#with another equally or possibly even worse take

[midnight--sadness]

Oh boy i have THOUGHTS. I agree with the others that a VIP requesting gihun could happen next season but damn i wonder how that would play out.

I imagine one VIP asking for him, then inho says no and his excuse is "456 is still competing, it would be unfair to remove him." Then oh fuck, gihun is starting to lose in the next game, maybe the maze game we see in the teaser trailer. I saw that message you got a few days ago about inho possibly manipulating a game to prevent gihun from losing and i've been obsessed. What an interesting turn of events that would be for inho, the guy who lectured about keeping the games fair. He now finds himself frantically manipulating the remaining games in gihun's favor to ensure he wins, because if gihun doesn't, inho knows he can't stop the VIPs.

Extra insane, if gihun has mentally given up and plays the games very passively, almost trying to just die already. But inho is working some magic in the control room to let gihun pass the game, sweating like hell because god damnit gihun doesn't know a fate worse than death is waiting for him if he loses! God i could see that being the thing that finally drives inho to reveal his true self to gihun.

THIS IS EVERYTHING I WANT FOR THE NEXT SEASON!!! 🙏🙏

i completely agree on gihun being numb and kinda just drifting aimlessly through the games. he doesn't try to defend himself if someone attacks him, he doesn't complete the challenges.... he's just a shell of who he used to be.

but inho is not letting that cookie die on his watch! and he especially isn't allowing gihun to be near the vips. he knows that, at one point, his authority won't apply and the vips will force his hand in regards to gihun, and inho cant let it get to that. he could never forgive himself if he gave gihun to those monsters.

he has his guards make sure gihun is safe during the games, ignoring his own "equality is the most important part of the game", bc he's already, presumably, stopped gihun from voting... what's one more rule broken?

and then revealing his true self? oh my god, anon, your mind!! inho is stressed out and near mad as he tries to keep gihun alive and in the game. he knows that as soon as gihun is eliminated, he will not be killed; he'll be brought before the vips and they will do whatever they please to him.

maybe he grabs gihun and shakes him, telling him that he needs to live and gihun asks him why he cares, and inho takes his mask off and that's when gihun sees that youngil is alive. the relief he feels is so great that for a few seconds he doesn't even rationalize that the front man had been in front of him. but when it hits him, it will just be another thing for gihun to despair over, which goes against inho's entire plan.

i genuinely think the reveal is gonna kill gihun. that man will never know peace again after it, especially once we add junho's betrayal on top of it. idk, i think he'll be even more broken and hopeless, not being able to trust anyone.....

(the vips gets restless and impatient and ask for gihun in between games, and inho delivers him, but once one of them goes to a private room with gihun, inho follows them, intending to kill the vip but gihun has already done it... idk, something something, gihun's very actual intentional kill in the games being a vip. gihun killing someone to defend himself is so poetic to me bc this is a man who constantly sacrifices himself for others.)

[joemama-2]

velvet lies

pairing: gojo x fem reader synopsis: crippling debt and possible evictions have ruined you. working two jobs with no downtime, and a five-year-old son, you really don't know the meaning of taking a break. after continuous questions about his father, you have decided to finally let your son meet his dad. only thing is, he has no idea said son exists. and to top it off, you have not a single clue about what kinds of things will transpire from this sudden revelation. tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fluff, romance, alcohol, classism, mom! reader, lying, abuse, MAJOR angst, slow burn, exes to lovers, (mentions of) cheating, scandals, death, blood, drugs, drama, family drama, miscommunication, blackmail, unhealthy coping mechanisms , depression, manipulation wc: 13.8k spotify playlist series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter

The sounds of heavy pants fill the room, one more ragged than the other. The bedframe hits against the wall in a repetitive thump, the bedsheets a mess. The sunlight is peeking through the curtains with an occasional moan and urge for him to move faster. Himari’s arms are wrapped around the neck of the man, her legs tight around his waist. Face scrunching up in pleasure as she indulges in the fact that she’s having sex with another man in her boyfriend’s bed. Work is the excuse he gave her after she asked to come over. Of course, she didn���t believe him—she’s finding it harder to do that nowadays. 

Either way, she decided to come in, knowing he kept a spare key under his doormat. Walking through the empty penthouse, her fingers running across the white walls as she stalked to Satoru’s room. A bad mistake on her end because as soon as she did, that bitter coil of jealousy sprung free. A stupid fucking picture frame of the people who are actively ruining her life and her relationship. She gripped it with tight hands, almost throwing it to the ground in a fit of fury. 

Well, she did do that, actually.

But even after seeing the glass shards spread out across the floor, stomping on the picture of you and that fucking kid—leaving an obvious footprint on it—it didn’t quell her growing emotions. It didn’t make her feel better, if anything—it made her feel even worse. And she was suddenly struck with the idea of making Satoru feel every inch of pain he’d been causing her the past month or so. He’s not even here, but maybe she can leave him a nice cum stain on his sheets. How furious he’ll be when he discovers that she’s being intimate with someone else, that another man’s semen is stained on his bed. The thought alone makes her hornier, nails digging into the back of the man hovering above her as he plunges in and out of her tight hole. A nasty smile forms on her lips. 

“You know,” Sukuna’s gruff voice speaks into her ear. “I’ve had better. I’m only doing this to make your boyfriend pissed off.” 

Himari’s eyes snap open, his words putting a small halt to her daydreaming. She’s met with an equally vicious smile—one that lacks warmth completely. “Fuck you,” she snaps, jaw clenching. 

“Yeah, you are.” He presses his large hand down on her mouth. “Now be quiet, your voice is one of the worst things I’ve ever heard.”

If only she picked a better candidate. If possible, he’s beginning to piss her off more than Satoru himself. Though she should’ve expected that, considering her boyfriend hates him and vice versa. But if Satoru found out she had sex with his business rival behind his back, he’d realize just how much he’d let her slip from his hands. And of course, he’ll fuck her to make up for it. Yes. Yes. Yes. 

That’s it. 

She moves her gaze away from Sukuna, staring up at the ceiling in utter bliss at the possible future. She feels her climax rising up within her gut, clenching around his thick cock. Smiling against his palm as his thrusts quicken, a shuddering grunt escaping his lips. He must be close too. She can practically taste it on her tongue. Her eyes move down from the ceiling, over to the broken glass and photograph still on the floor, then over to her boyfriend’s hamper of dirty clothes, his cologne on his dresser, his collection of glasses, and then…

The calendar that’s right above his dresser. 

The days are crossed off with an ‘x’ in black marker. But one thing catches her attention—and subsequently stops her climax, but not Sukuna’s.

January 5th.

Two days from now. 

Dad appreciation day!! ♡ 2pm

Her anger from before swivels back up, raging inside her petite body with an unforeseen strength. She snatches her phone from the bedside table without a second thought, not minding the way Sukuna carelessly pulls out and dumps his warm load on her stomach. Her thumb moves fast, tapping down a few times before lifting it to her ear. It rings just once before the respondent answers. 

“Daddy, I need your help.”

“Soooo……”

Shoko sips from her coffee, auburn eyes constantly going from one face to the other—one visibly more clenched than the other. She taps her foot against the floor, the cozy feel of the cafe doing nothing to diminish the awkwardly tense situation between her and her two best friends. Well, just her friends, actually. Satoru—in all his glory—is shameless. Glaring daggers at Suguru, who sits beside Shoko. It’s a wonder that the coffee cup in his hand hasn’t popped. Silently tensing his jaw, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue. And Suguru…seems to be taking it well? Focusing on his own cup of tea, sparing a glance back up at the man across from him before looking away.

It’s never quiet between the two. And if it is, that means something happened. From the look on their faces—their demeanor—it must’ve been something serious. After a few more suffocating minutes, she sets her cup down and clears her throat. “Did…something happen?”

“No.” is Suguru’s immediate response. 

That earns a loud scoff from the other side of the table. “Yeah, keep lying.” The sarcasm in his voice is loud.

Shoko raises a brow, leaning back in her chair as she folds her arms. “Okay, well, clearly something happened. Want to clue me in, or should I just keep sipping my coffee while you two have a silent pissing contest?”

Suguru sighs, running a hand through his hair, looking as though he’s already regretting being here. “It’s nothing important, Shoko.”

Satoru clicks his tongue, leaning forward and resting his arms on the table, his blue eyes gleaming with irritation. “Nothing important? That’s what we’re calling it now? Really, Suguru?”

Suguru finally meets Satoru’s gaze, his calm demeanor slipping just a fraction. “Yeah. Nothing important. Unless you want to blow this completely out of proportion, as usual.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Satoru snaps, his voice dripping with contempt. “Forgive me for being a little pissed when my best friend crosses a line.”

Shoko’s eyes widen slightly, her gaze darting between them. “Crosses a line? Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. What line are we talking about here?”

Neither man answers immediately, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a knife. Finally, Suguru sets his cup down, exhaling slowly. “Shoko, it’s not worth discussing.”

“Not worth discussing?” Satoru’s voice rises slightly, his tone incredulous. “Oh, it’s worth discussing. You want to talk about loyalty, about respect—”

“Enough, Satoru.” Suguru’s voice is firm, but there’s an undercurrent of guilt that Shoko doesn’t miss.

“Shut the hell up.” Satoru snaps, leaning forward, his sunglasses slipping just slightly down his nose. He looks every bit like he’s ready to leap across the table. “Why don’t you tell her, Suguru? Or should I?”

“Tell me what?” Shoko interjects, her voice rising slightly in pitch. She’s starting to look more amused than concerned, though there’s still an edge of apprehension in her tone. “Seriously, you two are acting like kids.”

Suguru exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face, his usual composure beginning to crack. “Nothing happened. It’s not a big deal. Satoru’s just—”

“Pissed,” Satoru finishes for him, voice icy. “And you know damn well why.”

Shoko leans forward, resting her chin in her hand, her sharp eyes narrowing in thought. “Alright. Spill. Someone better tell me what the hell is going on before I throw this coffee at both of you.”

Suguru looks at her, then glances at Satoru, who’s still radiating pure anger. He finally lets out a resigned sigh. “It’s nothing, Shoko. Just a…misunderstanding.”

Satoru barks out a humorless laugh. “A misunderstanding? Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Shoko blinks, her lips twitching as though she’s fighting off a grin. “Satoru, I’m begging you—use your words. What misunderstanding?”

Satoru turns his gaze back to Suguru, his voice dropping low. “Ask him why he thought it was okay to cross a fucking line.”

​​Shoko’s eyebrows shoot up, and for the first time, she looks genuinely intrigued. “Okay. What kind of line did you cross, Suguru?”

Suguru doesn’t answer, his gaze firmly fixed on his tea. Satoru, however, doesn’t hesitate. “The kind where you go after someone you know isn’t yours to have.”

“She’s not yours either, Satoru.” Suguru mumbles under his breath with exasperation. 

Shoko’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh,” she breathes, the weight of the situation sinking in. “I see.” She looks at Suguru, her expression unreadable. “Care to defend yourself?”

Suguru’s jaw tightens, but he finally speaks, his tone even, though there’s an undercurrent of frustration. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Bullshit!” Satoru snaps, his voice raising enough to earn a few glances from other patrons in the café. “Don’t act like you don’t know what you were doing.”

Suguru doesn’t reply. 

“Oh, no way.” Shoko leans forward, pointing a finger between them. “Did you—? And you—? Oh, you guys are so messed up.”

Satoru gestures dramatically toward Suguru. “See? Even Shoko gets it. You don’t mess with someone’s—”

“I didn’t mess with anyone,” Suguru interrupts, his tone sharp but not defensive. “And you’re blowing this out of proportion. Again.”

“I’ll fucking show you—”

“Satoru,” Shoko says sharply, placing a hand on his arm. “Relax. Let him talk.”

Suguru looks at her briefly, gratitude flickering in his eyes before he returns his focus to Satoru. “I wasn’t trying to take anything away from you. I’m not. It just…I know I’m not innocent, Satoru.” He meets his best friend’s eyes, lips thinned with sympathy.

That doesn’t deter Satoru. “Then why are you acting like you are? Lying to my face still, too.”

“Satoru, I’m sorry. I apologized a thousand times already. What more can I do?”

For a moment, Satoru looks like he’s going to lose it, but Shoko’s firm grip on his arm keeps him grounded. She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Okay, clearly this isn’t going to be solved here. So how about you two go outside, punch it out or whatever, and then come back when you’re ready to act like adults?” Neither of them responds immediately, tension crackling in the air between them. Shoko groans and shakes her head, her gaze shifting between them once more. “So, what I’m hearing is that one of you fucked up, and now I’m stuck playing therapist again. Great. Just great.”

Her tone turns serious, arms crossing over her chest. “Just…tell me what happened. No cryptic bullshit. I want the full story, or I’m walking out of here and leaving you two to sulk in your man-pain alone.”

Satoru breaks the silence first, his voice cutting through the tension. “Fine. You want the full story?” He glares at Suguru, who remains stoic, then turns his gaze to Shoko. “He decided it’d be a great idea to get too close to Y/N. Closer than he should’ve.”

Suguru’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond immediately.

Shoko blinks, her hand pausing mid-air as she sets her coffee cup down. “Define ‘too close.’ Because I swear, if this is some petty jealousy thing, I’m not wasting my time refereeing it.”

Satoru leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “How about almost kissing her? Does that sound like jealousy, Shoko?”

Her eyes widen, and she slowly turns to Suguru, whose calm façade is starting to crack. “Seriously?” she asks, her tone a mix of disbelief and disappointment. “Suguru, seriously?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Suguru says quietly but firmly. He rubs his temple, looking uncharacteristically worn down. “Things got complicated. She was upset, I was trying to comfort her—it wasn’t planned. It just happened. I messed up”

“Yeah, I’m sure it just happened,” Satoru retorts, his voice laced with venom. “Because comforting someone obviously involves leaning in like you’re about to—”

“Satoru, enough.” Suguru’s voice rises, his calm exterior shattering for a moment. “It didn’t happen, okay? Nothing happened. And it wasn’t about betraying you. It was about her. About what she’s going through. But of course, you only see it as some kind of attack on you.”

Shoko raises a hand, her eyes narrowing. “Okay, okay, time out. This is spiraling. Suguru, I get that you were trying to help, but you have to see how this would look to Satoru. And Satoru, you need to stop acting like this is just about you and your ego. Y/N’s a person, not a prize to be fought over.”

Suguru closes his eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose as though he’s dealing with a headache. “It just wasn’t like that. She was upset, and things got…misinterpreted. It wasn’t intentional.”

“Misinterpreted?” Satoru’s voice is cold, his usually playful tone replaced with something venomous. “You don’t ‘accidentally’ lean in for a kiss, Suguru. Don’t act like you’re blameless.”

Satoru’s fists clench on the table, his knuckles white as he continues. “And she won’t let me be there for her! She shuts me out, Shoko, every single time. And then she turns to him—” He gestures angrily toward Suguru. “Like I’m some kind of goddamn afterthought.”

Suguru’s voice is quiet, but there’s a weight to it that makes both Shoko and Satoru pause. “She turned to me because she needed someone who wasn’t going to make it about themselves. Maybe you should think about that.”

Satoru slams his hand on the table, making the cups rattle. “Don’t you dare turn this around on me! You think I don’t see what you’re doing? You’ve been waiting for a chance like this—”

“Enough!” Shoko’s voice cuts through the argument like a blade, her usual calm demeanor replaced with rare frustration. “Both of you need to shut up for two seconds and think about what you’re doing. Fighting over Y/N like she’s some kind of prize? Do you have any idea how shitty that is? To her, and to yourselves?”

The men fall silent again, though Satoru’s glare doesn’t soften, and Suguru looks away, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. Shoko sighs, rubbing her temples. “You’re both being idiots. Y/N’s going through her own stuff right now, and you’re sitting here making it about your egos. Maybe try putting her first for once instead of playing this stupid tug-of-war.” 

Suguru nods slightly, his expression unreadable. Satoru stays silent, his jaw clenched, the storm in his eyes still brewing.

Shoko rubs her eyes and looks at Suguru. “First off, why was she upset?”

He picks at his nail, brows knitting together. “I don’t know. She didn’t tell me. I’m assuming it’s whatever happened when she went out.”

“She went out with a Zenin.”

The revelation shocks both Shoko and Suguru. They look back at their friend, his expression tight, focusing on his own clenched fists. “I saw the car that picked her up.”

“Which Zenin?” Suguru asks, leaning forward. 

“Only one prick drives a flashy Maybach like that.” Shoko sighs, and Suguru shakes his head—running his hands through his hair. Satoru continues. “I didn’t even know she knew him. How the hell does she even—” he cuts himself off with a heavy groan, rubbing his face up and down. The weight of everything that’s happening, the fact that you went out with Naoya and supposedly another friend, then you come back about to kiss Suguru, and he makes you cry by yelling in your face and saying shit he probably shouldn’t have. “Jesus…I can’t get a fucking break.”

Shoko exhales sharply, crossing her arms as her gaze flickers between Satoru and Suguru. "Naoya Zenin? That guy? Are you serious?"

Suguru leans back in his chair, his lips pressing into a thin line. "What the hell would she even want with someone like him?"

"That’s what I’d like to know," Satoru snaps, his voice sharper than intended. His hands tug through his hair in frustration, his mind spiraling. "I mean, she’s not…stupid. She wouldn’t just—"

"She wouldn’t," Shoko interrupts, her tone calm but firm. "But you of all people should know she doesn’t make these kinds of decisions lightly. If she was with Naoya, there’s probably a reason. Maybe she needed something, or maybe—"

"Or maybe I pushed her into it," Satoru mutters, his voice dropping. His hands drop to his lap, and for the first time since sitting down, he looks genuinely deflated. "I’ve been so caught up in my own bullshit…I haven’t been there for her. Not the way I should be. And now she’s turning to guys like him."

Suguru narrows his eyes, his jaw tightening. "You don’t know that for sure. Just because she was in his car doesn’t mean she’s 'turning to' him. Don’t assume the worst."

"But what else am I supposed to think?" Satoru bites back, his tone rising again. "She won’t talk to me, Suguru. She shuts me out. And when she finally does open up to someone, it’s you, or—or some Zenin asshole—"

"Stop," Shoko cuts in, her voice hard. "Seriously, stop spiraling. You’re not helping anyone by sitting here making this about your insecurities. If you care about her—and I mean really care—you’re going to have to do better than this."

Satoru opens his mouth to retort but stops short, his gaze falling to the table.

"Look," Shoko continues, her voice softening, "I get that you’re upset. And yeah, the Naoya thing is…weird. But the only way you’re going to fix this is by talking to her. Not Suguru, not me—her. Get your shit together and figure it out."

Satoru finds it hard to speak, a weird lump forming in his throat. Nails digging into his palms and feeling his heart rate begin to pick up. Figure it out? That’s easier said than done. Not to mention the fact that he’s probably the last person you want to see right now. Nothing seems right right now. He’s not sure what he could even begin to say to you to discuss the things you both desperately need to discuss. And when he looks back over at Suguru, the surge of jealousy—anger springs up again. How can he talk to you? Is it worth even trying to? What will change? He doesn’t…have you.

Suguru gives Satoru a face of regret. “Satoru, I…I’m sorry. Really, I am. I was stupid, I know. She was drunk, vulnerable and I—I let her…..” Suguru’s words trail off, his voice cracking with uncharacteristic hesitation. He looks down at his tea, gripping the cup so tightly it seems like it might shatter. “I let her…cross a line. I should’ve stopped her. I didn’t mean to make things worse.”

Satoru’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing as his fists clench harder. “Damn right, you should’ve stopped her,” he snaps, venom lacing his tone. “You’re supposed to have my back, not—” He stops, inhaling sharply as he tries to get a grip on his rising anger. “Forget it. It doesn’t even matter now.”

“It does matter,” Suguru insists, leaning forward slightly. “You think I don’t know how bad I screwed up? I hate that I hurt you, but Satoru, this isn’t just about me or you. It’s about her. She was falling apart the other night, and I should’ve done more to help instead of making things worse.”

Satoru glares at him, his icy blue eyes blazing with barely restrained fury. “You think saying sorry fixes this? That it fixes anything?” His voice drops, quieter but more cutting. “She was falling apart, and instead of helping, you let her…what? Kiss you?”

Suguru’s silence speaks volumes, and the tension between them becomes almost suffocating.

Shoko sighs heavily, dragging a hand down her face. “Alright, enough,” she says firmly, her voice cutting through the thick tension like a knife. “This isn’t helping anyone. Satoru, you’re pissed—fine. You have every right to be. Suguru, you’re guilty—good, you should be. But sitting here throwing blame back and forth isn’t going to solve anything. What matters is what happens next.”

“What happens next?” Satoru echoes bitterly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “What’s next, Shoko? I just walk up to her, pour my heart out, and hope she doesn’t slam the door in my face?”

“Maybe,” Shoko says simply, shrugging as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Or maybe you start with an apology. A real one. Not one of your half-assed, sarcastic ones. And maybe you listen to her for once instead of jumping to conclusions or trying to control the narrative.”

Satoru looks away, his jaw clenching again as he processes her words. Deep down, he knows she’s right. He’s been so caught up in his own emotions, his own insecurities, that he hasn’t stopped to think about how you feel or what you need. But fuck is it going to be hard. Truth is, he doesn’t want you turning to other men for comfort, he just….

Suguru clears his throat, drawing Satoru’s attention back to him. “For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “I think she still cares about you. She wouldn’t be this upset if she didn’t.”

The words hit Satoru like a gut punch, and for a moment, all he can do is stare at his best friend. The anger, the jealousy, the guilt—it all swirls inside him, threatening to overwhelm him. But somewhere beneath it all, there’s a flicker of hope. “I’ll…talk to her,” he says finally, his voice low but resolute. “I don’t know how, or what I’m even going to say, but I’ll figure it out.”

Shoko smiles faintly, picking up her coffee again. “Good. Because if you don’t, I will. And trust me, you don’t want that.”

For the first time that morning, Satoru lets out a small, humorless chuckle. It’s not much, but it’s a start. Satoru peeks over at Suguru, the two sharing a silent look of understanding. One that says he’s not off the hook yet, but that there’s other fish to fry.

You’re biting your nail nervously. Darting back to check the time before at your excited five-year-old who is jumping around happily in the living room watching his show. You let him pick out his own outfit for today, a red shirt with white letters that spell ‘MOMMA’S BOY’ and simple black jeans with his vans. His hair is styled in a way that he said resembles his Papa. you grinned in melancholy at that, giving your son the hairstyle he wanted. You, yourself, are dressed simply. Dark jeans with a turtleneck—a savior in the coldness it is today. Your coat and shoes are already on, your purse slung over your shoulder, and yet you haven’t left yet. You feel bad to—waiting on a certain someone. Koji has been asking about his father since he woke up, boasting about how he can’t wait to show him off to his friends today and when he is coming. 

Leaning against the kitchen counter, your thoughts are drowning you. When you hear your phone ring, you’re on it in an instant. Though you’re met with another man’s name. Letting out a deep breath and pressing accept. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Suguru’s voice replies. “Sorry, you busy right now?”

“Uh—” you glance at the clock. “I can spare a few minutes.”

He sighs and adjusts himself. “Good, this will be quick. I don’t want to hold you up too much.”

“Is something wrong?” you reply, biting your lip.

He takes a moment to respond, heaving and exhaling through the receiver. “Look, Y/N. I…I just want to apologize for the other night. Really, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you like that and I should’ve…stopped you. I’m sorry.”

Your mouth parts, startled by the fact that he felt the need to apologize. Classic Suguru. You clear your throat. “I–no. It’s okay. It’s…that was on me. I’m sorry.”

“You were drunk and emotional, I should’ve been the person to put a halt to things.”

You can’t help but almost grimace at the way he sounds so….regretful—maybe appalled? Was the thought of kissing you…really that bad for him to stomach? With a hum back to him, you notice the time cutting closer—scratching your head.

“And…and I think it’s best if I—if we—put a little more…distance between each other. It wouldn’t be right for that situation to happen again, or for us to get close like that. It’s disrespectful to Satoru and I don’t want to tarnish my friendship with him like that. I’m sorry.”

You feel your heart drop into your stomach as his words hang heavily in the air. The way Suguru's voice cracks with such sincerity—it makes the reality of the situation feel even worse. He’s being careful, trying to fix something that feels irreparably broken, but you can’t stop the rush of emotions that flood you. A strange lump forms in your throat as you exhale softly, gripping the edge of the counter harder. Your mind races, trying to catch up to his apology, the weight of his words sinking in deeper.

You almost feel like laughing—bitterly, of course—but you hold back. “Suguru, I… I understand,” you finally manage, though the words feel inadequate in this moment. “I never wanted to put you in that position, either. It was a mistake, and I—I don’t know what I was thinking. But you’re right. I shouldn’t have let things go that far.”

The silence that stretches between you two now feels uncomfortable. There’s no easy way to navigate this, no graceful way out of this mess that you’ve all somehow ended up in. It’s like standing in the middle of a battlefield, and the war is only just beginning. You still can’t deny the pang of hurt that strikes through you, feeling a small sense of irritation at the sole fact he’s doing this all for Satoru—for his friend. Sure, they’re best friends and whatnot, but why can’t someone do something for you for once? Why is it that the one person who’s been showing you nothing but patience, hospitality, and understanding is pulling himself back for him? Is it selfish to feel hurt by the fact that you almost feel forced to put up with everything alone?

“I should've been stronger,” you continue quietly, your voice trembling just slightly. “I’m sorry, Suguru. For all of it.”

He sighs again, as if the apology means something to him, but also knowing it doesn't fix anything. “I don’t blame you, Y/N. I really don’t. I just—this situation is complicated, and I’m trying to be the right kind of person here. For Satoru, for you, for all of us.”

You can feel the distance he's trying to place between you both, even if it's an unspoken agreement. A part of you wants to argue, to tell him that things are never as clear-cut as he’s trying to make them, that Satoru doesn’t deserve anything. But your head spins, and you're not sure if you can find the right words anymore. You just feel... drained. There’s a brief, awkward pause as you try to find something else to say, something to make this feel less painful.

"I'll let you go," Suguru says after a beat, sensing that you're running out of words. "I just wanted to clear the air before you see him again. Please don’t take this the wrong way, Y/N, but I think it’s better if we step back from this... from everything, for a while."

You nod slowly, eyes feeling glossy, even though he can’t see it. "Okay."

"Take care of yourself," he says quietly before hanging up.

The phone feels heavier in your hand as you lower it. You glance over to Koji, who's still happily hopping around, completely oblivious to the storm that just hit. Well, there goes that. A scoff sounds out, hovering above the kitchen sink—hands gripping the edge of the counter. You just keep fucking things up, don’t you? Driving others away because you don’t know when to stop. Your breath catches in your throat, and you blink away the sting in your eyes. Koji’s laughter fills the space around you, innocent and unaware of the weight on your shoulders. You glance down at the phone in your hand, feeling a mix of anger, confusion, and an overwhelming sense of loss. Suguru’s words replay in your head like a broken record, his apology, the distance he’s imposing, the way he’s doing all of this for Satoru. For his friendship. 

You almost want to scream, to tell him that this isn’t about his damn loyalty to Satoru, but about what you’ve been through and the mess that’s been made of your life. But all you can do is swallow it down as if your voice has been stolen from you. You run a hand through your hair, peering up at Koji again. He’s still bouncing around, full of excitement for the day ahead. He doesn’t deserve this. You promised him a better life, a life free from the kinds of complicated messes you’ve been tangled in for too long. But all of it—Satoru, Suguru, and you—feels like a web you can’t escape. The knots grow tighter the more you try to get out. “Momma?” Koji’s voice pulls you from your thoughts, and you meet his bright eyes. “Is Papa coming now?”

You freeze, your breath caught in your chest. The question makes everything hit you all at once. That aching emptiness. The truth you’ve been avoiding. Satoru probably isn’t even coming today. He’s too busy, too wrapped up in his own world. You know it. Koji doesn’t. You take a slow, deep breath, and then force a smile onto your lips, trying to ignore the heaviness that settles in your chest. “Not yet, sweetie,” you say softly, walking over to him and kneeling down to his level. “Papa’s just finishing up some work, okay? We’ll get to see him soon, I promise.”

Koji looks at you with wide eyes, tilting his head. “But you said… you said we were going together.”

