lying through your teeth, and San chuckling is confirmation that he doesn’t believe the lie one single bit.

Yes, your head hurts, but that was his music, not San as the only man who could take care of all the feelings that have been jamming up like crazy. Feelings being a gut-wrenching mix of longing, craving, lusting for San as hard as you do. Even now, you can count the drops of sweat on his face dripping down his freckled neck you’ve already previously admired, but seeing it up close makes you quite greedier, especially when you can still make out his flavor on your tastebuds from having had your tongue down his throat a (too long) while ago. Not to forget his fingers groping into your plump butt right now, and it’s confusing how your boyfriend’s visage can stay as innocuous as it looks while he’s obviously supporting you on chasing your thrill.

After the silence that follows San’s chuckle, your boyfriend speaks up again, and despite the air being undeniably thick, his voice vibrates comfortably in his ribcage, lulling in the side of your head; “I’m so sorry for making your pretty head hurt, Y/N.”

You click with your tongue, pouting, gathering a bit of your energy that’s slowly coming back, and grab San by his shoulders. You turn your head so your chin is poking into his sternum, looking right to where he’s eyeing you down. You stop grinding and he looks with a smile.

“How can I make it up to you, hm?”, your boyfriend snickers softly, hands disappearing under his hoodie to trail you down your back and waist with his fingers. You feel fuzzy and velvety under his touch, and him gently breathing out “sunny” melts in your ears like a restorative, refreshing breeze after the endless knocks of his drums intimidating you and tying your throat shut.

“My ears were seriously killing me, I think,” you admit, but the cute pout remains formed on your lips.

“Ohh, Y/N, I’m– I’m really sorry to hear that. I really didn’t want to make you hurt, sunny, I promise,” San sniffles and mirrors your pout; you get the hunch he does feel very, very sorry this time, yet his hands are very guilty of slithering up your back and— clip! Open up your bra.

Ignoring that you flutter, feel light and feel the relief already, you uncontrollably giggle in surprise and push yourself up, getting to see more of your boyfriend’s handsome face. He has stopped pouting now, using his tongue to wet his red-tinted lips with a friendly, yet very ferocious smile. “You know the songs I was playing right now, sunshine?”

“No, I don’t,” you answer with continuing honesty.

Your boyfriend chuckles, “hm, maybe it’s better that way,” voice dripping like honey, but the sweet innocence is feigned, making you curious of what he’s hiding from you, deflecting from the very evident scene he’s painting.

His caramel skin proves it; for the particularized taste, heat must be added for sugar to win aroma, and your boyfriend is testing the theory to its limits.

Gliding his hands to your hips, San gets your cheeks burning, and when he hooks his fingers into his hoodie and drives it off your body, you lick over your lips asking yourself if you need any clarity to know where this is going; With your arms raised, your boiling skin meets fresh air through your drenched shirt and you shudder for a short moment, before your boyfriend gets his hands on the bra, fetches it, and slithers it out your arms.

After it drops to the ground and San sees your nipples poke through your shirt, he shifts his weight to the front to make you trip on your back, and takes off his tank top with both of his hands. His lats spread frighteningly wide and you let out a gasp. You’ll never not be surprised about how beefy your boyfriend is; San’s sweaty body expands in front of your eyes, and his collarbones are perfectly in your sight, as he hovers over you with his hand propped next to your head. There’s a wave of heat hitting your face and you aren’t sure whether you’re blushing or if his body is just genuinely that thermal.

Adopting the rather playful tone of your lover, you sulkily murmur, “It’s unfair if you don’t tell me about those things now, Sannie,” letting your finger trail along his slippery chin with softness, aware that you will only semi-attentively listen to his words from how distracted you are from his fallen eyes that are slowly flaming up. There’s only two things on your mind and while one of them includes going home, the other one can be perfectly executed on the couch.

“Oh, so naughty things, sunny, I don’t know if you want to hear about them, actually.”

San chuckles, his words contradicting how eagerly he kisses your hand, piercing through you with his eyes, making you melt. He gets his upper body up, his knees caging you in and you murmur “tell me about them”, as your boyfriend grabs you by wrist to help you move it down his chest that is still perceivably sleek, down to his abs that are just as lubricious and then, with a heavy sigh he definitely forms into a clear “ha~” leaving his mouth which makes your insides wobble.

Your boyfriend is such a tease. On stage, he doesn’t get to be as interactive as his band-counterparts do, like getting their sweat-drenched heads dangle down to the crowd and be ruffled through their hair, but Sun Set surely takes off his top oftentimes enough so every fan of his can admire his build. Your boyfriend’s amazing build.

He lets go of your hand to go through his red hair with a smirk, peeking down at his belt, clearly driving you into a wall here which is going to feel feathery light, but still so scary to brush against your skin— you have to make a choice here, one that makes your voice come out stuttered, one that proves to San that he's on the right track, cooking you up deliciously.

San might be a tease, but ohh, Y/N. You’re just so fun to tease, aren't you?

“P.. Please, Sannie,” you murmur, shyly, voice whispery because the headache fizzles inside your head, rather cripplingly slowing down your thoughts. He knows he likes it a bit too much, you being shy, but there’s something twitching inside his pants, when San thinks about the things he can do to you tonight to make you react even more, a smirk hurrying onto his face.

“Mmmm,” he hums, and you watch him collectively gather the bits and tits of his vivid, loud, rocking mind, silence remaining strikingly strong between you two, your head beaming everytime he doesn’t say anything to take his time to think.

“Things you were doing with that pillow for example,” San hushes. Your hands move by themselves to unbuckle his belt, and while you do blush a little bit, both your hands get the black leather strip out the clip with hurried motions. “Or the things you were doing to my thigh just a second ago, sweet sunshine.”

Your boyfriend snickers and once his belt is on the floor too, he shuffles a bit to the back and wraps his fingers around your ankles, pulling you so you lay straight on the couch, while he’s kneeling between your legs, cowered as small as his big frame allows it.

“I- I don’t think I understand yet, Sannie,” you droop, wanting San to get more explicit with you so you can swim in his vulgarity that he oozes, and also make him finally confirm you don’t have any reason to be embarrassed about being the only one whose guts are demanding to be stirred. He’s getting more bricked up, and since his baggy jeans are hanging loose now, you can see his cockhead bulge out his boxershorts. “I think you need to explain it more…”

You gulp at the wet patch and flutter with your eyelids, and with San’s thumbs caressing your love handles and leaning towards over your torso, his heat radiates to your face again. You were feeling a bit more bold, but no, you could never get used to how intensely San looks at you. His eyes speak a thousand words, sing a million songs, and they’re all about getting a bite of the red on your cheeks and taste how it will melt into his tongue. There’s a droning buzz which thumps into your eardrums and it’s blood rushing to your head at the incalescence of your boyfriend, who doesn’t let a second pass where he’s not touching you, even when he’s pulling off your t-shirt from your body.

“Hmmm, maybe you’re just not able to listen correctly, my love,” San sneers, almost paradoxically sweet, and arousal boils in your guts, while your sweated body gets used to the new temperature, your boyfriend’s hands cupping your breasts once, just to have finally get a touch. “Because of the headache, right? Mmm, right,” he murmurs to himself, and San unravels the bandana on his thigh.

You look at how he straightens the fabric in front of you, and how his hands slowly approach your head. “Will you let me fix that, sunshine?”

“Wh.. What are you going to do, Sannie?”

“Show,” and San instantaneously corrects himself, after he lets the slightly warmed up fabric drape over your forehead, ”hmm, make you hear,” to then let it fall over your eyes, getting very close to your ear, so his warm lips line your earlobe, his raspy voice reverberating in your ear. “Make you hear yourself, Y/N.”

“Yeah..?”, you whisper, and look at San for a last time– his eyes sparkle in excitement that can’t be heard through the droopiness of his voice:

“Listen to how my love makes you feel, baby.”

Ayayay…

“How is this, Y/N?”

“Lemme see,” you joke and you blink a few times, after the bandana has been tightened behind your head. It is pitch-black dark in front of you. Quickly, you feel how you’re getting more aware of San’s breath coming through and leaving his mouth– you following his slow pace soon enough– and feel especially how his rough fingers are tucking in your hair so he gets to see all of how your face muscles pull together in pleasure, sending your cheeks and nose into a ticklish wave of sensation.

“It’s,” you say, but what was once a steady voice turns– after getting goosebumps all around after San courses down your neck to your sternum with the tips of his fingers– into a whimper: “A- amazing, Sannie.”

You hear San sigh, and you’re sure it’s a sigh of awe, him watching your hand search for his so you can hold it. He intertwines the fingers immediately, and when he’s at your shorts with his other hand, fingers delving to where your hip fits perfectly into his hold, San begins peppering kisses on your abdomen, you falling apart into a tense, sensitive mess at the cause of his touch.

“Can you feel how my fingers and lips feel against your skin?”

You weakly nod, his thumb chafing over your skin, as San gets his hand out and touches you everywhere.

“Words, sun. Your pretty voice, I need it to continue, alright?”

“Yes, Sann–”, you answer, but you shudder, when San lets his digits dangle over your breast, ghost-like little grazes spreading over your torso, shoulders tucking in by themselves, as you feel it run over your back like your wings are expanding, “nngh-nie…”

“So soft, aren’t you, sun? So soft for me,” your boyfriend murmurs against your fuzzy tummy, and hooks his fingers into your waistband. You were intending to hum a forlorn ‘mhm’ to answer him again, but it comes out whimpered, after San lets his thumb, which is still anchored to your hand, slither over your cunt, his thumb tickling over your now even more sensitive nub.

“Can you feel how warm you are?”, he whispers, becoming a bit greedier with the kisses he’s spreading down your pelvis-bone, accompanying how carefully he’s sliding your clothing off, your skin being more and more revealed to his eye, while you live with the uncertainty of darkness in front of yours. “How do I feel like, Sannie?”, you ask him, hearing your own voice ricochet in your throat, your ears have become more conscious of sound.

“You feel like,” he whispers, and then, when the shorts have reached your knees, and San breathes against where your cunt is soaked in your panties, he purrs, “you’re mine.”

His voice condenses warmly there, like a sweat, and you clench just by how raw your boyfriend speaks. The thought of him seeing your soaked cunt also just makes you run hot, and if it wasn’t for his elbow keeping you open, you would’ve closed down on him.

“Y- yeah?”, you shudder, as it seems that San is breathing in the lust-sodden heat from between your legs.

“Would you like to say it for me, sun? I would love to hear it…”

“I’m.. I’m y-yours, Sannie,” you choke out, and you are really not meaning to be as shaky as you are, but just when you thought you knew what you were about to get touched at your erogenous area, San has somehow managed to hover over your body and has bit into your lip, the darkness in front of you feeling even more blurry in front of your eyes due to the sudden gesture. “Hmmn–!”

San chuckles. “Aww, relax, sunshine. Trust me, Y/N, okay? I won’t hurt you, but if I do, just tell me. I’ll stop immediately,” he reassures the safety you find yourself in, despite not seeing anything in front of you. As you nod and let out a confident “Yes, Sannie,” with a deep breath in, San hums and pinches your nipples.

“Sannie!”, you whine out, and your voice cracks, when you feel his tongue circle your bud and his eyelashes flutter against your eye-collar, seemingly soothing the little surprise with his warm saliva. “Yes, sunny? Do you want me to stop?”, San asks, his cocky grin unmissable in his voice, his other thumb tickling your nipple.

“N- no, I-I mean–”

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

His voice is slightly lispy from how your nipples are stuck between his lips, San softly sucking them in, pecking your flesh around with cottony kisses.

“Yes, good… v-very.”

“More?”

“Yes, yes, more.”

“You’re so cute, Y/N,” San laughs throatily, and then traces your silhouette, making you even woolier than before, a little squirm leaving your mouth, when his thumb meets your feverish crotch. “Your sounds,” San sighs, and presses his lips against your neck, his upper body slightly weighing into yours, as it seems that he’s holding himself up by grabbing into the backrest of the couch, “are my drug, baby.”

“Mmm-hm,” you answer, trying to keep your mind where his voice leads you, but you’re too busy feeling how San’s fingers sift slowly through your folds, softly, carefully, feeling every inch of slick squelch warmly around his digit. “Fuuuck,” San grunts into your ear, circling his fingertip around your clit, causing you to grab his wrist that has wandered to the top of your head. You have to gulp, and your boyfriend takes it as a sign to go a bit slower on you, but it doesn’t stop San whispering things to make you spiral into a hypnosis. “Fuck, sunshine, you’re so fucking sexy…”

A whimper leaves your opened mouth, as San chuckles in awe and coats his fingers with more of your arousal. “Is this what happens when you watch me play, sun? Getting all wet for Sun Set?”

It feels like your head is going to fall off your neck, when you softly nod up and down, San’s finger continuing to make you clench by stroking over your clit. “Th- this is what happens when,” you murmur, pushing down on his wrist as your lower abdomen continues to flutter and his lips nibble at your neck, his tongue working around a sensitive spot, “wh- when my boyfriend kisses me and then ignores me for an hour…”

“Aww, ignoring you?”, San whispers, easing his fingertip at your entrance, your hot hole immediately tightening around him, “I could never ignore you, my love…”

“Hngh, I don’t think so, Sannie… You were so concentrated on your drums…”

San whispers out, “I’m sorry”, as he curves his finger a little, caressing your inner skin fondly. You feel how thick his digit is and your glutes tense up. It doesn’t stop you from speaking your truths though.

“It’s okay, Sannie… It looked so… fucking… hot.”

“Really?” Your boyfriend gasps, always loving how you sneak in some brass into your words, and sucks lovesomely at your neck, his humming vibrating against your pulse, his finger pushing in through your arousal that gives him an easy entrance. “So say again, I made your head hurt because I’m so ‘fucking hot’, sunny?”

“Mhm,” you answer, and after San’s whole finger curls inside, you mewl out, “you’re the hottest man there is, Sannie– you’re– you’re so hot I don’t know what to do with myself. Only you can make me feel like this…”

“Fuuck…”

Your words seem to rile your boyfriend up very much, it is getting very difficult for San to not immediately run his fingers in and out, maintaining a slow pace that you feel expanding your tightness. “S- Sannie, you… you make me so crazy,” you whine out, his fingertip grazing over your sweet-spot, making you clench, “You make me feel so amazing, y- you are amazing, such a good musician and boyfriend, baby, you’re– nmmmh~!”

San couldn’t help himself and had to finally kiss you, his plump lips encasing your mouth, tongue running over yours the second he’s able to find contact. The warmth of his sweet saliva floods your mouth and you have to moan in some air.

“‘mmmsorry, sunny,” San mumbles, and you’re so sure that there’s a string of saliva connecting your lips, when he knocks his head back. “Couldn’t wait. Hehe.”

His lips peck yours, as he’s working his finger inside you, rotating it around your deepest spot. Sighs leave your mouth every chance you get, as you try to not be overflowed by the pleasure that’s stirring your guts and cutting off your breath.

“You feel so good,” you breathe out, “Can you feel it too, Sannie?”

“Hmm?” San is more than a bit out of breath now, warming up the fabric over your eyes with the loud exhaling through his nose.

“Can you feel how… Can you feel how much I love you?”, you ask, but before San can answer you, you grip into his wrist again, gathering your confidence through your pleasure, “How fucking aroused I am because of you?”

“God, Y/N, I can feel it,” San huffs, and then pants with his cock twitching at your unforeseen blunt courage, “You’re so wet for me… Only for me… Oh, sunshine, I love you so much.”

Though you can’t see how he’s biting his lip in excitement, San is moving his finger in and out of your hole while shuffling to your lower body, gripping your ankles with his free hand to gently place them over his shoulders.

“Sun, can I eat you out first?”, San asks, his voice running warmly over your abdomen, as he licks his fingers clean, “You can wait for me, can’t you, Y/N?”

“Wait for you–?”, you whirr, feeling exactly how thick and calloused San’s finger is inside you, lubed up by his spit, not being able to feel anything else, “Wait for wh- what?”

“Wait for me to fuck you, because right now, sunshine, I want to, god no, I need to eat you out, please, baby.”

Overwhelmed by his sudden lust-soaked rambling, you’re left with no other chance than to search for San’s neck, trail up his head and grab your boyfriend by his hair, let it tangle between your fingers, as San breathes against your dripping pussy. “Mnhh, do whatever you want tonight, Sannie. I want you to.”

“I want you, Y/N. ‘Want you so fucking much, sun… God, I don’t know how I waited, either.”

You chuckle and feel how the couch brushes against your back, leaving some phantom scratching there, after San pulls you closer by your hips, his forearms stationed around your pelvic bone.

“... So worth though, fuck.”

A sigh escapes your opened mouth, as San licks up your cunt one time, his hot tongue gliding up the wetness with ease. “Hngh,” you grunt, pulling San’s hair, and since your boyfriend hasn’t re-entered his finger, you clench around nothing, needing to be stuffed again, preferably by his cock.

“You taste so fucking good,” San grunts back, already sounding like he’s drunk and delirious, lapping over your clit with his tongue while panting like a dog, “so so fucking delicious, sunny.”

“S- Sannie, oh my god,” you react to how your boyfriend sprints over your sensitive nub, your heightened senses drowning you in your own slick, as you hear how San’s tongue creates squelching, wet sounds.

“Hmmm? Feels good, huh?”

“Sannie, s-so good, god– you’re so– fuck fuck fuck–”

“What am I?”, San asks tauntingly. It seems he’s found some fun in the manner you’re tripping over your own words at the cause of his tongue. You don’t need to see him to know he’s grinning, you can feel that he’s enjoying himself by how his chuckle heats up your cunt even more. “Tell me, sunny, what am I?”

“You’re so– good! Sannie! Fuck, Sannie, you’re gonna make me–”

“Make you cum? Already?”, San grins, his fingers working you a beat that could only be described as irregular, him pumping in and out and licking you up and down so fast, he leaves you no time to recover from the last thunderous pleasure. “God, I love you so much, ‘m gonna make you cum so fucking often, all the time,” San murmurs, letting his mind roam free, your arousal coating his lips and tongue, while you tug his hair to keep yourself from choking on your own breath, as it becomes more stagnated and needier, filling out your lungs with helpless pleas.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, please, oh my god,” you whimper, eyes rolling back that you are seeing bliss and bliss only.

“Gonna cum?”, San husks and thrums against your sweet spot until your thighs tense up, “are you cumming, sunny?”, his fingers continuing to ram into you, “cumming for me?”

“Yes, uh- oh my god, yes, yes, yes–”, it splurts out of you, “yes, yes, yes, YES!”

“Thaaaat’s it…”

You push your legs together, San’s head clutched between your thighs, as his tongue runs over your clit that little stars begin to form in front of your unseeing eyes, your first orgasm resonating through your body, his voice vibrating on your cunt.

“Good girl…”

“F- f- fuck,” you whimper, your stomach crunching together, and you feel San’s thumb caress your abdomen, as he places wet kisses all across your pussy.

“Sannie,” you breathe out, falling to the back in exhaustion, as your boyfriend pulls away and kisses all of your legs down to the calves, folding you together even more.

“Yes, sun?”, he asks, and massages your hips.

“I wanna see you, Sannie...”

“Oh yeah?”, San chuckles.

You nod and tug at the bandana around your eyes, but it’s too tight. “Please, Sannie, I wanna see you so bad… I wanna see my handsome boyfriend,” you murmur, your cunt still pulsating between your legs, barely recovered from your orgasm.

“Yeah?”, San hums and leans forward, his jeans pressed against your wetness, as he gets his hands behind your head and loosens up the knot. “Careful, sun,” he whispers, kissing your temple, as he slowly removes the fabric from your eyelids, the dimmed lights flickering into your vision.

“There you go,” San hums and slides the bandana away, letting it sit behind your head, as he looks down at you. Your eyes struggle to see immediately and you have to strain your eyebrows, but your boyfriend patiently just watches your pretty face get used to seeing again. “Are you okay?”

“Uh-huh,” you answer and blink with some force. San slithers his hand against your neck, his thumb sitting at your jaw, as your eyesight assuredly returns.

There he is, grinning, just like you expected him to, but what you didn’t expect is how absolutely messy you’ve made him. His red, fiery hair is disheveled, ruffled, sticking out to all kinds of directions, his lips are puffy and still wet from kissing you and eating you out, his thin breath leaving his mouth.

“Felt good, huh?”, San asks, rather rhetorically, as you subconsciously lean your face into his handhold, in awe of how handsome your boyfriend is and how lucky you are he’s yours, as his lips peck yours.

“Mhm,” you chuckle, a bit weakly, but with your hands skidding along his sweaty silhouette, it should become quite clear that you’re not finished. “I want more, Sannie, please.”

“Aww, can’t get enough of me?”, your boyfriend croons and lets another hand slide behind your waist to– “I’ll get you all you want, my love,” make you sit on his lap, or rather on his abs, after he tilts his body to the back with you in his arms and scuffs his baggy pants from his legs.

“Speaking of which, I thought we might wait until we’re home,” San admits and kicks his jeans away, “so I got no condoms on me, sunshine.”

“Mmm, Sannie, you know we’re okay,” you smile and kiss him. “Your bandmates don’t care about stuff like this…”

“Sorry for caring about you?”, San grins and pinches the tip of your nose. “So you’re fine with me just pulling out, yeah?”, he asks, as if you haven’t talked about this over and over again, but you keep on that smile and caress his cheek.

“Yes, Sannie. It’s all okay, and I want you so bad right now, please.”

“Alright,” San smirks and kisses you back, propping up his legs, so you slide onto his crotch.

“How do you want it?”, he asks, and you can feel how hard and throbbing hot he is in his boxer shorts, as you grind on his length. “I-I don’t know, Sannie, I want it all,” you laugh, airily, your slick adding to the wet patch that has been created by his pre-cum.

“You wanna watch me how I fuck into you?”, San prompts, and kisses your collarbones. “Uh-huh,” you sigh and throw your head to the back. “Please fuck me so you can see what a mess you make me, Sannie.”

San laughs. “I already saw that, sun,” he says, playfully teasing you, and gently grabs your legs, so he can lift you up and get his legs away from the couch and his feet on the floor.