You swallow, forcing the tightness in your throat to subside. “I know, honey. But sometimes grown-ups get really busy. I’m sure he’ll be ready when we get there. Let’s go grab a snack, yeah?”

He nods, his usual energy coming back, though you can see the hint of confusion still lingering in his eyes. As he grabs your hand and pulls you toward the kitchen, you let the smile on your face fade just enough to let the tears you’ve been holding back fall, your back turned to him so he can’t see. The phone call with Suguru still stings, leaving an empty feeling in your chest that refuses to go away. You wanted more than this. You wanted things to be different. But life never really seems to work out that way. As much as you want to deny it, the reality of it all is starting to sink in: you’re alone in this.

Koji’s classroom is buzzing with energy when you arrive, filled with laughter, excited chatter, and the occasional squeak of sneakers against the polished wooden floors. Decorations hang from the ceiling—paper streamers in bright colors, hand-drawn posters that read Happy Dad Appreciation Day! in crayon-scrawled letters, and a long banner strung up at the front of the room welcoming all the fathers. Koji practically bounces beside you, his tiny hand gripping yours as his eyes sweep over the room in search of one person. The excitement radiates off him in waves, and your stomach knots. You already know what’s coming.

“Where’s Papa?” he asks, his voice filled with anticipation as he looks up at you with those big, innocent eyes.

You force a smile, tightening your hold on his hand. “He’s coming, baby,” you say softly. “Let’s go find your seat, okay?”

Koji nods, trusting you without question, and it makes your chest ache. You lead him toward the small tables arranged in clusters, where children are already showing off handmade cards and crafts to their fathers. The sight is enough to make your throat tighten—dads kneeling beside their kids, laughing, ruffling their hair, lifting them up in tight hugs, mothers off to the side, and mingling with each other. Koji plops down at his designated spot, a small desk with his name written on a blue name tag. In front of him sits a paper he decorated himself, a drawing of you, him, and Satoru, all holding hands beneath a bright sun. The word FAMILY is scribbled across the top in uneven letters. Your eyes linger on the drawing for a moment too long.

“Koji!” One of his classmates, a boy with a missing front tooth, runs up to him. “Is your dad here yet?”

Koji perks up immediately, glancing around again before shaking his head. “Not yet, but he’s coming!” His smile is unwavering, full of pure belief, and it only makes your heart squeeze tighter.

“Oh, really? My Daddy is here already.” The young boy comments, head tilting in curiosity. His eyes graze over to you. “Only your Mommy is here?”

Koji nods. “Mhm! But my Papa is coming soon.”

“Stop lying,” another boy walks up to the mix, arms crossed with a smile. 

Koji’s brows furrow, his small hands balling into fists at his sides. “I’m not lying!” he insists, his voice firm but laced with a hint of uncertainty. He glances up at you for reassurance, and you give him a small, encouraging smile.

The boy shrugs, clearly unfazed. “Then where is he?”

Koji puffs out his chest. “He’s coming! He’s just busy.”

Another child, a girl with pigtails, leans in curiously. “Busy with what?”

Koji hesitates, his fingers twitching as he struggles to come up with an answer. Before he can respond, the classroom door swings open, and more fathers step in, greeted by excited squeals and hugs from their kids. Koji watches, his eager eyes flitting toward the door each time it opens, only for his shoulders to drop when it’s never the person he’s hoping for. The children look back at Koji, expecting an answer. You clear your throat and regard them. “Koji’s dad is coming. Where are your parents, hm? You shouldn’t run off without them.”

The kids grumble childishly before scurrying off.  You tilt your head down, placing a gentle hand on your son’s back. “Hey,” you murmur. “Papa will be here soon, okay?”

He nods, but the brightness in his expression dims just a little. “Okay,” he whispers, more to himself than to you.

Mr. Ito claps his hands, gathering the children’s attention. “Alright, everyone! Let’s all take a seat with our dads—or moms!” he adds with a kind smile toward you. “We’re going to start our special activities now.”

Koji swallows hard, gripping the hem of his shirt as he walks to his spot on the colorful carpet. He sits beside you, his small hand reaching for yours, holding on tightly. You squeeze it reassuringly, silently hoping—praying—that Satoru keeps his promise. You sit beside him, trying to steady yourself, to keep the nagging worry at bay. You check your phone—no messages. No calls. Nothing. 

“Alright, everyone! We’re going to start with our very special ‘Why We Love Our Dads’ presentation we practiced in class!”

A murmur of excitement spreads through the kids as they grab their drawings and cards, eager to share. One by one, they begin taking turns standing in front of the room, reading out loud the reasons they love their fathers. Laughter fills the space, along with the occasional aww from the parents. Koji grips the edge of his paper tightly, his little fingers curling around it. He turns to you, eyes shining. “It’s almost my turn!” he whispers, practically vibrating in his seat. “Papa’s gonna hear everything I wrote about him!”

You don’t know what to say. You can only nod, swallowing past the lump in your throat.

Minute after minute passes. More fathers beam at their children, patting their heads, giving them hugs. The list of kids waiting to present grows smaller. And still—no Satoru.

You check your phone again.

Nothing.

Damn it, Satoru!

Koji’s excitement starts to wane, his fingers fidgeting with the paper in his hands. He keeps sneaking glances toward the entrance, and with each passing second, the light in his eyes dims just a little more. Biting his tiny lip in contemplation, his brows knitting in an uncomfortable way. You can only offer encouraging words and touches, though you know that’s not enough for what should be a special moment like this one. By the time his name is called, he hesitates. His little hands clutch the drawing so tight that the edges begin to wrinkle. “Koji?” his teacher prompts gently.

You place a reassuring hand on his back, leaning in close. “You got this, sweetheart,” you whisper, kissing his cheek.

He nods slowly and stands, walking to the front of the room with his paper in his hands. His voice is quieter than usual when he speaks. You stand up, moving over to the side but close enough so you can record him better—giving him a big smile and thumbs up behind the camera.

Koji looks at you and when he sees your further encouragement, a small smile breaks out onto his face before he’s looking down at his colored paper. “I…I love my papa because he’s…he’s really s-strong and cool,” Koji starts, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “And he makes the best pancakes. And he always makes me laugh. We always go on undercover missions. He buys me toys and builds forts with me. A-And…” His voice falters just slightly, his eyes flickering once more toward the door. His fingers tighten around the paper.

You can see it—the moment realization starts creeping in. The moment the truth settles in his tiny frame. The way his eyes blink too rapidly in a way that lets you know he’s on the verge of shutting down and crying. Your smile wavers, forcing yourself to show nothing but support for your son at a time like this. 

“And…” He tries again, but there’s something softer in his tone now, something uncertain. He looks down at his drawing, then at the room full of fathers who showed up.

And then, finally, he turns his gaze toward you.

His smile is smaller now, but still there. He holds up his drawing, his voice clearer this time. “…And my mom is really strong too. She does everything Papa does.”

There’s a warmth in the room, a few murmurs of appreciation, but all you can focus on is Koji’s face, the way he’s looking at you now. And for a brief second, just a second, you think maybe—just maybe—he understands. Your eyes are beginning to water, a shaky exhale leaving your lips in a quiet way because you are not crying right now. Maybe later. 

“She helps me with my homework, even when I don’t get it right away. And she makes my lunch just how I like it, even when she’s really busy.” His lips press together for a moment, as if he’s thinking carefully about his next words. “And she tucks me in every night and stays with me until I fall asleep when Papa lets me stay up late.” He giggles to himself at the memory.

There’s a shift in the room now. A few of the fathers exchange glances, some of the mothers in the crowd offering soft smiles. You can feel the warmth of their eyes on you, but you don’t dare look away from Koji. “She tells me stories about superheroes,” he continues, his voice gaining just a little more confidence. “And even though she says she’s not one, I think she is. Papa says she is, he says she’s a better superhero than he is!”

Something in your chest clenches so tight it’s almost hard to breathe. Your vision blurs slightly, and you blink rapidly, taking a slow, shaky inhale. The grip on your phone falters a little.  

“But Papa is taller than Mama. He has blue eyes and he does these really funny voices when he reads me stories,” Koji continues, looking at the small crowd of families. “I love my Papa because…because I want to be like him when I grow up, but I also want to be like my Mama. I want to be smart, strong, and tall!” A small chorus of laughter runs out, with you following. “When I’m my Papa’s age, I hope I can love someone like how loves Mama! But they don’t sleep in the same bed…and Papa doesn’t live with us,” he mutters with a downturned pout. 

It’s like he pauses for a dramatic effect.

The comment causes the atmosphere to only grow a tad bit awkward, the parents sending you weird, subtle glances. Your lips thin in into a purse, though you can’t find it in yourself to be angry. 

Koji shifts his weight again, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a small, almost hesitant smile. “I love my Papa a lot,” he says. “And I know he loves me too.” Another pause. “Even if he’s not here.”

Your heart sinks.

Koji swallows, glancing down at his paper, his fingers curling around it for a long moment. And then, finally, he lifts his head, looking right at you again. “But my mom is here.” The weight of those words settles into your bones, heavy and warm all at once. Koji smiles at you—small, but real.

“And I think that’s enough.”

The silence that follows is almost deafening. Then, the room fills with quiet murmurs, a few soft claps, and a warmth that you can’t quite describe. You laugh out a shaky chuckle, ending the recording. Your son is beaming at you, finished with his presentation. You’re about to clap your hands together and urge him over when suddenly—

“Good job, Koji!”

A shout—one too loud for a classroom—makes everyone break their neck to see where it came from. You jolt, barely having time to look over your shoulder before Koji averts his eyes from you. And if possible, his smile grows wider, eyes twinkling. “Papa!!” he shouts, running over to his father. Gojo is laughing, picking his son up and lifting him into my arms. Koji—ever bright—looks back over at his classmates. “See! I told you! This is my Papa! He’s here! He came!”

Gasps ripple through the room, followed by whispers and excited chatter from the children. Some fathers look over with raised brows, while the teachers exchange glances of both relief and surprise. Gojo, the spectacle he is, stands tall with Koji in his arms, grinning like he just won the lottery. “Of course I came! How could I miss Dad Appreciation Day?” he exclaims, ruffling Koji’s hair before pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “I had to see my little guy shine.”

Koji giggles, his small hands clutching at the collar of Gojo’s jacket as if he never wants to let go. His excitement is contagious, his joy so pure that, for a brief moment, you forget the emotional wreck you were about to become. “Did you see me, Papa?!”

“I did, baby. I’m sorry I came late, but I didn’t want to make you nervous. I heard everything.”

“I don’t get nervous, Papa,” he mumbles. Satoru simply laughs, adorning his son with small kisses to his face and neck. Koji giggles, squirming around. 

You, on the other hand, are frozen in place, gripping your phone so tightly your knuckles ache. The air in your lungs feels too thick, like it’s pressing against your ribs. He actually came. You swallow hard, blinking rapidly as Gojo finally looks at you. His gaze lingers on you for just a moment too long. He’s unreadable, but there’s something there—something deeper, something unspoken. “I’m here, I’m here.” He mutters soothingly to Koji, moving to stand beside you as the next kid presents. 

Koji peeks from Satoru’s shoulder, giving you a smile that makes you instantly mirror it. You remind yourself to give his dad a piece of your mind when you have the chance. 

Over time, the group has congregated downstairs to the gymnasium where there’s even more crafts set up, decorations, games, and food.

The gymnasium is bustling with energy, filled with the smell of popcorn, hot dogs, and cotton candy. Banners hang from the rafters, all colorful and festive with slogans like “Dad’s Day Fun!” and “We love our Dads!” The sound of laughter and chatter fills the air, mixed with the occasional clink of a game prize being handed out. Koji tugs at your hand and Satoru’s, practically dragging you guys over to the bounce house, his excitement bubbling over. “Mama! Papa! Look! I wanna jump!” His little feet bounce in place, and his eyes sparkle with anticipation.

You can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. The light in his eyes as he points to the inflatable structure is enough to make any stress melt away for a moment. As you guide him toward the bounce house, you notice Gojo trailing behind with his usual confidence, though there’s something softer about the way he watches his son.

“Think you can handle it, champ?” Gojo teases, rolling up his sleeves. His voice is playful, but his eyes are warm, focused on Koji as if the world around them doesn’t exist.

Koji, already bouncing inside the inflatable, doesn’t hesitate to answer. “I’m gonna jump higher than you, Papa!” he exclaims, bouncing with all his might. Gojo chuckles, his shoulders relaxing as he watches the joy in his son’s movements.

You linger at the edge of the bounce house, watching them interact. It’s almost surreal seeing Gojo in this light—happy, relaxed, laughing with his son, and the moment feels so... normal. He’s about to go in when you stop him. “I don’t think it’s meant for the adults.”

He looks back at you, a small pout on his face like he was just denied his favorite candy. “What? So? I don’t mind.”

“Well not you, but the other kids might—”

“You better run, Koji. I’m gonna get you!” he shouts, going right inside the bouncy house. You hear Koji’s excited squeals as he plays with his father inside. From the outside, your eyes stay on the pair and you even see a small part of Gojo that only comes out in certain times. Times where he’s allowed to be a kid again. He has a different kind of glow to him and you’re feeling your isnides begin to stir with warmness, biting back a smile when his boisterous laugh outsounds his son’s. Leave it up to him take over. You sigh and with this time to yourself, you decide to give your feet a rest and let Satoru have his fun with koji. It is technically his day, after all. 

Inside, Koji and Gojo are jumping around, playing a little game of tag and who can jump the highest. Gojo shows off by even doing a front flip for his son, and when Koji tries to imitate it, he promptly stops him. The minutes pass and their skin is beginning to show visible beads of sweat, fashes flushed with excitement. They sit down at one of the corner of the bounce house, Koji rested on top of his father’s lap. Gojo moves some hair out of his face. It’s nice and serene. Koji looks up at Gojo—his father looking down at him with a smile full of love and appreciation. 

Koji bites his lower lip, putting a hand to Gojo’s chest when he turns to face him better. “Papa?”

“Yes, Koji?”

“I have a question.”

“Oh?” Gojo’s eyebrow raises. “Well, please tell me what this question is.”

Koji’s head tilts with a smile. “How did you and Mama meet?” 

Gojo’s face softens, and for a moment, his usual teasing grin disappears. He blinks at the question, caught off guard, but his eyes warm almost immediately as he looks at Koji, who is still sitting in his lap, his little hand still pressed against Gojo’s chest. It’s such an innocent question—so full of curiosity, like Koji is trying to piece together the little story of his parents' lives before he came into the picture.

Gojo leans back slightly, shifting so that he’s more comfortable, one hand still resting on Koji’s back, the other absentmindedly playing with his son’s hair. “How did we meet?” he repeats, the question dancing on his lips as though he’s thinking about it. "Well… that's a bit of a long story, buddy."

Koji looks up at him with big, wide eyes, clearly intrigued. “I wanna hear it,” he says, his voice filled with that earnest excitement that only kids can have.

Gojo looks up in thought. “Well, Mama didn’t really like me at first, but, you know, after a while, we started talking more. And you know what? That’s when things got interesting.” He pauses, looking down at Koji with a fondness that makes the words feel like something deeper. “She went from not liking me at all to us becoming a team.”

Koji seems to contemplate this for a moment, his little brows furrowing as he tries to piece it all together. “So... she didn’t like each other but then she did?” he asks, his voice innocent but inquisitive.

“Exactly,” Gojo says with a smile, gently ruffling Koji’s hair. “Sometimes, it takes time for people to figure each other out. And sometimes, even when you don’t like someone at first, they end up becoming the most important person in your life.”

Koji blinks, his eyes big and wide, as if he’s processing this new information. “Is that how you and Mama became friends first?”

Gojo pauses for a moment, a thoughtful look on his face. He glances over at you, and though his expression is playful, there’s a depth to it that can’t be ignored. “You could say that,” he replies, his voice softer now. “We became... something more than friends, though. We became family.”

Koji giggles with elation, leaning in close as if he’s whispering something in his ear. “Did you like Mama at first.”

Gojo matches his son’s laugh, also leaning in. “Oh, buddy. You promise not to tell? It’s a secret.”

“I promise!”

Gojo leans closer to his son, looking around before meeting his eyes. “When I first met Mama…..it was love at first sight.”

Gojo’s walking down the street, hands shoved into the pockets of his pants as he’s been forced with flower duty. He grumbled and huffed to his parents about having one of the maids do it, but to no avail. Now he’s stuck trying to find some stupid flower shop that he wouldn’t think twice about coming to if he wasn’t forced. Although he should probably be more sympathetic since he’s literally buying flowers for his grandmother’s gravestone—the grandmother he barely knew. 

As Gojo walks down the street, the late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the pavement, and the faint hum of city life surrounds him. He glances up at the sky, his usual playful demeanor replaced by a slight irritation. He hadn’t wanted to do this. He could already feel the weight of his family's expectations pressing down on him, and buying flowers for a woman he barely remembered felt more like a chore than an act of reverence. But, of course, his parents had insisted. His thoughts drift from the task at hand as he walks past cafes and small shops. He knows he's wasting time, dragging his feet, but there's no denying that he feels disconnected from the task. His family had always been about the big picture—the legacy, the power, the status—but moments like these, like honoring someone from his family who passed away when he was too young to remember her, don’t hold much weight for him. Not yet, anyway.

He finally turns the corner and spots the little flower shop at the end of the block. It’s nothing fancy, just a small corner store with an overgrown plant spilling out the door. He adjusts his sunglasses before continuing. The scent of fresh flowers hits him immediately, sharp and sweet, and he exhales slowly, already regretting having to pick out something “appropriate.” He’s not even sure what’s considered appropriate for a grandmother’s gravestone.

As he enters, the soft chime of the doorbell rings above him, and the bell-like sound almost pulls him out of his thoughts.

He’s looking around, senses already overwhelmed. Then, he sees her.

You’re standing behind the counter, a clipboard in your hand, taking inventory of the flowers in front of you. The moment he sees you, everything else fades. You look so absorbed in what you’re doing, the edges of your hair catching the sunlight filtering through the window, and something about the way you stand there, grounded and calm, strikes him deeply. The first thought that crosses his mind is that he’s never seen anyone like you before—someone who seems completely unbothered by the chaos of the world around them. It’s a strange thing—not only because he barely knows you but because he never actually…looks that deeply into people, especially ones he doesn’t know. 

It’s funny, because he's no stranger to beauty—he’s been surrounded by it all his life—but something about you... it's not just physical. There's something about your presence, something about the way you seem perfectly at ease even in a small flower shop, that makes him stop dead in his tracks. His heart skips, and he suddenly feels out of place, like maybe he's not worthy of this peaceful little corner of the world.

“Can I help you?” Your voice is soft, a little melodic, and it makes him blink, pulling him back to the moment.

Gojo runs a hand through his hair, trying to shake the dazed feeling away. Pushing up his glasses and puffing his chest out, his voice lowering in a “manly” way.  “Uh… yeah,” he clears his throat—his tone cracking that makes him want to punch himself.  “I need flowers for a gravestone. My grandmother’s.” He says, his voice a little gruffer than he meant. He’s still trying to make sense of the sudden pull he feels toward you.

You look at him with a small tilt of your head, studying him for a moment, before gesturing to the far side of the store. “We have a few arrangements that are good for that,” you say, walking toward the display.

Gojo follows you, trying to keep his thoughts from wandering. He’s been in a couple of flower shops before, but he feels something different now. He can’t quite pinpoint it, but the longer he’s around you, the more he starts to feel the weight of the moment. It’s almost as if, for once, he’s doing something not for status, not for the family, but just because... well, just because.

“Do you know your grandmother’s favorite flowers?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder.

Gojo blinks, momentarily caught off guard by the question. He hadn’t even considered that. He feels a small pang of guilt. “I don’t know. I didn’t really know her. I was too young when she passed.”

You stop walking and turn to face him, a gentle look in your eyes. “Oh…well…that’s okay. It’s hard to remember people when they leave so early,” you say, your tone warm and understanding.

The kindness in your voice surprises him. Most people don’t look at him like that. He’s used to the mask people put on when they talk to him—the act of politeness, the careful distance. But you? You don’t seem to care that he’s the Gojo heir or that his family’s expectations come with a heavy burden. For a moment, it’s just the two of you, standing in a little flower shop, and it feels... real.

“Maybe something simple, then,” Gojo says, shrugging. “Just something that shows I care or whatever.”

You nod, the softest smile tugging at your lips. “I think we can manage that.”

For the rest of the time, Gojo barely notices the flowers he’s choosing. His eyes keep wandering to you, following the way your hands move as you arrange things, and for the first time in a long time, he finds himself wondering about someone else—not his family, not his future, but you. There’s something intriguing about the way you carry yourself, something that makes him feel like he’s finally met someone who isn’t afraid to see him as more than just the Gojo name.

“You’re really cute,” he randomly blurts out as he’s paying for the lillies. You falter, looking up at him with widened eyes and parted mouth. His eyebrow twitches, internally cursing himself and his fat mouth. “I…I mean….you know. You’re just…your hair and your smile, it’s like…well you’re like…”

You’re still staring at him in silence and the more he’s foolishly stumbling over his words, the more he feels himself grow red. He hurriedly tosses down the change and grabs the bouquet. “Yeah, um…t-thanks.”

You have no time to react before he turns around and practically runs out the door. As he leaves the shop, flowers in hand, he finds himself thinking of you more than he should. It’s a strange feeling, and it makes him question things in a way he never has before. But one thought remains louder than the others: I fumbled!

Koji gasps in awe, completely engrossed in the love story of his parents. “Wow! That sounds like the movies!”

Gojo laughs, ruffling his son’s hair. “Yeah, just like the movies, huh?”

Koji’s smile spreads, satisfied with the answer, and leans back against Gojo’s chest, curling up a little in his father’s lap. “That’s a good story, Papa.”

Gojo chuckles again, pulling Koji closer and resting his chin on top of his son’s head. “Glad you liked it, kiddo.” He pauses for a moment, gazing down at Koji with so much love in his eyes that it’s almost overwhelming. “I’m glad I met your mama, too.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but the soft sounds of laughter and the gentle hum of the gymnasium around you. The connection between them is so clear, so perfect in its simplicity. He wonders, for a fleeting second, what it would be like to just let go of everything and let this be enough—this little world where everything feels okay, where the past and its mistakes don’t have to weigh you guys down. He can only dream.

You’ve just stepped out of the bathroom, running a hand through your hair when you bump into Mr. Ito.  You let out a small gasp, startled by the unexpected encounter. Mr. Ito stands in front of you, a warm smile on his face as he adjusts his glasses. "Oh! I didn’t mean to startle you."

"No, it's fine," you say quickly, offering a polite smile. "I was just heading back to the event." You’re still catching your breath from the light rush of running into him so unexpectedly, but the tension begins to ease as he nods in understanding.

“I see you’re enjoying the day,” Mr. Ito says, his smile turning a little more knowing as he glances past you toward the gymnasium. “It’s nice to see the students’ families involved. Especially Koji—he’s such a bright little guy.”

You feel a warmth stir in your chest at the mention of Koji. He’s your world, and hearing others say such kind things about him makes your heart swell. “He is,” you reply softly, your smile genuine.

Mr. Ito follows your line of sight before focusing on you again. “And, how are you today, Ms. Y/N?”

You blink up, putting on a casual smile. “Oh, I’m fine, thank you. And you?”

“Fine now that I’m talking to you.” His attempt at a pickup line falls flat, even with the way he laughs and tries to play it off. You awkwardly chortle back, eyes flickering to the side. “I’m sorry. That was weird of me.”

You wave it off with a light smile, not wanting to make things more awkward than they already are. “It’s okay, Mr. Ito. You didn’t mean anything by it.”

He nods, his grin still a little strained. “I didn’t, no. Just... getting too comfortable, I suppose.”

The silence stretches between you both, and you try to think of something to break it. Your eyes glance back to the gymnasium where Gojo and Koji are still playing, laughing in the distance. For some reason, the sight of them makes you feel a sense of calm amidst the strange encounter with Mr. Ito. He plays with his fingers, visibly debating something before just going for it. “I just…I would…like to get to know you better, Y/N. You know, outside of all this.”

You quietly clear your throat, rubbing the back of your neck. “Mr. Ito, I appreciate that but, you…already know that I don’t reciprocate the same feelings and that…I’d like to keep a boundary between us.”

You notice the way his jaw ticks, eyebrows knitting just the slightest before briefly nodding. 

“And well…” you decide now’s a good time to bring things up. “Koji and I, we’ll be moving. I’m going to start the process of disenrolling him and entering him into the school near our new place. I’ve already talked to him about it and he’s excited.”

Mr. Ito blinks, his expression faltering slightly at your words. It’s clear that the news has caught him off guard, though he quickly masks it with a tight smile. “I see. Well, I suppose that’s... good for you two. A fresh start, huh?”

You nod, trying to keep the conversation as neutral as possible. “Yeah. It’s been a long time coming. I think it’ll be a better environment for Koji, too. New opportunities, new surroundings.”

The air between you both feels heavier now, the tension thickening with the revelation. You can tell Mr. Ito’s thoughts are churning, and though he’s trying to keep it composed, it’s clear he didn’t expect to hear this today. He takes a breath, and when he speaks again, his tone is much quieter. “I understand, Y/N. I really do.” He pauses, seeming to weigh his next words carefully. “But... if you ever change your mind, or if you need anything—someone to talk to—please don’t hesitate to reach out. I’d like to help if I can. I’ll miss you both.”

You feel a knot form in your stomach, but you force a polite smile, trying to smooth over the uncomfortable edge of the conversation. “Thank you, Mr. Ito. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He turns for a second before facing you again, his smile looking a little more forced.  “But if you’d like to join me for some Italian food. I know this place downtown and they—”

“I love Italian food.”

You gasp lightly, jolting when Satoru’s voice seemingly appears out of nowhere, but so does the hand on your hip, almost hovering but still close enough to keep you tethered to his side. “What time?” He smiles, looking at the other man with faux sweetness. 

Mr. Ito shifts uneasily, clearly taken aback by Satoru’s sudden appearance and the casual intimacy of his hand on your hip. His gaze flickers between the two of you, his smile faltering as he clears his throat. “Well, I was actually inviting her,” he points out, his tone polite but edged with tension.

“I could tell, but I’m inviting myself.” Satoru smoothly replies, eyebrow tilting up. 

Mr. Ito looks at you now, holding back a frown. Your mouth opens and closes, the words caught in your throat as you try to process the whirlwind that is Satoru Gojo. “I—”

“We have plans tonight,” he continues, not giving you a chance to object. “In fact, we always have plans, don’t we? Because I love Italian food too.” He pats your hip lightly, the gesture both possessive and reassuring, chuckling. 

Mr. Ito clears his throat, straightening up a bit as if that will make him on par with Gojo. “I’m sorry, but I’m speaking to Ms. Y/N and Ms. Y/N only.”

“And I’m speaking to you, Mr….oh sorry, I forgot your name. What was it again?”

The dynamic between you three feels tense with awkwardness and unsaid feelings. You notice the tick of Satoru’s jaw along with the furrow of Mr. Ito’s eyebrows. Jesus Christ. 

Satoru told his head in a condescending way. “But hey, don’t let me stop you from recommending your favorite Italian spot. We’re always open to new places.”

“Well, look at that,” Mr. Ito replies, his smile slowly dropping. “You are stopping me, in fact.” 

“Maybe that’s the point.”

“I don’t see why you would.”

“The same goes for you.”

“You’re quite a rude man, you know that?”

“And you’re a pushy one. So what do you plan on doing about it?”

The air is charged, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. You feel like a bystander caught in the middle of a brewing storm, watching as Gojo and Mr. Ito exchange sharp words like blows in an unseen battle for dominance. Mr. Ito lets out a breath, forcing a tight smile again. “I don’t see why this concerns you, Mr. Gojo.”

Satoru chuckles, the sound light but laced with something darker. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. It concerns me a whole lot when it involves my family.” His hand, still resting at your hip, presses slightly—not enough to be uncomfortable, but enough to remind you he’s there, standing firm.

Mr. Ito’s jaw tightens. “I was just extending an invitation. Didn’t realize she needed a chaperone.”

Gojo tilts his head, feigning curiosity. “Chaperone? Nah. I just don’t like guys who don’t know how to take no for an answer.” His smile widens, all teeth, as he leans in just slightly. “Kinda pathetic, don’t you think?”

You barely hold in your sigh.

Mr. Ito straightens, his jaw tensing. “It’s not pathetic to be persistent.”

“It is when it’s unwanted.”

His words are casual, but the weight behind them is anything but. You can feel it—the shift in the air, the growing hostility masked beneath their polite tones. Mr. Ito glances at you, searching for something, but you’re too drained to entertain whatever game he thinks he’s playing. So, you decide to end it. “Mr. Ito,” you interject, your voice firm but measured. “I appreciate the offer, but my answer is the same. I’d really like to keep things professional.”

There’s a beat of silence before Mr. Ito exhales through his nose, forcing a nod. “Understood.” His eyes flicker to Gojo once more before he nods. “Take care, Y/N.”

With that, he turns and walks off, tension still lingering in his wake.

Gojo clicks his tongue, watching him go. “Man, some people really don’t know when to quit.”

You shake your head, exhaling. “Was that necessary?”

“Absolutely,” Gojo grins, turning to you. “Did you see the way his eye twitched? Best part of my day.”

Your voice lowers and sharpens. “You can’t just be rude like that. What even was that?”

“That,” he replies, stepping back just enough to put a safe distance between you but keeping that infuriating grin, “was me saving you from an awkward dinner with Mr. Boring over there.”

“Saving me?” you repeat, incredulous. “I didn’t need saving. I could’ve handled it. And besides,” you walk back over to where Koji is playing with his friends in the bouncy house. “Maybe I would’ve said yes.”

“Don’t even say that,” he quickly follows.

“Why not?”

You look at him, his lips purse like he’s about to say anything. Giving you a quick scan up and down before deciding against it—sighing and running a hand through his hair. You peer away, down at your feet. A small pause stretches between you two before he’s speaking. “Listen,” he starts, voice tentative. “I…I think we should talk…about you know.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. Suguru already talked to me.”

“Not just about that, Y/N.”

“Then what else, Satoru?” you turn your head to him. “What else could we possibly have to talk about? We have nothing to talk about unless it involves Koji, and right now—it’s supposed to be a good day. I’d rather not air out everything today—especially right here.”

Gojo exhales through his nose, his jaw tightening as he watches you. His usual playful expression is nowhere to be found, replaced by something quieter—something raw. “You always do this,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

“Do what?” You cross your arms, suddenly feeling defensive.

“Shut me out.” His voice isn’t accusatory, but there’s something heavy in it, something that makes your throat tighten.

You shake your head, willing yourself to keep your emotions in check. “I’m not shutting you out, Satoru. I just—” You pause, exhaling sharply before glancing back at Koji. He’s still playing, oblivious to the weight of the conversation happening just a few feet away. “I just don’t want to ruin today for him.”

Gojo studies you for a moment, then sighs. He steps closer—not enough to be overwhelming, but enough that you can see the sincerity in his expression. “I get it,” he says softly. “I do. But this…this thing between us? It’s not going away just because we pretend it doesn’t exist.”

Your fingers curl into your sleeves, nails pressing against the fabric. “And what do you want me to do about that?”

He lets out a quiet chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “I don’t know. Maybe just…let me in. For once.”

Your heart clenches at his words, but before you can respond, Koji calls out to you both, waving excitedly from the bouncy house. The moment shatters like glass, and you turn away, forcing a smile as you wave back. “Not today, Satoru,” you whisper, barely loud enough for him to hear. “I’ve already made that mistake, I’m not doing it again.”

He watches you for a beat longer before stepping back, his expression unreadable. “Alright,” he finally says, his voice light but laced with something else—something aching. “I won’t push you.”

You say nothing in response, rubbing your forearms slowly as if to comfort yourself from a dreaded conversation with your ex—one that is most likely long overdue. But you’d like to prolong it even more, if that’s even saying anything. His arm is brushing against yours as you watch your son socialize freely with his peers. 

“I…” you inhale deeply. “Koji and I are taking the place. The one you…got us for Christmas. I’ll be switching schools for him.”

Gojo is quiet for a moment, his head tilting slightly as he processes your words. Then, his lips quirk up in a small, almost bittersweet smile. “So you finally decided to accept my gift.”

You nod, exhaling softly. “It’s what’s best for Koji.”

His smile falters just a little, but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he glances over at your son, who’s laughing, tumbling around in the bouncy house without a care in the world. “It’s a good place,” he says after a pause. “Safe. Quiet. He’ll like it.”

You hug your arms around yourself. “That’s what I’m hoping for.”

Another pause stretches between you both, filled only by the distant chatter of parents and the delighted screams of children. Then Gojo shifts, turning his body slightly toward you. “I meant what I said earlier,” he murmurs. “I won’t push you. But you don’t have to do everything alone, Y/N. I hope you know that.”

You swallow, not trusting yourself to look at him. Because if you do, you might see everything you’ve been trying so hard to ignore—the sincerity, the regret, the quiet longing that lingers beneath his usual nonchalance.  Instead, you nod stiffly. “I know.”

Gojo watches you for a beat longer before finally sighing, stepping back and stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Alright,” he says, his tone shifting to something lighter, though you can tell it’s forced. “Then let’s just enjoy today, yeah?”

You nod again, not trusting yourself to say anything else. Because the truth is—you don’t know if you believe him.

“Mama! Papa!” Koji shouts from inside. “Daniel wants to know why you don’t sleep in the same bed!”

Gojo and you simultaneously stiffen. Damn kids and their questions. 

The rest of the day is filled with laughter, Gojo trying to show off his muscles—that you would never agree he actually has—for Koji’s friends because his son loves to brag more than his old man. They even did face painting, you opted to get just a small flower on your cheek instead of the extravagant intricacies your husband—ex—adorn. Even for the parts where Koji is meant to discuss how awesome his father is, he always makes sure to mention you too. Even dragging you up to the front with Gojo and him as he had prepared a small song to sing. Gojo is helping his son belt out while you awkwardly clapped along. But just as there’s activities, food shared, and more of Koji bragging about his dad, so is there the…uncomfortable moments.

“Mama and Papa don’t hold hands.”

“Mama and Papa don’t kiss.”

“Papa always stares at Mama’s butt when she’s not looking!”

“My Mama and Papa don’t have pretty rings that match.”

Unfortmnately for you, your son loves to air out your dirty business not just to his friends, but practically everyone in attendance.

Your entire body tenses at Koji’s latest declaration, your face heating instantly. A few parents nearby stifle their laughter behind their hands, while others exchange amused glances. You slowly turn to look at Gojo, who—of course—is completely unfazed, grinning like the little menace he’s always been.

“Koji,” you start, voice strained, “why don’t you, uh…go get another balloon animal?”

“But I already have three,” Koji says, tilting his head in confusion.

“Get a fourth,” you deadpan.

Gojo, ever the opportunist, crouches beside your son and stage-whispers, “It’s okay, buddy. Mama’s just shy.”

You jab an elbow into his side—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to wipe the smug look off his face. He lets out an exaggerated oof, clutching his ribs dramatically.

“See?!” Koji gasps, pointing. “Mama hits Papa, too!”

“Oh my god,” you groan, covering your face with your hands as laughter erupts around you.

Gojo, the shameless man that he is, only laughs in delight, ruffling Koji’s hair as if his son had just won a medal instead of exposing him in front of half the playground. “But what can I say?” he grins, utterly unbothered. “Your mama’s got a nice—”

“Satoru,” you hiss, slapping a hand over his mouth before he can finish that sentence in front of a group of impressionable children. His laughter muffles against your palm, but his eyes are twinkling with mischief, completely unfazed by the judgmental glances of nearby parents.

Koji, however, looks incredibly pleased with himself, puffing out his chest. “See? I told you guys!” he exclaims to his friends, who are giggling amongst themselves. “Papa’s always looking at Mama when she’s not paying attention.”

You groan, feeling your face heat up as some parents whisper behind their hands, clearly entertained. You shoot a glare at Gojo, who simply winks at you. “Maybe because she’s so pretty,” he muses, finally prying your hand off his mouth.

“Maybe because you’re a perv,” you grumble under your breath, folding your arms.

Gojo gasps dramatically, clutching his chest like you just stabbed him. “Such cruel accusations! In front of our child, no less!”

Koji tugs at your sleeve, looking up at you with the pure innocence only a child can possess. “Mama, if you and Papa love each other, why don’t you kiss like Riku’s parents do?”

The question makes your stomach flip, and you freeze. You don’t dare look at Gojo, but you can feel the way his playful demeanor stills beside you. It’s the question neither of you have the heart to answer. And suddenly, despite the afternoon sun and the laughter all around, a chill settles over your spine.

Yeah, maybe you should’ve better prepared yourself for today.

It’s around three in the afternoon now, Koji absolutely spent but still happily holds onto his parents’ hands, skipping between them.  You walk with Gojo, the weight of the day’s events starting to settle in your bones, but the soft thump of Koji’s little feet on the ground as he hops along distracts you from your thoughts. You glance at Gojo, who’s keeping his stride slow enough to match Koji’s, his usual playful grin replaced with a quieter, more pensive expression. There’s something about this moment—the three of you together—that feels different, almost like a perfect, fleeting snapshot of a family that could have been.

Koji pulls ahead slightly, his excitement bubbling over. He twirls in a circle, hands stretched out as if trying to catch the wind, before looking back at you both with a grin that could light up the whole park. “Come on, slowpokes!” he teases, clearly proud of his energy and his ability to keep going while his parents trail behind.

You exchange a brief glance with Gojo, the weight of unsaid words passing between you in the shared quiet of that look. There’s a softness in his gaze as he watches Koji, everything feels... almost okay. Almost like it’s parallel universe. But then the tug of reality creeps in again, the reminder of everything you’ve been through together—everything that’s still left unsaid.

“Koji, slow down!” you call, but there’s no real urgency in your voice. It’s more out of habit than concern. You’re just trying to hold onto this small moment a little longer, even if you know it can’t last forever.

The smile that spreads across Gojo’s face as he watches his son is genuine, warm—almost too warm, as if he’s trying to convince himself that this is enough, that the weight of what’s been lost won’t ever overshadow what’s still here. “I can’t believe how much energy you have left in you, buddy,” Gojo says, catching up with Koji as he spins around again, arms flailing with childish abandon.

“I’m just getting started!” Koji says, laughing as if he’s truly invincible in this moment, in this place. You can’t help but smile at the sight of him—happy, carefree, completely unaware of the tension that’s simmering just beneath the surface of this picture-perfect scene.

Gojo looks at you again, a small, wistful smile tugging at his lips. “You know, I didn’t think I’d ever get to do this. Be here with you. With him.” His voice is quiet, almost too quiet for you to hear over the distant chatter of other families still enjoying the day. But you hear it. You feel it.

You offer him a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah, well, we’ve got him now.”

And for a fleeting moment, it feels like that’s all that matters.

You’re all walking back to Gojo’s car, the other parents and children doing the same. Engrossed in Koji’s raving about how fun today was—Gojo and you nodding along and smiling at his pure happiness with a parental love. 

“Where is she?!”

A sudden shout pulls all of your attention, your grip tightening around Koji’s hand as Satoru pulls him closer to you both. The sudden shout cuts through the air like a knife, sharp and frantic, snapping you out of the bubble you’d been enveloped in. Your footsteps slow down as in the distance, there’s a small huddle of people formed—it looks like there’s something or someone in the middle of it. 

Your feet stop, the world around you slowing. The shout wasn’t one of joy or excitement—it was filled with desperation, and that alone sends a shiver down your spine. Your eyes shift to the distance where the sound originated. There’s a huddle of people formed, clustered around in a small circle formation, it almost seems like... a commotion. You can’t make out the details yet, but something feels off, something heavy about the way the crowd is gathered, their heads bobbing in quick movements as if trying to see over something or someone.

Koji tilts his head. “What’s happening?”

But neither Gojo or you have a response for that. How could you when the crowd parts ever so slightly and you see a head of jet black hair. Your eyes widen, body freezing as every single hair on your body jolts up. You feel stuck, hand trembling around your son’s hand—a breath feeling like it’s too much work. The world around you shifts into a blur as the air seems to thicken, each step feeling like it’s dragging you deeper into the unknown. 

You don’t know how long you stand there, unable to move, unable to process. The sound of Koji’s voice, his soft tug on your hand, feels distant now, muffled by the pounding of your heart in your ears. Your eyes remain locked on the figure in the crowd, the jet-black hair unmistakable. Your breath hitches in your throat, a tightness constricting your chest. It’s impossible. You blink, trying to make sense of the situation, but every time you do, she’s still there.

It’s like you’ve somehow reverted back to your child self, staring in complete shock and utter fear at what your mother’s reaction would be to a vase you accidentally broke. You see it happening—it’s all moving too slowly for you and you’re suddenly praying for a hole to swallow. Except when her head turns and you’re greeted with a face you haven’t seen in years—aged but undeniably recognizable—she doesn’t greet you with a deadly sneer. No. 

Her eyes light up, face controting into a wide smile that you don’t think—no, you know—she has never given you. And as soon as she sees you, she’s pushing her way through people without a second thought—even the children.

You have no time to react.

“My daughter! My sweet, sweet daughter!” she exclaims with a happiness that doesn’t feel real, it never does. The minute her arms wrap around you in a tight hug, you think you’re suffocating. 

“I’ve missed you! Did you miss your mother too, Y/N?”

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[xichilie]

i have a request, it would be funny if like phainon or something caught mydei and his secret friend or cuddling or anything that’s innocent but clearly intimate and romantic and when he tries to tell the others they try to ask mydei and his friend but they deny and don’t ever get caught and so everyone ends up just accidentally making phainon think he made it up or was hallucinating

This would actually be hilarious, it kinda gives Phineas and Pherp with their sister vibes. XD

Mydei x (fem)reader x (phainon)

Phainon’s Spiraling Descent into Madness (Probably)

Phainon hadn’t planned on witnessing something so earth-shattering today. He was simply out running errands, minding his own business, when he turned a corner and saw them.

Y/N and Mydei.

Cuddling.

Phainon stopped dead in his tracks.

He blinked.

No. That can’t be right.

But there they were. Y/N, leaning comfortably against Mydei, his arm loosely wrapped around her, their body language exuding a level of closeness he never thought possible.

Mydei. The same Mydei who acted like human interaction was an inconvenience. Who could incinerate someone with a glare. Who barely tolerated anyone.

And yet, here he was. Looking comfortable.

With Y/N.

Phainon had to clutch his forehead. Am I dreaming? Did I die? Am I dead?

He took one slow step back, then another, before turning on his heel and walking away. This needed to be reported immediately.

Phainon burst into the room where the other Chrysos heirs were gathered, his chest heaving as he pointed a dramatic, shaking finger toward the air.

“You guys. You will not believe what I just saw.”

The others looked up from their activities, blinking at him.

Aglaea, ever the composed one, set down her book. “You look… disturbed. What happened?”

Tribbie fluttered her wings excitedly. “Ooh! Did you find treasure?”

“Or did you get in trouble again?” Castorice asked, sipping her tea with that eerie calmness she always had.

Phainon shook his head. “Worse.”

The group collectively leaned in.

“I saw—” He took a deep breath, still not fully believing it himself. “I saw Mydei and Y/N cuddling.”

Silence.

Then—

“WHAT?!”

The room erupted.

“Wait, wait, wait—” Tribbie practically teleported over, grabbing his sleeve. “You’re telling me that Mydei? Our Mydei? Was cuddling?!”

“I—YES!” Phainon threw his hands up. “I saw it with my own eyes! They were all cozy, like—like a couple! Or something!”

Aglaea looked genuinely intrigued. “That… does not seem like Mydei at all.”

Castorice, despite being the calmest of the group, actually set her tea down. “Describe everything. Exactly what you saw.”

Phainon dramatically recounted the scene—how Y/N had been leaning against Mydei, how he had his arm around her, how neither of them looked even remotely annoyed about it.

By the time he was finished, everyone looked equally as shocked.

“I mean…” Tribbie tapped her chin. “Y/N is always hanging around him, but like—cuddling?”

“Mydei must be dying inside,” Castorice muttered, crossing her arms. “Or possessed.”

“That’s what I thought!” Phainon exclaimed. “I swear, I thought I was hallucinating!”

Aglaea narrowed her eyes. “There’s only one way to know for sure.”

Phainon straightened. “Which is?”

“We ask them.”

A few hours later, the Chrysos heirs confronted Mydei and Y/N.

Mydei stood there, arms crossed, face set in stone. Y/N blinked at them in genuine confusion as the group surrounded them like investigators about to crack a case.

“Alright,” Aglaea started, stepping forward. “We have one very important question for you two.”

Mydei’s expression was already annoyed. “What?”

Y/N tilted her head. “Did something happen?”

Phainon squinted at them suspiciously before taking a deep breath. “Were. You. Cuddling.”

A beat of silence.

Then, Mydei scoffed. “What?”

Y/N blinked. “Cuddling? Us?”

“Yes, you!” Phainon nearly threw his arms in the air. “I saw you two together! Mydei had his arm around you! You were leaning against him! You looked comfortable!”

Y/N laughed. “Are you serious?”

Phainon froze.

The way she said it—like he had just said something completely unbelievable.

Even Mydei’s expression didn’t shift. He simply gave an unimpressed look and deadpanned, “You’re hallucinating.”

Phainon’s eye twitched. “I AM NOT.”

Mydei shrugged. “We weren’t cuddling.”

Y/N tilted her head at Phainon, her expression genuinely puzzled. “Phainon, are you feeling okay? Maybe you saw something else?”

The Chrysos heirs looked between them—they seemed so genuine in their confusion.

“Wait…” Aglaea crossed her arms, thinking. “Phainon seemed pretty convinced. If it wasn’t cuddling, what was it?”

“Probably the sun frying his last brain cell,” Mydei muttered.

“HEY!” Phainon glared at him.

Y/N simply shook her head, still looking puzzled. “I don’t remember anything like that happening.”

Phainon’s entire reality started to shake.

No. No, no, no, I saw it. I know I did.

“You’re messing with me,” he said slowly.

Mydei raised an eyebrow. “I think you’re messing with yourself.”

Was he?

The others still seemed genuinely curious, looking back and forth between them. But Mydei and Y/N? Completely unbothered.

Phainon gritted his teeth. “I. Saw. You.”

Y/N just looked at him sympathetically. “Maybe you need some rest?”

Rest.

REST?!

Aglaea placed a hand on Phainon’s shoulder. “Phainon, maybe… you really did imagine it?”

“Yeah,” Castorice added, though she still looked skeptical. “I mean, Mydei cuddling?”

Phainon was spiraling.

“NO. NO, I AM NOT IMAGINING THIS!” He pointed at them. “YOU’RE GASLIGHTING ME!”

Mydei tilted his head, utterly unbothered. “Are we?”

OH TITAN HE IS.

Y/N just smiled. “You really might’ve misinterpreted something.”

Tribbie tilted her head. “Then what exactly did Phainon see?”

“Who knows?” Mydei replied smoothly. “Whatever it was, it wasn’t cuddling.”

Phainon clutched his head. Was he losing his mind?

Did I actually imagine it?

The more they denied it, the more he started to doubt himself.

Aglaea gave him a sympathetic look. “Maybe it was just a weird angle?”

Phainon felt his soul leave his body.

The more time passed, the more he started believing them.

Had he really… imagined it?

Was this the end of his sanity?

Was this how he died?

Maybe he had hallucinated it.

Maybe.

Maybe…

No.

No, he couldn’t have.

But as he looked at Mydei’s stone-faced, unwavering expression, and Y/N’s gentle, innocent confusion, he realized—

They had won.

And the worst part?

He couldn’t even prove them wrong.

Phainon wasn’t crazy.

At least, he was pretty sure he wasn’t.

But over the past few weeks, things had started to feel off.

It started small. Little things.

One day, he had walked into the training grounds and spotted Mydei and Y/N standing too close, whispering.

Their heads were tilted toward each other, Mydei’s usually-annoyed expression softer than Phainon had ever seen.

Then, just as quickly as he had noticed it—Mydei pulled back, and Y/N turned away.

By the time Phainon took a second look, they were standing normally, talking like nothing was strange.

Weird.

Then, it happened again.

He swore he saw Mydei tuck a stray strand of Y/N’s hair behind her ear. But when he blinked—Mydei was already gone, walking away as if he had never been there.

Weirder.

And then—

Phainon had just been passing by Y/N’s home when he glanced through the open window.

And there they were.

Mydei had an arm draped over Y/N’s shoulders, her head resting comfortably against his chest. The two of them looked relaxed, peaceful, completely at ease.

Phainon’s mouth dropped open. “Aha! I knew it!”

He blinked.

And suddenly—they weren’t cuddling anymore.

Now, Y/N was sitting at a completely normal distance from Mydei, casually reading a book. Mydei sat beside her, looking as bored as ever, arms firmly crossed.

Phainon’s jaw hung open. “…What.”

Had he just—imagined that?

He knew what he saw. But now, it was like the moment had never happened.

It didn’t make any sense.

And then, over the next few days—it kept happening.

One moment, Mydei and Y/N would be too close. Their hands nearly touching, their voices lower than usual, their gazes lingering.

And the next?

They were standing apart like two completely normal people.

It was starting to drive him insane.

At one point, he actually went to the other Chrysos heirs and begged them to believe him.

“I swear I saw them cuddling on the couch!” he insisted. “I saw Mydei holding her! With my own eyes!”

Aglaea arched a brow. “Are you certain?”

“YES.”

Tribbie tilted her head. “Did you blink?”

“What?”

“Maybe you blinked and imagined it.”

“I did not imagine it!”

But the others just looked at him like he was the crazy one.

Even Castorice, who rarely spoke, gave him a blank look. “Perhaps,” she mused, “you should rest.”

Phainon felt his soul leave his body.

This was Mydei’s fault.

Somehow, some way, Mydei was doing this on purpose.

And he was going to prove it.

Even if it was the last thing he did.

[cinnaminsvga]

Harana | Jungkook

harana (n.): the act of wooing someone by serenading them

→ summary:

Unwilling to settle down with you after five years of dating, Jeon Jungkook decides to break up to chase after his dreams. In the aftermath, you leave your hometown, desperate to forget your past and relearn what it means to be on your own. Two years later while on your way to work, you pass by a familiar voice singing songs about a girl he had left behind.

{or alternatively: Jungkook still sings the love songs that he wrote for you. He still means them, too.}

→ genre: busker!au, exes to lovers, angst, humor → warnings: jimin is insane and kinda crude (he has some issues going on), jungkook is a pathetic wet bunny but he's trying his best, oc has So Many Problems, so much arguing and yearning, ambiguous ending??? but my god there is hope!! the humanity of it all!! → words: 16.1K → a/n: HOLY SHIT IM BACK (kinda) and happy new year!! yeah ok its march but im relearning how to form coherent sentences so be patient ;w; this is the first installment of my hfoh series that i teased a LONG time ago... i made it a resolution to complete this series by the end of the year before i kms (Keep Myself Safe) so here's to a brand new year :D (oh god @ universe pls be kind)

part of the “heart full of hugot” series

Two days before the incident, your shower nozzle decides to explode.

Okay, you have to admit that statement is a little misleading. Shower nozzles, in all its nonsentience, do not randomly decide to explode no matter how much you try to defend yourself to your landlord. Maybe your grip had been a little too harsh that morning, or maybe hanging 5 pounds of hair products on the handle had been a bit too much for the old sport to handle. Or maybe, just maybe, the universe was warning you about the incident.

Whatever it was, it doesn’t erase the fact that your shower would be out of commission for the next week or so (though your landlord seems adamant about prolonging your suffering as long as possible). Until then, you’re going to have to find some other ways to keep the grease and grime from building on you. Heavens know that you already have a thriving ecosystem living in the back of your couch—you don’t need another one growing under your armpits. 

Lucky for you, you have friends. More importantly, you have friends who have showers. There is one problem though—all your friends live on the other side of the country. 

It’s been two years since you moved to the Big City™️, but you have done little to grow your social network. Call it introversion or depression, either way, you have no more contacts on your phone than you did when you left your hometown. Well, except for one person, if you could even consider him one. Frankly, you didn’t have a choice.

“Welcome to my humble abode, stinky,” Jimin greets you as you enter his house. Your nose is instantly assaulted by the smell of Bath & Body Works® Sweet Pea, reminding you once more why you didn’t consider him a friend. 

“Hey,” you reply gruffly, shucking your ratty shoes near his entrance. Your shoes look incredibly out of place amidst the sea of designer Chelsea boots and a singular pair of thigh-high heels. You take a glance at his living room, already feeling worse about yourself tenfold.

You had met Park Jimin by complete accident, much like how his mother probably felt when she first saw him too. You had never known anyone quite as… interesting as him, to put it lightly. 

When you got your job as a hostess for a luxury bar and restaurant, you figured you wouldn’t make many friends with your coworkers. Everyone was so… pretty, but in the shiny, untouchable sort of way. Almost all of the servers were as gorgeous as the models you’d see in magazines. You hadn’t known that the owners only hired a certain “demographic” of people for their restaurant, and you were equal parts flattered and disgusted that you’d somehow made it (though you suppose your bullshitting skills were all to thank). 

Unsurprisingly, even the bartenders were gorgeous, including one Park Jimin. He did have an aura to him that screamed “I’m a cut above the rest and I know it,” but that could just be the gold chains dripping down his neck. You almost mistook him as one of the patrons who mistakenly made his way behind the bar, and knowing the sort of clientele you’ve had to deal with so far, you wouldn’t have been surprised. It took a couple of weeks before you finally found out who he was (and what his fucking problem was).

Jimin was a part-time bartender with a full-time job as a bitch a self-made entrepreneur. Which is to say, he sold… tasteful photos of himself on the internet. You had nothing against his line of work. In fact, you would go far as to say you didn’t give a shit what he did outside of your shared workspace. But if there’s one thing Jimin is, it’s that he hates being ignored. 

So when you were adamant about not oohing and aahing at everything that makes Park Jimin perfect, he made it his self-appointed mission to befriend you. Or at least that’s what he claims, but given how he treats you lesser than the shit that cakes his cheeks, you have a lot of doubts. Perhaps he’s never made an effort to make a friend, hence his inexperience with being a decent human being. Or perhaps he’s just an asshole, but who is to say? The point is: he’s the only person you knew in this godforsaken city who would likely allow you to use his shower without being awkward about it and that’s that. 

The worst part about being an acquaintance with Park Jimin was that he lived in the richest area of Downtown but he wasn’t old money, that’s for sure. His entire essence screamed overconsumption, and his myriad of little trinkets littered across his apartment confirmed your previous assessment. You wouldn’t be surprised if you opened his freezer and found ten types of ice sorted assorted by color and shape like the extra bitch that he was. 

He made his money through sheer force, and it would have impressed you if he wasn’t, you know. Him.

“Bathroom is over there. I placed a towel and other shower amenities that you can borrow,” he says pointing to a door with a large “FART ZONE: ENTER WITH CAUTION” sign taped to it. You don’t ask.

“Thanks,” you say flatly. You wait patiently for his out-of-pocket comment. 

Like clockwork, Jimin smirks. “Sure thing. I gave you the super heavy-duty stuff. Figured you’d burn a hole through my expensive towels with how stinky you are, with your yeasty cu—”

“Aaaand I’ll be done in a few minutes. Thanks again Jimin,” you interrupt, making your way to the bathroom and slamming the door with as much force as you can muster. You hear something fall as the door shuts, and you vaguely hear Jimin mutter something about his “fart zone” signage. 

You begin to prepare your shower routine, humming lowly as you go about your business. You try to ignore the suffocating scent of ten million diffusers entering your nostrils, wondering for the umpteenth time if Jimin is suffering from long-term olfactory dysfunction. 

“Focus, Y/N. The quicker you shower, the quicker you can get the fuck out of here,” you whisper to yourself. However, in your haste, you knock over Jimin’s towel by accident. When the towel falls, a sheet of sandpaper slips out from underneath it, and you stare bemusedly until it finally hits you.

“YOU ARE SUCH A LITTLE BITCH!” 

From behind the door, you can hear Jimin’s infamous cackle. “Did you find the loofah? I got it just for you, darling!” he shouts back through his laughter, and you just grumble back in response. How on earth no one has strangled him to death, you have no idea.

“Whatever. I’m gonna shower now! Go beat off or whatever the fuck you do in your spare time,” you grouse, stripping as quickly as possible.