You sit on the couch how a couch is supposed to be used, your back leaning into the cushion, San now standing in front of you, cups his own erection through his boxer shorts, grunting into his hand.

“This is your fault,” he says, snickering, pulling off his underwear, his cock bolting out, after it passes his waistband. “God, Y/N, how could I ever concentrate on my drums when I have my perfect girlfriend sitting in front of me, huh?”

You press your lips together, ignoring the fact that Sun Set can, in fact, concentrate on his drums, but San is merely explaining to you that with every song he plays passionately, uses his all of his body to accompany the music with energy, you, Y/N, live in his mind to excite him.

San gets your legs between his arms, anchoring your inner knees at his bicep, and your hand works automatically to grab his erection and pump it.

Realizing you haven’t given him an answer because you were just too amazed by his body, you inhale to speak, but San leans down and kisses you solicitously.

“Sunshine,” he breathes out, looking you deep in the eye, as his forehead is almost pressed against yours, “can you put it in by yourself?”

You lick your lips, the last kiss lingering ardently on the flesh and lead San’s cockhead to where your cunt is waiting, ready for his girth.

“Sunny,” San grunts, and as your hole stretches out with his pelvis driving inwards, he kisses you on your neckline repeatedly. “I love you so much, I love how you sound, feel and look like, how good you are to me,” he rambles, immediately sinking into a place of pleasure. “I love everything about you, Y/N.”

He may not be a singer, not even a background vocal, but off-stage, San always makes sure you know what a great girlfriend you are by moaning, whimpering and groaning it, sometimes just to himself– mindlessly thrusting into you, or directly into your ear, so his voice buzzes through your head.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” you whine, head falling to the back and bouncing against the backrest after his whole length is inside you, “So good, Sannie, please don’t stop.”

San confirms your comfort and hauls his hips backwards to snap inside again with a slight smack against your hamstrings. You both moan and once San has found a steady pace, the room fills with your voices and sounds of your skin meeting in a clap.

“Harder,” you grunt, and this is San’s command he will never not listen to, even when he’s still working his hips in and out of you, figuring out a way to comply immediately. He grins wide and goes through his hair, before he leans deeper into your body, taking a step closer as he does so– repeating your words by chuckling, “harder?”, folding your knees together and pushing them over to the side.

“Y- yes, please.”

“Harder,” San repeats again, and exhales the word out his mouth, his hand gripping into your hip. “As,” he grunts, thrusting into your cunt with all he’s got, “you,” again, while fixating you in place, “wish,” and again, “my love.”

You both inhale some air, but out of your mouth, it comes out a distorted moan, when San picks up in speed and rams himself into you with no mercy, barely any opportunities to secure yourself on the cushion beneath you. The couch begins to squeak with San’s rough movement, your body being rocked over, and your head becomes light, the expanding tickle in your abdomen binding itself together into a knot of pure pleasure that’s preparing to release.

Silence is sweet, but clamor can be so savory; the sounds of the springs under the cushions mix up with his stagnated gasping, and with San’s absolute undefeatable sense for rhythm makes it sound like he’s creating a drumbeat with his body, the couch bangs against the wall, increasingly sending your brain into overdrive. San’s cockhead hits the deepest spot in your cunt repeatedly, over and over again, pushing your buttons that makes you feel like your thoughts are leaving your head within your whiny moans.

“Oh, fuuu-uuuck,” you gutter, voicing out your pleasure through all of the rutting, your eyes disappearing behind your head, and San’s neck shimmers in sweat, his Adam’s apple glistening, as he unfalteringly shoves forward and outward, grunts and groans reverberating in his throat. His face is tightened together, mouth remaining open, as he watches you slowly lose it, the prettiest of sounds entering his ear which boost his stamina.

“Fuck, sun, I’m gonna cum, fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he whimpers and rams himself through you, his hips working desperately for his release, ignoring how the couch is being unsettled and broken with each of his hard thrusts, and his hand is dug so deep in your hip, the skin has turned slightly red. “Are you cumming?”, he grunts, and despite how much your head is bobbing anyway, you nod and whine out, “yes, yes, yes, Sannie, I’m cumming–!”

Your eyelids feel heavy, and your body floats in orchestral pleasure as you cum on San’s relentless cock, gripping into the couch with your fingernails, as your back arches, cunt tightening around San.

“God, baby, I love you so much, I love you so so much, Y/N, my sunshine, my–”

San pistons his cock into your puffy pussy with an unmeasurable speed, the shrill squeaking of the springs overtoning his needy whines, the banging against the wall being resemblant of his rough body-movement, and droplets of sweat drop of your body, as your boyfriend pulls your over by your hip. His hot cum spurts out and lands on his own abs, as well on your stomach, and you heave in exhaustion, laughing weakly.

His hand pumps out the last drops of ejaculation out his cock, and even if his cock remains hard and twitching, San falls to the front and hugs your sweaty body, kissing your cheek and lip alternately.

“That was,” you chuckle, watching how San has to brush his drenched mane to the back, “amazing, Sannie.”

“Yeah?”, your boyfriend asks and strokes your shoulder. “You forgive me?”

“Hm?”

“For the headaches, sun. Do you feel better now?”

You snicker and share a short, but very gentle kiss with San. “I feel so good, Sannie, thank you.”

His dimples pop out and San fetches your clothes, whilst rubbing his head against yours, nuzzling his temple into your scalp. “I’m glad I could relieve you, sunshine.”

San turns his head around and searches for something to clean up the cum with, and all he finds is his bandana on the couch. “Hey, I’ll wash this, alright?”, he laughs, when you send him a judgmental look, and to calm you down he pecks your forehead.

“Help me get my clothes on, please,” you murmur, and as you feel your body going lax, San immediately grabs your underwear, shorts and his hoodie so you don’t feel cold again. “Mm, I should get you more of my stuff,” he smiles, after he’s put the oversized clothing on you, “you look so cute in my hoodie, sunny.”

“Really?”, you answer, voice guttural, feeling a bit sheepish under San’s affectionate gaze, you being the only one that’s clothed, while he remains pretty much naked, skin sweaty and steaming.

“Yes, love, but honestly, you always look amazing, Y/N...”

Your eyes were drooping down, but you couldn’t have missed how San’s voice was deeper and huskier than it should have been.

“Baby… Please… I’m exhausted…”

When you squint, San is licking and biting his lower lip and because he is so exposed, you can see how his cock is glistening again, while you can only leave out a sigh. Your boyfriend’s stamina and energy should be studied…

“Sorry, you’re just so hot,” San chuckles out and gets his boxer shorts on. “Body and mind do what they want sometimes.”

“... And you want me, I get it, okay… God, Sannie.”

“Yeah. I want you so much.”

You, sat on the couch, watch him again, Sun Set, how he’s scratching his neck, his impassioned pulse beating in his muscular chest, beating for your gaze, you, his girlfriend’s voice, your words, your entrancing existence, the melody that guides him through his life.

A playful chuckle whirs in the silent practice room, and your eyes meet his, as you look up to San.

“I guess we’ve got to take a shower at home.”

Give me a command, and I'll do what you ask 'Cause my favorite music's your "Uh, uh"

related hard thought "for you(r) love" : read it here

#cromernet #choi san x y/n #choi san x reader #choi san smut #choi san scenarios #choi san x you #choi san fluff #ateez smut #ateez scenarios #ateez x reader #ateez fluff #chokkiwa #chokko

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mangomonk · 1 year ago

Text

i caught myself

↳ summary: remus goes to a coffee shop for the first time ↳ content: fluff, oblivious idiots x idiots, coffee shop au, rock band!muggle ↳ a/n: i wanted to write something fun and i've been listening to too much of my punk rock playlists from when i was 15. feel very free to listen to "i caught myself" by paramore (or any paramore song) while reading..! i love portrayals of remus as an earnest loser where the reader/sirius is ridiculously infatuated with his endearingly awkward ways. in other news, i've given up on using 'y/n,' it killed me every time i had to type it so i just chose a random name, feel free to make a mental edit to 'y/n' if you're more comf with that.

It's rush hour when she first sees him. She almost doesn't — it's just her and her coworker today and her eyes are only moving from the cash register's buttons to each cup as she hastily scrawls names and orders onto the plastic.

"Hi, what can I get for you?" She asks half-distractedly as she finishes writing Mocha Cookie Crumble Frappuccino before sliding it over to her coworker with an apologetic look. Frappes are the worse to make, and it doesn't help that the line is nearly to the door now. She almost doesn't look up but the silence to her question is a little too long, so Winnie darts a quick look up, hoping to see no one standing there.

What she's not expecting to see is a man with wide brown eyes and equally brown hair squinting at the menu above her head. Winnie thinks he's the most good-looking man she's ever seen. As she tries to recap the Sharpie, she stabs her own hand. "Shit," she mutters automatically.

"Sorry?" The ridiculously good-looking man asks politely, his gaze flickering from the menu to her. His eyes are the same color as caramelized sugar and Winnie thinks he looks just as sweet as she watches him pull at the frayed collar of his knitted jumper.

"Nothing, nothing," Winnie says with a dismissive hand as she puts on her best customer-service-smile. "What can I get you today?"

His brows furrow as he turns his gaze back to the menu. "What—" he begins, drawing out the word slowly. Winnie takes his hesitation to steal another appreciative glance at him — he's tall, his frame somewhere between lean and lanky, though it's hidden by a jumper that's clearly been knitted to be a few sizes too large for extra comfort. "—would you recommend?"

"Well, what do you normally like?" Winnie asks, casting a glance behind him. As much as she'd love to talk to this cute stranger for the rest of her shift, the line has started to wrap around.

The man rakes a hand through his hair, tousling already-tousled waves of brown. He looks sheepish and a little panicked. "I've never really had coffee before," he admits. A little strange, but Winnie's not one to judge, especially when he's looking at her with deer-in-the-headlight eyes.

"How about I get you my favorite drink then?" She suggests, already reaching for the sharpie and another cup. It's a trick she's learned from working in the coffee shop for the past few months — customers are less likely to be unhappy with their surprise drinks if they think it's your favorite drink.

The man nods, his shoulders sagging with apparent relief. Matcha latte, she scribbles before looking up at him again. "Can I get a name?"

"My name?" He repeats, looking dumbfounded as if she had just asked for his number.

She lifts the cup and shakes it a little to draw his attention to it. "For your order."

"Remus," he says, straightening. He clears his throat. "Remus Lupin."

"Got it," she says as she writes it down. Remus Lupin. She's never had a customer give her a full name before, but Winnie doesn't have time to ponder it as she slides the cup to her coworker. "That'll be $4.50."

He fishes out a $10 and when she tries to hand back the change, he shakes his head with a soft, polite smile.

"Come again," she calls after him, pleased, before turning back to the monstrous line that had managed to form behind him. "I can help the next customer."

— — — — —

The next time she sees him, it's just her behind the counter. Since the rush died down an hour earlier, she's been leaning over the counter squinting at an eight count that she can't quite get right. When the door jingles, Winnie puts down her pencil and moves back behind the register.

"Hi! What can I get for you today?" She asks before she properly looks up. It's the fluffy-haired man from last week. Today he's wearing a scarlet and gold jumper bunched at his wrists and slacks the same brown as his eyes and hair. She doesn't recognize the lion emblem embroidered on his chest — it doesn't match any of the mascots of the nearby universities. When he unwraps his scarf, she can see that his cheeks are flushed red from the cold. It's a good look on him. "Cold outside?"

"Getting there," he says with a soft sigh.

"I can't wait," she says conversationally. "I love autumn."

"Hm," he says, ending the conversation rather abruptly.

Winnie tries not to grimace at the awkward silence as she pulls out her sharpie from the pocket of her apron. "So, what can I get for you today?" When he hesitates for a moment too long, his gaze darting back up to the menu behind her, Winnie tries for conversation again. "How was the matcha latte last time?"

Remus hesitates, his gaze darting to her. "It was very green."

The response is so unexpected that Winnie barely bites back a bark of a laugh before she catches herself. She wasn't a gifted conversationalist, but Remus was making her seem like a total extrovert. "It was," she agrees, smiling now. Up close, she can see shadows below his big eyes. Maybe he needed an espresso? Or less coffee and more sleep. "I'm guessing it wasn't to your taste? I'll let you order today—"

Remus seems to catch himself because he straightens hurriedly. "No, I'll have a matcha latte," he says firmly, already fishing out five dollar bill.

Winnie punches the numbers into the cash register and nods him along, but he hesitates, looking at her expectantly. "Don't you need my name?"

"Not unless it's changed from Remus Lupin," Winnie chirps cheerfully, biting back a smile as he blinks at her rapidly. "Has it?"

"No," he says, clearing his throat. "It's still Remus Lupin."

"Coming right up, Remus Lupin," Winnie says with a mini salute as she turns to start making the drink.

After he leaves, she notices a strange looking coin in the tip jar that hadn't been there before. When she squints at it, she can make out the carved word, Sickle. With raised brows, Winnie slips the strange coin into the pocket of her jeans.

— — — — —

The next time she sees Remus Lupin, he's wearing a long coat over a sweater vest. Winnie thinks he looks like a cute little professor.

"Hi, how's it going—" she's beginning to say just as Remus says choppily, "It's cold outside. Now."

They both blink at each other for a moment before Winnie grins a little, inwardly pleased that he remembered their last conversation. "Yeah?" She turns to squint critically out the window. "On a day like this, I'd kill to be in bed with a warm cup of tea."

Remus nods thoughtfully before pausing. "Not matcha?"

"Matcha strikes me more as a spring-summer drink," she muses.

He nods again, eyes darting to the menu above her head. Winnie is used to this now, so she waits patiently for his order. To her surprise, he looks at her again tentatively, his brown eyes startling bright. It feels as though she's been sucker punched.

"I'm not much of an autumn or winter person," he says. It takes her a moment to realize that he was still referencing their previous conversation. "The cold gets to my joints," he adds, looking a little sheepish.

"Ah," she says dumbly, nodding, before blurting, "Well, did you know that matcha has antioxidant and anti-inflammatory effects?"

Remus blinks at her as though she's clubbed him over the head. "Anti-ox-i-dant," he repeats slowly, as if saying the word for the first time.

Winnie inwardly grimaces. Why was she still talking about matcha? She had been so caught off guard that he was continuing the conversation and that his eyes were stupidly pretty that she had fumbled a little. "Er, so what can I get for you?"

"A cup of matcha then," Remus says, fishing a five dollar bill from his pockets. "For it's anti-ox-i-dant effects."

Winnie's cheeks burn a little as she waves him off. "It's on the house today," she says.

Remus looks surprised as he hesitates. "No, I can pay—"

"No, no, it's on the house," Winnie says firmly, thinking inwardly, For my piss poor attempt at conversation. Before he can insist, she takes her Sharpie and writes Matcha latte, even though it's only her behind the counter today. "Name?" She asks, half-teasing, half-hoping to distract him from trying to pay.

He blinks, looking startled. "Remus Lupin," he answers automatically, straightening.

"Just making sure it hasn't changed," she hums, smiling a little as she gets started on the latte.

To her surprise, Remus laughs, the sound low and rich and warm. "It hasn't yet," he says, glancing down at her name tag for a moment before looking back up at her, his brown eyes wide and bright as he drops the ten dollar bill into the tip jar. "Thank you, Winnie."

Winnie is too stunned by his laugh to complain.

— — — — —

Remus starts to come by more frequently. She can never quite figure out his schedule — it's sporadic, sometimes during rush hour where they can only exchange a few words, but mostly when the coffee shop is empty. She's grown so accustomed — and perhaps, has quickly begun to look forward — to seeing him that she can't help but look up hopefully when someone comes in.

Their conversations at the counter gradually grow less halting. She makes a point to always ask his name and Remus dutifully plays along each time, his lips twitching each time he gives her his name.

"You're always working on music," he observes one day. He must have come in without her realizing because when she looks up, she finds Remus nodding down at her paper.

"I am," she agrees mournfully. "I study music at the local university," she tells him, straightening her apron.

"That suits you," he says with the soft smile that she's grown terribly fond of.

Pleasure warms her chest as she tries not to beam at him. Though their conversations are mostly quiet and simple, it feels as though she's always trying not to smile a full-teeth smile at him.

She learns that he's only recently graduated from some sort of private boarding school. From his vague references, it sounded like one of those preparatory schools for gifted students. It doesn't strike her as much of a surprise — from his responses, Winnie can get a sense for how knowledgeable and bright he is, though to be fair, he always seems to bring a new book in when he visits. It might also explain how awkward and closed off Remus is, Winnie decides — she thinks public schools build thick skin. Winnie doesn't really mind the occasionally halting conversations though — Remus, for his credit, is a wonderful listener and always asks her questions when she talks about her band. And something about the attentive way Remus looks at her makes her feel comfortable about talking. She's almost worried that she talks too much — it's a welcome reprieve from the quiet slowness or the repetitive "Hi, how are you?'s" of the coffee shop.

"Sorry," she says one day when she brings him his drink. "I realize that I talk your ear off whenever you're here and I'm sure you've got things to do, books to read."

Remus shakes his head, sending his fluffy brown hair falling against his brow. It's gotten longer since the first time she's met him, the ends beginning to curl down the nape of his neck and around his ears. It's a good look on him, though admittedly, Winnie finds herself thinking that whenever he comes in.

"It's no problem," Remus says easily. Winnie nods, about to return to the counter when he clears his throat. "I... enjoy your company," he says with an impossibly tiny smile. At the sight of it, Winnie wants to fall to the floor, but she hasn't mopped it yet, so she opts to stand perfectly still instead. "If you ever feel inclined to take a break to chat, the chair is always open."

Some days when the shop isn't too busy, she takes him on his offer to sit and chat. Some days their conversations are long and winding, about nothing in particular, and on some days — mostly the days where he looks strangely exhausted — they both sit in a comfortable silence with Remus reading his books and Winnie laboring over her music.

One day when she's put all her focus on composing, Winnie nearly jumps out of her skin when Remus speaks up. "New song?"

Winnie looks up from her sheets at his question. A little thrill runs through her body when she sees that his book has been discarded to the side as he looks at her curiously. "Old song," she sighs. "I've been trying to finish these lyrics," she says, giving a frustrated glare to the paper. "I wanted to finish it in time for my band's next show, but I can't seem to get anywhere good with it."

Remus hums thoughtfully. "What's it about?"

"It's a love song," Winnie says before thinking. She darts a quick look at Remus as her ears burn, but fortunately, he's looking down at her lyrics thoughtfully. To be fair, she reasons with herself, she had started writing it before meeting Remus. "I've been stuck for ages now though."

"Hmm," Remus hums, leaning back in his chair to stretch his lithe limbs before letting his arms settle on his head. It's an effortlessly attractive motion — Winnie tries not to stare. "I'm sure you've tried already, but maybe you can draw inspiration from experience?"

Winnie clears her throat. "Oh, er, well, I actually don't really have..." She falters, feeling her cheeks burn. She's undeniably red now. "—experience in that realm," she finishes lamely.

"Ah," Remus makes a sound, his eyes widening a fraction as he re-rights himself to sit up straight in his chair. "Sorry, I just figured that you... That there'd be..." He stops himself, looking sheepish.

"That I what?" She presses, arching her brow to deflect from her reddening face.

"I just thought that you'd have experience in relationships," Remus coughs, his cheeks pink now. It's cute enough that it nearly distracts her from the mortifying conversation they're having.

"Ah, no," she says, swallowing. Then she adds hurriedly, darting a glance at him, "It's not that I don't want to date. It's just the type of guy I've attracted in the past has always been—" Winnie cuts off her rambling abruptly as Remus leans forward, brown eyes trained on hers.

"Has been what?"

"Oh, I don't know," she mumbles, scrubbing a hand over her face, grimacing. "You know, tattoos, eats cigs for breakfast. Maybe my nose ring gives the wrong impression," she lets out an embarrassed laugh, wishing that the ground would open up and swallow her whole to stop her nonsensical babbling.

"I see," Remus says slowly in a tone that very much sounded like he didn't.

"What about you?" She blurts. Remus looks startled, so she shoulders onwards. It feels as though she has nothing left to lose, anyways. "I'm sure you were popular in school."

"Ah," he says, making a noise at the back of his throat. He rubs the nape of his neck, looking embarrassed as he looks down as his discarded book. She bets he wished he never stopped reading. "Not really," he says. "I was always busy with school and, er, other things, so I never..." He trails off, making a vague motion with his hands. "Yeah," he finishes lamely.

"That's a surprise," Winnie says, inwardly relieved that he wasn't dating anyone. "I'm sure you had plenty of admirers."

Remus smiles at her wryly, a flash of embarrassment flickering across his face. "My mates had plenty of admirers," he says, though not enviously. Winnie waits patiently for him to continue — one thing she's gathered from Remus was that he often deflected talking about himself through talking about his friends. Sirius, Peter, James, she had learned were their names. "Sirius, in fact, was plenty popular." He darts a strange look to her, his brows knitted together and contemplative. "You'd get along well with him, I reckon."

— — — — —

Another day, during rush hour. She can see him waiting in the long line stealing glances at her that sends her heart stuttering. When their gaze meets, she offers him an apologetic smile. Remus just returns her smile and shakes his head, sending his hair down across his brow.

When he finally reaches the counter, he doesn't leave her any time to say hello. "I have a mate," Remus starts, pausing long enough for her to raise a brow.

"A mate," she drawls, trying to decode the peculiar expression on his face. He's visibly hesitating, his brow furrowing and relaxing as if he's overcoming some inner dilemma. Winnie waits patiently.

"A mate," he says again, rubbing the base of his neck. "That wants to learn how to play the guitar."

"I see," Winnie says slowly, patiently.

"It's Sirius — my friend that I told you about before," he adds, not quite looking at her but not quite looking away either. "Obviously, you can say no, but I thought that since you played the guitar, that maybe you'd...?"

Winnie thinks about it for a moment, an idea forming in her mind. She felt a twinge of guilt briefly for having an ulterior motive, before reasoning with herself that she was about to give a free guitar lesson. "I can give him an intro lesson," she says. "But only because he's your good friend."

Remus relaxes, his face breaking into a smile that only makes her feel better about her choice. Lord, she thinks, her eyes tracking his dimple. She thinks if he smiled like that at her, she'd do anything. "Brilliant," he beams.

A customer behind him clears her throat meaningfully, jolting Winnie out of the conversation. She had entirely forgotten she was working.

"So, a matcha latte?" She asks loudly. When she looks back at him, she's expecting him to sport his normal embarrassed half-smile, but she's caught off guard to see him grinning at her roguishly. Remus never fails to surprise her.

Remus nods, clearly trying not to laugh as he fishes out a bill. Winnie goes through the motions of punching in the numbers and preparing the cup. "We can do it at my flat, I have an extra guitar," she tells him as she finishes his order.

Remus smiles and nods, turning to leave when a thought occurs to her. "Oh, and Remus?" She calls after him.

He whirls around, brows arched and eyes wide and attentive. "Hmm?"

"You'll be there right?"

"Me?" Remus blurts, looking startled.

Winnie bites back a sigh. As she expected. Doubling down, she nods. "I'm not going to let a random man into my flat," she tells him, brows arching. She tries to ignore the customer behind him huffing impatiently.

Remus hesitates. "Sirius isn't a random man." Despite herself, Winnie likes this stubborn side of him.

"I've never met him," she sniffs, jutting her chin out mulishly.

"So you'll feel better if there's two random men in your house?" He counters archly.

But Winnie had been expecting this. She gives him a smile. Remus blinks, looking startled as any semblance of resistance dissipates. "You're not just a random man," she says meaningfully.

Remus blinks again. Then he turns, clearing his throat as he begins wrapping his scarf around his neck. Winnie thinks she can see a pink flush crawl up his neck before he covers it with a scarf, but she might just be seeing what she wants to see. "I'll be there," Remus says gruffly with a stiff nod.

Winnie mimics his stiff nod and bites back a smile.

"Thank you for waiting," she says to the next customer with her best customer-service-smile.

Before Remus returns for his drink, Winnie makes a split-second decision to write her number on a napkin. The idea has her stomach doing a dangerous, giddy flip in her stomach, but she does it anyways and slips it under his drink waiting on the counter.

— — — — —

The next three weeks is grueling for two reasons. The first is that she doesn't see Remus once, despite taking extra shifts. The second is because she waits for a phone call that never comes.

She's never given her number to anyone before so she doesn't quite know what the socially acceptable amount of time is before getting a call, but after the first five days of radio silence and his absence in the coffee shop, she's sure that she's made a terrible mistake.

She feels embarrassed and a little foolish, wishing she hadn't gotten swept up in her hopes and his stupid brown eyes. She had been silly — she was just an overly-chatty local barista and he was just a nice customer with a nice smile and nice eyes and nice everything who put up with her rambling. It's a little mortifying to think back on, so Winnie tries not to think about it, though every time the door's bell jingles, she's caught in a vicious cycle of hope, disappointment, and embarrassment.

She reckons that if he did ever come back, she'd either just pretend as though she never gave him her number or she'd hide in the storage room. The latter option sounded the most appealing the longer she went without seeing him.

She's closing up the shop one night when the door bursts open, the bells jingling loudly. Startled, Winnie nearly drops the bucket she had just finished mopping with. Her heart drops to her stomach.

"Hi," Remus says, pink-cheeked and breathless. "Are you closed?"

Winnie stares at him wide-eyed. She has a brief irrational flash of self-consciousness as she holds a mop and bucket in her hands, her hair and makeup unruly after a long shift. "I—" Winnie bites the inside of her cheek, looking at the clock. She was just a local barista, and he was just a customer, she reminded herself, swallowing back the growing burn of embarrassment in her belly.

As if sensing her hesitation, Remus straightens, clearing his throat. "I mean, you don't have to make a drink or anything actually, I just—"

"I can make a quick drink before I close up," Winnie says hurriedly, not quite able to look him in the eyes as she moves behind the counter. Memories of her giving him her number is seared in memory and it takes all her willpower not to crumble in mortification in front of him.

"No, it's alright," Remus says hurriedly, following her. "I'll help you close up."

"No, go sit over there," Winnie says, her voice a little too clipped. Remus hesitates, floundering before stubbornly following her again. Too close. She whirls around on him, exasperated and embarrassed. Pride wounded. "Remus, I'll make your drink just—"

"Winnie," he cuts in softly, his eyes tracking over her face carefully, quick to pick up her emotions. Winnie diverts her eyes mulishly. "I didn't actually come for a drink today," he says in a patient tone that only amplifies her growing embarrassment that she hides under irritation.

"Then I'm guessing you came to mess with a small local business," she grumps unfairly to herself, stomping behind the counter to drop the mop and bucket into the storage closet. Remus follows her doggedly.

"No, that's not why either," he says, huffing out a good natured laugh. Winnie ignores how smooth and honeyed it sounds.

"Then why'd you come so late? Seeing as how you haven't come in the past three—" Winnie cuts herself off, mortified, before stalking past him to busy herself with wiping down the counter.

"That's exactly why I came," Remus says from behind her. "I haven't seen you in three weeks and I wanted to see how you were doing."

Winnie swallows, caught off guard by his straightforwardness. And then she continues to scrub the counter aggressively, refusing to turn around and be swayed by him, though she could feel her grievances begin to dissipate. "Well, you could have called," she grumbles pointedly.

"I, er, don't have a telephone."

"You don't have a telephone," Winnie repeats automatically, before turning to balk at him. He looks embarrassed, his fingers fidgeting compulsively with the sleeves of his lumpy cardigan. In disbelief, she squints at him suspiciously. "Listen, Remus, I really won't be offended if you weren't interested, so there's no need to make up an excuse—"

"It's not an excuse," Remus interjects, straightened. He looks visibly affronted, his lips twisting into a slight frown. "I don't have a telephone."

"Oh," Winnie says dumbly, her voice small. And then she frowns, still skeptical. "How do you get into contact with your friends? Carrier pigeon?"

Remus lets out a huff of a laugh, mirth flickering in his brown eyes. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

For some reason, she believes him, so she drops it. It's probably the warm fondness in his eyes that neutralizes her. "I see," she says finally, unsure about whether to feel disappointed or relieved.

Remus seems to notice because he clears his throat. "I would have called you, really," he says. He's looking at her with those brown eyes again, big and earnest, and Winnie can't help but stare.

Flustered with the way he was looking at her, she turns to grab a tray of milk cartons. "I thought you were ghosting me," she grumbles. "I mean, I give you my number, you don't call and stop showing up. What's a girl supposed to think?"

Remus follows her, even closer now, close enough that she can smell his cologne — he smells good, she notes distractedly — and gently takes the tray of milk cartons from her hand, his big hands enclosing over hers briefly. Winnie nearly drops the whole tray. "You're not getting paid for that," she says, flustered and embarrassed and—

—and Remus is smiling at her with an impossibly patient and endeared smile, the sort that softens his eyes into little half-moons. Lord, Winnie thinks, her mind going unhelpfully blank as any memory of her mortification fades quickly.

"I would have called you," he says again, turning to look at her properly. He clears his throat, his eyes snagging on to hers intently. "I wanted to call you." He's holding the tray of cartons and she's trapped in the corner and the whole thing feels a little ridiculous, especially with the way her heart is stuttering under his gaze. He steps closer, his shoulders curving over slightly as he tries to match her height to appear less imposing. "I'm sorry for not giving you a heads up — I got swept away for work, but I'll let you know next time that happens."

"There's no need," she mumbles, flushing now. God, he probably didn't even know what he was doing. "It's not like we're..." The words die on her lips. She doesn't really know what she wants to say. Were they friends? She sure hoped so, but she could see how she was just a local barista and he was just a regular.

Remus ducks his head a little so that they're looking at each other properly again. They're close enough that Winnie can see his long lashes fluttering across his cheeks. She can see the splay of freckles across his tan skin. The thin shadow of a scar across the bridge of his nose. It's like she can't escape as her mind goes unhelpfully blank again. His eyes are warm and apologetic and earnest and Winnie feels like she's being seen right through. "How can I make it up to you?" He asks, looking entirely sincere.

Winnie's mouth — her heart — moves before her mind does. "My show," she blurts.

His brows furrow ever so slightly. "Your show?" He repeats, understandably not following because she was barely coherent.

"Yes," she says, straightening and doubling down. "I'm having a small show. With my band. This weekend. You should come." God, Winnie thinks, grimacing at how choppy her words were. Remus is looking at her with those distractingly pretty eyes again, so she steels herself, taking a steadying breath. "I mean, I'd love it if you came."

Remus nods, his lips twitching as if she hadn't just given an awful word-by-word monologue. "I'd love to."

— — — — —

The venue isn't terribly large, but even on stage staring into a dark crowd of faces, Winnie can spot Remus immediately. That's how she knew she was in trouble. Well, maybe she had already known she was in trouble the first time she heard Remus laugh properly.

She's had shows before, but this one feels different. It feels as though it's only her and Remus. So as Winnie plays her guitar and sings her songs, she gives in to the enamored thrill blossoming in her chest and pours it into her music. She hopes he can hear it.

The show passes by in a euphoric blur. All Winnie can really remember is Remus beaming at her from the crowd — and her beaming back — but she thinks it went well. Backstage, her bandmates are energetic and grinning widely, clasping each other on the back. "One of our best," their drummer proclaims, cheering.

Winnie tries to smile and listen, but the excitement of the show has started to turn into a bundle of growing nerves as she waits backstage with her bandmates.

"Waiting for someone today?" Doreen, their bassist, asks astutely as she starts moving some of their equipment.

"No," Winnie blurts unconvincingly, only gathering delighted hoots from the others.

"I knew this one felt different for a reason—" Doreen shouts gleefully, before falling silently abruptly, her eyes falling on someone behind Winnie. It takes all of her willpower to look casual and not whirl around. "Oh. He looks like he should be in a band," Doreen's voice drops into a hushed whisper. "Can we please add him? He can... play the triangle or something. He can be the face of our band. Our new mascot—"

At this, Winnie frowns and turns around. She wouldn't exactly say that Remus, with his soft jumpers and fluffy hair, looked like he'd be the face of a rock band—

"Hi," A voice, smooth and pitched low, says. "Winnie, right?"

Winnie stares at this stranger uncomprehendingly. He's strikingly handsome, his eyes the color of mercury and his hair the color of ink. He's all sharp angles and perfectly unruly curls and devilish smile, the type that Winnie has seen before. It comes with the crowd a rock band attracts, though this man in particular looks as though he was carved out of marble with his aquiline nose and high cheekbones.

Winnie blinks at him. "Yeah," she says uncertainly, scratching her cheek. "Er, do we know each other?"

"Winnie, this is Sirius," a familiar voice cuts in from behind the dark-haired man. Winnie straightens, her eyes snagging immediately on him as he steps out from behind Sirius.

Unlike Sirius's leather jacket and tattoos, Remus looks so painfully out of place in his sweater vest and slacks. She's impossibly endeared at the sight — in fact, all she can really do is stare dumbly at him. He's holding a little bouquet of yellow flowers. Her heart gives a dangerous squeeze.

Doreen clears her throat, jolting her out of her fixation. Winnie tears her eyes away from him to give his friend a polite smile as she shakes his hand. "Hi there." Distractedly, she turns back to look at Remus. "I didn't know you were going to bring a friend—"

"We love friends," Doreen says brightly. Winnie bites back a laugh at Doreen's lovesick scheming as her gaze snags on to Remus again. "Friends are always welcome here."

"I've heard loads about you," Sirius says smoothly, flashing her a charming smile. She swears she can hear Doreen faint next to her. "Remus, in fact, doesn't ever stop—"

Winnie's stomach does an Olympic-gymnastic-level flip as she watches Remus indiscreetly dig his elbow into Sirius's ribs. Sirius seems unbothered, but he stops and gives Winnie a smarmy grin.

"How was the show?" She asks, her gaze darting to Remus. It's like she can't stop looking at him.

"Brilliant," he blurts, beaming. "Absolutely brilliant. You were amazing," he says, eyes bright. "I mean, I knew you loved music, but seeing you in your element..." He stops abruptly, looking embarrassed. She isn't sure if it's the lighting, but his cheeks look pink. Or it's a reflection of how red her face has turned. Pleasure blooms in her chest so violently she feels a little dizzy.

"I'm glad you liked it," she manages, uncharacteristically bashful. She can feel her bandmates staring at her, slack-faced, and forces herself to ignore it. "I wasn't sure if it would be your type of music, but..."

"No, it was," Remus says hurriedly, turning to look at Sirius. "Right?"

Sirius nods, looking between the two of them with great interest. "Remus was practically on his knees—" Another jab into his ribs.

Winnie bites back a laugh, flushed and pleased, before nodding down at the bouquet in his hands. "Are those for me?" She asks, half-bluntly, half-hopefully.

Remus looks down at his hands as if he only just then remembered what he was holding. "Oh, yeah, yeah," he says. Winnie thinks she's dreaming for a moment, until Remus thrusts it into Sirius's hands. "They're from Sirius."

She blinks. Sirius blinks, an equally baffled expression on his face though he covers it up quickly. "Oh," the dark-haired man says slowly, his silver gaze flickering to his friend. "I guess—"

"—as a thank you for agreeing to the lesson," Remus cuts in hurriedly as Sirius hands it to her uncertainly.

Winnie takes the bouquet, bewildered now, but she plasters a polite smile on her face. "Er, it's no problem at all," she says, unsure about whether to say that to Sirius or Remus.

Sirius takes it in a stride though. "I would kill to play the guitar like you," he says, voice dripping with charisma. "How'd you—"

"You can try my bass, if you'd like," Doreen interrupts from behind her. Winnie's jaw goes a little slack — Doreen's the most protective with her bass — but her bandmate shoots her a meaningful look.

"Brilliant," Sirius says brightly. Winnie turns to watch Doreen in disbelief as they disappear into the backroom.

"Now he's not a random man, right?" Remus murmurs to her, his breath coasting against the shell of her ear. She nearly jumps out of her skin at the proximity.

"I suppose not," she says, trying to keep her cool but Remus is looking at her with bright eyes. It doesn't help when his lips quirk triumphantly, smugly. "But—" she interjects before it can widen any further, "—if it turns out that your friend is horrendous at the guitar, I think it's only fair if you also have to suffer through it."

Remus's brows shoot up. "And if he's good at it?"

"Then you get to witness my masterful teaching."

He huffs out a laugh, a little disbelieving, a little amused. "Fine," Remus sighs, but he's clearly trying not to smile. She finds herself wishing that he did. "I'll be there."

— — — — —

Sirius, as it turns out, is awful at the guitar. Winnie tries to chalk it up to it being his first time trying it out, but even then, he seemed... challenged.

She had been teaching him for an hour now — her sitting on one of the kitchen stools she had pulled into her flat's shoebox of a living room-bedroom situation, Sirius sitting on the couch with her old guitar precariously balanced on his knees. Remus tried to excuse himself once he realized his friend was musically challenged. Feeling merciful — and also realizing that Remus's presence was making her too nervous to focus on teaching Sirius — Winnie nodded him towards the kitchen. She had spent all morning meticulously cleaning her flat — even she knew she was being a little ridiculous and overly nervous when she started scrubbing at the oven — in preparation for the session. Even then, the knowledge that Remus was in her flat filled her with a different type of nerves.

"Let's take a break," Winnie huffs finally, setting her guitar down.

Sirius rises to his feet and stretches, looking relieved. "I'll get some water for us?" He offers, already making himself at home. Winnie nods, waving him off as she tries to fight back the incoming migraine from stressing over Sirius snapping her strings. At the reminder of his hand-eye coordination and all the glass she has in her cupboards, she springs to her feet quickly.

"Maybe I should just charm the guitar," Sirius is murmuring when she walks in to the kitchen.

"No amount of charisma will charm the guitar," Winnie says, amused. The boys straighten, looking strangely guilty.

"But Sirius is particularly charming," Remus supplies abruptly, darting a quick look to Sirius, who just looks startled by his friend's sudden proclamation.

"I see," Winnie says slowly, exchanging a baffled glance with Sirius.

"Right, well, I ought to practice some more then," Sirius says, giving a salute as he leaves the kitchen.

"Is he that bad?" Remus asks once Sirius leaves.

"It's like he's never used his hands before a day in his life to do anything," Winnie whispers to Remus with a solemn nod.

Remus makes a choking sound as though he's trying not to laugh. Winnie wishes he did. "You don't know the half of it," he huffs, lips curling as if he's sharing a secret.

"He's not really not very good with his fingers," Winnie admits honestly, lifting her cup to her lips.

"That's not his reputation among the girls," Remus blurts.

Winnie chokes on her water and starts coughing violently. Alarmed, Remus reaches out and pats her on the back. "What?" She rasps around a sore throat as she turns to give Remus an incredulous look.

His expression is too carefully neutral as he shrugs at her. "Sirius has always been Hogwart's most sought after bachelor," he recites, as if she's supposed to know what this meant.

"What's going on, Remus?" Winnie questions, her brows shooting up higher. "You've been acting strange recently. It's like you're trying to sell me this poor boy or..." She falters, turning to look at Remus. To his credit, he looks sheepish as he looks away to inspect her cabinets. "Remus," she begins, her voice dangerously low. "Please tell me you're not trying to set me up with your friend."

Remus goes pink in the face and it's all she needs to confirm her suspicions. Inwardly, her heart drops a little, but outwardly, she just stares at him, waiting for a proper response. As if realizing there wasn't a way of getting out of this, the brown-haired boy sighs a little, raking a hand through his hair. "I just thought you two would get along well together," he says, looking at her with earnest eyes.

It hurts. Much more than she cares to admit. Trying to swallow back the disappointment, Winnie turns so that he can't see it on her face. So that's what this has been about. "For how long?" She asks, her throat dry. She can feel a headache coming on.

"How long what?" Remus asks. He sounds confused.

"How long have you been thinking about setting us up? Did he even want to learn the guitar?" Winnie thinks back to Remus's reluctance on coming to her flat. She thinks back to him bringing Sirius along to the concert. She thinks about how much she likes Remus and how she thought he felt the same way. So it had all been one sided. Humiliation burns in her stomach as she stares down at her hands.

"No, he did, he did want to learn how to play the guitar," he says quickly. "Or, er, he was interested in learning after I told him about you. Sirius is a great guy, really!" Remus, all too late, seems to sense something amiss when she doesn't respond. He straightens, an expression of growing alarm on his face. "Are you... upset?"

"No," Winnie says. She wasn't, for once. In fact, she just wanted the ground to open up and swallow her hole. "I'm just..." She trails off, pinching the bridge of her nose before exhaling quietly.

"Sirius is a great guy, I promise," Remus says again, slowly as if not to spook a wild animal. But Winnie has already been spooked.

"Yeah, he is," she says, her voice pitched just slightly too high and just slightly too clipped as she turns to flee the kitchen. "But not very great at the guitar, so I'd better go check up on him. I suspect he'd find a way to set fire to my flat with just a guitar."

"I'm an idiot," she mutters to herself, closing her eyes for a moment.

A cheerful voice chirps up from the couch. "So, when can I join your band?"

— — — — —

Winnie doesn't go to work for the rest of the week. She asks her coworkers to cover her shift with a fake cough and a groan of a headache. The headache part isn't really a lie — ever since her conversation with Remus in her kitchen, she's felt a dull ache drumming behind her eyes. So she's holed herself in her apartment — specifically her bed, under lots of blankets — sulking and moping by herself.

By the fifth day, Winnie realizes bitterly that she can't keep this up. She has rent to pay. On the day that she's decided to come back into the coffee shop, her phone rings. "Winnie, are you coming in today?" her coworker asks.

"Yeah, I'm feeling better," Winnie lies as she stuffs her apron into her bag.

"Great," her coworker says before pausing. "There's been a bloke coming by asking for you."

Winnie can feel the headache come back full force. "A bloke," she repeats, knowing full well they both knew who she was talking about.

"Tall, brown hair. I told him you've been out sick, but he seems worried, so you ought to give him a ring."

To her chagrin, Remus is there the first day she comes back.

"Hi, welcome," she says, her voice tight. Winnie plasters a too-bright smile on her face to compensate. "What can I get for you today?"

Remus blinks. "A matcha latte. How have—"

"Coming right up," she says, punching in the order with rapid speed. Still smiling brightly. "That'll be $4.50—"

Remus hands her a five before she can finish.

"Here's your change, sir—" Winnie tacks it on at the end of the sentence before she can help it. Remus's face crumples in confusion for a moment, his brow furrowing together as he watches her for a moment longer. It feels as though his eyes are burning through her.

"You can keep the change," he says softly, still looking at her.

Winnie forces out a thank you. She feels as though her smile is starting to look like a grimace. Her cheeks are hurting. He's still looking at her with those stupidly pretty brown eyes. She knows he's waiting. She forces herself to look back down at the register before straightening. "Next in line, please."

— — — — —

To her relief, she's not on cash register duty the next time he comes. Winnie ducks her head with forced concentration as she makes an order. She's definitely too concentrated on making the drink that she doesn't notice the way his face brightens again when he sees her as he nears the counter. She's definitely too concentrated to hear her coworker take his order of a matcha latte. She's definitely too concentrated to feel his eyes on her as she busies herself behind the counter. She definitely wasn't paying attention.

This game of concentration can only go on for so long, Winnie realizes belatedly after she finishes making his drink. She stares down at his name on the cup glumly for a moment before putting her best customer-service smile back on. "For Remus," she calls out without quite looking up. Though she knows that he's sitting patiently at his normal table.

When he comes, Winnie puts a straw on the lid, trying not to look as tense as she feels.

"Hi," he says, looking at her fully in the face.

"Hi," she says back, not quite looking at him, but also not quite looking away. This time, there's no line and nowhere to escape to.

Remus fiddles with the straw wrapper slowly. "How..." He falters, his eyes imploring as he tries to catch her gaze. His brows are furrowed slightly. "...have you been? They said you've been ill?"