When the first droplets of water hit your body, you can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. You had both anticipated and dreaded going to Jimin’s house, but you desperately needed the shower. So you go through your routine, trying to find some semblance of relaxation throughout the process. However, it seems that Jimin was yearning for a little bit of attention as he chose to recline on the other side of the door and chat your ear off. Peace was never an option, it seems.

“Hey, Y/N! So why haven’t I seen you at work recently?” Jimin hollers from his living room. Despite the wall separating you, his voice manages to retain its volume.

You squirt a large glob of Jimin’s (expensive) conditioner onto your hands. “What do you mean? I go to work every day. You were the one who hasn’t been clocking in.”

You can hear Jimin scoff. “Um, correction! I went to work last Friday, which so happened to be your day off. If I didn’t know any better, I would have assumed you were avoiding me.”

And right you are, you think. But instead, you say, “Yeah, what a coincidence. I’ll be back to my regular schedule on Monday, though.”

“So that means you didn’t see the Justin Bieber wannabe stationed outside the restaurant then?” Jimin asks, voice miffed. “The guy suddenly sat down by the entrance window and a whole damn crowd started to appear! The absolute nerve of these people—don’t they know Park Jimin was just past the doors?” 

This provokes Jimin to go on his long epic soliloquy, which you’ve learned to drown out over the past two years. He could go on hour-long tirades if he wanted, and any interruption from you would just bounce off his nonfunctioning ears. And so, you allow his voice to fall to the back of your mind, similar to white noise if it wasn’t so grating.

However, this was likely your greatest mistake. If you hadn’t been so exhausted, or if Park Jimin hadn’t been so damn annoying all the time, or if the stars had aligned just right… Maybe you would have been forewarned about the incident. It’s as if the universe was screaming at you to pay attention, but alas… You were standing on the proverbial highway, unbeknownst to the incoming traffic because you had your metaphorical AirPods on.

So there you are, completely showered but none the wiser to your impending doom, naively looking to the future with unsuspecting eyes. Even if you had known of what was to come, would avoiding it even be possible? In hindsight, you suppose not, but you still kick yourself for being so blind. If only you’d steeled your heart, then maybe you wouldn’t have felt like vomiting in front of a crowd of innocent bystanders the very next day.

xxx

Monday comes and your shower still isn’t fixed. Jimin makes the benevolent gesture of allowing you to use his shower in the meantime, though you’ll only partake in his offer as minimally as possible. He does mention that he’ll need at least an hour’s notice, warning you about “accidental voyeurism.” You shudder to think of what sort of horror you might find if you did visit him without warning, and you pray for the continued well-being of your retinas.

On your way to work, you’re too busy watching cute videos of animals to notice the unusual flock of people idling close to your workplace. When you get closer, however, the growing commotion is enough to rip your gaze away from your phone, and the sight of the large crowd makes you stop in your tracks. 

It is 4 pm and the usual line of waiting patrons should not start piling up for another three hours, so this confuses you more than anything. You shuffle closer, squinting at the crowd until you notice that they aren’t lined up at all; instead, they have congregated into a large circle, but you are too far to see what they are surrounding. 

An accident? You worry, wondering if something terrible happened. You tiptoe above the heads of people, subtly moving forward to take a better look. Curse you and your curiosity. You take a deep breath, bracing yourself to see something grotesque or astonishing, but instead…

It’s worse.

Inching closer, you can begin to hear a soft thrumming of a guitar and a gentle singing voice that causes alarm bells to ring in your ears. The warm melody digs up old memories of a time long past: of ballads sung outside your childhood bedroom window, of promises whispered under Spiderman sheets, of tender caresses tucking stray hairs behind your ears… They flood your senses, but all you can feel is dread.

It can’t be who you think it is. You accidentally elbow a guy on your way to get closer, unsteadying his grip on his phone. 

“Hey, watch it! I’m filming a totally not-staged TikTok over here!” He yells, but you can hardly pay attention to him when you feel unnaturally drawn to come closer, still. 

You’re nearly at the front, with just a couple of teenagers standing between you and the (not-so) mysterious street performer. But the distance is enough, and your breath catches. You can see him—

Black hair partially hidden under a bucket hat. Boots bigger than Pangaea and a pair of eyes equally as large. Dark ink snaking down his arms, peeking out from under oversized sleeves. Piercings that could rival Park Jimin on a good day. He isn’t facing you, but you can still see his big doe eyes, gentle sloping nose, and pretty lips stretched into a handsome smile.

Your heart is thundering in your chest. This can’t be happening, you panic. After two whole years of rebuilding and reshaping yourself, relearning how to be yourself and not… not just his girlfriend.

Jeon Jungkook stands before you, busking in front of your workplace of all locations. The universe could not have been any crueler to you.

You—you had been known as nothing more than Jeon Jungkook’s high school sweetheart. Buried memories of snide comments from jealous teen girls fill your mind, reminding you of the time when you were coined a simple side piece to the main attraction. Decor, as they would call you. Nothing more than a girl who happened to snag Jungkook before people realized he was going to turn… hot. A hot guy who could sing. An inevitable chic magnet, as they would call him. 

And now, years later after much therapy and soul searching, your worst nightmare is standing in front of you in the flesh. This is what you will eventually dub the incident. 

At that moment, however, there is little to no time to dwell on naming this ongoing core memory. All you can feel is the adrenaline pumping through your veins, as well as the nausea rising up your throat. You stumble backward, blatantly shoving onlookers away as you struggle to find some air to breathe. In hindsight, you probably should have backed away as subtly as possible, but you hope that your dyed hair might be different enough that Jungkook wouldn’t know it was you if he had glanced your way. 

Even when you stagger towards your work establishment, the walls cannot perfectly muffle his soothing singing. You can’t make out the lyrics to his song too well, but his unmistakable voice is hard to ignore. Working as a hostess, your station is also coincidentally as close to the door as possible for maximum torture. 

This can’t get any worse, you think as your mind races with conflicting emotions. You thought you had moved on, thought you were past the pain and the memories, but seeing Jungkook again, unexpectedly, stirs up a storm of feelings you thought were buried deep. Anger, hurt, betrayal—all rush to the surface, threatening to overwhelm you.

But there is no time to unpack all that baggage right now. Time will continue to march on, and your job is still on the line. How can you have the time to have a mental breakdown when you were still living paycheck to paycheck?

But even as you try to push Jungkook out of your mind, his voice echoes in your ears, his image burned into your memory. It's as if the universe is laughing at your misery, reminding you that despite all your supposed growth, you are still just you. 

Painfully and pathetically you.

As you struggle to pull yourself together, a familiarly loud voice rings outside the edge of your consciousness. “Hey, Y/N! Fancy seeing you here…” Jimin greets you, his usual jovial demeanor halting midway when he sees your panicked expression. He clears his throat, perplexed. “Umm… Are you alright there, girl? You’re looking a little pale.”

You do not even have the mental capacity to wonder why Park Jimin was miraculously early to his shift, nor why he seems genuinely worried for you. Rather, all you can do is wave him off and use what little time you have before the restaurant opens to steel yourself for hours of melodious torture. 

“I’m fine, Park. You should get to work,” you grit out, wiping your sweaty palms on your uniform. Normally, Jimin would have teased you about the obvious wrinkles on your skirt. 

“You’re not the boss of me,” Jimin huffs, always the contrarian. He thinks better of it, however, and softens his tone. “Are you feeling sick or something? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

You freeze, perhaps giving yourself away a little. “I’m fine,” you repeat. 

“You know, if you refuse to elaborate, I’m going to have to retract your shower privileges,” Jimin taunts with a smirk. 

You feel a migraine growing by your temple, making you wince. God, why must men be the source of all your problems?

“I’m just… a little annoyed by the busker outside the restaurant,” you eventually admit, trying to be vague. Unfortunately for you, Jimin hates beating around the bush and would never take your crap if he knows something is up.

Unable to withstand the weight of his unimpressed stare, you clarify, “He was someone I used to know, that’s all.” You aren’t going to be any more specific than that, though you imagine Jimin gets the picture. You zip your lips, hoping to whoever is causing you pain that Jimin would somehow let the matter drop and leave you to your misery.

You brace yourself for his onslaught of questioning to come, and… it doesn’t happen. Instead, when you glance at Jimin, he is mysteriously stone faced. You wait for him to speak for what feels like a few minutes, but he doesn’t show any signs of wanting to tease or ridicule you. He simply watches you with a pensive expression. You can barely stop yourself from staring back at him, slack-jawed at his silence. 

Of course, you aren’t just going to question your luck, or what little you have at least. So, you stay silent back and fidget uncomfortably.

Finally, Jimin seems to snap out of his strange reverie. He fixes you with a bizarrely sympathetic grin, patting you affectionately on the back. “I see… Well, if you ever need a drink tonight, head over to the bar for a little sip. I got you covered,” is all he says in response before sashaying away. 

That was so fucking weird. You want to chase after him, perhaps beat the truth out of him. Jimin is nothing but a scheming dick, and you aren’t about to let him roam free with such sensitive information about yourself. Just as you’re about to stomp his ass (perhaps to relieve some of the building tension from your weary soul), your manager pops his head from his office door. 

“Y/N! Make sure you’re logged into the booking system. There’s going to be a party of 20 coming in about an hour,” he reminds you, shooting you an apologetic look. You nod back with a sigh, swiping the booking tablet from the hostess desk and scrolling through the logs. Sure enough, it is going to be a busy night despite being a Monday evening. Perhaps a little busier than usual, in fact.

Whatever. You will use whatever distraction you can get, and perhaps the approaching noise from the restaurant patrons will be enough to drown out the sound of his voice. 

You aren’t religious by any means, but you pray to whatever higher power exists that Jeon Jungkook doesn’t somehow decide to enter the restaurant. Stay outside, you plead. Outside the restaurant and your life, if possible.

Throughout the evening, you do your best to push aside the memories that threaten to resurface. You greet customers with a smile, lead them to their tables, and ensure their dining experience is pleasant despite the anxiety poisoning your insides. It's a routine you've perfected over time, a shield against the chaos of your emotions.

As the night wears on, you can feel Jimin's eyes on you from across the restaurant. You sneak glances back at him, and you blanch at his pitying gaze. If the restaurant had been slightly less crowded, you would have flipped him off. 

He’s probably enjoying my suffering, you think darkly. Unwilling to give him the satisfaction, you straighten up and do your best to appear more unaffected. Just as you do so, you can hear Jungkook perfectly hitting a soulful high note. 

“I’m so sorry for thinking I was strong,” you whisper to the universe. “Forgive me for my insolence.” You clench your fist in anguish, ignoring the confused looks from the customers in front of you. 

By the time your shift comes to a close, you are completely and utterly drained. You feel like a snail that has been continuously salted over the past eight hours, and you cannot help but cheer in relief when the clock finally strikes two in the morning. You have to wait for the last few diners to make their leave, but otherwise you are ready to let your bed swallow you whole. 

You stand by your hostess desk, leaning your head against it with a defeated sigh. Jungkook’s voice had died down only a few minutes ago, and you hope that by this point he has mercifully left the premises. You want to take a peek to make sure, but just as you’re about to make your way to the door, you feel a hand on your shoulder stop you in your tracks.

“‘Sup, bitch.” Jimin still has that weird, pitying gaze pointed at you, though his words don’t match it. “Are you okay to go home alone tonight? I can bring your dumb ass home if you want.”

You shove his hand away, ready to bite his head off when you think better of it. If Jimin drives you home, then that lowers the chances of seeing Jungkook down to pretty much zero. 

“You know what? Thanks,” you grouse. Jimin smiles at you winningly, and the image of it brings a shiver down your spine. You hit him, creeped out. “Hey. Stop that, will you? You’re being really weird?”

Jimin scoffs, crossing his arms. “Me? Weird? At least I don’t look like a damn firework ready to explode just because my cringelord ex-boyfriend is singing sappy love songs outside—”

“Shut the fuck up,” you seethe, stomping on his foot. He yelps in pain and slaps your shoulder in retaliation. 

“Ouch! Watch your ogre feet! My shoes are worth twice your monthly rent I’ll have you know,” he bristles. He breathes deeply, likely finding his inner calm (which you doubt exists). “But because I’m so nice, I’ll ignore your earlier transgression and blame it on your underdeveloped amygdala.”

You don’t know what’s more surprising: the fact that Jimin knew what an amygdala was or that he was forgiving you in the first place. “Whatever. Let’s finish closing up and then head out. I’m exhausted.”

You make quick work of your task and when you’re ready to head out, Jimin is already waiting by the backdoor. He’s twirling his car keys with a finger and gestures for you to follow him. As you make your way to his car in the back parking lot, you catch sight of a lone figure standing next to a beat-up pickup truck. He’s leaning against it, his hands busy tuning a battered guitar.

Your breath hitches, and you immediately feel nauseous. Of course the incident has yet to end. The night is young, after all.

Jimin accidentally slams the backdoor closed, and the noise wrenches Jungkook’s attention away from his ministrations. Immediately, his eyes lock with Jimin before finally turning to you. 

Your heart skips a beat as he gazes at you, your mind racing with a hurricane of emotions. You hadn’t expected to see him again so soon, especially not after the tumultuous encounter earlier in the day. What did you say earlier? That “the chances of seeing Jungkook was down to pretty much zero”? 

The chances of seeing Jungkook is low, but never zero, your mind unhelpfully supplies.

There is a long period of awkward silence. Jungkook has his mouth slightly agape, his hand subconsciously lowering his guitar to rest against his truck. To your left, Jimin’s breathing quickens slightly. You, on the other hand, are trying your best not to projectile vomit in this damned parking lot. 

Jungkook is the one who decides to break the delicate silence. “Is that you…?” he calls out hesitantly. 

Don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my—

“Y/N,” Jimin interjects. His gaze is steel cold, uncharacteristic of the carefree boy. He slings an arm around your shoulders, gently nudging you towards his car. With your view still fixed on Jungkook, you miss the way Jimin shoots the other boy with a playful smirk. “C’mon, babe. Let’s go home.”

His words startle both you and Jungkook. “Wha—? Jimin?” you splutter, flushing at his flirtatious undertone. You want to curse him out for his strange behavior, but all the shock has left you mute. 

Jimin all but shoves you into the passenger seat. But just as he’s about to slam the car door, you hear Jungkook call out your name. It’s fleeting and quiet, but you heard him crystal clear.

It breaks your spirit to hear him say your name. For a moment, you feel as though you are floating.

When was the last time he called your name? And so softly, too? If you could replay that moment over and over, would you be able to catch some signs of tenderness in his voice? When you close your eyes later that night, would your dreams show you that he had been gazing at you with yearning? Was any of it true?

As Jimin starts the car and pulls away from the curb, you steal one last glance out the window, only to find Jungkook staring at you with an arm outstretched. You continue to watch him until his figure disappears into the night. 

You are quietly immersed in your own thoughts, the whirlwind of emotions intensifying your persistent migraine. Unaccustomed to silence, Jimin decides to give his unsolicited two cents, as per usual.

“Geez. Didn’t know you were into the whole starving artist type. If I’d known, then maybe I’d stop trying to brag about my fortune to you,” Jimin scoffs. “If loser buskers like him impress you, then maybe I should—”

“Would you shut the fuck up for once in your fucking life!” You explode, whirling to face him with a glare. Jimin has the audacity to flinch, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the road. 

“What the fuck? Why the hell are you mad at me?” 

“What the hell was that back there? ‘C’mon babe.’” You mimic his voice with a sneer. “Why on earth would you do that? Now he thinks that we…”

“Why do you care what he thinks? He’s your ex, remember?” Jimin cuts you off, but you can’t even refute him. He continues, “Figured as much. And judging by how spooked you’ve looked all day, I have to assume that he was an asshole, right? Why else would you accept my offer for a ride home if you really wanted to avoid seeing him?”

You shrink under his accurate assumptions. Damn, were you really that easy to read? “I… I mean, yeah but…” You clear your throat, still feeling wronged by him. “You didn’t have to act like a weird prick in front of him!”

Without warning, the floodgates burst forth. You begin to ramble, the thoughts that have been weighing you down pouring out of you in waves. “Jungkook was my ex, yeah. But he wasn’t an asshole. On the contrary, he was really sweet. The nicest guy in my school, at least. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, that sort of person. I dated him all throughout high school and he was a great partner.”

Jimin hums skeptically. “Then why the messy break-up?”

“It wasn’t messy!” You retort defensively. 

“Could’ve fooled me!” Jimin snorts. “I also frequently act like a trembling kitten when I see my exes,” he says sarcastically. 

You ignore him. “The reason we broke it off was because he wanted to pursue his dreams to become a singer after high school and I wanted to do other things. It was a mutual break-up! Honestly, I’m glad that we did. Too many girls wanted him and all the unwanted attention was getting on my nerves. I was glad to find a reason to end it all,” you explain, hoping you didn’t sound as shaky as you felt. What you said was mostly true, though you left out the important bits to yourself. Mostly to save some of your dignity intact. (Truthfully, you just didn’t want to admit things you weren’t ready to face.)

“Then if you’re so glad, why do you look like you wanted to shit yourself? It ain’t adding up,” Jimin fires back.

“It’s just—” you stammer, trying to find a reason why you were so bent out of shape after seeing him. “I-I was caught off guard, I guess. I knew he was pursuing his dreams to sing and all, so I expected him to leave the country. I wasn’t expecting to see him outside where I work, of all places,” you mutter lamely. You have your head bowed, biting your lips from the nerves. Again, you weren’t totally lying. 

Jimin is silent for a moment, contemplating your admission. When he looks so calm like this, it’s hard to get a read on what he’s thinking. As Jimin speeds down the highway, the street lights illuminate his face in a strange way, and for once, he looks like a stranger. His steely expression makes you nervous, for some reason. 

Eventually, he asks you a question you would never have expected. “And he just let you go?”

You pause. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Jimin huffs, irritated. “He just up and left without a fight? If I were him, I would have…” he trails off, his jaw clenching. 

You don’t know where this Jimin came from. Under the moonlight, Jimin looks livid, but that can’t be right. Jimin, mad for you? Sure, you’ve seen his anger directed towards you, but this? Everything’s gotten so complicated, and you are just about ready to succumb to sleep and hope to wake from this nightmare.

The rest of the drive to your house is silent, save for the sounds coming from passing cars. Jimin pulls up to your apartment complex, his mysterious anger finally subsiding. 

Just as you’re about to reach for the car door handle, Jimin places a hand on your shoulder. “Listen, Y/N. I’ll talk to management tomorrow morning. I know the manager well enough that I can probably convince him to do something about that ex of yours. He’s busking on private property, so it should be easy to get rid of him,” Jimin says, tone serious. He swallows, and for a moment you think he looks a little nervous. “If that’s what you want, I guess.”

His kindness scares you. You want to tease him, ask him where Mr. Bitchy and his $2000 Chelsea boots had gone. Anything to make this air of severe sincerity to abate. This new Jimin feels suffocating. But instead, you nod your head stiffly. 

Jimin makes a pained expression for a moment, but it’s quickly replaced by his usual playful smirk. He slaps you upside the head, laughing heartily at your stunned face. 

“Get some rest, babe. I’ll see you tomorrow evening,” he chuckles, reaching over to open the door for you. You scramble out into the cold city air, taking one last look back at him through his window.

He rolls it down, leaning forward to flash a toothy grin at you. “Hey, stop with all the angst, pookie. Wouldn’t want my favorite toy to get sick from overthinking. Who else would I bother at work if not you?”

You snort, both endeared and irritated in equal measure. He’s right. Everything was going back to normal tomorrow, you’re sure of it. You flip him off with a cheeky grin before making your way to your apartment.

Everything is going to be okay. Jimin says he’ll do something about it, and for whatever reason, you feel like you can trust him on this. Surely good fortune was soon to be upon you. 

xxx

Jimin had texted you while you were still sleeping:

Spoke to Manager Jeong about your little problem. He said he’ll deal with him.

You breathe a sigh of relief, your body feeling significantly lighter. Your sleep last night had been tumultuous and restless. You feel more tired than you did when you went to bed, but all your weariness fades once you read Jimin’s text. 

Once you make it to work, you find that management has gotten rid of Jungkook somehow. Added with the fact that your landlord has promised to look into repairing your shower (no guarantees, but you want to stay optimistic), today has been significantly better compared to yesterday. You even catch yourself humming as you set up your workstation, a small smile gracing your lips.

Jimin has a later shift this evening, and you find that you are somewhat disappointed for once. Your overwhelming gratitude is surely the only reason, otherwise you would never admit to wanting to see him at any given time. 

You are in the midst of texting Jimin about all the good news when your manager passes by your desk. You are quick to pocket your phone away from his prying eyes, ready to defend that you aren’t slacking off… but his demeanor does not reveal any ire. In fact, he looks rather pleased for once.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Jeong. What’s up?” you ask, suspicious. You instinctively fold your hands behind your back; it is a subconscious effort on your part to keep your distance from him. Something about your manager always gives you a bad feeling when he looks a little too happy. 

He grins widely. “Everything is going splendidly, Ms. Y/N. In fact, I think today might just be our lucky day!”

Never during your time working here has his and your luck ever coincided. “Our lucky day?” you echo.

“Why, yes! I spoke with your lovely friend and coworker Jimin this morning,” he starts, and immediately your alarm bells ring. You don’t even bother correcting him about the ‘friend’ part like you normally would. He continues, “He gave me a brilliant idea about the busker who had been performing in front of the restaurant the past two days.”

You nod slowly, not quite understanding. “Yes… The busker has been quite… the spectacle,” you say carefully. Somehow, you know calling Jungkook a ‘nuisance’ would have been the wrong choice in this instance.

Manager Jeong beams. “Exactly! You must have noticed the amount of people we served yesterday despite being a Monday. Additionally, almost all of those new customers requested outdoor seating no less!”

You feel the world tilt on its axis. What is he on abou—?

“What are you talking about?” you exhale.

“Don’t you think it would be even better for business if we got that busker to perform inside the restaurant? Why, it’s a brilliant idea and I don’t know why I didn’t think of it first! Our live band has always been missing something special, and perhaps a vocal accompaniment is the exact answer to our problem! Think about it, the atmosphere would be…”

Manager Jeong continues to prattle animatedly about his plans to your unhearing ears. There must be static or cotton plugging your head because you cannot possibly understand anything he is saying. Jungkook? Inside? Performing at your restaurant? But Jimin said he had spoken to the manager about getting Jungkook away from you! None of this makes sense. 

“That makes no sense,” you verbalize, unknowingly cutting Manager Jeong from his monologue. He halts in surprise, as if now just realizing you were standing there (much less capable of interrupting or disagreeing with him). When he snaps out of it, you sense that familiarly sinister aura emerging from him in waves. You belatedly realize he must have mistaken your outburst as antagonistic.

“Well, Ms. Y/N. Whether it makes sense or not, we have hired Mr. Jeon to perform live at the bar stage for the next four weeknights. If, for some unknowable reason, I am incorrect,” he pauses to emphasize his words, “then his services will be promptly terminated. However, judging by his popularity from simply standing out in the cold and singing silly love songs, I am sure that worry is unwarranted.”

Behind you, the telltale sound of the main door swinging open catches you even more off guard. You do not even have the chance to turn to face the newcomer, only managing to register the gust of cold wind that accompanies their entry.

And so, you hear him before you see him. 

“Hello?” Jeon Jungkook greets quietly.

Even without turning, you can imagine how he looks, how he stands, how he feels, how he tastes—

Manager Jeong claps his hands gleefully. “Splendid timing! Speak of the devil…” The older man nearly skips towards Jungkook like a youthful school girl, accompanied by his uncharacteristic squeals of excitement. 

You can feel his gaze on you, almost tangibly. With nothing but your shreds of dignity left intact, you force yourself to face him. 

He’s still so tall, is all your mind can helpfully supply as you stand feet away from your high school sweetheart for the first time in two years. He’s still wearing the same bucket hat from the night before, semi-shielding him from view. Despite that, you catch a small flash of white graze his bottom lip as he chews the soft flesh nervously.

“Hi, Y/N.” He addresses you directly, completely overlooking your manager without a single glance. Despite his hat, he still has his eyes lasered on you, as if not quite believing you were there. You hate how his attention makes you shiver all the same. 

Even though he ignored your manager (which would have been a major dispute had you done the same), Jungkook still receives a friendly handshake in return. “Mr. Jeon! I’m surprised you know Ms. Y/N, though I’m sure you must have spoken with her when she was escorting guests to the outdoor seating the other day.”

You had actually gotten your co-hostess to seat all the outdoor seatings yesterday, but you weren’t going to mention that.

Manager Jeong claps him on the back, inadvertently causing Jungkook to stumble forward closer to you. He looks up at you then, eyes bugging out of their sockets like a rabbit caught in a bear trap. You stagger backwards in turn, barely concealing the anxiety on your face. Oh fucking hell.

Your manager is none the wiser, of course. “Well, this makes my job much easier! Since you’re both acquainted, I’ll let Y/N show you the ropes. The band doesn’t start their set until later in the evening, but you’re free to take a look at the stage and other parts of our facility in the meantime,” he says, chuffed. Meanwhile, Jungkook looks like he’s been shot by a freeze ray. 

Then, your manager points a sharper gaze at you. “Ms. Y/N, treat our super star well. I know you won’t disappoint me.”

Fucking superstar… You can only nod in defeat. “Y-Yes, sir…” you whisper, clenching your uniform with your fists. It is the only way to keep them from shaking like a leaf. You watch as his figure disappears behind his office door, leaving you to fend for yourself. Powerless, you train your gaze to the floor, unwilling to meet Jungkook’s eyes. 

But the nerves are taking control of your body, screaming at you to eject, eject, eject!

“Sorry, I have to go to the toilet,” you splutter quickly, almost tripping over yourself on the way to the restroom. You dimly wonder if Jungkook is going to think you’re leaving to throw up, but you can’t find any self-respect left to care. All you need is air and space to breathe—preferably away from him. 

You slam open the stall, hardly checking to see if anyone else is around before locking the door shut. You sit on the toilet, plant your face between your knees, and scream. 

Should you go home and use sickness as an excuse? But even if you did, you still had shifts every weeknight. You would have to see him eventually. You can pray all you want that Jungkook will be fired by the end of the week, but even your delusional mind can never fathom the idea that anyone would willingly want to send Jeon Jungkook away. Plus, you remember that the regular band that plays at the restaurant has been wanting to get a singer to accompany them for ages, and you know just how damn affable he can be. They are going to love him, and you hate him for that.

It is clear to you that there is no other option:

You pull out your phone to quickly open up Indeed on your browser, frantically hunting for any openings that might fit your measly qualifications. However, you have to pause in your search to deliberate. Wouldn’t it be better to move out of the country? You had been so naive to think that moving cities was enough distance between you and Jungkook—going across the ocean is the obvious answer. Should you start up your Duolingo lessons again and hope that you can somehow survive in a different continent with only a few dollars to your name? 

You shut your phone in despair. Whether or not your plans of escape are feasible or not, in the short term, you are stuck with having to suck it up and just learn to ignore your ex-boyfriend’s presence. Surely you can force out a fake smile or two, especially with how much practice you’ve gotten after working with unbearably entitled customers. 

Taking a step outside of the restroom stall, you head to the sink to splash some cold on your face. You stare at the mirror, confronted by a girl who looks two seconds away from having a Netflix Original-esque meltdown. You rake your fingers through your hair, doing your best to look like you aren’t about to rush into incoming traffic. To no one's surprise, it doesn't work.

“Okay, I got this. Just pretend like he’s just some guy, because at the end of the day, he is just some guy,” you mutter to your reflection. She looks back at you unconvinced. “He may have broken my heart into little bite size pieces, but who cares! HE’S JUST A GUY!” You repeat the phrase over and over again like a lunatic, in a desperate attempt to cognitively alter your brain chemistry.

At that moment, one of the other stalls in the restroom creaks open, and a girl you recognize who works as one of the dishwashers walks out. You both have a silent eye conversation as she quietly studies your crazed expression and crumpled work uniform. 

Eventually, she awkwardly clears her throat, pointing to the only sink in the restroom. “Uh, sorry to hear about your, uh, guy problem. Could I use the sink please?” 