"Ah yeah," Winnie says weakly, busying herself with tidying up the straws and napkins by the register. "Caught a cold."

"It's not Dragon Pox, is it?" He says, his brows furrowing even further, a crease of concern between them.

Winnie blinks at him. "Dragon Pox?"

Remus blinks back at her. "Oh, maybe not then," he murmurs hurriedly before clearing his throat. "Er, if you're still feeling ill, I have this—" He reaches into the pocket of his long coat and pulls out a small vial. Winnie stares at it blankly. "—that helps with cold symptoms."

She squints at it, dubiously. "Is that medicine?"

Remus fiddles with the little glass vial. "Something of the sort."

"You just carry that around... in your pocket?"

"Well no," Remus says, looking embarrassed now. He clears his throat as his eyes dart down to the vial. "I wanted to give it to you, but I thought that dropping it off at your flat might be too much."

"Oh," Winnie says dumbly. Her stomach does a traitorous flip and she forces herself to also look down at the vial as her last defenses against him begin to crumble. She should've known this was going to happen. "That's sweet of you."

"It's nothing," he mumbles, setting the vial on the table. "Er, are you busy today?"

Winnie swallows. "Yeah, I've been out, so I ought to pull my weight around here," she says, though she thinks the both of them knows that it's a lie. The coffee shop barely had anyone else in it. But Winnie doesn't look up at him to see his face fall — she knows that if he just flashes her his doe eyes, she'll be back at square one. She forces a smile on her face.

Remus nods. His disappointment is clear on his face as he stuffs his hand back into the pocket of his coat. Winnie tried not to think about it. "Right, well, I'll be over there if you need a break."

— — — — —

Her landline rings again for the third time in the past fives minutes as she tries to get the chord progression correct. Though she's been trying, she's hit an even bigger music-block recently. Winnie squints at the number — it's the same one that's been trying to dial her. With a frustrated sigh, she sets her guitar to the side and picks up the receiver from the landline with a little too much vigor. "Hello?" She asks, the irritation in her voice cutting through clearly.

"Winnie?"

She pauses, taken aback. "This is she," she says after a moment. Who would be calling her nearly at midnight?

"Sorry, were you sleeping? I just got a telephone and I wanted to call, but I didn't realize it was this late—" The person on the other end sounds a little out of breath.

"Sorry, who is this?" She asks, bewildered now.

A pause. "It's Remus."

Winnie nearly drops the phone. "Remus?" She repeats.

"Yeah," he says uncertainly. "Remus Lupin," he adds, as if that'll help.

"Of course I know who you are," she says, a little disbelieving.

"You didn't sound like you did a few seconds ago," he says good-naturedly.

"Well, I wasn't expecting a call from someone without a phone."

He huffs out a laugh, soft and quiet. Hearing it close to her ear through the receiver makes a warmth spread through her chest. This was dangerous. She settles back on the couch as Remus continues talking, his voice soft like he's trying not to wake up his flatmate. "Well, to be fair, I did just get it."

"I never thought I'd see the day," she murmurs despite the danger bells tolling in her head. "What made you take the technological leap?"

Winnie can almost hear his eye roll through the receiver. "Well, I may have offended a girl at this coffee shop I frequent by not having one. Thought I should right my wrongs."

Her heart stutters dangerously in her chest. She's glad he can't see her because she can feel a pleased warmth flushing across her face as she lies down on the couch and kicks her legs over the armchair. She wants to scream from the giddiness. And then scream again for having no dignity. The thought that he had gotten a phone to call her is entirely absurd, but Winnie almost lets herself believe it. "I see," she says after she collects herself for a moment. "Sounds noble." A pause. "So you kept my napkin."

"No," Remus says automatically. "Sirius threw it away."

Winnie frowns, her brows furrowing. "Then how'd you get my number?"

"I memorized it."

She nearly falls to the floor at that, the phone rubbing against the couch as she sits up swiftly.

"Hello?" Remus's distant voice calls uncertainly through the speaker. "Winnie?"

"Hi!" Winnie chirps into the phone quickly, too brightly. She's beyond glad Remus can't see her face — she knows she's bright red now. And she's trying hard not to grin ear to ear. "Sorry about that, poor connection," she fibs.

Remus pauses. She can almost hear the frown in his voice when he speaks up again. "Is it my phone? The man at the store said it might—"

"No, no, that was on my end," she says quickly, fanning herself now. She needed to calm down. Immediately. "So, why did you call?"

A pause. She can hear him shuffling like he's sitting down. "No reason," he says. "I just wanted to hear your voice. I like this. It feels like I can hear you smiling."

To hell with calming down. She was getting no sleep that night with the way her heart was palpitating. "Holy hell," Winnie murmurs out loud, very sure now that Remus was trying to kill her. Death by heart attack. Remus Lupin, the secret ladykiller.

"What was that?" Remus asks through the phone.

"Nothing," Winnie mumbles, closing her eyes.

They both fall silent, though Winnie is sure he can hear her thumping heart through the receiver. "Er, Winnie," Remus speaks up finally. "The other reason I wanted to call was I suppose it had felt like it's been ages since we last spoke and I missed talking with you."

Winnie's heart does a dangerous quiver. And then she catches herself, all too soon, and all too suddenly.

Even after the past few weeks of trying to get over her unrequited crush, all it took was a few sweet words from him for her to cave and start at the beginning again. She couldn't keep being pushed and pulled and pushed and pulled. If she wanted to properly move on, she needed distance. Proper distance.

As if sensing something, Remus speaks up again hesitantly. "Did I do something?"

"No," Winnie says, closing her eyes. She can almost hear him breathing on the other end of the call. This would be easier to do over the phone, when she can't see his big brown eyes staring back at her earnestly — although she feels as though she's committed it to memory and can imagine it. "It's me, I— It's nothing that you've done or anything, I just need space."

"Space," Remus echoes quietly.

She tries to let out a light laugh. "Yeah, I've just got a lot on my mind recently. It's nothing you've done."

Remus is quiet for awhile before he speaks up again. "I'm here to listen if you ever want to talk through anything," he says softly. "We're friends, after all, right?"

"Friends," she murmurs to herself before straightening. "Right, of course."

More silence. "Well, it's late so I'll let you go." A pause, as if he's waiting for a response. Waiting for her to keep talking like she always did. Waiting for a reason to keep talking.

"Good night, Remus," she says instead, her fingers tightening around the receiver.

"Good night, Winnie." Winnie can hear the disappointment in his voice and lets it sink into her like a dagger. She needed to remember it to move on. Then maybe they could properly be friends. Winnie hangs up the phone first.

— — — — —

"Morning, Winnie," a bright voice chirps.

Winnie looks up, startled to see a pair of striking, but familiar gray eyes peering back at her. Sirius Black is standing in front of the counter, grinning at her widely. "Sirius," she says, surprised. "What can I get for you?"

Sirius gives the menu a cursory glance. "Huh, matcha," he says to himself thoughtfully.

"That's what Remus normally gets," she offers, trying to be helpful.

Sirius looks back at her, his eyes bright and startling astute. "You know," he says, dropping his voice to a secretive murmur. Despite herself, Winnie leans closer curiously. "Remus thinks matcha tastes like grass."

Winnie recoils, bewildered. That wasn't what she was expecting to hear. "Grass?" She repeats, a little affronted now. "It does not taste like grass—"

"Winnie," he says again, arching a delicate brow at her. "Remus thinks matcha tastes like grass."

She shoots him a baleful glare that goes against her customer service training. "Okay," she exhales. "So what drink would you want then?"

Sirius sighs as if she's being terribly daft. "What I'm saying is that Remus hates the taste of matcha but comes here nearly every other day to drink it. Isn't that strange?"

Winnie blinks. Once. Twice. It's as if Sirius can see the thought forming on her face because he starts to grin. "But," she says stubbornly, mulishly. Sirius's grin falters. Winnie takes secret pleasure in that. "—he drinks it every time."

Sirius's expression goes slack, but Winnie refuses to be deterred. She had already tricked herself twice into thinking that there could be more between her and Remus, she wasn't going to put herself through that again. "Merlin," Sirius exhales, scrubbing a frustrated hand over his face. "You both are so bloody stubborn—"

"No, he doesn't," a voice cuts in from behind her. Her coworker steps in with an equally exasperated expression. "Winnie, I'll be honest with you, he only ever drinks it when you make it. Whenever I hand it to him, it just sits there."

Sirius's grin returns, full force, as he nods excitedly. "I'm only telling you so that you can both stop dancing around each other. And so he can stop playing your bleeding cas— casserole... Merlin, what are they called? The little magical music squares?" Sirius flounders and turns to her coworker for help.

"Cassettes?" Her coworker supplies uncertainly.

"Cassettes!" Sirius agrees, looking relieved before he rounds on Winnie again to continue his berating. "So he can stop playing your bleeding cassettes around the flat!" And then he pauses. "Er, no offense, your music is great, but I just can't keep listening to the same album—"

"He has my cassettes?" Winnie whispers, wide-eyed.

Sirius stares at her like she's being impossibly dumb. "Yeah," he says, solemnly. "Everyday I'm a little tempted to throw them—" He seems to catch himself because he shoulders on smoothly. "Anyways, while he's been sulking around the flat, I finally found out that Moony was being ridiculous and was trying to play cupid. He can be incredibly dense for someone so smart," Sirius sighs, grimacing. "By the way, I actually was interested in learning the guitar."

Winnie stares at him dumbly, a little shell-shocked. "Oh," she says as Sirius gives her a wink.

"He's coming by later," he says as he turns towards the door.

"What?" She blurts. Remus hasn't come by or called her ever since she had asked for space, expectedly. She had been ignoring the empty feeling since then, reasoning it to be a necessary development for her to move on.

"I told him you had called on the — what's it called? — phone-tele saying you wanted to see him."

"What?" Winnie exclaims, but Sirius is already fleeing through the door. Dimly, she thinks that he didn't even order a drink.

"Go easy on him, sweetheart! He likes tea!"

— — — — —

"One matcha please."

"Name?"

A small, uncertain smile. A hesitant hint of a dimple. Her heart quaking again. "Remus Lupin."

"Coming right up."

Winnie tries to still her shaking hands as she makes him a drink. It doesn't help that she can feel her heart bursting through her chest. She takes a steadying breath and rakes a hand through her hair before taking the drink to his table. "For a Remus Lupin," she announces, setting the cup down in front of him. It's near closing time and there's no one else in the coffee shop.

Remus looks up, his brows shooting up below his waves. "What's this?"

"Earl gray," she says, matching his gaze.

His brows furrow. "But I ordered matcha."

"It's a personal recommendation from the kitchen," she says, nodding down at the tea. "I heard that matcha tastes like grass."

Remus's face pales, but he manages to cover it up with a nervous laugh that only confirms her suspicions. And her hopes. "Matcha doesn't taste like grass—" he begins, but his voice falters when he catches sight of her smiling.

"Remus," she says brightly, her smile broadening. "I finished the song."

"The song," he says blankly, looking startled as if he's trying to keep up. He blinks at her rapidly.

"The love song I've been stuck on," she reminds him impatiently.

"Oh! Oh! See, I knew you'd be able to finish," Remus says, still looking bewildered.

Winnie smiles at him. "It was inspired by you."

"Inspired by me," he parrots for a moment, nodding, before his eyes widen fractionally. "Inspired by me?" He blurts.

"What I'm saying is," she begins, folding her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking. "I like you."

Maybe the only way to move on was to be properly rejected. Or maybe the only way to move on, Winnie thought selfishly, was to give in to the hope that Sirius had planted.

Remus's face goes slack. And then, wonderfully, a soft pink flush begins to crawl up the nape of his neck, dusting his cheeks in two brilliant splotches. "I— Winnie— But you're—" he flounders, mouth opening and closing repeatedly. Dimly, Winnie thinks it's a little unfair how adorable he looks flustered. She also thinks that she wouldn't mind always seeing him flustered.

"But I'm so what?" She asks, tilting her head to the side casually, despite her thundering heartbeat.

"But you're so, so—" he's stammering now, flushed and a little wild-eyed. "—incandescent."

Winnie thought she had control over the conversation, but at his admittance, she feels a little dizzy. "Incandescent," she repeats in a wide-eyed whisper. In that moment, she knew that no boy would ever call her anything as meaningful. That there would be no other boy that would mean anything to her.

Remus's face only turns a brighter scarlet as he backtracks. "I mean, you're you and I'm— I'm Remus," he says nonsensically.

"Remus Lupin," she corrects with a weak laugh, heart still thumping dangerously.

Remus nods earnestly, as if that's supposed to make any sense. "Yeah," he says, throat bobbing as he swallows. "And, and you could do so much better." Winnie's heart clenches a little at the way he can't meet her eyes. "I'm— I'm not good with people— I wouldn't be good for you."

Winnie chewed the inside of her cheek uncertainly. "Remus, I can't tell if you actually think that or if you really don't like me and are just using that as an excuse because I'd rather it if you just rejected me outright—"

"Of course I like you," he blurts a little frantically with a disbelieving laugh. Winnie's heart trembles so violently that she thinks she needs to take a seat. Remus, on the other hand, pales a little at his outburst as he scrubs a hand over his face. "I mean, anybody would. But you could do so much better. I mean, I'm not good with people or talking and I don't—" She can see that he's begun to work himself up into some sort of frazzled frenzy. "I don't have tattoos or eat cigs for breakfast," he blurts.

Winnie does a double-take. "I know?" She says, bewildered. "Where is this coming from?"

"You said the type of guy you're attracted to has tattoos and eats cigs for breakfast."

Winnie balks at him for a moment before she realizes what he's talking about. She wants to laugh but instead holds it in as she stares fondly at the man in front of her. "Remus," she sighs again, stepping closer to him. The knowledge that he liked her back sends thrilling waves of adrenaline through her. Even though he's taller than her, she feels as though she's the one towering over him.

Emboldened, Winnie takes a deep breath, rises to her toes because he's so bloody tall, and grabs him by the cheeks. Remus's mouth clamps shut as his eyes widen. She wishes she could pour all her emotion into her palm and just press it against him so that he would understand.

"I said that those were the guys I attract, not that I'm attracted to. And I think you're lovely, to say in the least. You're kind, brilliant, a wonderful listener. I think your eyes and your smile are stupidly distracting— Actually, I think you're just the prettiest boy I've ever seen. And I wish you could see these things for yourself, but if it means that I have to love you for the both of us, I would be happy to. If you'd let me."

"Oh," Remus blurts, two bright scarlet splotches flushing on his cheeks. Up close, Winnie can see the way the light catches like gold in his brown eyes.

"Sorry, I'm always talking your ear off," she whispers, her fingers curling a little in the waves his hair. His skin is soft and warm beneath her fingers. "It's fine, really, if you want to reject me. But it's not fair for you to make the decision based off what you think I should want. Because I know that I want you and that's enough for me, yeah?"

Remus parts his mouth and Winnie is so sure that he's going to say something stubborn again.

"Can I kiss you?" He murmurs, brown eyes blown dark and wide as they dart to her lips.

Caught entirely caught off guard, all Winnie can do is make an assenting sound before his head is dipping down towards hers swiftly, as though that was all he was waiting for.

There's no soft, chaste exploration she had expected — instead, Remus kisses like he's burning up from the inside, like he's melting into her. His mouth is warm and sweet — he tastes like the earl gray tea she had made — and his lips are soft as one of his hand rises to catch her jaw, his other hand slipping gently to cradle the back of her head, his long fingers in her hair, as he tilts her face up.

Winnie's mind went blank the moment his lips slotted against hers, but she's rendered entirely useless when his teeth tugs at her bottom lip gently. All she can do is cling onto his neck and shoulders — she doesn't even know when her hands had moved from cupping his face — as Remus tries to guide her even closer to him. Winnie doesn't even have the capacity to feel embarrassment at the appreciative sigh that's pulled from her lips when he deepens the kiss.

To her mingled disappointment and relief — because she's started to run out of air and was feeling light-headed — Remus pulls back just far enough to peer at her with wide eyes. "Sorry, was that too much?" He whispers, voice wonderfully hoarse, his lips still brushing against hers. His brown eyes dart from her eyes to her lips and back around as if he can't decide where to look.

Total ladykiller, Winnie thinks dimly. Somehow, he always managed to catch her off guard even when she thought she was in control. "Um," she manages, breathless, her heart nearly giving out now. "Wow."

When she catches sight of him properly, another thrill runs through her. His pretty eyes are dazed over and his lips reddened and flushed. He looks a little dizzy. "Yeah," he murmurs back, equally nonsensically. He brushes a thumb across her jaw, sending a shiver down her spine. Catching this, Remus just smiles at her, as if impossibly endeared, and it does little to calm her heart. "How about a date tomorrow?"

"Not a coffee shop, I hope," Winnie says mulishly in an attempt to deflect from her warming cheeks. But Remus, as always, can see right through her.

A soft laugh rumbles in his chest as he smiles down at her fondly. "We can go wherever you want."

— — — — —

It's rush hour again. There's a dozen cups lined up for her to make and she's begun to lose track of what she's doing. When she glances down at the name of the one she just finished, Winnie doesn't bother hiding her grin as she calls out, "An earl gray for a Remus Lupin!"

Winnie's smile widens when she catches sight of him in his knitted sweater. And then, "I'm missing a drink."

Her smile falters in confusion as she looks down at the earl gray in his hand. "Hm?" She hums, frowning now.

Remus nods down at the other drink she had finished making, his lips twitching. Winnie blinks at his smile distractedly before peering at the cup. "Matcha latte for Cariad?"

Remus just smiles innocently at her, his eyes warm and fond. "That one's for you."

a/n: hope you enjoyed! love love love hearing your thoughts, so let me know what you think! <3 i feel like i could make a whole remus coffee shop -verse of oneshots now... if that's something.... we would be interested in............. i love the idea of wizards interfacing with muggle society and how shite they would be (re: sirius not knowing how to do anything). even though remus's mom is a muggle, i imagine since he's been at hogwarts for most of his life from 11-18 and spent his childhood moving around a lot and living in the more rural areas, i wanted to play off the idea that though he's been in muggle society, he's probably awkward as hell in a muggle city. edit: more remus x winnie oneshots on my masterlist! >> my masterlist!

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brainrot-goes-brrrrrr · 6 months ago

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Savannah Squad Presentation Night Headcanons/Drabble [2/3]

it has been forever :'D (everyone say thank you to @moonbiine)

ANYWAYS, here's part 2 :}

Part 1: Taylor & Logan Part 2: Ben & Tyler Part 3: Aiden & Ashlyn [WIP]

Logan's POV

Two hours and twenty-eight minutes. It has been two hours and twenty-eight minutes and we've been stuck at 76% complete for forty minutes. Whoever made Windows deserves to burn and I stand by that, cause what do you mean that they can push an update and force restart my laptop.

"Logan when was the last time you updated this?" "Logan, why are there fifteen updates that need to be downloaded?" "Bro, when was the last time you actually shut down your laptop?" ... "I've been busy, okay--"

So it might be my fault. Partially. I will admit that much, but the laptop's never given me a problem before and it was running fine. It's just old, and has a few odd... kinks? I mean, the left half of the mousepad is jammed to the point where it can't click, and, sure, the screen does go black every now and again, but just hit it a few times it works! It's character, charm even (and I can't be bothered to fix it...)!

It was, honest to God, easier for Aiden to run back to his place and grab his laptop.

"So we agree that Logan is off electronic duty right?" Taylor had asked as Ben was setting up the other computer to the television screen with Aiden helping. It was a unanimous decision. Ben and Aiden are the new tech guys.

"Yeah, that's probably for the better," I had conceded.

Ben Clarke

Ben goes next because he saved the groups sanity by suggesting that Aiden just gets his laptop. Everyone, thank Ben for the night not failing.

To address the obvious, Ben has a text to speech app on his phone, which is connected to a speaker, that he uses to present. I will say that there is a sort of humor in this for two reasons. One, the voice can either be monotoned like a typical text-to-speech program with funny pronunciation errors, or two, it will sound like one of those videos on tiktok where an AI is reading a tumblr post about SuperBats or something and gets progressively more expressive as time goes on. Personally, I want to hear exasperated robot Ben voice explaining to Aiden why "Life is a Highway" on repeat can and will be considered a torture method.

Ben's music taste is GODLY. And he's more of a eclectic listener too so he has experience with a good amount of genres. This man does not bash other genres of music that he doesn't care for, he thinks its rude to the person he's talking to and to the artist.

Aiden is the exception to this rule^^

DESPISES having to subscribe to music platforms. What do you mean that you can't listen to a song on repeat without paying, what do you mean that you will interrupt his carefully crafted playlist with a recommended song that does not fit the vibe. This end up derailing his presentation couple times.

He has a set criteria that he judges on: length, vibes, transitions, and replayability. Good playlists should at minimum be an hour, have similar vibes/sound while still being unique, the transitions between songs shouldn't be jarring, and the playlist shouldn't be painful to listen to after a month.

Taylor and Ashlyn helped him judge everyone's playlists by acting as secondary perspectives. Taylor is more open to everyone's music tastes while Ashlyn scrutinizes them more. They pretty much just took a playlist that everyone listens to regularly, one that they made but listen to it every so often, and their liked songs.

I would also like everyone to remember that the series is set in 2016... they would have songs mostly from the 2000s-2010s with the exceptions of some 90s and 80s songs. I'm not saying that's a bad thing, I'm just saying that I looked up 2010s hit songs and I'm filled with nostalgia.

Overall, Ben's criticisms and recommendations are genuinely thoughtful. Especially the recommendations. For each person, after critiquing their playlists, Ben made a slide of genres and artists that each person should check out to expand their tastes.

(I'll probably make a bit about what songs were on their playlist, idk tho)

Group Reaction (how they ranked in comparison to each other)

Personally, Tyler and Logan getting the best ratings because their playlists are very consistent in their vibes and are replayable. I also think that Ben's music taste fits the most with these two for some reason, so they got the most song recs out of everyone.

Ashlyn is third in the ranking. She has one or two that she listens to occasionally, and they're pretty short. They are absolute polar opposites though. One of the playlists is rock, since she canonically likes Paramore (if you don't, get well soon), and the other is classical music for her ballet performances.

Taylor is next. Her playlist isn't bad, its just... a bit everywhere. Like it starts pretty good, but you can tell that somewhere along the lines of creating this playlist she just added songs that she remembered that she likes. It mostly fits the same genre. Ben makes her a more organized playlist after the presentation.

Aiden is dead last. It's not because his music taste is shit. Aiden actually has a pretty good music taste. No. Its because he only listens to his liked songs on repeat like a monster. It is musical whiplash. You go from a movie theme song, to crying, to listening to white girl club music, to rock, to crying again, and then for some reason the Home Depot jingle???? The only playlists that he makes are for jokes really. Do you know the John Mulaney bit where he plays "What's New Pussycat?" 27 times. Yeah, that's Aiden.

Tyler Hernandez

Tyler's next, and, I'm letting you know now that he sprayed the fuck out of Aiden for interrupting. Yeah, Ash pulled them a part.

Motherfucker is so pleased with himself, like its honestly so funny. Aiden had him by the collar and Tyler was just fucking smiling. Taylor does throw her slipper at him for being rude, but he could honestly care less.

The slideshow itself is the most soulless thing ever made, man used the Blank Google Slides template and called it a day. Like one stock image on each slide, and its so pixelated. He probably did it like an hour ago. That's why his presentation is funny because he's just jabbing at Aiden over and over with a basic slideshow that you'd see someone pull out in a Spanish 1-2 class.

You know what? He probably had another presentation about what piercing he think would suit the group best, and just did this one out of spite cause Aiden was being loud. I take back my previous statement about him doing it an hour before getting to Logan's place, he did this on his PHONE WHEN THE LAPTOP WAS UPDATING!!!! Like Logan was taking a walk, Ben was trying to fix the computer, the girls went to make sandwiches, Aiden was running errands, and Tyler made this in an hour.

His presentation is based off a tier system where it gets more effective with each method. Methods 1-3 are pretty basic where its just stuff like duct taping his mouth shut, 4 and onwards just gets funny

I'll be completely honest, each way he put is wild, and it gets progressively more deranged as the presentation goes on. These one's my favorite

"Number 9: Dying You know, I thought this would be the best way, but the bastard got crushed by a ceiling and walked it off. I want you to try and convince me that Aiden wouldn't crawl out of hell just to ruin my day. " "Number 10: Put him in a room alone with Ashlyn's mom and dad *insert a picture of Aiden sitting not so comfortably in between Ashlyn's parents* I don't even think I need to say anything else, I mean, I will, but like... look at him"

This is honestly the shortest presentation of the night but so far it's the most chaotic (he will quickly lose this title).

Tyler went through two spray bottles, mainly for Aiden, but he did spray Taylor once or twice. She threw a shoe at him. It's only fair.

Groups Reaction

Aiden is standing to the side with a towel around himself because Logan said his grandparents would kill them for ruining their couch. He's not exactly pissed but he is kind of sulking. Honestly this just makes his presentation so much better for him.

You know how Tyler asked for suggestions in the beginning, Ben and Ashlyn give him genuine ideas. Mainly Ben, just out of good humor you know. And Tyler's taking notes.

Taylor is giggling, but she does feel a bit bad for Aiden. At some point she gives him a consolation sandwich to raise his spirits.

Logan, however, doesn't and he's just quietly enjoying the scene that's unfolding around him.

The end of these two presentations are by far more chaotic than the first two, and it feels like its only going to get worse from here(/pos). Because right now Aiden is fighting with Tyler, getting him soaked too, Taylor is filming them while Logan provides commentary, and Ashlyn is standing with Ben setting up the next powerpoint.

While it was initially decided that Aiden would go last, Ashlyn suggested that she and him switch. Mainly so that he can drip dry while presenting, and sit down when he's done.

Aiden is following a presentation that was just jabbing at him, how do you think his is going to end up now?

#school bus graveyard #school bus graveyard webtoon #sbg #sbg (webtoon)#ben clarke #tyler hernandez #savannah squad #sbg powerpoint night #I might add more to tyler's later #not edited rn #we die like men

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crackedpumpkin · 2 years ago

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|| ɪɴꜰᴜʀɪᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴍᴇʟᴏᴅɪᴇꜱ || ꜱᴏᴜʟᴍᴀᴛᴇ! ᴀᴜ ||

a/n: guess who procrastinated and ended up writing a thing :)

In all seriousness I’m a complete and utter simp for Cole Brookstone and he is unreasonably attractive in looks personality and everything in between, especially for a goddamn lego man.

Playlist reference: https://youtu.be/j45ogZNaCis

Soulmate AU: Everyone has a soulmate designated to them since the moment they’re born. The tell-tale sign to single them out are the fact that you can hear what songs the other is listening to at any moment of the day.

Ugh. Not this again.

You groan, sitting up as the all-too-familiar sound of soft rock starts playing in the back of your mind. You shake your head slightly to rid the grogginess threatening to lull you back into comforting sleep.

You grab your headphones, immediately sliding them onto your ears as the soothing sound of chill pop music quickly drowns out the soft rock. On the bright side, it means that your soulmate exists.

On the other hand, it also means that whoever they are, they get up at ungodly hours of the day.

You stare blearily at the digital clock.

Five AM.

You'd gotten used to the routine by now, but the days when your soulmate slept in were few and far between. Nonetheless, it's surprisingly boosted your productivity since the music started playing a couple months ago.

"Stop it already!"

You grumble, grabbing a pillow and covering your face with it. You press your face harder into the soft material, willing with all your might for the music to stop.

It'd been three days since it had started, and you abhorred every second.

It was annoying, repetitive, and not your preferred genre at all.

You'd seen many compatible couples with similar music tastes, so why was your soulmate so adamant about having such lousy taste in tunes? Feeling bitter, you decide to drown it out with a playlist of your own. It was custom-made by you, and it took you ages(half a year, to be exact) to put it together.

It was a compilation of your favourite songs and the exact opposite of your soulmate's preference. You knew it annoyed them because every time you played a specific song they hated, they'd play something else you usually shut out in the first three seconds by aggressively playing the music they disliked on repeat.

It took a while, but you had finally called a truce(for now) with your soulmate by playing one of their favourite songs, and they begrudgingly did the same for you in return.

Your friends were weirded out when you first revealed that you hated your soulmate's music taste. Obviously, they had never faced that issue. You were met with confused questions, your friends clueless and oblivious that people could dislike their soulmates.

It was a foreign concept, but it was one that you were living.

At first, you were excited that you could finally hear the songs your soulmate liked to listen to.

That same excitement soon morphed into disdain for the genre they listened to.

Now, you survey the bedroom you're in, taking note of all the scattered cardboard boxes. They were filled to the brim with various items of yours, some containing knick-knacks you've picked up randomly off the streets or in night markets.

"Are you ready to go?" You turn your attention to your mother entering your room. She eyes the mess with a disapproving gaze, and you smile weakly. "I'll clear it up before the moving vans come?" You negotiate, hoping to escape an earful after getting out of bed so early.

She sighs. "Fine, but make it quick." She leaves the room with a pointed glare, shutting the door behind her. You sigh in relief, grabbing a roll of duct tape from your dresser and taping the boxes shut. You grab a marker and label each box with the contents inside.

It took a while, but you were finally done. You wipe the sweat off your brow, glancing around at the now neatly packed and stacked boxes, arranging the last one in front of you. You grab the bag you had packed the night before, all the necessities inside. By now, the music from your soulmate had stopped playing(thank god for that), and you were halfway through your playlist.

"Ready to go?" Your dad calls from outside.

"Yeah, coming down in a sec!" You yell back, standing in the doorway. You look back at your room. The gentle sunlight shining through the bare windows breathed life into the room and the curtains that once decorated the small window seat. Where your bed once sat was empty with the polished mahogany wood underneath.

Endless nights of laying in your plush bed with your bedside lamp's dim yet warm glow seemed so distant in your memories. Your hand lingers on the doorknob, mumbling a soft goodbye before shutting the door and heading downstairs to where your parents are waiting.

"Are your friends not seeing you off?" You're immediately greeted with a question as soon as you shut the car door, sitting in the back. You look up to see your dad looking at you with a raised brow, waiting patiently for your answer. You pause the music, and the sweet sound of silence greets your ears.

"Yeah, we already said our goodbyes yesterday." You reply with a shrug. Alicia and the rest of your friends brought you out for dinner at the pizza place you often frequented, and you spent the night giggling and reminiscing past memories.

They dropped you off at two AM, and you snuck into the house without anyone noticing. Your friends had made you promise to text often, and you'd definitely update them as soon as you reached Ninjago City.

Your dad seems satisfied with your answer and starts driving off.

Your phone beeps and you pull it out to see messages from your friends.

'Send souvenirs! Or face my wrath when we meet up again.' - Alicia

'Brooo' - Brenden, image.jpeg attached.

'Call when you reach! And make sure you drink plenty of water, you dehydrated fungus.' - Nico

You giggle at the messages, opening up the group chat to see a short video they filmed in the morning before school. You slide your headphones onto your ears, pressing play.

"Yo, have a safe trip or whatever!" Brenden's black hair is frizzy and unkempt, a clear sign that Alicia had probably dragged him out of bed for this. He's shoved aside, and the phone is grabbed, a familiar face coming close to the camera.

"Nico, she can't see your face properly if you hog the camera!" Alicia complains, grabbing Nico by her coat and snatching the phone away. A head of red hair comes into view, a stark contrast to the shy brunette beside her.

"Bring souvenirs!! I heard that the candy over there is to die for." Alicia demands with a bright grin, and you roll your eyes.

"Guys, Ms. Fergurson is coming!" Nico warns.

Alarm is apparent in all of their eyes. "Oh god, okay, we gotta go now, or we'll get caught! Bye, Y/n, love you stinky three thousand." The video is cut short, and you stifle a laugh at the sudden ending.

'Thanks guys, love you stinky three thousand.'

You quickly type out the response and continue to scroll through Instagram for the remaining time it takes to get to the capital city.

You stir, eyes fluttering open at the annoying sound of drilling and construction. You blink a few times, sitting up from where you had slumped against the window while you slept. Your vision clears, and you move your hands away to see bright lights and skyscrapers galore around you.

You're here.

Ninjago City is filled to the brim with people and endless traffic. Your dad scowls at the long line of cars in front of him, glaring at the red light that seems to take forever to turn green.

"That's the school you'll be attending tomorrow." Your mum points out from the passenger seat, and you follow the direction she's pointing to. You stare at the large school on the right.

‘Ninjago High School’

You hum in thought, already filled with anxiety for the following day. It didn't help that you were from the outskirts and had a different(and probably lacking) curriculum. You fiddle with the games on your phone, focusing intently on beating the next level of Candy Crush.

You mumble a cuss when 'Game Over' appears on the colourful screen, and your mum instantly turns with a suspicious gaze. You smile nervously, trying to play it off as though you hadn't said anything.

She turns back around, choosing to let it pass.

You stare out the window, watching the shops pass by in a blur until you spot one that catches your eye. "Dad, could you drop me off here?" He doesn't question your sudden request, making a turn and parking next to the sidewalk.

You open the car door and exit, looking up at the sign on the storefront.

'Ninjago Doomsday Comix'

"There's a Chinese takeout nearby if you wanna grab dinner before meeting us at the new house." Your dad has a GPS pulled up on his phone, texting you the address of your new home.

"Yeah, I'll grab some food on the way back. Gonna take a look around the place, y'know, before I get lost tomorrow." You joke. You adjust the straps of your small bag before settling it in a comfortable position on your back.

"See you later then, kiddo. Call us if anything happens. Should be safe since those ninjas are around."

Before you can question what he means, he drives off with all the rest of your luggage.

"...Ninjas?" You mumble in confusion before shrugging it off. You were lucky that your dad had visited the city multiple times on business trips and that he was primarily a hands-off parent. Your mum usually just went along with his whims.

The door swings open easily, a jingle catching you off guard. A man at the cashier counter greets you with a friendly grin that eases your nerves, and you walk up to him.

"Hi, do you know where to find Starfarer comics?"

"Well, right here, of course!" You cringe at his response, realizing how poorly worded your question was. It elicits a chuckle from the man in front of you.

"Just kidding. I'm Rufus, Rufus McAllister, or you can call me Mother Doomsday. You're a new face around these parts. What's your name?"

"Uhm, I'm Y/n. I just moved here, so maybe that's why." You reply, clutching the straps of your bag with a small smile at the friendly man.

"Well, welcome to Ninjago City! I hope the city treats you well. We got the ninja protecting us, so that's added security too."

Your brows furrow, wondering why everyone around you knew what these ninjas were, but you had no clue. "Ninja?"

Rufus pauses with his lips parted, seemingly processing your words. A relaxed grin slowly forms on his lips, and he waves off your question. "You'll find out soon enough." He glances towards a specific aisle, seemingly contemplating.

"It should be fine then…." He mumbles. You're just lost in where this conversation had ended up.

"Aisle Eight is where we keep the best-stocked Starfarer comics." He gestures to the area he had been staring at earlier. You thank him with a brief nod, walking over.

The aisle is relatively empty, save for two other people. A blonde guy in a green hoodie is flipping through the latest issue of Starfarer with keen interest, engrossed in the colourful pages.

Next to him is another boy with slightly wavy and choppy black hair, the smooth and silky strands making you both envious and curious about his hair care routine. In contrast to his friend(you assumed), he regards you with a suspicious gaze.

He’s kinda cute.

You find it odd, feeling mildly unsettled by the intense stare he gave you. It wasn't a good one; it was more on the wary side than interested. You brush it off, ignoring the pair and scouring the shelves for issue number three.

You finally find the issue you're looking for, but it's directly opposite the pair.

After all, what would you be if not cursed with bad coincidence?

You practically tiptoe over, clearing your throat slightly as you grab the comic book and start reading. Green Hoodie(Greenie, you decide to nickname) looks up in surprise, only now noticing your presence. Mr. Grumpy Pants(The nickname suits him perfectly), on the other hand, doesn't bother hiding the grimace on his lips at your presence, looking away.

You stiffen, eyes narrowing into a glare.

Rude.

Greenie hits his friend's shoulder in a light punch, looking at you with an expression of apology.

"She should be fine. Rufus wouldn't send anyone over here without vetting them first." Greenie whispers to Mr. Grumpy Pants, referring to his earlier behaviour.

"Yeah, but what if they're…you know? I don't want another repeat of what happened with Jay."

Damn.

You almost drop the comic book in your hands, caught off guard by how attractive Mr Grumpy Pant’s voice is. You tense, now more aware of their presence. Even though you don't want to eavesdrop, you can't help how your ears practically perk up, hoping to hear more of the deep voice from earlier.

Plus, they weren't doing a very good job of keeping their conversation a secret.

"I trust Rufus. He's a good friend."

"...Maybe."

"Is that…? OMG! It's them!!"

You're interrupted from blankly staring at the same page for the past fifteen minutes, having focused on the conversation behind you, though the pair had stopped talking a while ago.

You look up at the store's glass windows, startled by the sudden sight of a group of girls pressed against the glass, staring intently at the two boys behind you.

"Oh no." You watch all the color drain from Greenie's face while Mr. Grumpy Pants smacks his palm against his face, sliding it down and sighing heavily with an utterly defeated expression.

"Not again…" You hear him mutter.

The girls grab their phones, snapping photos of them. You realize that you're probably in them, too, considering the lack of distance between you both.

"Girls, there's the door!!" The tallest and most commandeering of the group holds open the entrance to the comic book store, and they swarm towards it.

"Cole, run!!!" Greenie yells, taking off to the back door that Rufus quickly ushers them both through. You grab the issue of Starfarer that Greenie dropped on the floor in his hasty exit, watching the fabric of Cole's shirt almost get stuck in the doorway.

At least now you know Mr. Grumpy Pant's name.

You place both the comics back on the shelf, leaving with a quick wave to Rufus, who nods goodbye. You pull out your phone, look up directions to the Chinese Takeout store and slowly make your way there. You grab your earbuds, put them both in your ears and start your playlist from the beginning.

You're next to an alleyway, just steps away from the Chinese Takeout, when your arm is grabbed and pulled into an alleyway next to you. A yelp rips free from your chest, losing your balance and almost fall.

A strong and warm arm holds yours firmly, pressing you against the cold brick wall. Your eyes automatically squeeze shut when your back hits the wall with a grunt, opening your eyes to see Mr. Grumpy Pants from earlier.

His hand is pressed firmly against your mouth, and your hands curl into fists, punching his chest weakly. Unfortunately, your body's affinity to whatever created muscles in your body was little, making you regret not going to the gym after years of procrastination.

He shushes you, and you only just notice his pinched brows and the shine of sweat on his forehead. You hear the gradual approach of his fangirls and realize that he had tugged you behind a wall that separated into a small alcove, out of sight from the sidewalk you were on earlier.

"Turn that nauseating song off." Cole winces, muttering through clenched teeth. Your punches slow to a stop, confused by his words. He grabs your phone out of your hands, pressing pause on your beloved playlist. You allow him to do so, your mind blank and realization slowly dawning on you.

Your eyes widen in shock, staring up at his stupidly handsome face. His dark brown eyes are filled with the fear of being caught, and you catch yourself admiring the shaggy black hair that frames his face in the most annoyingly perfect manner.

Your mind races with incoherent thoughts, but one sticks out like a sore thumb.

Your soulmate's a celebrity?

You'd think that being a celebrity would mean that his music taste would be of at least adequate quality.

"Am I getting kidnapped right now?" You voice out the most pressing concern on your mind, though it comes out muffled. He turns back to face you with an incredulous expression.

"You don't know who I am?" His voice is hushed, waiting for the horde of fangirls to run past your hiding spot.

Your eyes narrow, pushing his hand off of where it's placed on your shoulders. You try to ignore the tingle his touch leaves behind that spreads to your hands and how his choppy bangs somehow manage to fall over his eyes in a somewhat attractive manner when he turns to face you.

"In the past twenty minutes, you've glared at me, been rude, and practically held me hostage," You snap at him, irritated by the lack of common human decency he seemed to display. "And what do you mean nauseating song? If anything, you're the one giving me headaches with that god-awful noise you call music that you play daily!"

You finish your mini rant, having reached the end of your already thinning patience with the boy in front of you. You pant slightly, trying your best to reign in your temper.

"Noise? Noise?? I could say the same for you! You're disturbing my sleep at night with those ear-splitting synths and breathy singing that sounds like they're on the verge of hyperventilation!" Cole retorts with thinly veiled disgust, taking a step back, dusting off his hands, and wiping them on his pants.

You eye the action, feeling insulted. Both of you stand in the alleyway, silently glaring at each other. Cole breaks the stare first, scanning the area behind him once he realizes the fangirls are gone. You grin, elated at the quiet victory.

"You really gotta get more variety." Your smile drops as soon as the words leave Cole's lips, and yours press into a thin line.

"Speak for yourself." You can barely hold back another biting remark. If anyone were to see you now, they'd definitely mistake you as enemies rather than the soulmates that you actually are.

He groans, rolling his eyes. You're tempted to ask what he does for a living but choose to stay silent. You shake your head, still in disbelief that you've found your soulmate. "How on earth are we even going to get along…." You mutter to yourself.

Cole looks up, seemingly having heard your quiet mumbles. "I could say the same thing. I can't be with someone who can't tell the difference between good music and bad!"

How insufferable.

But you can't help ogling his arms when he props his hands on his hips, the muscle ready to tear through the thin material. You tear your gaze away, crossing your arms. Unfortunately, he catches your eyes wandering, a cocky smirk tugging the corner of his lips up.

Your cheeks instantly warm, and you look away in embarrassment.

"Well, whatever. Just find me when you want to learn what real music sounds like!"

"Fine!"

"Fine then!"

With that, the conversation ends, and you both turn to face opposite ends of the alleyway, walking away from each other with flushed faces and burning cheeks.

'Wait, I didn't give him my number.'

You realize, turning around.

"I'll find you!" Almost as if he senses your hesitation, he answers your unasked question.

You turn with a huff, “Didn’t ask!" You yell back.

To drive home your point, you place your earbuds back into your ears and hit play on your playlist.

Immediately, Cole's songs start playing in the back of your mind, much louder than before. You let out an irritated sigh, but surprisingly enough, the tune didn't sound as vexing as before.

It might even be a little bit endearing.

#ninjago #ninjago x reader #soulmate au #ninjago soulmate au #cole brookstone #cole brookstone x reader #lloyd #enemies to lovers #cole x reader #fic #lego ninjago #lego ninjago x reader

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sunboki · 1 year ago

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002. THE MOVING IN DIARIES — ANTHOLOGY

PAIRING. Lee Minho x gn. reader | WORD COUNT. 2.3k & 12 minute read | SERIES PLAYLIST. | WARNINGS. cursing, anxiety, metaphor referring to getting high, talk of sex & implied smut | TROPE. friends to lovers, angst, fluff, suggestive, comfort, basically moving in together au!

( ✉️ ) — although this fic turned out shorter than expected, i have to remind myself this is a “mini”series 😭😭 please leave a reblog or comment if you enjoyed it! love you guys!!

Playful banter while driving to your new home is a must, but upon opening the door to your first home together, the big moment truly sinks in — especially when he wakes up beside you the next morning. Wow.

Heaving the massive brown boxes through the door with your boyfriend right on your heels, you practically slam the box labeled “Kitchen” in neon tape down, wiping the sweat off your brow before looking up.

It’s one thing to sign the papers to a new home, but another when you actually realize the reality of it all.

Minho seems to be in the same state of awe as well.

New. Everything is new. Your new home, a new chapter in either of your lives.

Together.

. ..

People genuinely underestimate the entire process of buying a house.

In other words, the entire daydreaming phase disappears instantly once finances, planning, and packing are introduced.

And it’s a fucking nightmare.

From initially digesting the prices to agreeing on a house in general, you’re certain gray hairs are mere days from appearing atop your head. Although, your boyfriend was here too, every step of the way.

My god were you grateful for that.