You hastily back away, allowing her to take your spot. You don’t even have the energy to apologize for your spectacle, just bowing sheepishly to her before making your way back to the main hall. If she rats you out to the rest of your coworkers, then that gives you another reason to move out of the country. Maybe you should consider a name change while you’re at it.

When you exit the restroom, you half expect Jungkook to be waiting for you by the door, but find that he isn’t anywhere nearby. He isn’t by your hostess station either, and you thank your lucky stars for once. Even if your manager had asked you to show him around, you’re sure that Jungkook can find his way around just fine. Plus, the stage is at the corner of the restaurant and is sufficiently far enough that you wouldn’t have to make eye contact with him if you were careful. 

You don’t know which greater entity has been messing with your sanity these past few days, but you hope that they can show you mercy just once—a brief reprieve, if anything. 

You clasp your hands in prayer. I’ll eat more vegetables, I’ll remember to floss, I’ll call my parents from time to time… Just please let me survive tonight. 

“Remember, Y/N… He’s just some guy,” you reiterate through gritted teeth. If a passing coworker happens to overhear your demented chanting, then you pay them no mind.

You walk towards the entrance, flipping the sign to open. You feel like a video game character when you glance at the clock, which signals the start of your shift. You can imagine the red bold text hovering above your head: 8 more hours until freedom. 

This is just like playing Five Nights at Freddy’s, except you’ve only watched the movie and you suspect your life is probably worse than whatever Josh Hutcherson had to survive through. 

You take a couple heaving breaths to brace yourself for what will be the longest eight hours of your life. You’ll show Jungkook just how well-adjusted and mature you’ve become. You are a professional, and not even a boy with angelic vocals will make you crumble. After all, what’s the worst he can do? 

xxx

He could, in fact, do a lot worse than you thought. 

“I have many regrets being born at all,” you mutter bleakly, three hours into your shift. 

Jungkook had started singing only an hour ago, so you had been filled with false confidence at first when the restaurant was filled with nothing but ambient chatter and soothing jazz music. You felt more and more confident as the minutes ticked by and your anxiety slowly melted away. You even forgot that he was somewhere in the back, likely warming up or whatever it is that singers did before a performance. 

However, your brief moment of courage shatters almost immediately when Jungkook finally takes the stage. 

At first, you did your best to tune out his voice, but it’s especially hard when whoever was in charge of the sound system decided to crank his volume to an excruciating level. You wanted desperately to grab some napkins and shove them in your ears, but you suspected that your customers (and manager) would be unappreciative of that gesture. And so there you lay, forced to wallow in Jungkook’s melodious singing like a criminal strapped to an electric chair.

But how much more pleasant an electric chair would be! Why on earth was Jungkook so adamant to sing sad love songs the entire time? Why couldn’t he be like his other singing contemporaries, who loved to write songs about getting bitches and making money? At the very least, even if he wasn’t quite a platinum selling artist just yet, surely he was constantly sharing beds with anyone he pleases? Couldn’t he sing about that?!

(In the back of your mind, you wonder if it would be less painful to learn that Jungkook has slept with multiple people… Because then, it would mean that he had moved on while you stood alone on your island, stranded and yearning.)

You didn’t want to think too deeply about his lyrics. However, you're only human. So when your mind barrier failed and you caught snippets of his singing, you noticed a pattern. There was always a girl in his songs. She was omnipresent, and Jungkook was always pleading for her. Begging and aching and wanting. But most all… he was always repenting. In every song, he always whispered a pious apology. 

You feared what would happen if you turned around in those moments of weakness. You were terrified of admitting something, of letting words spill that had been trapped in your throat for the better part of two years. 

Lucky for you, salvation comes in the form of one Park Jimin. Though, can you even count him as your savior when he had also inadvertently caused your demise?

Jimin doesn’t even have a shift today, so you’re more than surprised when his bright blonde head stumbles through the restaurant doors. His expensive coat is askew and his signature designer shades are nowhere to be found. He is panic incarnate—an expression you have never seen on his face before.

“Holy fuck,” he greets, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath. His profanity startles the elderly couple waiting to be seated, their glares menacingly sharp. To his credit, Jimin doesn’t even seem phased.

In lieu of an answer, you gesture vaguely behind you. You can imagine how dejected you must look. “Holy fuck indeed,” you sigh.

It takes a moment for Jimin to regain his bearings. He straightens up and pats down his coat, but his hair is still tousled by the wind. If not for the fact that he has a car, you might have thought he had run all the way here. 

“I am so sorry. I didn’t know this was going to happen,” he starts, genuinely remorseful. “I texted Manager Jeong this morning and he said he’d get your ex to leave, but I didn’t think he’d offer the damn bastard a job!”

“Mind your language, Park. I’m still at work,” you scold. You try your best to ignore the scrutinizing gaze of the elderly couple. You lower your voice. “And don’t apologize. I know you’re an asshole, but I doubt you’d actually prey on my downfall like this. I know you’re not into public humiliation.”

Jimin brightens slightly at your joke, but he still looks like a guilty puppy who'd been caught shitting on the carpet. “Yeah, well. I happen to enjoy tormenting you and I won’t let some upstart Charlie Puth wannabe ruin your life. That’s my job.”

You smile wryly at him. “Well, that’s too bad. Jungkook’s been singing for a few hours now and I’m pretty sure Manager Jeong is going to keep him long-term. He might have broken my heart, but damn does he have vocals. I'm sure you'll have plenty competition when it comes to 'who can make Y/N's life feel like hell.'”

Jimin doesn't smile back, but instead studies your face for a moment. Then:

“Do you think if I offer to suck Manager Jeong off, he’ll fire him?”

“What the fuck?” You nearly yell out in surprise, your jaw dropping to the floor. Judging by his serious scowl, you know he's actually considering it. By now, the elderly couple waiting to be seated have left the premises.

Jimin continues, unperturbed. “I know he secretly wants me, based on how his wife seems to have a personal vendetta against me. He definitely wants a taste of my bus—.”

“Stop, I get it!” You wave your hands to make him shut up, heat rising up your cheeks. “Never say that string of words to me ever again. You have just inflicted ten years of suffering onto my poor brain.”

“Hey, I’m just offering solutions here!” Jimin pouts. 

You stare at him, unimpressed. “Save it. You tried solving my problems already, so let’s just accept the fact that there’s nothing else for me to do but to suck it up. It’s time for me to put on my big girl pants for a change.”

“I mean, I could do all the sucking instead, but you’re being a little bitch about it,” Jimin mumbles. He’s lucky you didn’t hear him this time, lest you give him something to really whine about.

“Anyway, I guess this is my life now. Nothing to do except hope that he never tries to interact with me or I can find another job,” you shrug. 

Over your shoulder, Jimin fixes Jungkook with an icy glare that is cold enough to give you the shivers. For the first time that entire night, you hazard a glance back at the stage, finding that Jungkook is already looking back at you.

You whip your head back forward, perspiration forming down your back. For fuck’s sake, this guy.

“Well, let me know if he tries anything. I’ll beat that little freak into the floor if he tries so much as breathing the same air as you.” Jimin huffs, puffing up his chest with false bravado. You can’t help but laugh at his empty threat, knowing that Jungkook could probably bench press Jimin without breaking a sweat. Jimin's muscles are only for aesthetics, after all.

“Don’t worry, he hasn’t actually spoken to me actually. He can keep singing his sad little love songs, I really don’t mind,” you say, like a liar. Jimin snorts, wholly unconvinced.

“Well, if you need me, I’m heading to the bar to grab a drink so I can stare at your ex uncomfortably until he leaves. See you!” Jimin bids you farewell with a cheery grin as he skips a little too happily inside the restaurant.

Why'd you have to befriend the largest lunatic in the city? You massage your forehead with a groan, willing away your growing headache. 

The rest of the night trickles away like molasses. Jungkook continues to sing his heart out, save for an hour intermission where he presumably takes a short break. In his absence, you hear Jimin guffaw loudly, his laughter too sharp to be considered happy. You faintly hear Jungkook shy stutters in response, and you momentarily consider running in to interrupt.

Why? Did you want to save Jungkook from Jimin’s unnecessary harassment? It’s not like Jimin is doing it out nowhere, he was just trying to be… a good friend?

You pause to ponder. As much as you hate to admit it, you know why you want to help Jungkook. But Jimin on the other hand? Why did he want to help you? Questions begin flowing through your head like a whirlwind, and your nausea increases. God, when was your next therapy appointment again?

You save those questions for another day. As you look at your watch, there are only thirty minutes left until two in the morning. You tap your foot impatiently, smiling curtly at departing customers as the restaurant slowly emptied. As they left, you overhear some of your regulars giggling amongst themselves, whispering about the cute new singer and his charming demeanor. 

The last nail on your coffin has been hammered. Yeah, Jungkook isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. 

With the restaurant closing soon, it sounds like Jungkook is ready to end his set as well. 

Throughout the night, Jungkook rarely made a point to speak. The only time he didn’t sing was when he quietly introduced the title of his next song and the band swiftly began the first opening notes. For his last song, however, Jungkook decided to give a little more backstory for his final song. 

“Hello, everyone. Thank you so much for listening to me for the night,” Jungkook says with a soft voice, his tone awfully shy despite his powerful belting throughout the evening. The few customers left give him a warm round of applause, and you hear the familiar sound of his timid giggles spill from the restaurant speakers. 

“This will be my final song for the night. Most of the songs I sang today were covers, but this one is an original. I…” He hesitates for a moment, and something pulls you to turn despite the alarm bells ringing in your ears. You face him, and just like earlier in the evening, he is already looking back at you.

This time, you don’t look away; he does. His eyes flit to the ceiling, and he licks his lips from nerves. “I… I wrote this song a long while ago. I’ve never sang it in public before and I never thought it would ever see the light of day. Until, well…”

He stops again. This time, he gestures to the guitarist in the band, silently asking to borrow it. With a guitar in hand, he smiles a little more confidently at the small crowd of people. He begins strumming the first few notes, and your heart stops. “I hope everyone had a pleasant evening. Get home safe and have a great rest of your week. My name is Jungkook, and this last song is called…”

Before he can sing the first line of his song, you make a break for it.

You slam the restaurant doors open, and the stinging cold air immediately pierces their fangs into your skin. Your coat is still inside, but you can’t bring yourself to reenter. You take a long breath, the chill barely registering in your mind with how loudly your heart is pounding in your ears.

Hearing the opening to that song was enough to bring you back in time, three years ago:

You are in his childhood bedroom, his walls littered with concert posters and his floor a mess with unfolded laundry and guitar picks. The afternoon sun is streaming through his windows, bathing him in gold. You have an exam the next day and he has cram school to go to, but you’ve both chucked your books somewhere on his desk, left forgotten. 

He has his eyes closed, concentrated. You’re both on his small twin bed, squished together side by side and thighs touching. You have your head on his shoulder and he has his hands on his guitar. He strums a few chords experimentally and sings a melody that only the two of you know.

(Not anymore.)

“Are you writing a new song?” you ask, voice a little scratchy. Neither of you had spoken for the past few hours, just basking in the setting sun and Jungkook’s indistinct strumming. But now, his chords sound more sure, more certain of something.

“Yeah, I just thought of it,” he hums. He opens his eyes a smidge, a smitten smile on his lips. You mirror him. 

“What’s it about this time?”

His brows furrow. “I’ve been trying to write about other stuff, you know? Namjoon-hyung tells me it’s important that songs have meaning and impact.” He pauses in his strumming, looking a little conflicted. “And I get what he means. Art is all about saying something, but… I can’t help that there’s only one thing I ever want to talk about. Is that so wrong?”

You chuckle, understanding what he means. You nudge your head against his cheek, grinning from ear to ear. The fluttering in your chest has become routine to you at this point, but he somehow always knows how to increase it tenfold. “God, you’re such a sweet talker. Really, Koo. There’s no need to serenade with love songs—I’m already yours.”

He looks back at you, brimming with tender affection. “I know,” he responds. Then, he takes a pen from his bedside table, and begins writing.

During those years of dating him, you always thought that If he was a waterfall, then you were a teaspoon. You desperately tried to be enough for him, but you’re barely able to fathom the depth of his devotion. Everything about him was excessive, and you could seldom understand how he managed to contain himself. He was born to share himself, to tear bits of his soul so that the world may understand him, love him. His songs were a testament that he was trying to do that, and you always felt so lucky to be able to receive him, wholly and fully.

How cruel was it that Jungkook uses that same song to rip open the barely healed scab on your heart, leaving you bare and stinging and raw all over again.

You have no idea how long you've stood there in the cold. It must have been barely a few minutes when Jimin finds his way to you. He wordlessly shrugs his coat off and places it on your shoulders, but you make no move to acknowledge him. 

You hope your silence is enough for Jimin to infer that you are not in a conversational mood, but he’s nothing if not impatient. He forcibly pulls you to face him, his hands warm even through your clothing.

“Hey, you good? Did something happen?” He asks with barely concealed irritation, but it’s not directed at you. Still, you flinch at his scathing tone, shrinking in on yourself. In your daze, you vaguely notice his resemblance to an angry baby chick. 

“It’s nothing. Go back inside, I’ll be right there,” you mumble lamely, weakly pushing him back towards the restaurant. Jimin does not budge, instead leveling you with a hard stare. This time, you’re sure his irritation is for you.

“You idiot, you literally ran out like someone was out to get you. Of course it’s not nothing,” he grouses. 

You sigh tiredly, shaking your head at him. “We can talk later. It’s almost closing time and I just want to go home and sleep.”

Before Jimin can argue further, the door to the restaurant opens once more, but it isn’t a leaving customer. 

“What the fuck? What are you doing out here?” Jimin all but shouts at Jungkook. He holds up an accusatory finger at him and uses his other hand to nudge you behind him as if to shield you. 

Jungkook winces, instinctively stepping back. Despite being a few inches taller than Jimin, Jungkook’s timidness makes him look smaller. “I… I was just worried about her—”

“Don’t you have a song to finish in there? Talk about professional,” Jimin spits out. Jimin maneuvers you so that Jungkook can’t see you, but you manage to catch sight of how his gaze follows you unfailingly.

“I finished up my set. It’s closing time.” Jungkook responds coolly. He’s still a little quiet, but you can sense some of his natural composure rising to the surface. When he needs to be, Jungkook has been known to stand his ground—usually when it comes to matters involving you.

At this time of the night and after hours of mental torture, the last thing you need is to watch your two worst nightmares duke it out in front of your work establishment. You are beyond exhausted, and you hardly have the fortitude to withstand another minute of their voices ringing in your ears. 

Your eyes well up with tears of frustration, causing the two boys to freeze up in panic. You don’t give them the chance to fuss over you; instead, you haphazardly wipe your cheeks before roughly pushing them back towards the restaurant. 

“Get back to work, you idiots.” Your voice sounds warbled even to your own ears, but you push past your overwhelming emotions in favor of getting back inside to close up. Hell, you might even call in sick tomorrow, just so you can cry pathetically into your bowl of cereal in solitude.

“I’m not even on the clock today!” Jimin complains faintly, but you only push him harder. 

When you all reenter, you walk back to your desk and pointedly ignore the two of them until they awkwardly float away from your orbit. Despite the distance they give you, their gazes are still fixed plainly on you and they feel like knives digging into your back. 

Eventually, all the final customers of the day take their leave, and your remaining coworkers start dimming the lights and bidding their goodbyes. From the corner of your eye, you see Jungkook bowing respectfully to the band, who were giving him friendly pats on the back for a job well done. Jimin walks toward you, his car keys dangling from his left pinky. 

“No thanks. I’ll take the bus home today,” you declare before he can offer a ride. Jimin opens his mouth like a goldfish, flapping his lips dumbly as he stares at you in shock. You have no idea why he’s so surprised, given how you’ve been making it obvious that you need some space.

He looks like he wants to argue again, but thinks better of it. A singular moment of restraint from Park Jimin, which is an act you once thought impossible. Maybe he does care about you more than you thought. 

He stiffly nods at you, shoving his hands and keys into his pockets. He still has a frown on his face when he tells you to text him when you get home. You flip him off with a shaky smirk in response, a feeble attempt to bring some levity back to your now tense relationship. It works a little, and Jimin brightens up significantly. How simple-minded of him.

With a flippant wave, you leave work and head towards your bus stop. At this hour of the night, the streets are mostly dim, save for some street lamps and bars that stay open longer than your restaurant. There are always some people milling about, enough that you never feel too on edge about how late it is. Still, your bus stop is often empty, leaving you to mull over your thoughts in peace.

You are in the midst of jamming your earbuds into your ear when a presence makes itself known beside you.

Is it possible to go through the five stages of grief in under a second? You suppose not, but it’s hard to tell what sort of emotions swim through you when you come face to face with Jeon Jungkook again.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you mutter under your breath. You pause the song playing on your phone to glare at him with as much venom as you can muster. 

Jungkook holds up his hands in surrender, doe eyes wide like prey. “I-I’m heading home too! I’m not following you, I swear!”

You groan internally. Figures that you and Jungkook take the same bus home. But hold on— “Don’t you have a car? I remember you were parked near the restaurant the other night,” you note, squinting at him.

Jungkook looks sheepish as he rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, yeah. That car was my hyung’s. He lets me borrow it sometimes, but he needed it tonight.”

“Sure…” You level him with a skeptical frown. You remember his hyung, but don’t recall him ever owning a car. You aren’t even sure that his Namjoon-hyung is allowed by the country to drive a car, much less own one. 

He could be lying, but you don’t want to give him an excuse to continue any conversation. So, you busy yourself with your phone and keep your head bowed away from him.

When the bus arrives, Jungkook makes it a point to sit a few rows behind you. Thankfully, he has a better understanding of social cues than a certain Park that you know. He leaves you alone, but your entire body still feels like a rope pulled taut. You have to convince yourself not to look behind you, your morbid curiosity scratching your insides raw.

You are in the home stretch now, and it’ll only be a few more minutes before you get to your stop and make your way to your safe haven. Hell resumes the next day and the next, but at the very least you’ll have your home to yourself. No one could take that away from you.

Again, this is where you learn that tempting fate is never a good idea.

When you exit the bus at your stop, you can hear his footsteps following you. It’s hard not to notice, especially when his large and distracting boots make such a distinct racket that makes him so Jungkook. 

You hasten your pace towards your apartment complex, your shoulders hunched and hands shoved into your coat pockets in an attempt to hinder the bile rising from your stomach. He had promised that he wasn’t following you, but that proclamation seems to be standing on feeble legs with how long he’s been on your tail now.

Your street is filled with rows of low-rise apartment buildings, so you hope that if anything happens, you can yell as loud as you can and alert some compassionate neighbor to come to your aid. (Not that you think he would ever physically harm you, but… You can’t say the same about your mental state.)

Your home is just two buildings away from where you are, but Jungkook still seems determined to follow you to the end. You all but skip the remaining feet to your apartment entrance, your breath coming out in puffs as you finally muster up the courage to face your supposed stalker and give him a piece of your mind. 

“If this is some convoluted way for you to find out where I live, then you aren’t being very subtle about it,” you say, your chin held up high despite the growing urge to vomit pathetically in front of your ex-boyfriend. You have your hand rested on the doorknob, just a moment’s notice away from bolting into your house if the need for a quick getaway arises.

To your surprise, Jungkook wasn’t following you as closely as you expected. He had stopped trailing you about two buildings down, his own hand poised on the door with a look of genuine shock.

You both stand there, staring at each other as mutual understanding dawns on the two of you. 

Everyday, the universe learns of more creative ways to be cruel.

“Oh…” Jungkook’s voice falters. He looks simultaneously frightened and amazed, as if he too finds this entire situation unbelievably harsh. He swallows thickly, looking at you and back to his door in quick succession. “Well… This is a strange coincidence,” he murmurs. 

You want to believe that this was his entire fault, that Jungkook had somehow managed to track you down to haunt you for the rest of your days. You want to believe that he’s a crazed stalker who is willing to find where you work and live so that every hour of your wretched life is filled with nothing but reminders of what-could-have-beens. You just want someone to blame instead of just the cosmos—you want someone tangible to hate so that your suffering can be given some sort of identity. You want to give your mourning and hurt a name so that you can learn how to heal.

You want to believe all of that, but it’s hard to do so when Jungkook looks so incredibly uncomfortable, as if he’d rather melt into the shadows and never be seen again. 

In all your memories, you have never seen Jungkook look so small.

You heave a big sigh, your fingers grasping the door knob so tightly that you half-expect it to be dented from the force. You linger for a moment, your mouth opening but nothing spills out. 

What is there to say? What do you say to an ex-boyfriend that you haven’t seen in two years, who is suddenly so deeply entwined in your life once more? Do you tell him goodnight? Tell him to stay away? Tell him to come home with you?

Jungkook looks equally as conflicted. His lips are pursed tight with words left unsaid. You aren’t sure whether you want to punch the confession out of his mouth or seal them up forever. It feels like eons before he finally breaks the silence with a mirthless laugh.

“I… I just wanted to say—back at the restaurant. When I sang that last song,” Jungkook begins, and his voice feels loud because of how empty the streets are. For a moment, you are reminded of a cathedral you once visited during a vacation, how sacred silence can be. The world holds its breath, waiting for him to speak.

“I meant it all. Every word. Every lyric. I never stopped…”

He trails off, shrugging his shoulders. He stares at you helplessly, but you don’t know what to say. You don’t want to listen any more, but your feet are planted to the ground. You’re frozen like a deer in headlights, forced to brace against him as he crashes into you. 

He continues, “And when we broke up back then… I never wanted that to happen. You broke it off before we could even try something—and I hated how I didn’t fight for you harder. I let you misunderstand me because I was afraid you wouldn’t want to stick around if I didn’t succeed. I convinced myself that I was holding you down, but I never gave you—us—a chance. I never stopped regretting it since.”

“Me? Break up with you?” You echo incredulously. That statement is enough to break you from your trance, the telltale signs of indignation rising up your chest. “How dare you suggest—Me? You were the one who broke up with me, asshole! You were the one who broke my heart and decided to up and leave to god knows where! Only to miraculously respawn right next to me, groveling at my feet with sad love songs as if that’s enough for me to forgive and forget? Fucking entitled bastard,” you seethe.

Somehow, Jungkook manages to shrink more, like a bunny with his tail tucked between his legs. “Yes, you’re right that I broke your heart but… When I told you I was moving away to try and become a singer, it was always with the intention of staying together. I know it would have been difficult, but I wanted you to be with me through thick and thin. But when you misunderstood and took it as a break up, I let you go because, well… I was scared that it would happen eventually. Who wants to date a broke busking fool anyway?”

He laughs, but it sounds watery. He sniffles, and you hope it's only because of the cold. “I tried looking for you, but you blocked me everywhere and no one from back home seemed to know where you went. So I just accepted that we’d never see each other again… Until a few days ago, that is.”

A misunderstanding? Is that what everything boils down to? Years of trying to build yourself back up again, relearning what it means to be happy—all the fallen domino pieces in your life trailing back to a single moment in time? All because Jungkook was scared that you didn't love him enough?

You’ve never felt angrier in your life. You fear what you might say if you continue to stand outside there, face to face with the singular person strong enough to whittle you down to the bone. Jeon Jungkook is all soft smiles and sweet songs, but how come he’s always able to knock you off your axis? Few people on this earth can stitch you up and break you down in equal measure, but somehow, Jungkook manages to do all that and more.

Then, comes the guilt. Had it been all your fault? That you hadn't returned his love in equal measure? Had you secretly given up on the hope of being on his level? Always looking down on yourself: unable to move past your insecurities. Were you terrified of being his side piece, his girlfriend, forever?

Who are you, even? And where do you stand?

(Beside him, is what you want to answer. You don't know if that's the right choice.)

You can’t bear to look at him, least of all answer him. Without another word, you shove your house key into the door before slamming it shut despite the late hour. If you awaken any neighbors, you’ll apologize later. For now, all you require is sleep and hope that this has been all a terrible nightmare.

xxx

Reality is a bitter pill to swallow.

Jeon Jungkook continues to sing at the restaurant, and after only two days of repeat stellar performances, your manager decides to promote him as the official vocalist for the band. It hurts to admit that you're not the least bit surprised; you might have a hard time looking at him, but you can never deny his talent. 

His song list has added a larger variety of genres ever since his first performance. That is to say, he isn’t always singing about lost loves and tragic couples every night. Perhaps it is due to some requests from customers or his other bandmates, but it doesn’t stop him from sprinkling one or two love songs into the mix. 

He doesn’t sing any original songs ever again. That, at least, is a small mercy. He doesn’t make any moves to speak with you either, despite the daily awkward trips back home after the end of your shifts. Whether that’s because he’s given up on you (again), or he’s waiting for you to make the first move, you don’t know. Frankly, you don’t think you have the energy (nor courage) to do anything about it.

It’s a few weeks after Jungkook’s first performance at the restaurant, and closing time is approaching. You appreciate Friday nights the most because it means you’ll have two consecutive days to relax and avoid your problems. It’s also the busiest night of the week, when white-collar workers decide to drink and eat for as long as the night allows them. Busier nights mean more distractions, and you’re willing to deal with twenty Karens over one Jungkook.

During nights like these, your manager occasionally asks you to fulfill some waitress duties when there aren’t enough hands on deck. Normally you’d hate it, but earning the extra tips is enough to keep your grumbling to a minimum To this day, your landlord has yet to do anything about your broken shower, and you’ve finally conceded to the fact that you’ll have to be the one to do something about it. 

As you inform the customers in your area that the last call for orders is approaching, you sneak a glance at the bar to see Jimin dutifully performing his job. That is to say, he’s flirting up a storm, getting women and men alike to blush from head to toe as he serves their drinks with a salacious smirk.

What a swindler, you think to yourself, snorting when he makes eye contact with you. He gives you a cheeky salute, mouthing something as he gestures to the back door.

Despite the semi-fight the two of you had all those weeks ago, Jimin was never one to argue about the same topic two days in a row. When you saw him the next day after your confrontation with Jungkook, Jimin was back to all smiles. You still catch him sending death glares towards Jungkook on most nights, but he doesn’t bring up the matter with you anymore. For that reason, you’ve gratefully settled back into your weird, banterful friendship with him. Even if there’s still a lingering tension between the two of you that you refuse to acknowledge.

You nod thankfully back at him, excited to go to his house and take a much needed shower. At this point, going to his house has become second nature to you, and it gives you an excuse to not see Jungkook at your regular bus stop every day. You have half a mind to never fix your shower for that reason, but of course there is still the problem of having to deal with Jimin every time you need to bathe. You hardly consider yourself an impatient person, but Jimin likes to toe the line far more often than necessary.

You’re down to your last two tables before you can close up shop when your manager suddenly barrels right into your path. You nearly drop your tray of dirty dishes to the floor, holding in a loud yelp as your suspiciously stern-faced manager halts you in place.

“Ms. Y/N, may I have a word with you for a moment? It’s regarding your paycheck for the month,” he barks, lips downturned. He appears disgruntled about something, and it sends a worried shiver down your spine. And here you thought Fridays are meant to be fun. He doesn’t wait for you to reply before he stalks back to his office, an unspoken command for you to follow. 

You unload your dishes in the kitchen before making your way to his office. The small, dark room is cramped with overflowing file folders and coupons from multiple take-out places. You accidentally step on a stack of papers, and upon further inspection, seem to be a pile of applications for new hires. You distinctly remember complaining to him months prior about being understaffed and him replying that no inquiries were coming in.

As you approach, your manager shuffles through your coworkers pay stubs, and you notice yours and Jungkook’s on top of the piles. 

Manager Jeong clears his throat. “Well, Y/N. It seems to be your lucky day. As you know, we split the tips based on your hours and what sort of duties you fulfill. With the new hire we have as our in-house singer, we’ve had to split it one way more to accommodate his arrival. However, he has recently requested to me that his portion be reallocated… to you, Ms. Y/N.”

Your jaw drops immediately. “I-I don’t understand, Manager Jeong,” you sputter. 

Manager Jeong snorts, bemused by your reaction. “Don’t understand? Well, I suppose you’ll have to ask Mr. Jeon if you want his reasoning. Regardless, since we normally deposit your salary straight to your bank account, would it be alright if I hand you his tips in cash for now? He only informed me about his request an hour ago, and the accountant has already clocked out for the week.”