He handled the stress like a pro, picking out certain flaws in layouts you’d been completely oblivious to and always leveling you out when you got overwhelmed with things. Plus, you got to witness him looking illegally attractive in his glasses more than ever over the four-month long house-buying hell.

“And what about option two?” You ask, referring to your boyfriend currently calling about some new places he’d scoped out.

You swear this same conversation has popped up almost every day over the past month and a half. At this point it’s instinct going through the bottomless list, crossing off place after place, neverending.

Like you said, house-buying hell.

“Pretty spacious except the kitchen takes up half of the house,” Minho grunts, and you envision his glasses-clad self hunched at his desk with Dori on his lap, likely dozing off.

Before you can reject though, he huffs a chuckle, one filled with nothing but mischief.

“Hey, kitchen sex would be great.”

Thank god you weren’t drinking something or it definitely would’ve come out of your nose.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Awe, you love me sweetheart. And you know it's true.”

As much as you’d like to deny it, he’s no fool. Because kitchen sex with Minho is heavenly, and you’d be a liar to say otherwise. Unfortunately, your lack of reply evidently stroked his ego to no end, cocky giggle rumbling through the call.

Asshole.

You love him.

Reminding him you’d send a text while on your way home, you, as per usual, clock in for your shift after his whining and many repeated goodbyes. Yet you can’t seem to let go of the thought, plaguing your mind like an infectious virus.

Doubts.

Doubts about things working out, about your relationship working out, about your love working out. Especially once you move in, if you move in, no, of course you’ll move in, right? Where it came from you’re not sure, only aware of the tightness of your chest when you step outside for a breath of fresh air.

Suffocating. You feel suffocated.

Reaching into your pocket, moments of hesitation keep your thumb lingering longer over his number, regrettably stuffing the forsaken device in your pocket.

Not now, maybe later. It’s just a thought. Nothing serious.

Except you were a hypocrite, and it was serious, because by the time you stepped from the building you practically cried in the middle of the road, barely able to contain the frothing wail that left a nasty aftertaste burning your tongue.

Fuck it. You’re calling him.

Not until he attempts at getting out a full sentence without you dissolving into sobs does an audible phrase leave your mouth, pitifully curled up atop your bed after charting the messiest walk home in history.

“But– But what if the something happens and the agent messes up and–”

“Baby.”

The voice, the subtly stern tone immediately stops your fervent ranting. Your chest feels seconds from exploding, stifling every pained sound clambering to escape.

“This is our journey, our struggles. Don’t put so much stress on your shoulders when I’m here to help you carry it, okay? I love you, and I need you to know you’re not handling this by yourself.”

He’s speaking so quietly, so kindly, and you can only hum to keep from breaking into tears again while leant against the wall, phone pressed against your ear.

He’s said those three words more than ever in these past few weeks—knowing that he needs to hear it, that you both need to hear it. “I love you”.

It never gets old.

Also, once you're officially homeowners, you won’t have to constantly call each other anymore. It brings a watery smile to the corner of your lips.

“Hey Min?”

“Yes?” He hummed, mirroring the same sound made when he ate a good bite of food. It’s the cutest thing in the world.

“Yes?”

“Can we.. stay like this? I just want to know you’re there.”

A breathless laugh utters through the line.

“I’m right here all night sweetness.”

And like he promised, he stayed, the call ending almost seven hours later. Having fallen asleep a mere two hours in, Minho spoke all the while, mumbling to both himself and you. Plans for the future, his current grocery list, and, while deep in thought, how he so badly wanted to marry you.

He wouldn’t mention the last one when you woke up.

Eventually, he too began drifting off, and it wasn’t without telling you good night that he let himself fully travel to dreamland, whispering: “Good night baby, ‘sleep well.” Before clicking the red icon, signaling the end of the call.

Call Ended: 6:43:17.

. ..

The clock hung on his wall reads 2AM and his hand ferociously maneuvers the mouse, eyes practically bloodshot. You’re behind him on his bed, immersed just as intensely on the blinding screen.

Yesterday you’d received the best kind of news, but the trial was far from over, and you couldn’t quite celebrate till the keys came in—the exact thing you were religiously looking into right now.

He’s relentlessly scrolling through emails, running a hand through dark brown hair with prominent dark circles shadowing beaneath his lower lashes.

Having met with your agent that afternoon, you were nearly finished with the entire closing process when ding! A notification buzzes.

Scrambling, you jump off his mattress, both blinking dumbly, mouths agape.

Hello, I am pleased to inform the Minho family (you laughed at the name) your keys will be available at 8am tomorrow morning. Thank you for your cooperation, I was delighted to be the agent you chose for your first home purchase!

Oh my god.

Slowly turning to face one another, huge smiles grow at your cheeks while the boy’s apartment erupts in loud, victorious screams. He pulls you into a big hug and you do the same, mimicking his bouncing excitement.

He can’t even describe how happy he is.

This is really happening.

Your boyfriend hides himself in your chest and you gently pat his head, allowing the thundering of his heartbeat to calm.

Surreal.

Nonetheless, he couldn’t seem to stop kissing you. Perhaps it was the aftermath’s effect, too intoxicated by happiness to think sensibly. Not that he didn’t constantly kiss you normally, but this time it was different.

Plus, how could he stop when after the third kiss your lips were all puffy and glossy, begging to be kissed.

Holding your wrists, he tips his head to an angle, nipping the swollen skin of your bottom lip and ushering a deep sigh from you.

So when he does let go, you effortlessly hold his face, falling back onto the bed without a second thought other than having Minho as close to you as possible.

To say the least, fucking at almost 3AM was criminally underrated.

Towel hanging around his neck after his shower (and the euphoric afterglow), he took on the job of coordinating how each item was organized, deciding to worry about packing up your flat after coming to the conclusion trying to sleep at this point was futile.

“We’re such good adults.” You satisfy, popping the cap off the Sharpie and being sure to label the box in front of you as “Cat toys'' (Minho’s instructions).

”Please don’t ever say that again.” He leans down, stealing a peck for the nth time off your pout. You don’t complain.

You groan. “What? We just bought a house all by ourselves y’know.”

He busies himself in the bathroom, fetching additional toiletries while wearing the horrifically ugly slippers Changbin gifted him last year.

“After four months,” He says, tone laced with bemusement.

“Hey! It’s about the journey, not the reward,” You point an accusing finger his way, him responding with a rather unimpressed expression.

“You’re a loser.”

“Your loser.”

He wrinkles his nose, appearing disgusted.

Typical Minho reaction.

To no one’s surprise, you spend the remainder of the night scurrying around the place, too high on anticipation. Although, even after countless nights of no sleep, you don’t feel exhausted. You feel alive, relieved.

And it’s when he rolls over to face you, smiling so faintly you can barely make out the shadow lining his usually furrowed exterior that you realize he’s just as ecstatic as you are.

. ..

“Oh please, Lee Minho, you’re already hot, and we’re gonna be late!” You holler from his complex's parking lot, shutting the trunk filled to the brim with luggage. Of course, your boyfriend takes his sweet time sauntering over, placing the keys in your open palm and sending you a sarcastic grin.

“Never knew we booked an appointment with the house,” He scoffs, and you slip your index into his belt loop, tugging him closer with a shared sneer.

“Well now you know,” You cockily tilt your head, a sudden tension overwhelming the minimal space between you two, testing each other's teetering resolve using a mere stare and your finger still wedged in his belt.

He steps closer, you hold your breath.

So it takes you a moment to realize he said “I’m driving” till the keys were snatched from your grasp, leaving you to scoot your legs away and side-eye him the entire ride. Worst part? By the look of his stupidly-handsome-no-good-please-stop-so-I-can-despise-you smile, he enjoyed every second.

Yet, opposed to the cold-shoulder attitude on the drive there, you’re giggling like idiots upon pulling in the driveway. Your poor neighbors have to be terrified at this rate, worried their new next-door acquaintances are some deranged circus clowns or something.

They’re not half wrong.

After your starstruck admiration opening the door though, you get to work arranging things. Assembling shelves, cleaning floors, washing windows, you name it, the first half of the house was spotless.

First half.

As for now, you sprawl in Minho’s lap, a fan replacing the lack of air conditioning and a mandatorily delivered magazine fanning your sweaty faces. Any other situation you would’ve been miserable, but there’s no other contentment better than this.

Because it’s not much, but it's yours.

And that’s enough.

Despite the blinds pulled tightly closed, peach rays of light strayed through the crevices, painting the room a warm glow. You stirred awake, genuinely shocked with, one, this bedroom not being your own, two, the subtle wondering of how you ended up here from the living room, and three, a presence pressed against your back, hand slipped between your legs to hold the soft skin of your inner thigh.

“Minho. Minho!” You poke, jabbing an accusing finger against his jaw. His brow twitches, slowly blinking up at you. He grumbles, squeezing the supple skin there as if you weren’t staring at him incredulously.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Glaring into his genuinely innocent eyes, he purses his lips with a very kissable pout, appearing completely confused before noticing where his hand lay.

Compromising. Quite compromising.

“It’s warm and soft, why not? Or is it that I’m turning you o—“ Words cut short from you muffling him with a pillow, he squirms, infectious laughter radiating through the silk fabric.

Clad in basketball shorts and a plain white t-shirt that rose up just enough to grant a peek of his soft tummy when he stretched, your boyfriend padded through the hallway, approaching you only to scoop you up into his arms from behind—hand slipping beneath your top.

Before you can interfere though, he mumbles beneath his breath, voice hardly audible after just waking up.

“Don’t move, ‘wanna stay like this.”

Ah.

Morning Minho. You love morning Minho, especially now that you’re living together.

Before now, the only time you’d ever get to wake up beside each other was after, well, that. So to think about tomorrow where you'd get to do this again and again and again felt like a daydream.

Relaxing into his touch, he presses his nose into your neck, eyelids fluttering shut to simply bask in the atmosphere, the quietness occupying the home, your home.

Standing there motionless for a few moments, he takes you in, the softness of your skin dappled in sunlight filtering past the window, the rise and fall of your chest. Beautiful.

“So what’re we supposed to do now?” You aimlessly ask aloud, avoiding eye-contact with the massive amount of boxes stuffed in the corner—too exhausted to continue unpacking the night earlier. Save for another time.

“Fuck?” He mutters, but it comes out more muffled, more gravelly. Ungodly attractive.

“I…” Sentence getting caught up in your throat, you move equally as fast toward the bedroom, his nimble fingers pulling the straps of your top down your shoulders, chasing after you.

“—Hate you.” You finish, simultaneously trapped between him and the door.

Nevertheless, you give in. With Minho, you always give in.

You love him.

He knows.

> SERIES TAGLIST. @phtogravi @liknws @luckieleaf @jhstayy @meloncremesoda @chans1aptop @eternitywaveshello @meanergreener @ladylexis @love-gy-u @hanjingin @idkluvutellme @dark-anxel @yubinism @rachabreathing @seung-scrittore @fylithia @skzsupremacy @alrm02 @ener-energy @koliki @anskiiz @dprkbyn @bellamuerte1987 @ylixbok @hanjisung-enjoyer @youngunknownwitch @hwangflora @starlost-andfound @taeriffic @flwerfield

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technologyculturedneo · 1 year ago

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It Burns: The Second Time Around | Lee Mark

"That's why I slept with him."

Pairing. Ex-Boyfriend!Lee Mark x Reader ft Love!Jaemin

Genre. Angst. Ex lover meets new lover. Break up. Lovers to ex's.

Synopsis. It's been weeks since your half naked pictures circulated online and you feel like your life has been stuck. On one hand you wanna make up with Mark and on the other hand Jaemin floats in your mind. Wanting clarity you decide make your feelings known for the person you love.

Warning. Minor cusses. Low-key smut. Breakup. Your heart might get broken.

Playlist. Gnash I hate you, I love. Nct dream Like we just met. Ellie Goulding Love me like you do

Disclaimer. This is part 2, part 1 is called: It Burns. You can read it here

“Mum, I don’t know what to do?” Mark shakes his head staring ahead being in a daze. In his head, it’s just a repeat of everything that had happened. From him finding out what you did, to him breaking everything in the house. “I love her and Ethan, but I can’t be with her. Not after what she did.”

His mother, Mrs Lee, sits down next to him placing a cup of coffee before him. Ten years ago when he left the house, he left his mother and father in tears. They wondered why their son had chosen you over them. They were his family and you were just a girl who got pregnant. How could he leave his family for you? It was a bitter pill for them to swallow as they were a God-fearing family, and felt shame that Mark had impregnated a young girl and wanted to live with her. Not only did he demolish his own innocence and reputation, but he had to kick start at a difficult life at an early age. Where did they go wrong?

No. They did nothing wrong, it was all your fault. You got pregnant and ruined his life. They couldn’t be angry at the unborn child, but they could be angry at you. You caused their son stress and they could see just how much pressure Mark felt to grow up and take care of you and their coming child. After you gave birth to their first grandson, Mark’s parents let their hearts ‘try’ to forgive you as you brought back that light into Mark’s life. It made all his sacrifices worth it, because he could proudly say that he chose his family.

Through Ethan, Mark’s parents saw that perhaps God had chosen a different path for their son. And after years, they both began to accept you yet again.

However, nothing prepared them for the night when Mark came beating down on their door looking horrible and dreadful while crying out for his dear life. It was absolutely torture to see him in shreds of despair, pining and hating on himself for ever loving and choosing you. Mark’s mother always knew that her son would come back in her arms, she just didn’t expect that he’d come back this way. Mark’s father knew that you weren’t a perfect match for his son, but he didn’t expect for you to show how imperfect you were through your vile acts of sexual immorality.

It only brought them to have a strong distaste for you again, as not only did you break their sons heart, but you broke their daughter’s heart too. And what’s worse is that Ryujin’s pain was ten times crueler because Jaemin had proposed to her and they were going to get married in two months’ time. However, after finding out what he had been doing behind her back, she immediately called off the engagement.

And for that it only allowed for you to be put back on their list of hatred. You ruined their children’s lives. First Mark and then Ryujin. You were unforgivable at this point. There’s nothing that would change their minds.

Yet, when Mark drinks on his coffee, he can’t help but think about Ethan. “Should I just…I know Ethan loves us both, but I hate the fact that he’s caught in the middle of this mess. What’s going to happen to him? If I give up on Y/n, then we’re going to go into war for who gets to keep Ethan. And that’s not fair, he deserves both his parents to be by his side, but I can’t stand to be next to her. After everything…mum, she was at it for 4 years. She’s his mother just as much as I’m his father, and it pains me to think of him growing up with one parent. I know for sure, that if I speak with Y/n I’ll hate her, which is why I don’t even want to speak to her. But I can’t stand the fact that Ethan will grow up with one of us alone. We’ve been through so much and he…he’s just ten.” Mark slumps and voices out his thoughts out loud.

His mother listens in an understanding manner. After that call that she had with you, she wanted as much as possible to keep you away from her son. She never wanted you to enter back into his life. The only problem to that would be Ethan being caught in the crossfire. Their grandson was such a well-mannered young respectful boy. Leaving him to grow up with you would only make her heart heavy, because what type of lessons would you even teach him? To have sex at a young age? Or to cheat on his girlfriend? In Mrs Lee’s opinion, you are unfit to be a mother. You never wanted to be one and so letting Mark do all the parenting while you fooled around has finally come to bite you.

“Son,” She sets her mug down and places her warm hand gently over his. “You need to leave her. I understand you have a child with her, but she broke your chest severely.”

“But..” His voice fades into a whisper. “I can’t leave her, mum I love her,”

“You still love her? You’re willing to sacrifice your dignity and go back to her? You’re going to accept her after all she did? Mark, you can’t be serious,”

“I’m not accepting it. It’s just, why should I leave? I find it hard to believe that after all that we’ve been through and all the freedom I give her, and all of my love and heart that I’ve given her, she still went out with Jaemin? Why? For the past 3 days I’ve been trying to understand why? Or what I did?” Mark’s lips tremble and he covers his face. “And how did I not see this coming? Maybe if I found out sooner, we would’ve been able to talk and I… I would’ve been able to protect her from being publicly shamed.”

Seeing her son distraught, she stands up and moves closer to him. Embracing him in a hug, her heart aches when he lays his head on her chest and his shoulders shudder just as he cries.

“Mum, I tried everything I could to make her happy. Do you think that our chemistry was just not enough? Why did she go and look for something else outside? We were compatible mum. I fucking made vows to her and kept to my word each and every single time. What did I do wrong?”

“My son.” She runs her hand down his soft perfect hair. “Chemistry can be great between two people, and so can compatibility, love and vows. They’re all great, but what you should’ve been looking for was a relationship that nourished your soul. If she was able to keep that immoral act for years, it means she only sucked from your soul and gave you nothing, but left you dry. Mark, you are my son, and I’ve raised you with such purity. You’ve got a big heart and everyone can see it.” She sighs out. What you did was tough for her to even imagine, but now trying to explain it to her son feels even more burdening. He gave his soul to you and you broke him down. How dare you? “What she did, is absolutely disgusting. And what you’ll decided is obviously your choice, but I want you to consider your soul. If she can go out there for 4 years and plead that she’ll never do it again, are you willing to let her hold your soul again? Are you willing to give her a chance? At least even 2 years, if it were 2 years I could easily understand and perhaps even allow you to look past it, but the fact that it’s four years and on top of that it’s Jaemin… I can’t even speak. What I can tell you, is that you should speak to her, to at least get some closure for yourself and your decision and for your soul. In this relationship, you were the one who wanted a better version of yourself, and you committed yourself whole heartedly, you invested yourself into her. And the fact that she didn’t even try, makes me hope that you’ll settle for someone better, who’s worthy of you.”

“But Ethan…”

“As much as Ethan deserves both his parents, it’s up to both his parents to be committed to one another. It’s already proven that she can’t be faithful or trustworthy, or even committed. Ethan may be caught in the cross fire, but you’re my son and the way I see it, is that you’re caught in the cross fire too. She’s only ever used Ethan to get to you. But now what about you my son. I want you to consider the fact that Ethan might not grow up with you.”

If only Mark had a microscope, just to see all the pieces of his heart breaking. It shatters his soul completely to have to think of Ethan growing up without him. How could he ever want for his own son, his own flesh and blood to live without him? If Ethan were Jaemin’s child, it would be a different story, but since Ethan was his child, Mark felt that he needed to be a dad. The proud dad that he was when he carried and lifted Ethan up when you first gave birth. Mark had already handed his whole heart to Ethan the day he was born, so now how on earth would Ethan grow up if his father’s heart was broken?

Things fall apart in your house when it’s left just you and Ethan. You thought you knew your son, yet when began showing attitude to you or ignoring you, you didn’t like that you had to try to keep calm when you were around him. A week without Mark seemed to be the most chaotic in Ethan’s life, as he went to school came back to only you in the house he refused to get out of his room or listen to you and you had to give him his food in the room. You hated how closed off he was being, but you couldn’t blame him. This isn’t exactly the situation you imagined yourself to be in. You never thought that your hidden life would be public.

Not only did you break Marks’s trust, but every day when you look at Ethan, you begin to release just how much disconnection there is between everyone. Like today, Monday. You wanna drop Ethan at school, but he’s already out the house by the time you get downstairs. You decide to try again to call Mark, but just like always his call goes to voicemail. So you call on Jaemin, because there’s no one else who you can call without getting side eyes.

Jaemin answers in an instant and offers to come over. So the middle of the day around 12 o’clock, you’re opening up the door to his cautious face and stance. “Hi.”

“Hi.” You stiffly smile. This would be the first time you’re interacting with him ever since the scandal blow up online and out of proportion. “Come in,”

Jaemin clears his throat, stepping inside the house. “Mark here?”

“He hasn’t come home since,”

“Mm,” Jaemin nods his head while making his way to the living room and taking a seat on the couch. “So, how have you been?”

You take a seat next to him and shake your head. “Can we get the formalities out the way and just…talk,”

“Ryujin ended the engagement.” Jaemin lets out. “I tried explaining to her, but Y/n, the only thing I could tell her is that I love you, and only you. It broke her heart, but at least it-”

“Goddamnit Jaemin, why the hell would you tell her that?” You sigh and sink into your seat rubbing on your temple.

“Because Y/n, I love you. I can’t hide it anymore, and it’s fucking better that the cats are out of the bag and everyone knows. I love you, and now-”

“Jaemin-”

“I hate sounding so selfish, but when Ryujin called off the engagement I was so happy. For years I’ve been unhappy. She’s a great girl, a wonderful woman, but my heart has only been set on you. It only beats for you. It’s better that everything is out now, and we might look like the most selfish people on the face of the earth, but who cares. What matters is that we can finally be together, finally free from Ryujin and Mark. You don’t even love him like that, you’re just in a relationship with him because you’ve got a kid. You said that getting in a relationship with her would make me forget you, but I can’t forget you. Not with the way I love you. And I bet you haven’t been able to forget me either. Ryujin is not you, she’s not the girl of my dreams and Mark doesn’t know you like I know. He hasn’t been your pillow and comforter the way I have. I know it sucks to hear all this now but-”

“Jaemin how many times do I have to say that we’re not having that conversation? We already cleared this up that- We can’t keep-”

“Admit it.” Jaemin holds onto your hand looking into your eyes. “You’re scared to take the next step with me even though you really want to. Come on, Y/n. I know I’m not the boy’s father, but I promise you that I can love you and him. You love me too, I know you do but you can’t think about me because of Mark and your child. Please Y/n, can’t you just consider it? Consider us as a possibility?”

“I-” Before you to even respond, there’s a knock on the door. You instantly get up on your feet having a feeling that you know who it is. “Jaemin, please hide.”

“What?”

You whisper panic while pulling on his arm ignoring his confused face. “Jaemin, if it’s Mark you’ll only ruin-”

“You can’t be fucking serious,” Jaemin looks hurt but follows you while you pull him. “You’re making me hide?”

“Jaemin, just for now please.” You silence him by leaning on your tippy toes and give him a peck on the lips. Your lips getting in contact with his has you moving back instantly in shock, just as Jaemin’s ears perk up. Why did you do that? Not trying to dwell on it, you close the closet filled with cleaning supplies and Jaemin’s body before making it to the front door. You don’t even have to look at the peep hole to know it’s Mark. You knew it was him just from the way he knocks gently on the door.