All you can do is nod dumbly back at him. With a huff, your manager presses a white envelope into your hands before promptly ushering you out of his office. “Well, that's settled. Out you go! Have a good weekend, Ms. Y/N. Don’t forget to lock the register before you leave!” He calls out before slamming his door in your face.

It takes you a moment to reanimate back to life. You stare at the white envelope for a long while, unable to fathom the scribbled out name of Jeon Jungkook replaced with your own name. Then, you crumple it into your fist before stomping over to where Jungkook and the rest of the band are in the middle of packing it up for the night.

Jungkook looks up from his guitar case when he senses you fast approaching. For a fleeting second, a smile graces his handsome face before it’s smacked away by your crumpled envelope. 

“Keep your fucking cash, Jungkook. What the hell is your problem?” You fume, cheeks heating from agitation. Jungkook splutters for a moment, prying the envelope away from his face and looking at it in bewilderment. When he sees it clearly, recognition dawns on his face, followed by guilt.

“It’s just… my way of saying sorry, I guess.” He answers you meekly, neck flushing red in embarrassment. Behind him, the rest of the band grow silent at the scene before them, and you debate on telling them to mind their own business when they quicken their pace to leave.

“Well, keep your apology to yourself. There’s nothing to apologize for,” you correct him with a frown. To offer an apology is to offer accountability. You aren’t sure if you’re ready to hear him say that. 

“No, it’s a sorry for… using you, I suppose.”

“Using me?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “For what?”

Jungkook smiles wryly back at you. “For inspiration?” he clarifies. For being the reason I can sing? He leaves that part unsaid, but you can almost imagine him saying it. 

You feel heat rising to your cheeks again, but this time you aren’t quite sure if it’s from embarrassment, anger… or something else.

Unable to conjure up a response to his simple confession, you stomp away from him with a pounding heart and shaking hands. You continue the rest of your closing shift routine instinctually, your body moving on autopilot as Jungkook’s words continue to ring inside your head. When all is said and done, Jimin makes his way to your station with a questioning stare, but you wave him off in favor of stomping ahead of him to the parking lot.

In his car, Jimin rattles off about his latest exploits and purchases, his grating voice a comfort for once. You hum noncommittally during his stories when appropriate, but you suppose your usual indifference feels different, even to Jimin's untrained ears. 

At his house, you drift to his bathroom immediately. You already have a shirt button undone by the time you get a handle on the door when Jimin’s hand stops you in place. You can feel his warmth emanating against your back as he slowly pulls the bathroom door close. With a tired sigh, you reluctantly turn to face him and find him standing closer than you expected.

He has an arm resting above your head, effectively caging you. You feel your shoulders sag. Damn, here comes another confrontation. Why can’t everyone just leave you alone?!

“Talk to me,” he says. No, he demands.

You push him away weakly, but he hardly budges. “Nothing to talk about,” you lie. Had you no filter, you’d be word vomiting all over the place ages ago.

Jimin groans, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Enough with the emotional constipation. I’m here to listen, alright? No teasing or anything, I’m all ears and maybe a shoulder to cry on. Just don’t stain my Chanel top too bad,” he jokes.

You puff out a short breath—a sorry excuse for a laugh. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to talk about it, and that’s that.”

“It’ll make you feel a lot better, though,” he offers.

You scoff. “What makes you think that? What if I just want to ignore all my problems forever and never grow from it? Is that so bad?”

Jimin pushes himself away from you, raising his hands in mock defeat. “You’re so fucking annoying. Can you stop running away from your problems and talk to me? Hell, talk to Jungkook for all I care! Just stop being a doormat and speak your mind for once in your damn life!”

“What are you, my therapist?” You brush past him, shower all but forgotten. You begin toeing your shoes back on, ready to head home tired and smelly. At the very least, you won’t have to deal with this stupid annoying asshole any longer. 

Jimin strides back towards you, but for once he doesn’t do anything to forcibly stop you. Jimin has always been gruff with you, not afraid to push and pull you in any which direction. It’s part of the reason why you can’t take him seriously, even though you’ve recently realized why he was always being such a prick towards you—

“Yeah, I’m not your therapist. But for better or for worse, I’m your friend and I—I fucking care about you, alright? And it sucks seeing that good-for-nothing stick his nose in your business and act like he can do anything without any repercussions.”

Is Jimin being for real right now? “With how often you look at yourself in the mirror, you’d think you’d be better at introspection,” is all you say to that. You shove your feet into your shoes, not caring that you’ve probably put them on wrong. Maybe it’s because it’s Friday and the fatigue from the week has finally settled deep in your bones, but you can’t help but leave one last scathing remark to drive the final nail in the coffin.

“You know, if you were a little nicer to me, maybe I would talk to you. Hell, maybe I’d like you back. But no, just keep being your domineering, asshole self and I’ll keep being the same fucking doormat bitch you know and love,” you spit, turning towards the door and away from his face. You’re not even curious to see how he reacts. “I don’t need protection, alright? When I tell you to stay out of my business, you stay out of it. So don’t try and pretend to be my knight in shining armor.”

There’s an ocean of silence, enough to hear a pin drop. The urge to apologize surges to the surface, but you stamp it down. He’s petty all the time, so now it’s your turn.

Okay, maybe that’s a little too mean on your part, but you’re exhausted. Perhaps it is true when they say you should never act on your anger when it’s past midnight. But can anyone blame you? You’re only a girl, and girls need to snap too. 

When he responds, his voice sounds weak. Park Jimin, weak? It's almost unthinkable. "Why don't you trust me?"

Isn't it obvious? you want to say. But some mercy remains within you. You'll pick up the pieces another time. Instead, you rasp out, “Good night, Park. I’ll see you on Monday.”

The walk of shame back to your house is long and arduous. Your phone dings thrice, likely signaling texts from Jimin, but you turn it off without checking for sure. For once, the weight on your shoulders is slightly lighter. You huff out a dry laugh, realizing belatedly that maybe Jimin is right—maybe speaking your mind has its benefits.

There’s a small park in your neighborhood that you always pass by. You don’t remember the last time you spared it a second glance, but this time you notice a lone figure swinging back and forth, arching dangerously higher than what you would consider safe. From a distance, all you can make out are the person’s comically bright boots, and you have a sinking suspicion you know who it is without seeing their face.

Cosmos, or whoever it is that controls my life, why must you braid our strings of fate so tightly? You ask, but as always, it refuses to reply.

Against your better judgment, your feet bring you closer towards him. He has his back towards you, his feet pumping him higher and higher and you half expect him to swing in a perfect arc like a gymnast on parallel bars. You have to keep your distance a bit, lest you get the wind knocked out of you by his signature stompers. 

You clear your throat, and the boy stops mid-swing and nearly catapults himself into the spongey, playground floor. Hunched over and wheezing, Jungkook directs his shocked eyes at you with a comical stare. 

You raise a hand in greeting. A peace offering, maybe. “Hello—”

“I swear I’m not stalking you!” Jungkook interrupts as he scrambles to his feet. He bows deeply in remorse, the action so endearingly him. “S-sorry, I’ll make my way home now…”

“I don’t own the park, Jungkook. I was just saying hello…” You snort, wringing your hands uncomfortably. You grind your shoes into the ground, the sound of crunching leaves breaking the still air. “A-and… to say sorry, for earlier.”

“Sorry?” Jungkook repeats, confused. When he realizes what you mean, he waves his hands frantically. “No, no! Don’t be sorry! It was my fault for being so inconsiderate. I understand how you might misconstrue my actions, and I made things more awkward. I’ll consider your feelings more in the future…”

In the future… You cough, unwilling to meet his bright and honest gaze. If you stare too long, you fear you might go blind. 

“I come here to the park often, when I feel too cramped inside my apartment,” Jungkook explains, frantic energy radiating off him in waves. He’s gesticulating too much, a clear sign that he’s trying to hide his nerves. You remember how he would do the same thing in high school, whenever he had to present his projects in front of the class. 

You hold a hand up, a weak attempt to get him to calm down. “I’m not here to interrogate you. I just wanted to…” What is it that you wanted to do?

The two of you just stand awkwardly like that, similar to a few weeks ago when you discovered you were neighbors. You’re grasping at straws in your head, both conflicted for wanting to tell him something and running away. Even if you were to talk to him, what would you say? There’s a reason you told Jimin you didn’t want to talk—frankly, it’s mostly because you have no idea what to say or feel. 

But you do know, the universe responds. 

I ask you questions all the time, and this is how you respond? 

Either that, or you’re going insane, the universe remarks.

Jungkook pulls out his phone, his fingers fumbling as he unlocks it. He takes a furtive step towards you, but thinks better of it. There’s a few feet of distance between you, but it feels like worlds apart. Close and yet so far. You recall how you’d easily pull him towards you in the past, how being together felt as natural as breathing. 

“I know you absolutely hated it the last time I played my original song at the restaurant, so I refrained from performing any ever since that night. But that didn’t stop me from writing them. I was fine with keeping them locked in a vault forever, but…” He hesitates, searching you for any signs of discomfort. When he sees the carefully blank look on your face, he continues with trepidation. 

“Can I try a song for you? You don’t have to say yes, and you’re free to tell me to fuck off and I’ll never even look at you ever again. Just…” He flails one last time, a choked sob making its escape from his throat. 

Are you hopeless for wanting to say yes? Or were you reverting back to your old self who relied on him and believed in him so heavily? If you wanted him out of your life for good, you would have quit your job at the first sight of him. Maybe you were masochistic. Or maybe were you hopeful for a new start, a chance to rekindle a relationship that you’ve secretly always wanted to repair.

You have so much life ahead of you. Many more mistakes will be made and maybe they’ll haunt you when you’re older. But would it really be such a terrible gamble to take one more chance? 

You nod, and seal your fate.

He presses play, and the soft strumming of a guitar fills the empty playground air. 

Not for the first time, you wonder how it can be so easy for Jungkook to be so… honest. He spills his heart in every song that he writes, and you know he’s never been a great liar. He can’t help it, being genuine is in his DNA. This crashing waterfall, this boy with overflowing emotions—he sings what he thinks but feels terrified because of it. You might not understand his honesty, but you know that fear. You know it all too well.

He beholds himself to you—raw and unfiltered. A little battered and bruised, but still Jungkook. Behind everything, still the boy you’ve been yearning for.

Maybe this song is what will give you enough confidence to admit everything to him, too. As you stand there, listening to his mellow voice sing confessions to no one but you and the stars, you think you grow a little more courageous that day.

Maybe you won’t be able to tell him tonight. Maybe not tomorrow, nor next week either. But as you gaze back at his hopeful eyes, you know deep in your heart that you’ll find the words you’ve been looking for.

“I’ll keep waiting for you, if you let me.” Jungkook’s voice floats gently to you, and settles in your open palms. This time, you don’t let go

xxx

Months later, Jungkook stops working at the restaurant when an offer from a major record company arrives in his mail. Apparently, a big shot from the local radio station had pitched him to an employee at that company and they were all pleasantly surprised to find a hidden gem at a random bar and restaurant.  

In your apartment, you stare outside your window and to where his home is—well, where it was. You wonder if he finished packing his things, ready to make the big move tomorrow. You stand up with a stretch, sparing a glance at your still broken shower. It would be nice to have one more shower at his place… And after that? Maybe you should start looking for a nicer apartment; somewhere far away might be nice.

Your phone rings, and you see his contact photo light up your screen. With a smile, you answer.

“Come over, if you want. I won’t make you,” Jungkook assures you. 

You laugh lightly, already halfway out the door. 

[sleepynoons]

jing yuan x afab!f!reader, nsfw, 18+, not beta read

cw: somnophilia, dubcon (because consent is not explicitly given, but you and jing yuan are in an established relationship with implied unbreakable trust and loyalty), oral (receiving + giving), cum eating, slight size kink (jing yuan's dick is,,, girthy,,, i know it,,, he was in my bed last night), one mention of pain (giving)

notes: lmk if i missed anything in the warnings. jing yuan, i love you, i need you to be real RIGHT NOW.

IT'S VERY rare for you to come home later than jing yuan. after all, he’s the general of the xianzhou luofu, and when does he truly have a moment of respite? regardless, you return home much later than usual as there was an emergency at work that required your whole team to pull overtime.

haphazardly, you peel off your work clothes, leaving behind a trail of stockings, a coat and work robe that are sure to be crumpled the following morning, and finally, your undergarments. you hop into the shower for a quick cleanse but return equally as naked back to bed.

but late nights have always been cruel to you. no matter how tired and stressed out you are, if you’re still awake at ungodly hours of the morning, it will take you hours more to fall asleep. usually, you’d pass the time by counting sheep (to no avail), playing around on your phone, or even resume working, but because jing yuan has decided to crash at your place tonight, you can’t entertain yourself without risking waking your fiancé.

you smile at the thought. the whole engagement was truly an affair, you recall. you and jing yuan have known each other for your whole lives, but there was always a distance and awkwardness between the two of you. even into adulthood, the two of you were never close. however, at the behest of your own parents’ request, jing yuan and you began to meet on arranged dates to see if a relationship was possible.

it’s not like you were against marrying jing yuan. you weren’t in a relationship of your own, and it was better than being wedded off to a stranger, or worse, someone from another xianzhou flagship and having to move from the luofu. besides, jing yuan didn’t seem to mind and didn’t have any engagements of his own, and the two of you began to form a comfortable acquaintance.

but the engagement itself came out of nowhere. after months of arranged dates and meetings, one time, jing yuan had brought the master diviner, fu xuan, herself. jing yuan wore a lackadaisical expression, but something about the way his arms were still by his side and his jaw was locked implied nervousness.

fu xuan intently stared at you before sighing and sitting down across from you.

“i sincerely do not mean to take up too much time,” she said. her tone had a sarcastic edge to it, though it’s not directed at you. you peered up at jing yuan, who’s looking at you expectantly, and you nodded to let the diviner proceed. 

“i am here for the luofu’s sake. as a diviner, i have the ability to seek answers and foretell the unfoldings of a destiny requested.

“however, there is no need to divine such a fate as obvious as yours and the general’s. i am here to humbly request that the two of you get engaged immediately.”

you chuckle as you remember fu xuan’s words.

shocked, you managed to say, “s-sorry, what?”

fu xuan crossed her arms and legs, and stared at you, transparently unimpressed. “the luofu’s general is madly in love with you. how you have not noticed after all of these years, i am not sure, but it is, over time, becoming a noticeable nuisance to those on the luofu.”

you were still too confused. “what? a nuisance? in what regard?”

“as i said, everyone but you seems to be aware of the general’s affections for you. a bet on the general’s wedding date has gone too far, and we need to put a rest to this incessant noise and distraction. general jing yuan loves you, and i think it is time i step in and nudge you in the right direction as well.”

you scoffed because the word “nudge” was an extreme understatement. fu xuan was not being subtle at all (and something in you wondered if she was partaking in the bet and just wanted to win).

jing yuan cleared his throat. fu xuan harrumphed and took her leave. the general sat beside you and put a hand gently on your arm.

calmly, he reassured, “the master diviner is quite strong-willed, and while she means well, do only take her words with a grain of salt. after all, this is our relationship.”

instead, you asked, “is what she said true? that you have affections for me?” jing yuan simply smiled, but you noticed a melancholic glint in his eyes.

after a few moments, he still did not say anything. you knew you had to take matters into your own hands.

“well,” you breathe, “we should find a time to go ring shopping, no?”

you must’ve done a poor job concealing your giggles because jing yuan’s hand begins to pat around the bed looking for you. you swiftly take his palm in your palm, and bring it up to your lips to press a kiss on his knuckles.

“what is amusing my fiancée so much?” he grumbles, voice heavy with sleep.

you hum, “i was just thinking about our engagement.”

“mm, there is still much left to do.”

you admire his side profile and trace with your eyes the waves and curls of your fiancé’s thick silver hair. because it’s loose and untied, it’s sprawled all over your pillow, and if you turn your head slightly, you’re sure the tips of it will tickle your nose. you follow the silver down to his bare chest, and – suddenly, an idea hits you, one that is sure to help you fall asleep.

in the moments that you spent observing and memorizing your lover, he had fallen back asleep. you feel slightly guilty for what you’re about to do, but when has jing yuan ever directed any anger towards you?

you pull off the covers, and jing yuan doesn’t flinch or shift. after all, he’s always run a bit warm. the harder part was settling between his legs, but there was no way to make room without forcing them apart, so instead, you do your best to settle your knees on the sides of his rib cage and lean forward, ass facing his head. this position is slightly more promiscuous and forward than what you’re used to, but then again, you’ve been without sleep for almost a whole day now and you know you can’t think straight for a moment longer. besides, the possibility of him waking up and seeing you like this sends a pleasurable tingle down your spine.

you begin to mouth and drool over his briefs. he’s warmer down here, and the smell of fresh laundry and jing yuan’s natural scent further drives your ministrations. after a few more seconds, you feel his cock stirring underneath the swipes of your tongue, and you finally begin to peel down his underwear to free him.

even though he’s only half-hard, he’s large. you lick your lips and gulp, moreso to prepare yourself. giving head to jing yuan has always been tiresome, with his size and all, and that’s exactly what you need.

one hand gently fondles his balls, the other clutches onto the bedsheets in search of balance. your mouth is busy suckling at the head of your lover’s cock, and you have to remind yourself constantly to not release any lewd moans.

finally, when jing yuan’s dick is hard enough, you begin to bob your head and take him in more deeply. you’re beginning to ache at your core, too, but you’re more occupied with the thought of making your fiancé cum in his sleep than pleasuring yourself.

with every bob, you suck in more. the head of his dick prods past your tonsils and at the back of your throat. sometimes, when he’s in too deep, you have to gag and tighten your throat, but that only seems to feel even better. at one point, you have to pause, and as you regain your breath, you admire how his cock is pulsating and turning rouge and purple with need. you’re impressed, truly, with how still and silent jing yuan’s been, but you’re relieved that you’ve not been caught in such a compromising position.

no more time to waste. taking one last deep breath, you dive back in, going faster, ignoring the throbbing in your extended jaw. you’ve added one hand, to make up for the length that you can’t stuff into your mouth, and you feel confident that you can make him cum soon. the sound of your slurping, gagging, gasps fill the room, booming in the face of silence. you’re beginning to lose your mind and are no longer careful enough to prevent yourself from letting out low moans and whimpers. you feel slick gliding down your inner thighs as well, and you swipe a bit of it with your palm to aid in your working of your lover’s cock.

from the corner of your eyes, you see jing yuan’s thighs start to twitch, a sight that almost makes you purr with satisfaction. the throbbing and heat of his cock is also becoming uncontrollable, and you know he’s close. you keep going, eyes closed in concentration, and urge yourself to go impossibly faster. as you take in his length, you also work your tongue more aggressively, licking at the veins that wind around his shaft, and lap at his tip and slit when you pull up. finally, you move the hand that was clutching onto the bedsheets to his thighs and sink your nails into the muscle and fat of his legs. the unexpected combination of pleasure and pain sends him over, and you seal your lips around his cock to drink all of his cum. your eyes roll back as you taste the cream, gooey, smooth, and slightly salty, sliding down your throat. 

but the moment doesn’t last long as fatigue begins to take over. you lick at some of the remnants of jing yuan’s climax that have escaped before sliding his underwear back on properly and tucking yourself around his side, sliding the covers back over the two of you.

-

you wake up panting, body writhing and desperately trying to pull away from whatever’s tormenting you. but you can’t, because your legs are tightly wrapped in place, and you have to blink rapidly to clear your vision and look down at your feet. you make eye contact with your lover, his arms tightly holding your thighs in place on his shoulders. he’s busy lapping at your clit, slick and spit drooling down your folds and dripping down onto the bedsheets.

he hums, happy that you’re conscious now, but the sound only serves to vibrate through your sensitive bud, leaving you a moaning, whimpering mess. your fiancé refuses to relent until you finally call out his name.

“jing yuan!” you exclaim, hands flying to his silver mane and tugging sharply at his scalp.

he stops and lifts his head up and – the audacity – winks at you.

oh. you feel heat rushing up to your face, and you let out a string of expletives. if your hands weren’t so occupied and tangled in your partner’s hair, you’re sure they would’ve flown up to cover up your burning face. you must be making an embarrassing expression, too.

“you knew! the whole damn time!”

jing yuan chuckles before dipping back down, swiping his tongue from your hole to your clit. then, he finally speaks, “i’m simply repaying quality service. you did take care of me so thoroughly earlier this morning.”

you can only throw back your head and moan. the combination of jing yuan’s expert working of your body and his praise makes you delirious, and you know that your lover is intent on paying you back ten-fold, if not more. after all, jing yuan has always had an overflowing amount of love for you, so generous and intentional with his care and affection, that you know he’d never let you leave the bed if he could. 

maybe today’s the day, you think, before all thoughts are swept away as your fiancé takes you with increasingly more rapture and fervor.

[portraitofalinkonfyre]

How The Links Got Their Names

Notes: Written for @mirensiart <33

Link Lofty was ready. 

“In two miles, turn right on West Holdrege Street to arrive at your destination of 5805 West Holdrege Street”, his GPS, Fi, blared at top, scratchy volume, nestled in the cozy dashboard of his 2011 Volkswagen Beetle. He didn’t particularly care for driving, because Zelda was more than happy to step up–as she tended to do a lot in their relationship–but something told him the love of his life wouldn’t be especially pleased to know he was risking his life for what had to be the dumbest idea he’d had to date, and that was factoring in the calamity that was his bitch of a boss–cleverly nicknamed “Demise” for his cruel and unusual enforcement of company policy and iron-fist when any and all interns were involved; Link himself had been one of those interns, but now he was manager, so Mr. Ganon Gerudo could fuck himself right where it hurts—into the convoluted, rather-insane equation. 

So, when his phone had dinged one innocuous afternoon to inform him that he’d been added to an even more innocuous nine-person messenger group, there was little Link could do but read the ringleader’s—who was also named Link!–message, which proclaimed a date, set of coordinates in Nebraska, of all places, and intent to fight over their shared name. 

It was… well, Link thought it was rather fascinating, so, after obscuring the message group from his girlfriend Zelda’s well-meaning gaze, he promptly scoured his mind for an excuse to be in Nebraska on any day, eventually landing on the time-tested ‘business trip’ spiel, only that his manager had been extra considerate in informing him a year early. He didn’t consider it lying, because it really was business, just not the type his beloved thought as she wished him farewell through the driver’s window of their shared sky-blue Volkswagen, waving from the driveway until he was out of sight. 

And now, six grueling hours later, he was here. The sky was a healthy, cloudless cerulean, melding almost seamlessly with the building-dotted horizon as Link pulled off the highway, tires crunching as they made contact with the thin gravel of the country-esque road. A sense of calm washed over the man as he drove, easily navigating to his destination with Fi’s ever-screamed assistance. 

A folded piece of paper lay in the pocket of his white-washed jeans, bearing names like Quentin, Theo, and, Zelda’s personal favorite after a spectacularly sneaky game of ‘what would you name me if I was a dog’: Skyler. Link wasn't sure how he felt about the first two, provided the Master-batter—his trusty and appropriately-named baseball bat—proved to be no match for his opponents, but he could get on with Skyler, if worse came to worst. Probably because that would give him grounds to call his beloved “Sun” without having to explain any wonderfully cheeky wordplay. 

The road stretched on and on. Link checked his rearview mirror, noting the appearance of a man riding a rather flashy black motorcycle and an equally flashy, royal-blue Dodge Challenger pulling in behind him. He glanced at the clock—11:50 am—and halfheartedly wondered if this was his competition. 

In the distance, a chrome-white Toyota Tacoma was parked by the road, a tall blonde man leaning against the bed, smoking what appeared to be a half-finished cigarette. He looked distinctly familiar; perhaps Link Lon-Lon? Link had taken care to scroll the members list last night so the situation couldn’t possibly confuse him more than it already did. Behind Lon-Lon, another blonde man—dressed in a brilliant blue tracksuit that contrasted harshly with the corn-colored swathes of hair that grew from his head, so long that Link swore they seemed infinite at first glance—sat atop the dented roof of a lapis Subaru Outback that looked like it had seen many better days. 

With a sigh worthy of someone in the depths of seasonal depression, Link pulled onto the side of the road, taking a few short breaths to compose and prepare himself for the fuckery that was about to ensue. When he was ready, he stepped out of the vehicle and grabbed the Master-batter from the backseat, knowing full well that his life would never fully be the same once this was over. 

Link—er, Wild, because he’d been mentally practicing going by a new name on the incredibly rare off-chance that one of the other blokes he invited to the middle of nowhere managed to get the upper hand—was ready. He watched stoically as three more vehicles slithered down the winding road: a sky-blue Volkswagen that only a sane (that was going to be a problem, because he was banking on the fact that they were all a little insane) person would dare own, obsidian motorcycle than he wouldn’t mind stealing if Zelda hadn’t forced him to promise to try and be a law-abiding citizen, and a Dodge Challenger that somehow managed to be bluer than the ever-brilliant sky. 

As the vehicles pulled closer, Link Lon-Lon, the first to arrive after him, sighed with the defeat only a father would know, putting out his cigarette and standing to his full, impressive height, arms crossed over what Link had to admit was an especially beefy chest. How old was this guy, forty? Fifty? Sixty? He certainly talked like it, Link gathered after a tense first meeting to confirm that the man was here for the name and not because he lived in an underground bunker hidden somewhere on the property.

The Link in the adorable Volkswagen exited first, relinquishing a fucking baseball bat from the backseat before walking forward; steps tentative, yet determined. Link hopped from the roof to greet him. “Hey, Link!” he called, waving both hands over his head. Lon-Lon watched the exchange quietly, small tendrils of smoke still puffing from his lips. “You are Link, right?”

The man in question nodded, sending his chocolate-blonde hair into a shaking mess with every bob. “That’s me,” he paused, looked down at his bat, then back at Link, expression somewhat incredulous. “...And you’re Link?”

Link–Wild, he reminded himself, wondering how many times Zelda would smack him over the head if he turned up at her lab with a whole new name–nodded with much more visible excitement. “That’s me!” he parroted, just to fuck with the other man, who was beginning to look just as amused as Lon-Lon. “Last name?”

“...Lofty.”

Link made a show of pulling out a pre-made checklist scribbled on the back of one of Zelda’s abandoned worksheets and checking off one “Link Lofty”. Both Lon-Lon and Lofty stared at him, and, oh, did it feel good to be regarded as though he was brilliantly insane. 

Someone cleared their throat, and another man approached the group. He was tall and built, dressed in what Link could only describe as the most sexy un-sexy biker get-up he’d seen since Zelda shamed him into parting with his dearly-beloved YouTube shorts. Effortlessly-tousled dirty-blonde hair swept across his forehead, parted in a manner that made Link–Wild–briefly consider chopping his hard-grown hair off to replicate it. 

“‘M gonna guess y’all are Link?”

Dear Hylia, was that a country accent? Swoon! 

“That’s me!” Link—Hylia, he really needed to remember that it could be ‘Wild’!–-chimed, just as the two others responded similarly. Yeah, this was already weird, but when wasn’t it? Zelda liked to say it was his superpower, in addition to being more indestructible than a cockroach. “Name?”

Sexy-cowboy’s brow furrowed. His hip, the one the biker helmet was poised on, cocked incredulously. He did not look amused. “...Link Ordon.”

Lofty looked up, his fingers fingering the end of his very metal, very dangerous bat. Should Link have banned those? Naw. “Oh, from Kentucky?”

The newly-named Ordon’s expression softened some, and he broke into a grin. “Tha’s right, ya’ve been?”

“Once, with my girlfriend,” Lofty smiled, relinquishing part of his hold on the bat to brush a bit of hair from his face. Link watched; he didn’t understand why they were getting chummy when they were here to fight for name custody, but he was hardly one to judge. 

“Good fer ya,” Ordon suddenly snapped his fingers. “Hey, y’all try our pumpkin stew last ya were there?”

“I think so! It was really good, but I prefer the one from my hometown.”

Just like that, there was silence. Ordon’s expression returned to something vaguely constipated, and, oh dear, was that cultural offense? Oh no? Link shared a half-glance with Lon-Lon, who looked seconds away from relighting his cigarette. 

“Lemme guess, yer from Skyloft City?”

Lofty looked apprehensive, like he was going to piss. Or take a defensive swing with that bat. Link wasn’t sure which was worse. “...Are we going to have a problem?”

Before Orodon could answer, the doors to the Dodge Challenger that had been idling on the opposite side of the road finally swung open, revealing—

“Ya invited a fuckin’ child?!” Ordon exclaimed in abject horror. 

—what appeared to be a fourteen-year-old boy and his very gay, alcohol-addicted father. Well, Link rather assumed that after all the simultaneous 2 am fashion designer quotes dotting his page and the divorced-dad vibes the guy seemed to naturally exude, but he could never be sure. Should he ask? Zelda would have said no, followed by a half-hearted smack to the back of his head for behaving like a hyperactive toddler, but Link wasn’t Zelda, which meant he was thus lawless. 

“ARE YOU THE FATHER?!” He screamed across the road as the man and boy approached. Lon-Lon facepalmed, while Ordon and Lofty looked chagrined by the mere insinuation that he’d invited a child into this madness. It wasn’t Link’s fault; they were friends on Hyrule Messenger, so how was he supposed to exercise proper internet procedure and check bios?

“He’s done with life,” the fourteen-year-old answered with the confidence of a forty-year-old man. “That’s why we’re getting soft tacos later.”

The man in question scowled, looking down at his companion. He too was blonde, though it was far lighter than the likes of Ordon and Lofty, possibly even Link himself, who was quite proud of his ability to blind most people when his hair hit any patch of light. “Sailor— I swear to—”

“Sailor? You’re changing your legal name to ‘Sailor’?” Link interjected; incredulous, and the smallest bit baffled. He knew Wild was a bit… out there, but this was a whole different issue. What kind of father would allow that? 

Ordon made a noise of confusion. “Hol’ up, legal name?” 

“...You’re kidding me,” Link’s jaw fell open, but he closed it quickly after remembering that Zelda was the only one interested in seeing him like that. “I mentioned that, like, two-hundred days ago.”

Realization dawned upon the group. Gay-father and Ordon looked shocked, while Lofty fingered the paper Wild could see poking from the front pocket of his jeans and Lon-Lon’s expression drifted ever closer to mirroring Link’s—or was he Wild? Did he care anymore??—mugshot after getting caught setting his girlfriend’s kidnapper’s residence on fire. Only Link—the child—pulled out his phone to be remotely helpful. 

“You didn’t,” the fourteen-year-old paused, then resolved to continue making the rest of them look dumb with his advanced vocabulary. A few taps could be heard. “You’re a lot more articulate over text though.”

Wild—Aw, jeez, Link—bristled. He placed his hands on his hips and tried to look intimidating, but he was also short as hell, so it definitely didn’t have the same effect as it would if Lon-Lon had instantaneously chosen violence to end the conundrum before it robbed an ounce more sanity from everyone involved. “What did you think I meant?”

“Ah thought ya meant nicknames,” stated Ordon. He also held a piece of crumpled paper in his hand, though, unlike Lofty, the look he shot it could have ignited stone. 

Ah, thought Wild in a moment of clarity stolen from Zelda, definitely a nickname. 

JSSSSHHHHH!

All heads turned when a beat-up brown 1981 Toyota Land Cruiser came barreling over the hill, screeching to a stop over the hot, dry grass. Apparently, this Link didn’t see the merit of obeying traffic laws, which was both totally respectable and highly encouraged. All was silent as the driver's door jiggled, and Link could vaguely see the outline of a brown-haired man through the tinted windshield. 

The door jiggled some more, and a muffled curse filtered out from the interior of the Toyota. 

A beat passed. 

The jiggling grew more furious. 

Ordon took a half step forward. Wild—Link—tried not to observe his shapely calves, even if it was just to marvel at how anyone could be so goddamn thicc. “...Ah’m gonna—” 

As if by fate, the door swung open with a loud bang. The man inside, who looked far younger without all the tint in the way, lowered his foot and stepped out. He was about the same height as Link himself, with mahogany-colored curls that looked just as untamed as Link’s penchant for getting himself into any and all manner of trouble. 

“Hi,” said the new guy. He sounded shy. He also looked easy to pin. Link was not intimidated. Until the other man reached into the side of the door and pulled out what appeared to be an aerosol can and a lighter. 

Suddenly, Link was intimidated, though it was Lon-Lon who beat him to the punch. 

“Absolutely not.”

The Curly Link seemed to deflate a bit. He glanced down at his treasures, then back at the group. Specifically Link—Wild—who was quite obviously the ringleader of the operation, considering the clipboard he had raised over his chest like a shield. “...I didn’t see a weapons list,” he defended. 

Ah, Wild knew he had forgotten something. Drat. He lowered his clipboard now that there wasn’t any imminent danger of being spontaneously ignited. “...Last name?”

“Wait, Cap, does that mean we can’t use the rifle?” Came “Sailor’s” whisper to his obviously gay guardian at the back of the group. 

Curly Link hesitated. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a torn piece of paper so yellow it may as well have been parchment, squinting at it for several long seconds before mumbling: “...Hyrule?”

Wild checked his list, ignoring how closely the other man’s admission sounded to a question. There was no mention of a Link Hyrule, but there was an entry without a last name, so he merely scribbled ‘Hyrule’ beside it in a few chicken-scratch letters. “Cool. And what’s your backup name?”

There was a pregnant pause. Then, with a fair bit more conviction, he spoke: “Hyrule.”

Okay. Wild–Link, or was ‘Wild’ simply who he was now??–could deal with that. He checked his list once more. There were two Links still unaccounted for, but he had a pretty good feeling about the situation when a beat-up grey Volkswagen Jetta swerved onto the dusty road, tires screeching across the pavement as the driver expertly barreled towards their gathering of insanity. 

All eyes were on the Jetta as it pulled behind Lofty’s beetle, 

The first thing Wild noticed about this new Link was that he was short as hell. Not just a bit smaller than average, because he technically was too, but when even the literal fourteen-year-old had height on what Link—Wild???—assumed to be a man in his twenties, if his profile was to be believed, it wasn’t hard to notice. Stick-straight blonde hair framed his face, held up by a vibrant green bandana that somehow managed to avoid clashing with the bloody crimson of his sweatshirt and equally obnoxious violet boots. In the background, ‘Cap’ shuddered. Clearly, this was an extreme case of blue-collar wardrobe blindness, but that was neither here nor there. Wild rather thought the crimson was a fantastic idea on the off-chance that large quantities of blood were spilled in their zeal for autonomy. 

All eyes continued to watch as the newcomer bent to rummage in the center council for what appeared to be his phone. When he straightened, the device was tapped several times and the sound of a picture being taken could be heard, likely in case some grievous medical emergency occurred. Obviously, this Link had his shit together and Wild should thus ignore the fact that he was also carrying a mechanic’s wrench the size of Ordon’s forearm, As a treat. 

Link—Wild????—brandished his clipboard as their latest victim approached. “Are you—?”

“Link Smith,” said Shorty without missing a beat. He shoved his phone in the back pocket of his surprisingly-normal jeans, and propped the wrench onto his shoulder in a move that should not have been as cool as it was. 

“...And back up name—?”

“Four.”

There was a stunned silence. Cap’s eye twitched. 

“You know we’re betting on legal names, right?”

Link Smith, or ‘Four’, as Wild was realizing he’d have to call the guy now, remained completely unfazed. “I’m aware.”

There was a cough from Hyrule. “...Divergent?”

The tips of Four’s ears colored a light pink. He gave his own cough, and waved the wrench in a dismissive arc that nearly took Ordon’s kneecap off. “Perish the thought.”

But Curly Link was not to be deterred. “No, no, I actually really like the book–”

“You can read?” Wild blurted. 

“—and— hey! That’s rude!”

“Says the guy who brought a flamethrower to a fight,” Sailor chimed in. He eyed Wild penetratingly. “And you don’t have to know how to read to enjoy books.”

Wild let his hand extend in the direction of the teenager-turned-only-adult-in-the-group-besides-Lon-Lon. “Link— Sailor— Buddy— I’m going to hold your hand when I tell you this…”

Sailor’s face immediately twisted in displeasure, hands raised as he backed away. “No thank you! I’m fourteen, not four!” he then paused, caught Four’s eye, and coughed. “Not you. You’re cool.”

“I know,” said Four in the mildest tone Wild had heard from someone so tiny. 

Ordon cleared his throat. “Ah hate ta interrupt, but ah’ve got a bull rifle out back an’ it seems like we’re goin’ for fists here.”

Wild took a cursory glance at the Kentuckian’s motorcycle. Sure enough, there was a large elephant rifle strapped to the side of the vehicle. Was that legal? Did he care? “Actually, my girlfriend suggested pool noodles, but we can totally do that too if you’re willing to have an armed battery charge on your record.”

Zelda had not, in fact, suggested pool noodles. But what Zelda wouldn’t know wouldn't hurt her. 

A beat passed. 

“Let’s make this quick,” said the tallest of them. Link wanted to call him “Shut-eye” on account of his, well, visibly shut right eye, but that seemed a bit mean considering the poor man would be forced to change his legal name in a few short minutes. “My wife expects me home by sundown.”

“It’s noon,” deadpanned Link. Liar, it was 12:13 pm, but who was counting? 

The crack of knuckles rang through the air. “Exactly.”

Part two anyone?

[fernslivers]

do you have any thoughts about mizu meeting a girl in london? maybe like a nobleman’s pretty daughter who’s somewhat similar to akemi.

maybe she’s arranged to be married to some rich man who had a hand in trading with japan, and mizu needs information from him, and reader volunteers to help her on the condition that mizu gets rid of the guy for her. she’d rather not marry a man at all, but especially not him.

unlikely friendship turns to romance? mizu realizing this girl is actually tough as nails under all the satin and silk ^^

really latched onto the butchfemme realness that is all my mizu ideas lately

Ooooooh, I DO have thoughts. This is a great prompt!!

This one is a longer timeline so I did a mix of prose and bulleted headcanons, I really hope that's okay! I could see this becoming another 10K fic and I just did not have the time for that atm 😭😭

I really hope you can enjoy the mix anyway, anon!!

TW: forced marriage, implied gross male behavior, man threatening a woman with a knife, canon-typical violence/murder

~~

Raised voices from the entrance hall catch your attention.

Before your music tutor can stop you, you slip from behind the virginals and scurry through the door, your train catching on the floor; in your haste to avoid being called back, you forgot to pick it up.

The upstairs hall opens onto a balcony that overlooks the entrance hall, which is where you can see the servants arguing loudly with someone at the door. You can hear them insisting repeatedly in English that “the lord”--your father–isn't home. A voice outside the door shouts again, louder, to be heard over them, “Routely. Where…is…Routely?”

Their English is accented, and both the name and the accent strike a chord in your chest.

Routely. Your betrothed–reluctantly on your part.

It's because of your betrothal that your father has insisted you learn Japanese, as a way to charm him, to show eagerness. Something you could have told him was worthless; Routely is clearly aware of your reluctance, and almost seems to enjoy it. It's bad enough to know you're soon going to be shackled to a man that could be your father, and even worse to know that he sees his bride’s discomfort and relishes it. You'd give almost anything to escape this wedding.

Still, you're curious; by that accent, this visitor is not from London. Your tutor, an equally disgusting fellow called Skeffington, was supplied through one of your betrothed’s networks, and he isn't Japanese, himself. You've never met anyone from there.

“Let them in,” you call down from above. The servants turn, looking startled to see you staring down from above, the picture of a haughty young Lady. They start scrambling to protest, even as they bow nervously.

“But–my Lady, your father isn't home–”

“It isn't appropriate–receiving men with no chaperone–”

“And you being betrothed–...”

“I said…” Your every syllable clinks with ice, “...Let them in.”

The servants look at each other; weighing the cost of direct disobedience to you versus the possible latter cost of getting blamed for this if it reaches your father’s ears.

Your temper is well-known. They bow again, and throw open the door.

The man that strides in takes your breath away. You reach out subtly to grasp the railing in front of you. Your face remains impassive, even as you convulsively squeeze the railing to power through the weakness in your knees. That stare, so intense… even with such a look of wary aggression in his face, suddenly you understand why any girl could possibly anticipate a wedding night with any joy.

“Welcome, sir,” you greet him in what you assume must be heavily accented Japanese. Despite that, you see his eyes widen, so he must understand. “My father is the lord here, but Sir Routely is my betrothed. Is there something I can help you with?”

At first, Mizu is just shocked to hear her mother tongue from a white face

It's pretty much the only reason she doesn't immediately get aggressive with you when she hears you're to be married to him

Of course, you invite “him” for tea, you're curious to know more about her country

And of course she accepts, she wants your information

Tea is extremely tense at first

You're so nervous that you come across as haughty and proper

Mizu reacts to this by being her usual snippy self, which, given your immediate crush, hurts your feelings a little

She sees your delicate face and all the jewels and silk, and can barely stop herself from scoffing right to your face

And you resent her obvious disdain, knowing there's more to you than the appearances you're required to keep up

Things make progress when she tries to congratulate you on your upcoming wedding

The combination of dread at the thought of it, your unhappiness about her snarking at you, and your sudden realization of feeling desire for the first time and knowing you'll never get to actually follow through, it's all too much

You burst into tears.

Mizu freezes, teacup halfway to her mouth, looking like a deer in the headlights

With Akemi, she knew exactly why the girl was crying, but why are you crying? What did she do??

You warble through your tears that you hate that man, he's horrible, you don't want to marry him, you don't want to marry any man at all, and he's the worst–

Mizu sets the cup down slowly, and then tries to figure out where that weird “handkerchief” thing went in these stupid foreign clothes.

She comes over to sit on the same couch as you (scandalizing!!) and blankly holds it out to you.

“I think we'll be more than able to help each other.”

Lo and behold, she's right.

She expected you to be upset by the idea of the murder, and is pleasantly surprised when you're onboard.

The problem is, you've really fought the whole “getting to know you” thing with Routely, so you just don't know much about where he goes or what his schedule is.

Mizu promises that if you agree to start acting more warmly with him, and try to plumb him for info, she'll definitely kill him before the wedding night.

You suggest that she replaces your old tutor, telling your father that she can teach you more flawless Japanese

Unbeknownst to Mizu, since you never mentioned his name, Skeffington slips through her fingers–for now.

(Skeffington is none too happy, as, secretly, he was using your house as a front for some of his trading, to make it harder to trace, and now he's lost access.)

You meet once a week.

Your father is elated that you’re finally taking your lessons seriously, and Mizu has to admit that drawing wages has helped her a lot with bribes and such for her work.

You give her whatever info that you have, and as a bonus, you teach her the customs she needs to blend in, along with a little more English

As it turns out, she did study the entire two-year journey, Fowler deliberately taught her bad pronunciation and incorrect etiquette just to fuck with her

Now that she has a friendly and helpful source of information and education in English, Fowler loses his bargaining chip.

BYE BYE.

The next week when she arrives, you notice a dried spot or two of blood on her doublet.

She freezes when you ask about it.

Oops

You don't scream or call for the guards, which impresses her, even if she thinks it's a little naive.

You just tell her she can't walk around like that, and insist she gives her doublet to you so you can clean the blood off it.

One thing leads to another–mayyyyybe you were a little hasty opening the door as she changed–and that's how your crush turns into Baby’s First Gay Panic

No wonder you finally felt desire for a man, if it wasn't a man!

This new level of secret-sharing just continues to deepen your friendship

Now you're kind, beautiful, clever, and you're helping her with her revenge, and you're fine with her gender?

Mizu might be swooning a little herself, but she tells herself that you’re a delicate flower, you're not meant to follow the path she does.

All the same, once a week starts to be not enough time together.

Instead of teaching you Japanese or learning English, Mizu wants to tell you about her home; about Ringo, and Sword-Father, and Madam Kaji and Akemi, even Taigen.

She even explains why the sword hanging at her waist looks so different from the sabers and other swords you're used to seeing the other men carry.

She wants you to know her, fully even if she doesn't understand why

And you open up about more than just Routely’s weekly information; your stifling upbringing, the odious behavior of your betrothed, the backstabbing, shallow friendships of upperclass female society.

Your allotted time flies by and you're not ready for her to leave.

So, she starts sneaking up the wall of the manor into your room. Sometimes during the day, sometimes in the evenings.

What else does she have to do? She only cares about getting her revenge. And seeing you.

You leave a specific statue on your windowsill wherever you're in your room and the coast is clear

This goes well for some time, and you're getting very close to a plan for Routely, when one day…

It's the day of a holiday, there's a festival going on in town. Your father is there presiding over it, many of the servants are given the day off to go to the fair. You plead off with a headache, already anticipating the luxury of a full day with Mizu.

You hear the telltale click of her tapping on the window to be let in. But just as you open the window for her, someone comes slamming through the door of your room.

Mizu ducks down quickly, out of sight, listening.

She hears you demand, “What do you think you're doing?” In your most snobbish tone of voice, and she would have smiled with amusement if she wasn't dangling perilously off the side of a building where anyone might see her.

Above, through the window, she hears: “Thought you'd put me out of a job, eh, little lady? Too good for my tutelage, with that pretty little nose in the air?”

You back away, groping behind you for the statue. “Get out, before I call my father.”

Your old tutor advances on you, his eyes glinting, a twisted smile on his face. A knife, thick and brutish, glints in his hand.

“You think old Skeffington is simple do you? Everyone is away, little girl… nobody here to save you now–”

A blur of blue whooshes past your face, and a metal clang echoes as Mizu’s sword is only barely blocked by the thick knife.

Skeffington falls back, shocked, but quickly recovers.

Mizu is extremely good, but Skeffington’s fighting style is very, very different, and she wasn't expecting a fight today.

In these damn constricting clothes, she can't maneuver like she wants to, and at an inopportune moment, she stumbles.

Skeffington tackles her, pinning her to the floor. She barely manages to grab his wrists before his knife plunges into her eye. The point dangles perilously, slowly starting to descend as his entire bodyweight gets out behind it.

She's kicking and thrashing, trying to get free, when suddenly–

THWACK

His eyes widen, then go unfocused, as he slumps, revealing you standing over them both with the bronze statue still raised for a second blow.

For a second, Mizu stares at you, beyond impressed, possibly a little turned on

…Before wasting no time, finishing the job without worrying about honor. This is her job–she only cares that they're all dead.

You watch without flinching, your mouth set in a grim line.

He deserved it.

When the deed is done, Mizu turns to you, and there's something lighter in her face, as though a heavy burden is lifting from her shoulders.

“Only one left,” she says, sounding almost in awe. She smiles at you with more peace than you've ever seen in her before. “I think the gods may have sent you to me.”

It should chill you to see her so happy after murder, but instead, you smile back. You feel the same way about her.

She stands, and despite the blood on her hands, she reaches out and grips yours. You squeeze back; the blood is shared between you now.

“We are very close to Routely, and then I'll be free,” she sighs, breathing in deeply.

But you feel a pang when her next words are “and i can go where i wish, perhaps home.”

Oh no

You try to keep your smile on your face, to be brave for her and not selfish, but you don't know what you'll do without her

But then, her grip tightens, and she tugs you a little closer.

She looks almost nervous, but determined, as your heart beats faster to feel the warmth of her body so close

“Come with me.” She says, and your eyes widen in such absolute shock and joy that you're speechless.

When you don't immediately respond, her expression crumbles ever so slightly, and she adds, very softly, “... please.”

You're kissing her before she can blink, and it's her turn to be in shock

But not for very long

The long, free day was put to good use in the end, after all.

[hetafice]

Can you do yandere!allies with an oblivious / insecure reader? I'd really love that -🪽

sure can! i included canada as well. enjoy below the cut!

England

At first, Arthur would assume you weren’t interested in him. In his eyes, there was no other explanation. He spent countless hours devising how to best court you, all to no avail. That can only mean one thing, right?

Finding out that you were oblivious to his feelings would be equal parts relieving and annoying for him.

It would give him a boost of confidence; he would try to reassure you to the best of his abilities, outlining why he likes you and why you should agree to let him take care of you, but he would struggle to do so gently. 

Expect a few callous words and unintentional insults. He would not intentionally hurt you (at least not at first). He is just not at all patient when it comes to you and wants to fast-forward to the part where you’re madly in love with him.

Arthur is not at all above engineering a situation where you need to be dependent on him. He craves having people look up to him and chase after his affections. He would love nothing more than to be in complete control of your emotions, knowing that he was the only one who could affect your mood or self-consciousness.

France

He is so upfront with you that it is impossible to remain unaware of his feelings.

Francis would not do anything to alleviate your insecurity, in fact, he might try to make it even worse. In his eyes this would be a perfect tool to control you, with you always chasing his validation, you would never step out of line.

He subtly and sporadically feeds into your insecurities over time until you are constantly seeking his reassurance. Francis, ever the romantic, would use this as a full license to shower you with open and public displays of affection. If he has his way, the whole world will know how deeply in love the two of you are.

You may love it or hate it, but with how badly you need his affection, you won’t ever have it in you to complain.

Russia 

Ivan is constantly looking for an excuse to place you under his care.

If you come to him about your insecurities, that’s all the better, it’ll save him the effort of manufacturing one. 

Someone or something must have poisoned your thoughts to make you so self-conscious. Ivan, being as kind and purehearted as he is, has to step in and re-educate you. It’s the right thing to do. A few months sequestered with him should do wonders for your self-confidence, no?

Or as oblivious to his feelings as you may be, his intentions will be made perfectly clear when the only person you can interact with is him. He’ll have all day to tell you about his feelings, and how the two of you are meant to be together, forever.

He isn’t above small gestures of affection to show that he cares. He’ll often think of you while the two of you are apart, bringing back the occasional well-thought-out gift. In his calmer moments, he will be sure to tell you how much he appreciates you being with him, regardless of whether or not you came by force.

Canada

Matthew finds everything about you incredibly endearing, flaws and all; and would move mountains to keep you happy. 

Any hint of self-doubt from you has him spiraling. At first, he would place all the blame on himself. Was he not attentive enough? Should he give you more compliments or gifts? Did you have feelings for someone else? After ruling all of those out, he settles on another possibility.

Being prone to overthinking, he would jump to conclusions, assuming someone had to have hurt you for you to act like this.

Having intimately understood what it feels like to be overlooked, this would set him off. Regardless of why you’re insecure, he’s going on a rampage, looking into your past and exacting revenge on anyone who has ever made you feel lesser. All of this is done without your knowledge, of course, he wouldn't want you to think he was overbearing.

Being shy himself, he could also understand you struggling to pick up on his subtle cues, but for you, he’s willing to overcome his own anxieties and confess his feelings for you.

China

Yao is an expert at reading people and understands your general character and personality traits soon after meeting you. 

Despite knowing that you may take a while to understand his intentions, or that you may deal with insecurity, he won’t try to overcompensate for that by being extra nice - his pride simply won’t allow him to.

He has the money and power to manipulate you right into his arms, but he needs you to come to him on your own, despite how badly he wants to rush the process.

No stranger to playing the long game, he’ll let you take as long as you need. He knows that he’s the only one for you. Forget a confession, he has always let his actions speak louder than words, and you are certainly no exception.

In your time of need, he will always be the first one there, helping you out for nothing in return, while always somehow knowing what you need the most.

Over time he may let a few of his more intense emotions slip out, just enough to let you notice, to help you understand how deeply he cares for you.

America

Alfred’s relatively short but storied time on this Earth has made him a deeply distrustful person.

There is not a single second where he is not at odds with someone, where he’s not fretting over a potential mistake or trying to plan against an inevitable betrayal.

Alfred is so outwardly showy that even the most oblivious person should be able to understand his feelings towards them.

To him, your refusal to accept his compliments or a lack of response to his teasing has to be some sort of mind game. You can’t think so poorly of yourself; this has to be some sort of tactic to endear yourself to him. Fine by him; he just assumes you enjoy the chase and finds it cute.

He may decide to up the ante, approaching you with increasingly grand romantic gestures. In this way, he’ll “play into your game” while also showcasing how ideal of a partner he can be. 

The longer you take to deliver a satisfactory reaction, the more intense he gets. He likes you, and he makes sure to tell you that at every opportunity, so what is it that you aren’t getting? Why haven’t you reciprocated anything? What else could he possibly do to get you to stop playing coy? 

Being as tenacious as he is, he’ll keep trying until you openly return his affections.

[yanderes-galore]

Some concept for yandere Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), please?

Sure! I ended up combining these two requests because how I end up writing Alastor is meant to be... unpredictable? He's a dubious pairing for me so you can argue most of his actions are already "platonic" as he wouldn't show any sign of real "attraction" anyways due to how he is. Hope you enjoy this regardless :)

Yandere! Alastor Concept

Pairing: Dubious (Leans Platonic?)

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulation, Possessive behavior, Violence, Sadism, Blood, Murder, Isolation, Soul deals, Stalking, Forced companionship/pairing.

Ah, Alastor, the radio demon.

The thing about Alastor is not many know his true intentions.

It's hard to tell what he wants and that's what makes him an unnerving character.

He acts amiable, charming, good-natured, playful...

But he's a sinner like no other.

He's an Overlord who has killed other Overlords and made deals with many.

He's probably one of the more intimidating characters not only in the show... but to have as a yandere too.

He doesn't see many as his equal.

He's sadistic, a fan of violence, and has an ego.

Alastor tends to hide true emotions and is only around to entertain himself.

The most interesting and scary part of his yandere is how unpredictable he is.

It's unknown why he's attached himself to you.

For one reason or another you've managed to catch his eye.

I would say for better or for worse...

But we all know it's for worse, right?

Alastor wouldn't tell you why he likes you, you can't pick up on it either.

He's just overly friendly with you.

In some way you could consider the radio demon your "friend".

He's capable of friendship, hopefully, considering how he is with Nifty, Rosie, and Mimzy.

Having Alastor on your side, no matter his intentions, is probably better than having him against you.

The demon is oddly attentive to you when he's attached.

You intrigue him and speaking to you is entertaining.

You're entertaining.

In fact, most of the time it just seems like he's around to entertain himself.

Or it looks like he wants something.

Alastor never seems to leave your side, always right behind you, laughing along to a conversation he was never a part of.

He just seems to insert himself into your life, never taking his red eyes off you.

You most likely first met as a member of the hotel.

You work to help Charlie, a task he finds amusing.

Alastor's darling just seems to be treated like a toy at times.

Although, as it progresses, he slowly begins to "care" more.

It's hard to tell what's genuine and what isn't.

Alastor has an intimidating aura around all demons.

Even you feel uneasy when he appears around you, always being charming as he strolls over.

It's like he's always playing a game.

You can never seem to find privacy without the radio demon appearing.

You could be speaking with Charlie, or anyone else really...

Then all of a sudden the radio demon wants to join in on the chatter.

A reason for his friendly and attentive behavior could simply just be because he wants a deal with you.

However... There's also times he just seems... protective?

It's more like he's possessive... Yet they're so similar.

Alastor may rarely let his true feelings slip, but there's times he sheds a bit of light on how he feels.

For example, Alastor loves to listen in on your conversations, as said before.

If Alastor heard someone speak of you negatively or threaten you... You notice his aura change.

It's that or if someone gets too close in general... be it flirtation or even just friendship.

Charlie hugging you or Angel playfully flirting with you for example...

It all seems to irritate Alastor to no end.

Maybe even to the point of the radio demon stepping in, clearing his throat as he tries to keep his temper in check.

Alastor is always watching, always listening.

You may not be his... but he observes you like you are.

He treats you like you are.

The only thing not making you his is a deal.

Which he'll find a way to get eventually.

Perhaps a reason Alastor likes you is because he likes control?

Maybe the radio demon gets a power trip when he chooses who can interact.

While intimidating and downright passive aggressive with others...

Alastor is surprisingly great with you.

He's friendly, always smiling, chatting you up whenever he has the chance.

He acts like a friend... Even if you're unsure if you can call him that.

Alastor may even notice your distrust, always thinking of ways to break down that wall between you.

While he isn't a fan of true emotions, he likes to see yours for some reason.

You may not fully trust him, yet he watches your smiles, frowns, everything.

For some reason you're just so fun to watch.

Alastor likes to dance with you for bonding.

You two are buddies, aren't you?

In that case, join him for a number, will you?

Hell, Alastor seems like the type to playfully tease his obsession.

He'll compliment you, be playful... Just to see your reactions.

He's playing with you.

Alastor is manipulative, often doing anything he can to get you guard down.

He's good at putting on a show, dancing with you and acting all nice.

Although, no matter how much he tries to convince you...

He still isolates you from conversations he dislikes, he watches your every move, he seems to be aggressive to those around you.