You’re expecting him to be angry, looking down casted and under the weather just the same way you have been for the past week. But when you open up the door and see him holding up a teddy bear with a belly saying: I love you, your eyes water in melancholy. He brushes his hair back and looks up into your eyes, and you swear you can see just how much love he still has for you and how much he’s willing to enter back into your life after what you did.

“I’m sorry for last time.” His voice is meek. Your neck heats up and you shrivel back looking down. “I shouldn’t have gone wild like that. I should’ve listened to you and at least given you a chance to explain,”

“Mark you’re too kind,” Your eyes get blurry and you feel so conscious of how much Mark has always been the perfect and strong one in your relationship. That he made sure that you were always alright and that your needs and your everything were being attained to. Seeing him now, you feel just how much you don’t deserve him.

Mark doesn’t know how to respond to your words, but he carefully takes a step forward and gently lays a hand on your arm. You don’t recoil and that allows him to slide his arms around your shoulders before embracing you in such a deep hug that you break again for a second time inside. You’re crying for different reasons, one being how much you hate yourself for what you did, two being how much you love Mark for always being the sweet understanding boyfriend you could ever ask for, three for how foolish you are in hugging him while Jaemin hides out in the closet and four just for having him back into your life, wanting to listen to you and your side. You hit the jackpot with him, but why does it have to be so hard.

Mark on the other hand is oblivious to your thoughts and hugs you tighter shutting his eyes after placing a kiss on your head. No matter what his mother said, his heart just wanted you back. Before making up the decision to come back to you, he told himself that he first needed to listen to you. It’s not fair only reading about what you did and getting a final conclusion. Even though the proof is all over the media, he felt the need to listen to you. There’s no doubt that you were cheating on him, but if it’s something you ended and wanted to move on from it, how could he say no to that? You were the love of his life. The one whom he gave up everything for so that he could be happy. You were his everything and he didn’t want this ‘little’ thing to break you guys apart.

“I love you Y/n,” Mark’s words breathe softly into your ears and you shake your head closing your eyes and burying yourself deeper into him. “I can’t live without you, and I don’t want Ethan to live without the both of us in his life, together as a family. I know we can get through this,”

“Mark I’m so sorry,” Your muffled words are hidden against his shoulder, but he hears them.

“It’s okay baby, come on let’s go inside,”

Allowing Mark to take the lead in closing the door and holding your hand as you both make it to the living room, you sit down beside him only staring at his hand that has yours engulfed. Even the way he holds your hands in his is so precious and with so much admiration. You can’t even look up into his eyes, knowing that your eyes will reveal just how much of an indecisive person you are.

On one hand, you can’t lie and say that you don’t love Jaemin, but on the other hand you know that you love Mark. You love both of them differently, and even though you might love Jaemin a little bit more than you love Mark, you know for sure that you love Mark and wouldn’t to live your life without him.

“How has Ethan been?” Mark asks quietly, allowing a little smile to rest on his face. It hurts to look at you and you’re not even looking at him. You look so guilty, so ashamed and just to pitiful. Mark doesn’t know whether it’s because of what you did, or perhaps it’s because you feel so bad for him. If anything him accepting and coming back to you is pitiful according to his mother. She said he deserved so much better then what you could offer him. But Mark’s heart beats for you, and it’s why he took the chance.

You shrug your shoulders and let out a sigh giving Mark a tired smile before looking away. “Ethan… It’s clear I was never his favorite parent,”

“Don’t say that,” Mark’s other hand smooths over your head gently as you look into his eyes. “He just doesn’t like seeing us fight. He loves you,”

You know Ethan loves you, but over the past week with his sudden mood swings, you weren’t so sure. “I just…you were right. It’s hard looking at him and trying to explain the things I did to you… Mark I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, and I… I really didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t mean for it to happen. He hates me because you’re not coming back home. He’s been so stubborn the past few days that it’s been dawning on me. I am really… What I did is unforgiveable. I’m sorry for allowing things to get out of hand between Jaemin and I. We were just friends but during the times you would be at work…Jaemin was there. I guess it all went to my hand, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for things to get to where they are. I love you and I didn’t want to hurt you Mark. I love you so much but I did something so unforgivable.”

Mark watches how your face bursts in multiple types of emotions, from disappointment to shame all the way to remorse and self-loath. And to be honest, Mark hates seeing you like this. To him you were always precious and fragile, at times you were almost durable and flexible.

He takes in a sharp breath. “Babe,” Mark bites his lip lightly and gently bringing his hand underneath your chin to lift your head up to look at him. “I…I forgive you. I know it’s stupid of me to forgive you, I know I’m a fool. However, when it comes to you, I always wanna be by your side. It may be hard but I know we can get through this. It’s why I’m here, why I wanna give you another chance-”

“No.” You shake your head and shut your eyes. “I’ll be lying if I say, I haven’t thought about how much I’ve ruined your life with the pregnancy of Ethan. I’ll be lying if I say I haven’t thought about our relationship this past week…and I’ll be lying if I say… that I don’t think you’ll love me the same way again.”

“Of course I will,” Mark answers, but deep down it gnaws on him that you cheated and that you cheated with a friend of his, and that if he didn’t understand the dynamic of this four relationship affair- then you might cheat again. “Okay, maybe you’re right. Things will be different, but aren’t you willing to try? I came back because I thought insanely about how much I need you in my life. You’re not perfect, but you make every sacrifice I’ve made worth it. We’re not married, but you’re my whole world and I wanna defend you. Seeing those comments online only made me want to be there for you, to at least get them down and return your reputation. You’re my baby just as much as you’re my girlfriend. You mean everything to me. Just please, please can we start again?”

Looking up into Mark’s sincere eyes, you can hear how fast your heart is beating and how guilty each and every heart beat feels. Your eyes water and you cover your face with your hand before standing up and moving away from the living room. Mark is up on his feet too wanting to follow you- but when you reappear again in the living, Mark is surprised to see the other human being that emerges.

He sucks in a deep breath and tries to hold his emotions in check. But it’s difficult when he sees how you’re holding Jaemin’s hand and bringing him forward. He keeps his head down with his hands to his waist while trying to maintain his breathing.

“Mark…”

Mark inhales and exhales before looking up with a painful smile. “So I guess I’m the fool right?”

“No,” You breathlessly say as you walk before him but staying an inch away and closing your tearfilled eyes. “You wanted to talk, and he also wanted to talk, I just… I d-didn’t… I don’t want to be stuck in the middle. Mark…”

Mark backs up and looks at Jaemin who has no remorse on his face. Jaemin always had the ability to make himself disattached to any type of emotion. Seeing him look so normal yet possessive makes Mark look away in despair. “You already chose him,” He whispers out.

“Mark that’s not fair, you said you wanted to hear me out,”

“Yeah I wanted to hear you wanting to have a second chance at this shot, not hear how you feel about him- I…” Mark holds his tongue back pinching the bridge of his nose turning around. He came here peacefully, but he’s feeling his emotions having the best of him.

“Mark I love her.”

That seems to be the icing on top of the cake when Jaemin confesses his feelings for you. It takes nothing else for Mark to lunge past you and ball his fists against Jaemin’s shirt yanking back and forth breathing out in pure anger. Jaemin holds onto Mark’s hands which are on the shirt and looks deeply into his eyes. “How fucking dare you sleep with my girlfriend and then say such things-” Mark implodes and can’t hold back his fists from flying straight across Jaemin’s face.

You’re gasping and pleads of Mark to stop doesn’t go noticed by any of them as Jaemin grunts but holds in his own anger while trying to calm Mark down- who continuously swings his fists. Eventually, Jaemin swings his own fists and sends a hard blow against Mark’s eye.

Mark instantly let’s go of Jaemin and attends to his own eye that already looks impacted. His ears can hear you speaking and up till now Mark just understands that his mother was right, you’re not committed to him. “Mark please, you said you wanted to hear me out,”

Mark stands up straight with one hand to his eye that’s forming a nasty bruise. “I want full custody of Ethan.”

“Mark-”

“You never wanted him anyway-”

“Mark that’s not true-”

“I don’t want some other guy raising my son. If you want to visit you can, but he’s not staying here. And if you’re gonna make it hard. I’ll make it harder. He’s my son, not his and surely not yours. You don’t even care that you’re tearing us apart.” Mark glares at Jaemin before sharply turning and heading to the door.

Watching him leave ignites a fire in your heart. “That’s why I slept with him.” Your broken voice paired with your wretched yet heated tone has Jaemin looking up to him.

Your words make Mark stop half way on the journey to the door. Your words inflict such a painful ache in his heart, that he hears it shattering.

“You say your main priority is me but for all the years we’ve been together it’s always about Ethan. Even though you work from morning till late, you come back always asking firstly about Ethan. You don't care about me. You don’t care if I go out alone, you don’t care if I do what I want, you don’t consider me the way you claim you do, you don’t have sex with me the right way. You only care if Ethan is okay, whether or not his school is teaching him the right syllabus, if his friends are good to him, your world only revolves around Ethan and I know I’m his mum, but Mark I’m your girlfriend, when have you ever spent a dime on me. It’s always me and Ethan, me and Ethan, me and Ethan. Jaemin cares about me and Ethan.” You put emphasis. “He cares for me. And he cares for Ethan. In your mind me and Ethan are one, and as long as Ethan is hurt, you’ll never attend to me. As long as Ethan is fine, you'll never attend to me, because in your mind Ethan comes first. Not me. I slept with Jaemin because he didn’t see me as just the mother of Ethan. He saw me for me. He saw me first and cared for. He still cares for me.”

Mark doesn’t look back, but he makes his voice audible. “So that means I have full custody over Ethan right. Since I care about him so much-”

“Mark,” You let out a disappointed sigh. “Can’t you for once think about me-”

“I fucking have been thinking about you!” Mark’s voice starts out low before his voice rises higher in anger. It even makes him turn around and walking back to you. “From the first fucking day we got the results that you were pregnant I thought about you! I fucking took away your innocence! I took away your life! You didn’t deserve to stop going to school because of a child, you didn’t deserve to be shamed because you were pregnant, you didn’t deserve everything that was coming to you- that’s why I took up the pain for you. I made sure that you didn’t feel hurt about having Ethan. I gave you all the freedom you wanted if it meant that you could smile and live a normal life again. You think I only care for Ethan? Fuck, Y/n, I left my family to be with you. You and your fucking ungrateful self. You wanted to go back to school- I paid for your college fees! You wanted to open a shop- I fucking boat a whole land plot to let you build your business! You wanted space and not more kids- I gave you my word that I wouldn’t bring up kids again! You wanted a bigger house- I got the bigger house! I looked after Ethan just so you wouldn’t feel alone! I care for you! I fucking care for you not because you’re Ethan’s mum but because you were my first everything! I thought I was doing you a favor- I… God you make me so mad.” Mark turns away with the tears getting out his eyes. He breathes out in sheer pain and turns to Jaemin. “You want her? Take her, she clearly never wanted me in the first place. Just- fuck.”

Mark feels lightheaded when leaving and banging the front door. Not only could he not believe the words that left your mouth, but he couldn’t believe how stupid he had been. He can’t describe how much his heart hurts, how painful it is…how it burns his soul to know that he lost you.

2 weeks later...

"It feels so weird not having Ethan around, I know I say this every night but," You mutter when laying down on Jaemin's chest. "I miss him so much. Like, at this time I usually listen to him rant about having cookies, I prepare him for bed, kiss him goodnight, close the lights for him and just...Gosh it's so weird. I don't know how I'll ever get used to this. They literally said I can only see him once? Like seriously,"

Jaemin's eyes are closed, yet he isn't sleeping, he's just listening to you and running his hand past your back as you whisper out to him. Although you and Mark weren't married, Mark treated Ethan's custody methods as a business deal. Meaning legally you were only allowed to see Ethan once a week if you wanted. And Jaemin isn't blind to how much you're trying to cope without Ethan and Mark, but it's hard on him too having to hear you break down.

Although he wanted you, he knew just how important Ethan was to you. He knew that Ethan was your son and you felt connected to him as a mother. He was prepared to love both you and Ethan, but when Mark made the break up official by packing up Ethan's things and moving away, Jaemin saw the life drain from your eyes. And he didn't like that. It's almost like he tore you from the inside out. It's almost like he made you chose between family and him.

What's kinda sad is how you didn't even chose...you were indecisive but you never wanted both Mark and Ethan to leave your life. And Jaemin felt extremely bad. So when he turns to face you and his arms engulf and caress you sweetly, you sink deeper into him while he sinks into you. "I can never forgive myself for separating you guys,"

"Baby..."

"I find it difficult to, when every night you talk about him. I'm sorry," Jaemin buries his head on your nest of warm hair and closing his eyes.

You sigh and hold onto Jaemin tighter. "You didn't separate us. Mark and I...just weren't meant to be together. It sucks that Ethan was born and we had to grow feelings for him, and now that he's gone all the memories are simply memories. But please baby, don't feel like it's your fault. You were right in so many ways, and I needed clarity. I was too young to be a mum and I was barely even ready to be a mum. And i thank God for the clarity that he gave. It's tough, but it's better this way. I have my whole life ahead of me, and when it will be time and I'm ready to have a family, I wanna have it with you."

Jaemin smiles when shifting his head to look at you. "I guess this is something we both have to get used to,"

"I regret how everything played out, but I don't regret ending up with you. It is something we have to get used to, but as long as we're together it'll all be okay,"

"It will be," Jaemin kisses your forehead. "I love you," Jaemin hugs you again. "Now let's get some sleep,"

1 year later...

"Congratulations babe, I'm so proud of you!" Jaemin catches you as you jump into his arms while he spins you around. "I'm so proud of you." Jaemin kisses your lips when placing you down.

You laugh out and give him a little twirl while showing off your trophy and graduation gown. Finally, after your years of studying you've graduated from college with honors. You smile when he snaps a few shots of you.

"You look like a fresh graduate who came out the womb of success," Jaemin adorns you in another set of hugs and kisses. "I'm so happy for you, my beautiful graduate." He presses a kiss on the crown of your head and you feel yourself melt at his words. "Let's go take pictures."

Getting in line to get professional pictures with your awards and your gown as well as with your man by your side, you couldn't feel more happier knowing that he was still with you and that he supported you throughout everything.

"Thank you, Jaemin, for everything." you say softly before pulling away from him to look at the photographer standing by. Your eyes sparkle and a large grin forms on your face when he takes a couple more pictures of you and Jaemin together.

It was your graduation ceremony which took place at the civil luxurious courtyard, where the entire graduating class stood. Students from all four departments of our university were lounging around comfortably inside the auditorium waiting patiently for their turn to take pictures. The sun rays hit the students with its warm rays and it was a nice day today. It was a perfect day to celebrate your graduation with friends, family, and classmates.

Your mum was there, some of your class friends where there, your lecturers who liked you were there…and even Mark and Ethan were there. You remember when you got on stage to receive your certificates and awards, you saw Mark smiling and looking up to you with such an undefined look. It's ages since you saw him, as the times you'd visit Ethan, he'd never be around…so seeing him accept your ceremony invitation had your heart feeling warm.

Jaemin nudges you gently to snap you back into reality, you looks up towards the same direction as Jaemin to see Mark and Ethan were approaching you. "Do you want some time alone?" Jaemin offers genuinely. He knew that even though you stopped visiting Ethan as frequently as before, you still had a soft spot for them both. And he didn't want to be a middle man whenever it came to you and Mark…and Ethan.

"Stay," You whisper lightly to Jaemin…truth be told, this is your first time seeing Mark after he came to take Ethan away from your house a year ago.

"Congratulations mum," Ethan, in his boyish charm hugs you around your waist and steps back. You notice he's got slight tears by his eyes.

It pulls on your tear strings as well as you hug him back. "Thank you my boy, I'm so happy you could make it. Mummy feels really happy seeing you,"

Ethan's hug deepens and you have to hold your ground strong otherwise you might fall over. Jaemin sees this and holds onto the back of your waist helping you balance. It allows you to have more time in embracing Ethan. "I miss you mum,"

"I miss you too Ethan," You whisper back to him your hand patting down his hair. It's when you slightly open your eyes, you see Mark standing a few feet back with his eyes on the ground. You pull back from Ethan and pat his cheeks wiping his eyes that had tears.

Living with his dad was great, but he missed living with you too. And although he hated how you haven't been visiting him, he hated more how you and Mark had broken up. Despite the pain in his heart, all he could do was smile. "Mummy, wants to talk to dad for a bit, is that okay? I wanna ask him if you can stay for the after party. They'll be juice and cake for everyone later,"

"Yeah sounds good." Ethan enlightens. You let him go and Ethan awkwardly greets Jaemin with a head bow.

You turn your attention to Mark who doesn't seem to notice you walk up to him- it's only till he notices a pair of high heels in his line of vison does he look up seeing you. "Hey," You greet brightly.

To your despair, his eyes don't light up as brightly as he used to, his smile is short and he doesn't keep eye contact with you. His eyes go to the floor, to Ethan behind you, they linger on yours for a spilt second before they return to the floor. His hands are in his pants and he's attention isn't on you. If you look closely…he looks sad.

When a hand wraps around your waist, you snap out of your thoughts seeing that Mark is looking to your side. Jaemin is holding onto your waist while Ethan is standing back next to his dad. "I'm sorry what?"

"Mark was asking what time will it end? The after party," Jaemin recaps, noting that you zoned out while Ethan was asking for permission.

"Oh, uh.. I'll bring him back if you're okay with that,"

Mark's eyes wander to Ethan who looks hopeful. Originally, Mark didn't want to come. He wasn't supposed to come, but Ethan begged him to come along. Truth be told, although Mark had custody of Ethan and was living with his mum and dad, he wanted nothing more but to be with you…the girl he committed himself to. However, those dreams of being together with you were crushed and it's been hard for him to live like he did before. He's been together with you for so many years and has supported you for so many years, so now to see you standing side by side with someone else…it's almost unbearable. It hurts.

But looking to Ethan, who for some reason stopped getting visits from his mother has Mark feeling guilty about his actions. So, he agrees instantly causing Ethan's smile to blind him. "Really? Thanks dad."

"Yeah yeah, whatever. See you at home," Mark smiles stiffly as he puts his hand through Ethan's shoulder and gives him a small squeeze before turning around to leave. You're left surprised by Mark's sudden departure…he didn't even look at you, he didn't even say a word to you.

Jaemin who witnesses how Mark just left abruptly wraps his arm around your shoulder and rubs on it.

"Don't mind dad, h-he's fine." Ethan lies, knowing that his dad was not taking seeing you with another man well. He lived together with his dad for a long time now in order to understand how his dad thinks and functions.

Despite Ethan's words, you're no fool to how Mark feels. He looked sad, disappointed…and betrayed. "Are you sure?" you look at Ethan with concern and sadness.

Ethan nods slowly, and even if his eyes are not on you, you know he's lying when he opens up his mouth. "Yeah. He's fine."

"Well let's go celebrate," You try to brush the dismayed look of Mark from your head and focus on Ethan who looks more than happy to spend time with you. Seeing Ethan's delighted face, makes your heart feel at ease. You smile brightly at Ethan and grab his hand to lead him towards the food table. "We're gonna catch up on everything,"

5 years later...

16 year old Ethan is feeling mischievous when embarrassing his dad, Mark in front of his date. "You know he entered the bouncy castle on my tenth birthday just because he wanted to. Not because he was looking out for me. Like can you just imagine I'm jumping with my friends and then he comes in and starts jumping higher then us all. He's laughing and having a good time, and I was only 10 years old,"

"Oh my god," Mark palms his face softly hiding his embarrassment through a soft chuckle when his date, Yumi, laughs.

"You don't say," She looks to Ethan for more details. Ethan gives a dramatic look as if he's got more up his selves.

"Did I tell you about the day we went to the beach and he kept nagging and nagging and nagging at me put sunscreen, but then he forgot to put on himself?" Ethan breaks out into another laugh and beats his dad's back. "He looked like a walking crispy fry, and he was burning."

She can't suppress her laugh enough when Ethan jokes about how his dad gets red.

"Oh my god, you know what this guy likes doing?" Ethan enquires again, looking ready to spill the beans. "So most of the time, because he's a guy-"

"Ethan-" Mark speaks in a warning tone, but it's his smile that exposes him just as much as his red face.

"Okay, okay that would've ruined him. Let me think of something light," Ethan laughs before turning back to Yumi. "So I'm actually here as part of tax services and I can't run my mouth too much, otherwise he might take his cut of dad tax from my allowance."

"Ethan, you're quite the chatter box," Yumi laughs.

Ethan gleams brightly when looking at Yumi. "Well I have to be a chatter box, my dad has no game and so I have to advocate for him. He cant speak for himself he's tongue tied for a living-"

Mark gets Ethan in a headlock before shoving him forward. "That's enough of you,"

Ethan has an evil laugh when taking the lead navigating his way through the mall, leaving Yumi and Mark behind him. To Ethan's delight, he was invited to tag along as a 'third wheel' on his dad's dinner dat. When meeting the lady who has been making his dad smile like a little girl, Ethan felt almost responsible for his dad and wore his big boy pants. Although he was supposed to be a third wheel, he knew that his dad stood no chance when the first moment they picked Yumi up- he was a stuttering mess. That only made Ethan laugh and take the lead.

Even his dad's ideal choice of a dinner date was at some restaurant at a mall. Ethan wasn't complaining, but he felt bad for his dad and how he had no game. It's by chance he managed to get a lady like Yumi.

Dressed elegantly in a white mid thigh dress, while Mark wore his matching black jean jacket and black pants with a white shirt. At home, Ethan was the one who pulled his dad in making a bold statement by dressing up like an elite 'playboy'. Mark doesn't know why he went along with it, but as long as they both thought he looked good, then he looked good. But they pulled up to Yumi's house seeing her dress to elegant and modestly, they were both flattered.

Mark was more flattered as he was tongue tied. But already when Ethan saw Yumi, he knew that perhaps...his dad had game.

"Your son has a high amount of charm for his age," Yumi takes Ethan's spot next to Mark as she lightly pushes on his arm. "So you like bouncy castles,"

"I... It was bouncy okay, and he didn't wanna get off it. So, I had to do what I needed to do. Embarrass him enough to get off," Mark retorts with an embarrassed chuckle instead of defending himself.

Ethan turns his head back. "He jumped on that castle alone- can I emphasis on how we left him there in that jumping castle alone for 30 full minutes. You know who had to get him out? His mother. My grand mother had to come out and tell him to stop jumping and that he's a grown man. Some grown man that is,"

"Ethan," Mark gives his son a flustered shyly lit face. To think his own son turned his back on him. Yumi smiles and shakes her head.

"I can't judge you if it's true. Normally, it's the other way around, the father embarrasses the son," Yumi turns to Mark admiring his features.

"Well, he shouldn't be here because it's past his bed time. I'll cut it from his dad tax." Mark states, but licks his lips and shyly turns to her. "I was actually looking forward to this dinner and getting to know you better. I mean, I know we have our music sessions to get to know each other, but..." Mark gets tongue tied for a second before he shrugs his shoulders and shaking his head with a tender smile. "Once again, you look beautiful. You put in more effort then me. This should just show you how bad Ethan and I's fashion sense is. We could use a feminine touch," Mark jokes lightly.

Ethan turns his head back with a confused face. "Dad that was not..." He turns his head forward and continues walking.

This is only the seventh time they're meeting up, but she loves how caring he is towards his son and even her. "I like how you treat him like a friend, you're a good dad,"

Mark huffs out with a little smile. "It's tough being a good dad when he's so full of himself, truth be told he enjoys bullying me." Mark chuckles lightly when hearing Yumi chuckle. "I'm just happy that he's a good kid, he does as his told, he's responsible for his age, he listens even though he's a headache, he's intellectual but so sneaky, he means the world to me. So if I treat him like a friend it's 'cause I've only got him to look after."

"You've only got him, what about me?"

Mark's eyes widen before turning to Yumi. "And you of course, I mean, not in a creepy way, but I respect your presence here and I wouldn't- I mean, thank you for wanting to go out with me and Ethan again."

Yumi chuckles her eyes shining when looking at him. "I wanted to see him. I can't be going out with his dad if I don't meet him,"

"I wish you didn't ask me to bring him, he's out here spilling all my secrets it's hard to keep the perfect image in front of you now,"

Yumi's face feels like it might crack from all the smiling. "Being perfect means you're a robot. Your embarrassing side let's me know you're a perfectly imperfect human being, with whom I can possibly share my embarrassing stories with too one day in the future,"

That makes Mark smile genuine at her slight confirmation that she wants to possibly spend time with her in the future. Mark clears his throat to stop himself from staring at her face. "Uh, I was thinking we could do some night shopping before we go eat. Is that cool?"

"Yeah,"

"Can I... If you don't mind though, I mean, you can reject it if you want, but I thought since like we're on like our third date- I mean I don't know if you wanna call it-"

Ethan quietly walks back and joins his dad's nervous hand with Yumi. "I think that's what he was asking," Ethan in pure shock makes his way back to the front muttering how hopeless his dad is, while Yumi can't stop smiling at how cute Mark was. His hand holds tightly into hers and she likes the feeling of comfort from him.

For the hours that pass, Mark playfully jokes how much Yumi and Ethan are actually similar especially when it comes to shopping.

"It would be shopping if we actually bought anything," Yumi states with amusement when both her and Ethan enter into the next store.

"Well it's your fault you asked if we could night shop," Ethan smirks when responding to his dad. "It's my chance to actually get something. You know Madam Yumi, when I go shopping with dad he just picks the first set of clothes he sees and walks out. I never get a chance to- hey look at this. Madam Yumi, does this look cool?"

Yumi takes a look at the hoody that Ethan presents and tilts her head to the side when thinking. "I hate to say it Ethan, but your dad is right, you both need a feminine touch. You'll look like a robber with this on," She perks her head back seeing another bright hoodie. "I see you like your clothes being baggy and so on. This hoodie would look good on you, the color is perfect for you. Most people pair peach wrong, but it'll look good on you, you've got a brightly toned face so you need complementary colors to go along with it. And since you're still young, if you go with colors like these, it'll bring out your eyes more. They're big and bright and full of wonder. I know you wanna be rizz and all but wearing clothes that express your personality instead of leaving your mysterious will attract the right kind of people your way,"

Ethan's heart flatters when Yumi aligns the hoodie to his skin and makes him look into the mirror while she explains to him how color and how his style needs to match his personality. "Dad..." Ethan turns to his father and dramatically hugs him- it feels almost real since he's feeling tears on his eyes. "You did a good job," Ethan mutters and turns back to Yumi. "I love it, tell me more about colors and my personality,"

Mark shakes his head but still smiles when following along with the both of them. Yumi offers to buy the set of clothes she picked out for him, and for the first time Ethan looks flattered through Yumi's wide spread knowledge on color. She's got taste.

After one last shopping spree, Yumi excuses herself to the bathroom leaving Ethan to fangirl how great she is. "Dad. Dad, why didn't you tell me she was perfect? I like her so much. Wow, she's so cool and chilled and down to earth and relaxed, I mean she looks expensive but kind, but I do think she has a good heart. Like she not only looks good, she smells so good, she's intelligent and feminine, she reminds me of this...mum?"

Mark turns his head to Ethan who mentions 'mum'. It's been a while since either of them have spoken about you, so to hear it come out so randomly has Mark looking to his son. Only for him to notice his son's eyes widen and staring ahead.

Mark turns his head too, just in time to hear your fluttering laugh that bounces off his ears like a familiar kind of song. You're laughing as Jaemin back hugs you trying to plant a kiss on your cheek. Your face is radiantly bright as you turn to Jaemin and look at him with such love...that Mark has never seen you look at him with. He's tongue feels heavy, just your eyes meet his for a mere second.

You do a double take seeing Mark and Ethan frozen in shock while looking at you. Ethan's face lights up calmly at first, leaving Mark standing still in shock with a face so closed off from any emotions.

Jaemin takes note of your sudden change in demeanor and notes why you're walking towards the two male figures having a smile on your face. "Hey guys,"

Ethan is a bit taken aback when your arms reach out and open for him but he immediately responds in returning your hug. He feels awkward but he doubts you feel that way, because you try to be as welcoming as possible. After your graduation, it took two more visits before you stopped coming all together. He thought he'd be upset that you stopped coming, but he wasn't that affected especially since his dad, and his dad's parents filled the parental role very well.

You break from the hug and try to keep a smile on your face when looking at Mark. "Hey Mark," Your tone lowers a bit, and so does your smile. The last time you saw him, he barely looked at you. Wondering if he's still in the same stage of ignoring you, you're eyes widen when his lips form a decent smile. It doesn't reach his eyes, but for you...it's everything.

"Hi Y/n," He greets and then looks to Jaemin. "Hey,"

"H-hey," Jaemin greets- feeling the palpable tension forming around.

How could you go from such lovers to strangers who awkwardly say hi and hey as if they've never been together. Trying not to let the awkwardness consume you, you clear your throat. "Ethan you look so big now, wow." You pat his shoulder and look at his bag. "Were you guys shopping?"

"Yeah," Ethan gulps and nod his head, sensing his father caving in and not speaking. "Actually, I just tagged along." Ethan blurts out of nervousness.

"Tagged along to help your dad shop?" You smile. "You've become such a responsible young man."

"Well responsible as in being the man of the house," Ethan finds himself saying in a joking manner but stops when you don't get his humor. "Never mind, uh dad's got a date, so his date wanted to spoil me a bit. So yeah,

"Oh," Your ears perk and you turn to look at Mark excitedly. You're somehow excited to hear he's dating again, one of your other biggest fears was how much of his time you wasted...for 9 good years you guys were together... you feared that Mark wouldn't be able to want to date again...especially since he gave his whole heart to you...and you broke it. "Where's your date?"

"I guess it's time to step in," Mark's head turns to Yumi who makes her presence known and politely stands close to Mark and bows her head. "Hi I'm Yumi,"

She's got such a beautiful smile, and seeing how her presence has Mark breathing in and looking to her like he's revealed makes you...happy? You break out a smile and put your hand out. "I'm Y/n, this is uh, my boyfriend Jaemin."

Hearing your name as well as the name Jaemin, Yumi recalls how Mark once spoke to her about the mother of his son being intimate with someone who was his sister's fiancé. Yumi also recalls seeing the scandal online years ago. She tries not to show through the features how shocked she is, but instead she holds a smile. Turning to Mark, her eyes go to Ethan who looks to Mark and to you quick- looking desparate and she understands that Mark was still tongue tied. "Well it's a pleasure meeting you both,"

"Likewise," Your smile can't help but look at Mark who looks lost again in his own thoughts.

"Please do excuse us, we were supposed to have dinner but we got caught up in shopping for Ethan,"

"It's no problem," You look to Jaemin with a smile. "Coincidence, we actually wanted to get something to eat too,"

"Oh fascinating, well enjoy your meal,"

Yumi puts her arm through Mark, just as Ethan pats his dad's back and nudges his head forward. Mark feels embarrassed for himself and rattled that Yumi and Ethan had to be the bigger people while he quietened down and kept his head down. "Mark,"

It takes everything for Mark not to break down when hearing you call his name. Already holding in so much emotions after seeing you, he realizes how much he still held you in his heart and how it hurts seeing you with Jaemin.

"Hey Mark, man, look," Jaemin this time steps forward when Mark turns around. "I never got the chance to say- look man, I know shit between us got weird, but I miss our friendship. I'm sorry for what I did to your sister...and for-"

"It's all good man." Mark swallows the lump and nods his head trying to speed it up, but Jaemin continues talking.

"No it's not good." Jaemin sighs sadly. "You're a good person, and you've shown me nothing but kindness. I'm-"

"I promise it's all good." Mark says again, this time looking at Jaemin. If you chose Jaemin and him, it's for reasons you know. But for Mark, Jaemin was once his sisters soon to be husband, it was hard respecting a man who broke his sisters heart- however now that he has your heart and hasn't allowed it to fall and had made you smile brighter and look at him with such love, makes Mark simmer down. It's not like Jaemin is a douchebag. "You're a good guy too, and...you both look good together. Enjoy your dinner,"

"If you don't mind," Jaemin steps forward again. "Can we join you guys? Like a double date, just to...to reconcile, new beginnings?"

Mark has to close his eyes to force them not to twitch in annoyance. He looks to Ethan and then to Yumi, who stare at him too. "I don't think that's-"

"I'm just tired of seeing you and being awkward, it's not healthy if we keep pretending to know each other, dude she's the mother of your-"

"God, give me strength," Mark cuts Jaemin off with a little prayer in his head. He brushes his face with his hand and runs it over his head looking at Yumi who steps closer to him. "If you don't want to, then..."

"Mark," She softly speaks sensing how much tension there is. Getting her hand on his back she nods her head. "I'm okay with it,"

Sitting in the restaurant on the five seater table, everyone is dining and eating on their meal quietly while listening to the background. From time to time, Y/n makes conversation with Ethan, and Ethan makes commentary here and there, while Jaemin gets to know Ethan a little more. And Mark can only listen while whispering to Yumi from time to time asking if this was oaky.

He felt slightly guilty for accepting the invitation, but now that he was here he had no choice but to try and relax. "Is the food good? This is actually my favorite restaurant. The food isn't world class but it's good. Aside from my mum's cooking, I respect this place because they make good eggs,"

"Mark, why do you have an obsession with eggs?" Yumi covers her mouth to chortle.

"Dad can't make eggs to save his life," Ethan inputs. "It's why we live with grandma, 'cause we'd starve to death if dad was in charge,"

Mark groans holding his neck just as Yumi cackles. "I know how to cook, I'm still practicing,"

"Of course you are, good for you because I'm a good cook. I could give you a hand in learning," Yumi nods her head taking another bite of her steak. "I was kinda starving. I hadn't eaten anything since I left home. So the food was worth the wait,"

"What? You didn't eat?" Mark has his eyes in bafflement. "Then we should've eaten first before we shopped, that's on me then. I'm sorry-"

"No, no, it's not your fault," Yumi smiles and shakes her head. "I didn't mind going shopping first. In fact I prefer it that way, shopping first and then eating, it'll give us time to rest later,"

"I actually had the same problem with Y/n, she wanted to walk around first before we ate," Jaemin friendly butts in. While Mark tried not rolling his eyes, he paid attention to how Yumi briefly converesed with him.

"Yeah, because I wanna go home afterwards. Imagine after eating then you go around shopping, no way I'll be too stuffed," Y/n joins in with a light tone.

"Exactly," Yumi nods her head agreeing.

"I was hoping we could go to the movies after this, dad?"

"You're a third wheel here, don't forget it," Mark doesn't even think twice when disregarding Ethan's request. This makes Ethan playfully pout as his eyes go to Yumi.

"Madam Yumi don't you wanna watch a movie with me?"

"Can we rain check on that? Perhaps the next time we meet again?"

Ethan nods his head. "We should make it a movie night,"

"Don't give in to him," Mark shakes his head. "This is how he always gets his way."

"Well Mark, I did say I wanted to see him and spend some time with him too," Yumi looks back to Ethan when Mark shakes his head silently chuckling.

"Ethan is a night owl. But you know what, you picked your poison, I guess I can't stop you,"

"Ethan, you're still a night owl?" Y/n gets in the conversation. But much to her disappointment Mark doesn't even pay attention as he turns to Yumi.

Whispering to Yumi, Mark leans in close to brush his lip against her ear to make sure she can hear. "You good?"

Feeling tingles down her spine she smiles and leans in to his ear too. "What about you?"

"I'm good,"

Whispering in his ear, she voices out her words. "Sorry for agreeing to the dinner. I just saw how broken you looked and wanted you to have some closure. It can help you move on."

Mark looks to her in appreciation. From the first day when he opened up to her that he never thought he could love again after what you did to him, he told her that he didn't want to lead her on. That he was open to dating, but he didn't want to waste her time. As time went by, he found himself looking forward to spending time with her, because it always felt therapeutic being with her. And even though he's sitting opposite from you, paying attention to Yumi made him feel much more better.

"I also have a confession," Yumi smiles lightly. "I feel it'd be fair if they pay for the bill since they wanted to join us,"

Seeing Mark laugh lowly and whispering to Yumi, you get vocal in finally directing your attention to him. "So Mark, and Yumi."

Hearing her name, Yumi turns to you while Mark clears his throat trying to hide his laugh. Yumi doesn't hide her smile though. Being with Mark made her happy. In curiosity she wonders how you feel seeing him again after some time. You looked happy with Jaemin, and it's kind of painful to her that you left Mark alone with a broken heart. "Yes," She answers.

"You guys seem quite close, whispering in each other's ears and all that," Y/n speaks with a little smile. "How did you guys meet if you don't mind me asking,"

After a brief pause in silence, Yumi turns to Mark seeing his eyes on her. It seems like he doesn't feel comfortable talking to her just yet. "It's actually an odd story,"

Y/n is disheartened also noting how Mark doesn't want to acknowledge her. "How odd,"

"I bet it involves Dad's guitar," Ethan speaks up. He was also curious how his dad bagged such a beautiful lady.

"Guitar?" Y/n marvels at that and looks to Mark who's paying attention to Yumi. "You play the guitar?"

"He plays guitar very well," Yumi answers on Mark's behalf. "He's a musician,"

"Yeah, dad plays guitar," Ethan sparks up. "He writes too, I never knew dad could sing,"

"That's cool," Jaemin notes. "I know a guy who owns a studio, makes records and stuff. I can hook you up with him if you want,"

Mark takes breathes in and looks to Jaemin. "Nah it's alright. I just picked up on it recently, I mean I never played because I had no reason to, but Yumi sings too, so I wanted to play for her while she sang,"

"I'd like to hear you guys sing together," Ethan cheers on.

"So you guys didn't answer the question," Y/n speaks in. "How'd you guys meet?"

"Well, I gave up on love a long time ago, because my boyfriend had actually passed away. So, I had no desire at all to get back in the dating scene, because it was just too painful. I never thought I'd be going out again." Yumi smiles at Mark. "Mark and I met through our dads, it was a wedding reception. My dad described me as a lost cause and Mark's dad described him as a hopeless case, so they introduced us and I can say our interaction was off the bat. I sang at the wedding, it was supposed to be a solo acoustic with just my voice, but then..." Yumi smiles when remembering Mark picking up the guitar and playing alongside her. It was beautiful. "It became a duet acoustic performance, because he played the guitar, it wasn't even planned and we hadn't rehearsed but yet we were singing and playing together as if we'd always been together for a long time. That left a wonderful impression on me and I'm happy that he felt the same way, because we exchanged numbers and after that he'd call me from time to time."

"She bought me a guitar," Mark speaks up lightly. "It felt therapeutic. Writing and singing and... just letting go. It's like we were healing together,"

"The power of music," Yumi says looking at Mark with hopeful eyes, just as he nods his head gazing into her eyes. "Music can heal any broken heart, so yeah." Yumi looks back to Y/n. "We'd meet up occasionally as friends, before we decided dating wouldn't be so bad. I enjoy spending time with him, and yeah. This is my first time meeting Ethan too so, I'm glad that we've made it this far,"

You don't feel jealous when seeing Yumi and Mark together. You feel hurt that Mark doesn't want to acknowledge you. And even though Jaemin holds onto your thigh to sooth you, seeing Mark and Yumi look so pure makes your heart break.

Mark deserved better then you, and he got a better woman in Yumi. But you're fine with that. He deserves her anyway, she's perfect for him. She is the kind of person who will always be by his side. If she can make the best come out of him such as making him play an instrument to let loose, then she can possibly be the one for him. Just the way he's looking at her, and the way he talks only when she talks makes you miss him.

You miss how his eyes would light up when talking to you, you missed how he would pay attention to you and only you when you spoke. You missed him and it's hard to believe that after years he's moving on. You wanted him to move on, but seeing him actually move on did something to you.

Especially when he didn't even regard you. He looked at her with hope and with a piece of his heart that once belonged to you, yet now there was a new love in his life. A new woman. It hurt more than anything, it felt like you were losing him again… But at the same time, you felt that this was the closure you needed. Seeing him…happy with Yumi and Ethan made a part of you feel relieved...sad, but happy. That was once you. You and your family. You with Mark and Ethan.

"That went well," Jaemin wraps his arms around you, holding you close against him as you bury your face into his chest.

"It did," You say and close your eyes.

Jaemin hums before letting out a small chuckle. "It felt more like we were third and fourth wheels listening to them bonding,"

"I'm happy that he's with someone who can make him smile." You say after some time when you and Jaemin begin walking. "It used to eat me up thinking that after me he'd never find love again. But he looked so happy tonight,"

"I apologize on his behalf for ignoring you,"

You smile tenderly. "It hurt at first, but hearing him talk with Yumi and Ethan and even you, gave me a peace of mind that he's slowly moving on," Your first love, was finally moving on and it was a bitter sweet feeling. "I'm kinda conflicted, but it's for the best. And now I have a peace of mind when raising our child," You place your hand on your belly just as Jaemin kisses your forehead and engulfs you in another hug.

"Let's stay for a bit, I don't feel like going home,"

Standing outside of Yumi's door with a sleeping Ethan in the car, Mark and Yumi decide to take a seat on one of the steps as they still had so much to say. Chatting never ran dry with them, and that's one of the things Mark liked about Yumi. Yumi sighs and looks to him with a clear smile. "Thanks for tonight, I strangely had fun. Meeting Y/n was unexpected, how did it make you feel?"

Mark hums and looks up to the stars. "At first it felt sickening, because it's like I realized that… I still loved her. And I hated myself for that. I really...hate that I love her. For loving her when she looked so happy with Jaemin. But during the dinner, while you were talking and laughing and bonding with Ethan… It brought a sense of closure knowing that she's moved on from me. And while you were talking, while you were talking about how we met, I thought to myself that, you actually brought me out of the dark tunnel I was in. I was a hopeless case like my dad said, but singing with you gave me…"

He clears his throat and takes a breath before speaking again.

"It gave me hope. I know, I sound stupid."

"No, you're not stupid to feel that way," Yumi expresses when she hears him down himself.

"Thanks," He says softly, looking back at Yumi's soft expression. "Maybe I'm not a hopeless case and you're not hopelessly lost. I know I can never take Jaehyun's place in your heart, but tonight made me realize how much we've both taken the risk to be together. Not only do we add value to each other, but we're both taking a chance again after our past relationships. And maybe I'm reaching far because it's only our seventh date but I enjoy spending time with you and tonight my heart just- I don't want to start something that'll end and-"

She places her hand over his jaw, effectively cutting him off with a small laugh and a gentle smile. She leans forward looking into his eyes asking for permission and Mark doesn't hesitate in pressing his lips against hers. She returns a soft kiss against his lips, a soft touch that leaves butterflies in his stomach and makes him dizzy all over again, but a good kind of dizziness this time. Mark's hand goes up her neck as he helps to tilt her head to deepen the kiss, and it feels right. His heart is full and he wants nothing more than to stay here until morning just kissing her.

Yumi pulls away before anything too crazy happens. "You're adorable when you're embarrassed." She teases gently, but a smile lingers on her lips. "And I'm sure Jaehyun would agree. Sitting across from them, with you by my side gave me this feeling, this peace, I hadn't felt since I met him." Her words trail off as she stares at his lips. "I wanna love again, Mark. I wanna love so badly, and I… I wanna give you my heart. I-"

This time Mark softly leans in and kisses her again, and he thinks he sees a tear fall down Yumi's cheek. Maybe he's imagining it though. They pull apart slowly, their foreheads pressed together and smiles adorably plastered on both of their faces, and he doesn't think it's possible to fall even more in love with Yumi.

Ethan in the car has a pleased smile on his face. Seeing his dad genuinely look happy with another person who isn't mum, makes him truly joyful for his dad.

Even though it was a bittersweet feeling, loving for the second time around...doesn't burn as much as he thought.

Taglist:

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