It's more like he's territorial than protective.

Alastor can get messy when it comes to his obsession.

We've seen in the show that he can turn many lesser demons into paste.

He's also killed Overlords.

So him being obsessed with you is unnerving, even dangerous.

Mostly because... Why would someone as powerful as him want you under his control?

Sure, he considers you both friends, but what does that mean when it comes to him?

A demon like him only brings violence and trouble.

Even those who know the demon well are stumped as to why he wants you.

Alastor asking you for your soul is expected.

In fact, you may have been waiting for that.

Why else would he be this nice?

Alastor would no doubt pressure his obsession into a soul deal to make them his.

Nothing quite says 'mine' like a chain around your neck.

However, Alastor will try to be patient to play his cards right.

He wants you to believe him.

He tries to promise you care and protection if you make a deal.

He treats you well and is respectful to you.

Yet you can somewhat tell what exactly he wants.

His obsession over you would start as intrigue and a sadistic curiosity.

But who knows, maybe over time the Alastor grows attached to your company.

Alastor doesn't genuinely love or care for many people.

Never has.

However... Perhaps he feels that way with you.

He cares for you in his own way.

He cares for you enough to watch over you, to kill for you, to isolate you... to make you his.

The last thing he needs to do to secure his bond with you is a soul deal.

Something he plans to coerce or force out of you.

Maybe he'd threaten to harm someone you care about if you don't.

Or maybe he'll bribe you.

Eventually, like the 'good friend' he is, he'll get you to sign that contract and give him your soul.

After that? Well, you're completely his to do what he pleases with.

Oh, but he won't force you to do anything else you may not want, darling.

No, this was all just a way to secure you to him.

He's now your companion to the end, isn't he?

He'll hold you, comfort you, treat you better than any other demon here can.

Why would he?

Well, you're his now.

Now no one else can touch what's his.

Which allows the demon to isolate you.

He won't let others speak to you for too long, always lurking around to watch you.

If they do, he'll call you away from them.

Why would you speak to anyone else?

Why would you need anyone else?

Isn't he the best friend you could ever have?

The best companion? The only one you need?

If you don't think so... Maybe he needs to correct how you think?

You don't want that, do you?

Alastor, no matter how much he calls you his friend and companion, is condescending.

He makes it seem like he owns you.

Sure, maybe he does care for you, yet he still isolates you.

He still keeps you all to himself.

There's no point in fighting him... why would you even need to?

He really is all you need... the perfect charming companion... you'll get used to being his, you have to.

[intimidating-fettuccine]

AHH OKAY what if there was Yandere Jeff and Tony who had a darling that was also a yandere for them? idk if you've answered this before

I know you meant Toby but seeing Tony made me laugh very hard (but I also misspell his name like that lol). Giving you some toxic yandere boys with equally toxic partners today <3 I hope you enjoy, I was pretty hyped for this request

Jeff:

Yandere Jeff wouldn't know what to do with himself in this situation. He's incredibly emotionally unstable in general, but he's also inherently distrustful of you, so he can't tell if you actually mean the affections you're trying to give him, or if you're trying to manipulate him. This will in the beginning cause a LOT of problems on your end, as Jeff's anger issues are going to skyrocket, and his physical abuse and violence toward you is going to increase for a little bit because his twisted brain tries to convince him you're just trying to trick him. However, you sit there and take it, because you love him. You always assure him that it's okay, that he can take as much time as he needs to believe you, and you'll still love him all the same, after all, his violence is another expression of his love for you. Your words following the beatings you receive are the thing that finally starts to crack Jeff's disbelief that you could possibly love him back, and over time, he'll calm the fuck down a bit, and be much less aggressive toward you.

However, the clinginess that occurs from this will be the replacement. He needs you right beside him, 24/7, with every single ounce of your attention. You love him, don't you? You said you wanted to be with him, didn't you? Then that means your brain should be filled with only thoughts of him, just as his is filled with only thoughts of you. Of course, you obey him, though. Being showered in his attention and having him spend so much time with you is all you've ever wished for, and now you get to be by his side forever. The new downside to this is that if you ever decide you don't want to be by his side for any amount of time, the anger comes back even worse than before. Why would you need space? He's the only thing you need in life, so why don't you want him? Were you lying to him? Were you trying to trick him? You're back at square one, but all the same, you'll subserviently take it, because your beloved is giving you all of his attention. So long as you're good and stay by his side, every moment of every day forever, you'll be just fine, physically, at least. Emotionally, or mentally? Perhaps not, with your obsessions feeding into each other and making you worse, but at least you're in love.

Toby:

I feel like this could go one of two ways. If you become a yandere for Toby BEFORE he ends up locking you up somewhere, I feel like he'd actually be a much more tolerable yandere than I traditionally write him as. He's got the reassurance, from how clingy you are with him, how you're always checking in on him so obsessively, how you've got the same possessive look in your eyes that he has when he looks at you. In this instance, I don't think he'd feel the need to chain you up somewhere. You're already with him as often as you can be, begging to be by his side just as he begs to be by yours, so he feels secure. He could continue living in the mansion (although of course, everyone notices how codependent and toxic your relationship seems, even just from the outside where they don't even see everything), and be completely content to continue living "normally" with you. So long as you continue to have only eyes for him, and allow him to control pretty much every single aspect of your life willingly, he doesn't get too bad compared to someone like Jeff.

But then, there's the second way, and if you only become a yandere for him AFTER he locks you away, he will be far, far worse. By the time you're chained up where he hides you, he's already escalated to breaking your legs to prevent you from escaping and enjoying his love for biting into you and causing you physical pain and suffering. If you become a yandere for him during this, it's going to reinforce in his brain that he's doing the right thing. He might stop breaking your legs after a certain period of time, sure, but his other violent tendencies only increase. You like it, don't you? How he looks covered in your blood, the pain he forces you to feel, you enjoy it so much, don't you? Of course you do. You've become so conditioned into it that you don't even resist him anymore. You allow him to mark and ruin your body in any way that he wants to because he's just showing you how much he loves you. You love him too, so it's only fair you willfully accept anything he has to offer you, and you do so with no resistance. He's so overjoyed that you've finally learned to accept your place beneath him, and it only encourages the twisted, broken parts of his mind, but you don't really mind. After all, your mind is starting to look the exact same way, and it makes you both quite euphoric.

[kindaasrikal]

Absolutely everything in season 3 is furthering my opinion of how desensitised the ninja have become to things that are unbelievably tragic and traumatising.

That includes their reunions that i thought would be built up on in more private moments, their overall treatment of Jay’s situation, Pixal’s reaction to Zane being severely injured compared to Zane’s own lack of care as well as how likely it is he never told the others, and Lloyd’s everything, especially his ‘death’ in part 1 and the detached sadness and acceptance from having both Arin and Sora leave.

I think this is further supported by the idea that literally all of the new ninja are shown as incredibly more emotional, feeling grief and sadness more often/strongly than the others have been shown, as well as Ras’s justification for taking Jay in and making the ninja feel guilty in the tournament.

And i acknowledge the Ras was absolutely manipulating all of them collectively but he recognised the issue and knew its a sore spot but the ninja seemed really tired by the thought. Tired isn’t really the best word since i can’t think of another but it’s like the feelings hit but they’re just so used to it??

And i also acknowledge that the ninja DO feel guilt and regret and hurt and sadness, its more on the fact that they seemed to have gotten so used to it that they don’t really know what the appropriate way to react now is other than a quick ‘this is bad’ to another quick ‘this is getting better-aw man we gotta save the world.’

Its interesting to watch and see because they’ve still got their personalities, they’re still themselves beneath it all.

But its as if we’re finally seeing the actual affect of all those years of shared, continuous trauma.

It’s important to note that if the case was they all faced their trauma’s individually and didn’t actively see others suffering they’d probably actually be worse off, as people feel more safe and comfortable and at ease knowing there’s others who understand what they’ve been through. There’s also a possible setback to that though in that eventually you might place less importance or weight into the trauma you faced if you’re not told that this is still something that was bad even if others have gone through it as well. This isn’t something to be treated normally as if there was no trauma you faced, and moving on and growing doesn’t mean you become desensitised.

What worse is that people may take this and blame Wu, but it’s literally a cycle at this point. Who knows how the Fsm reacted or treated his trauma when i doubt he actually had many people he could talk to or even feel equal too. Garmadon is Garmadon obviously but the ninja haven’t been around him as often as they have with Wu, who was in the same exact position as them. Saving people constantly and sacrificing your own well being for the greater good, eventually becoming desensitised and not realising how you’ve begun to put less weight into everything that’s happened to you and therefore not as much weight onto other’s trauma as long as your alive and around them.

I mean have we ever really seen a big reaction to Wu losing his brother who he loved constantly over years? Not anymore. It’s equal to the ninja’s own reactions in the fact that they care and it hurts, but it’s mixed with a sense of familiarity.

Let’s look at it in the perspective of how they react or treat Jay’s whole situation. Reminder that i have not watched dr season 3 part 2, but i have seen some talk about it.

We all noticed how the ninja obviously do care about the situation with Jay, but they also seem so much calmer than most would think they would when handling such a situation. Not calm in the sense that they’re like ‘aww okay guess Jay’s lost his memory, we’ll fix that eventually’ but in the sense that they feel the weight of the situation on them and they��re just used to it.

And like, they are.

Imagine the weird effect that would actually have on Jay/Rogue because this guys has this trauma and its his ONLY trauma and its effecting him greatly and you have the ninja giving weirdly mixed signals.

Imagine Zane just going like “Jay, i understand what you’re going through. The pain and suffering of not knowing who you are will always haunt me like how it is you, but it doesn’t mean you cannot heal and grow into becoming someone you love.”

And Jay’s literally about to cry or crash out and then “-Anyways, i think theres a bomb in the monastery, do you wanna go fix that with me?? If not we can bake cookies instead later :D” as if he didn’t just drop the most jaw dropping advice and lore drop ever.

Man they gotta get some serious therapy the ninja might just die and act like nothing happened atp.

Season 3 part1: well.

MANNNNN this got unbearably long and it’s probably horribly written to the point I’m either completely wrong and sounds like a mess or my point just doesn’t even come across. Forgive me i have gotten lazy 🙏

[pillow-anime-talk]

injured s/o.

synopsis: You were a bit clumsy, but luckily your partner knew first aid. But they had to be careful because both of you know... they were a ghoul.

# tags: headcanons; current relationships; light romance; a bit of drama; also slight fluff; human!reader; mention of blood and wounds; maybe suggestive

includes: gender neutral reader ft. shuu tsukiyama, ken kaneki, touka kirishima, rize kamishiro, ayato kirishima & nishiki nishio {tokyo ghoul}

— SHUU

↘ He instantly smells your delicious blood and almost cries at the sight of the knife covered in red liquid and the onions that were supposed to be part of your disgusting human dinner.

↘ He’s trying hard not to eat your tender, sweet flesh, but after a short breath, he finds a first aid kit and then scolds you from top to bottom. His touch is tender, even though you are well aware that Shuu is holding back all his senses from killing and eating you. He’s a simple man, a bloodthirsty ghoul, so don’t be shocked. Of course he won’t hurt you, but... you never know.

↘ After applying the bandage, he’ll probably lick his fingers to taste your blood, and he feels as if he’s reached the highest level of ecstasy. 

↘ Your blood tastes like the sweetest chocolate, the ripest peach, the best wine, like coffee from the most expensive beans. He almost faints at the thought of you being filled with this dark ruby and delicious ambrosia.

↘ “... Thank you for your help, Shuu-kun.” You smile slightly, touching his arm with your hand. The man just nods, kissing your forehead, then disappears from your view as he enters the bathroom to take a cool shower and calm his farious thoughts.

— KEN

↘ Black Reaper doesn’t show affection to others, unless we are talking about his beloved partner. Then it’s completely different, still dangerous and uncertain, but with you, Kaneki takes off the mask of a dark, vulgar and cruel ghoul.

↘ “May I come in?” He asks softly as your small apartment starts to smell of your sweet like honey blood. Ken tightens his fingers on the doorknob and then enters the room as soon as you let him. One drop of blood escapes from your index finger. You cut yourself with a piece of paper while writing an essay. You look uncertainly at the black-haired man, but you don’t see any negative lust in his eyes. On the contrary, Ken looks worried. “Everything’s all right, love?”

↘ You reply that it’s just a scratch and that you’re fine. Your boyfriend offers you a bandage though, and you smile at him, lightly pressing his body against yours.

↘ “Thank you.” You reply quietly, and he only wonders why. That he didn’t kill you? That he didn’t tear your body in half? That you’re still alive? “... Thank you for being there for me.” His eyes close and he snuggles tighter against your weak, human body.

— TOUKA

↘ Touka is calm and the first thing she will think of is hydrogen peroxide and bandage. She’s not interested in your body, though of course your blood smells like a field of orchids and poppies. This fragrance evokes sentimental memories in her mind.

↘ She examines your wound with the greatest tenderness, and then, equally calmly and without haste, cleans it of any dirt and puts on a professional lint. Her gaze expresses many emotions, none of which are related to her ghoul nature.

↘ “Better now, Y/N?” Dark-haired girl asks calmly, while her hand squeezing yours. You nod your head a bit in response to her brief question and she smiles softly. “Would you like some coffee?” She asks another question, and you nod once more, thanking her for help.

↘ Tonight was full of tenderness and assurances that Touka would never hurt you.

— RIZE

↘ He behaves similarly to Tsukiyama, maybe even worse. The sight of your blood is like a lighter to spilled gasoline. She can’t control herself and runs away as far as possible so as not to hurt you. After all, you are her beloved lover, her little treasure. She can’t afford such a disgusting moment of frailty.

↘ You bandage yourself and expect her return, even though you know it may take several days.

↘ Rize is disgustingly weak when it comes to you; after all you are her greatest drug and probably if she only tasted a drop of your blood or was in the same room with you for a bit longer, she would definitely throw herself at you.

↘ The relationship with her is quite dangerous, but you feel happy with her. Maybe it’s stupid and life threatening, but you really can’t imagine your own life without this beautiful and graceful woman.

— AYATO

↘ He snorts with laughter when your apartment starts to smell like blood. When he enters the bathroom, he sees that you’ve cut yourself shaving and a few drops of blood run down your still wet skin.

↘ “If a razor beats you that much, then seriously consider my proposal to turn you into a ghoul, kitten.” The sarcasm in his voice is strong and you just roll your eyes. You quickly wash the wounds with a cotton swab and water, then find the plaster.

↘ “You know very well that I am the biggest enjoyer of fried rice with vegetables and lasagna. There is no way I will give up these human goods to eat human flesh.” You grimaced at the thought, which made the black-haired man laugh lightly one more time. “You should help me instead of laughing, dumb boy.”

↘ “Hmm... Nope, nah.” He waved at you and then went back to watching TV, calmly waiting for you to come over and lie down next to him.

— NISHIKI

↘ He cares a lot about you; you are the most important person in his life, so the sight of your tear-stained face and chafes on your knees from falling down the stairs is a hard sight for him.

↘ So he takes you into his arms and leads you to the bedroom, where he treats your wounds with the greatest precision with disinfectant spray and bruise ointment. He talks to you a lot during this moment, almost forgetting that he is a ghoul. For sure, a few years ago he would have jumped on you without much thought, just to end your suffering.

↘ Afterwards, he smiles slightly and offers to order you something good to eat to make you feel better. You’ll agree, although you’re asking for a moment of tenderness and a few kisses. 

↘ You’re definitely too cute.

[0viraptoraskblog]

I wonder which of the characters would like to have a child? Lawrence is sterile as far as I know. And since Ren has heats, maybe he would like to??? (thanks for your blog, it helps a lot! health and happiness to you)

Thank you! ^^

While I don’t think any of the characters would be big on having kids, there are a few who would be more or less likely in my mind.

Lawrence: I don’t think Law would do good with kids, even if he could have them. You’re correct that he’s sterile. Other people are not his thing, and young people who don’t understand as much (likely to point and stare at him, loud and unpredictable, asks a lot of questions, etc..) are even worse. I think his interactions with peers as a child (being outcast, constant bullying) and his aversion to kids in general would make him stay away. Also, the act of creating a kid. He has to work his way up to that before even considering the outcome.

Ren: As for Ren; he does have heats, and I think his breeding kink really kicks in at that time. It’s a hormonal thing, he can’t exactly help it— but when he’s in heat, that’s all he thinks about. He needs to get you pregnant, to have kits, to further his bloodline. (even if you’re amab, he’s not thinking straight during that week. It’s like a lustful delirium. He’ll try anyway.) And you look so good to him while in heat, how can he resist?

Outside of his heats though, I don’t think he’s ever had this ‘dream’ of having kids. However, I think he might be one of the most likely characters to have children. On better paths, Ren is capable of more ‘normal’ romantic love. Unlike Strade, who seeks out victims mainly for entertainment, Ren does want some kind of relationship. He wants someone to care for, who cares about him too. I think if he was on a nicer path and had someone he truly loved, he might consider starting a family. (I think that if he ever did, he’d be the type to have 3-4 kids instead of just 1 or 2). Once he starts thinking about the idea more, I think the thought of having kits of his own would make him very happy. It would give him something mundane to strive for, rather than blood and torture. He’d pamper his partner extra well too, on behalf of the little ones. He can be very caring in that regard. And yes, I said kits ;)

Outside of a loving relationship, if it was more of the master/pet that we see in BTD2, I don’t think he’d force kids on someone just because he wants them. If he even did. Yeah, that breeding kink is still engraved in his mind, and he may talk about getting you pregnant (if possible) when in a ‘mood’— but I don’t think he’d actually want children in reality. He knows how serious of a decision that is, even when on a dark path.

So Ren depends on a lot of things.

Strade: I don’t think Strade would want to be a dad. Kids canonically don’t interest him, and he clearly has different ideas of ‘love’ than normal people. I think if he did have kids (maybe on accident, with a kept MC? You know he doesn’t use protection) he’d be a somewhat okay dad, not great, but decent. Not as horrible as you’d think. I don’t see him ever wanting kids though. He’s satisfied with himself and what he does. And his pets! What else could he ever need? :)

Another one I think might want kids, though, is actually Mason. He’s a fairly traditional guy. We know he’s capable of true love, even though it’s skewed a little or a lot by his uh.. views on the world, he can still fall in love. I think if he found someone he loves and views as an equal (not as prey) he’d like the idea of having a family. He’d like having someone to provide for, and to come home to after a long day of hunting. I can picture him as a proud dad taking his (older) kid into the woods with him, teaching them how to start fires the right way or built snares. He has a lot of ‘wisdom’ to pass down.

Those are the ones that come to mind. I hope you don’t mind I sort of rambled, I just love these kind of questions ^^

And remember these are just my thoughts/headcanons, nothing serious :)

[mostlysignssomeportents]

American education has all the downsides of standardization, none of the upsides

Catch me in Miami! I'll be at Books and Books in Coral Gables on Jan 22 at 8PM.

We moved to America in 2015, in time for my kid to start third grade. Now she's a year away from graduating high school (!) and I've had a front-row seat for the US K-12 system in a district rated as one of the best in the country. There were ups and downs, but high school has been a monster.

We're a decade and a half into the "common core" experiment in educational standardization. The majority of the country has now signed up to a standardized and rigid curriculum that treats overworked teachers as untrustworthy slackers who need to be disciplined by measuring their output through standard lessons and evaluations:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Common_Core

This system is rigid enough, but it gets even worse at the secondary level, especially when combined with the Advanced Placement (AP) courses, which adds another layer of inflexible benchmarks to the highest-stakes, most anxiety-provoking classes in the system:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Advanced_Placement

It is a system singularly lacking in grace. Ironically, this unforgiving system was sold as a way of correcting the injustice at the heart of the US public education system, which funds schools based on local taxation. That means that rich neighborhoods have better funded schools. Rather than equalizing public educational funding, the standardizers promised to ensure the quality of instruction at the worst-funded schools by measuring the educational outcomes with standard tools.

But the joke's on the middle-class families who backed standardized instruction over standardized funding. Their own kids need slack as much as anyone's, and a system that promises to put the nation's kids through the same benchmarks on the same timetable is bad for everyone:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/11/28/give-me-slack-2/

Undoing this is above my pay-grade. I've already got more causes to crusade on than I have time for. But there is a piece of tantalyzingly low-hanging fruit that is dangling right there, and even though I'm not gonna pick it, I can't get it out of my head, so I figured I'd write about it and hope I can lazyweb it into existence.

The thing is, there's a reason that standardization takes hold in so many domains. Agreeing on a common standard enables collaboration by many entities without any need for explicit agreements or coordination. The existence of the ANSI/SAE J563 standard automobile auxiliary power outlet (AKA "car cigarette lighter") didn't just allow many manufacturers to make replacement lighter plugs. The existence of a standardized receptacle delivering standardized voltage to standardized contacts let all kinds of gadgets be designed to fit in that socket.

Standards crystallize the space of all possible ways of solving a problem into a range of solutions. This inevitably has a downside, because the standardized range might not be optimal for all applications. Think of the EU's requirement for USB-C charger tips on all devices. There's a lot of reasons that manufacturers prefer different charger tips for different gadgets. Some of those reasons are bad (gouging you on replacement chargers), but some are good (unique form-factor, specific smart-charging needs). USB-C is a very flexible standard (indeed, it's so flexible that some people complain that it's not a standard at all!) but there are some applications where the optimal solution is outside its parameters.

And still, I think that the standardization on USB-C is a force for good. I have drawers full of gadgets that need proprietary charger tips, and other drawers full of chargers with proprietary tips, and damned if I can make half of them match up. We've continued our pandemic lockdown tradition of my wife cutting my hair in the back yard, and just tracking the three different charger tips for the three clippers she uses is an ongoing source of frustration. I'd happily trade slightly sub-optimal charging for just being able to plug any of those clippers into the same cable I charge my headphones, phone, tablet and laptop on.

The standardization of American education has produced all the downsides of standardization – a rigid, often suboptimal, one-size-fits-all system – without the benefits. With teachers across America teaching in lockstep, often from the same set texts (especially in the AP courses), there's a massive opportunity for a commons to go with the common core.

For example, the AP English and History classes my kid takes use standard texts that are often centuries old and hard to puzzle out. I watched my kid struggle with texts for learning about "persuasive rhetoric" like 17th century pamphlets that inspired anti-indigenous pogroms with fictional accounts of "Indian atrocities."

It's good for American schoolkids to learn about the use of these blood libels to excuse genocide, but these pamphlets are a slog. Even with glossaries in the textbooks, it's a slow, word-by-word matter to parse these out. I can't imagine anyone learning a single thing about how speech persuades people just by reading that text.

But there's nothing in the standardized curriculum that prevents teachers from adding more texts to the unit. We live in an unfortunate golden age for persuasive texts that inspire terrible deeds – for example, kids could also read core Pizzagate texts and connect the guy who shot up the pizza parlor to the racists who formed a 17th century lynchmob.

But teachers are incredibly time-constrained. For one thing, at least a third of the AP classroom time seems to be taken up with detailed instructions for writing stilted, stylized "essays" for the AP tests (these are terrible writing, but they're easy to grade in a standardized way).

That's where standardization could actually deliver some benefits. If just one teacher could produce some supplemental materials and accompanying curriculum, the existence of standards means that every other teacher could use it. What's more, any adaptations that teachers make to that unit to make them suited to their kids would also work for the other teachers in the USA. And because the instruction is so rigidly standardized, all of these materials could be keyed to metadata that precisely identified the units they belonged to.

The closest thing we have to this are "marketplaces" where teachers can sell each other their supplementary materials. As far as I can tell, the only people making real money from these marketplaces are the grifters who built them and convinced teachers to paywall the instructional materials that could otherwise form a commons.

Like I said, I've got a completely overfull plate, but if I found myself at loose ends, trying to find a project to devote the rest of my life to, I'd be pitching funders on building a national, open access portal to build an educational commons.

It may be a lot to expect teachers to master the intricacies of peer-based co-production tools like Git, but there's already a system like this that K-8 teachers across the country have mastered: Scratch. Scratch is a graphic programming environment for kids, and starting with 2019's Scratch 3.0, the primary way to access it is via an in-browser version that's hosted at scratch.mit.edu.

Scratch's online version is basically a kid- (and teacher-)friendly version of Github. Find a project you like, make a copy in your own workspace, and then mod it to suit your own needs. The system keeps track of the lineage of different projects and makes it easy for Scratch users to find, adapt, and share their own projects. The wild popularity of this system tells us that this model for a managed digital commons for an educational audience is eminently achievable.

So when students are being asked to study the rhythm of text by counting the numbers of words in the sentences of important speeches, they could supplement that very boring exercise by listening to and analyzing contemporary election speeches, or rap lyrics, or viral influencer videos. Different teachers could fork these units to swap in locally appropriate comparitors – and so could students!

Students could be given extra credit for identifying additional materials that slot into existing curricular projects – Tiktok videos, new chart-topping songs, passages from hot YA novels. These, too, could go into the commons.

This would enlist students in developing and thinking critically about their curriculum, whereas today, these activities are often off-limits to students. For example, my kid's math teachers don't hand back their quizzes after they're graded. The teachers only have one set of quizzes per unit, and letting the kids hold onto them would leak an answer-key for the next batch of test-takers.

I can't imagine learning math this way. "You got three questions wrong but I won't let you see them" is no way to help a student focus on the right areas to improve their understanding.

But there's no reason that math teachers in a commons built around the (unfortunately) rigid procession of concepts and testing couldn't generate procedural quizzes, specified with a simple programming language. These tests could even be automatically graded, and produce classroom stats on which concepts the whole class is struggling with. Each quiz would be different, but cover the same ground.

When I help my kid with her homework, we often find disorganized and scattered elements of this system – a teacher might post extensive notes on teaching a specific unit. A publisher might produce a classroom guide that connects a book to specific parts of the common core. But these are scattered across the web, and they aren't keyed to the specific, standard components of common core and AP.

This is a standardized system that is all costs, no benefits. It has no "architecture of participation" that lets teachers, students, parents, practitioners and even commercial publishers collaborate to produce a commons that all may share and improve upon.

In an ideal world, we'd get rid of standardization in education, pay teachers well, give them the additional time they needed to prepare exciting and relevant curriculum, and fund all our schools based on need, not parents' income.

But in the meanwhile, we could be making lemonade of out lemons. If we're going to have standardization, we should at least have the collaboration standards enable.

I'm Kickstarting the audiobook for The Bezzle, the sequel to Red Team Blues, narrated by @wilwheaton! You can pre-order the audiobook and ebook, DRM free, as well as the hardcover, signed or unsigned. There's also bundles with Red Team Blues in ebook, audio or paperback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/16/flexibility-in-the-margins/#a-commons

[rottenpumpkin13]

What if the entire Shinra Building was suddenly left without electricity on an unbearably hot day with no backup power supplies? (the irony and absurdity of the whole situation seems kinda funny 🤭)

The Heat Wave From Hell (Literally)

• The hottest day in Midgar arrives with the worst scenario possible: all the power, including generators and backup systems, is down in the Shinra building—and in the Shinra building alone. It would be easy to leave and find another place in Midgar with air conditioning while the power gets fixed, but everyone has obligations and work that keep them there. Surprisingly, everyone is handling it well.

*Genesis walks into the SOLDIER lounge and sees everyone in various stages of suffering—with Angeal being the most prominent, since he's laying on the floor in only his uniform pants*

Genesis: Goddess, you look terrible.

Angeal: Aren't you hot?? Why are you still in full uniform?

Genesis: As if I would abandon the dress code and my gorgeous coat for a bit of mild heat. You're all overreacting.

*Kunsel passes out in the corner*

Genesis:

*Sephiroth appears out of nowhere with a watering can and pours it over his corpse*

Genesis: !?

Angeal: Sephiroth, what are you doing?

Sephiroth: Hydration is crucial in combating this heat. Not drinking enough water will lead to dehydration, which can cause dizziness, confusion, heat stroke, and eventually death.

Genesis: Oh please. That's what weak people tell themselves to make peace with the fact they can't handle a little heat.

Angeal: You're sweating, do you know that?

Genesis: You're hallucinating.

Angeal:

*Just then, Zack drags in Cloud—literally, by the legs, because the man is passed out*

Zack: Good news! I found Spike and he's just as close to dying as I said he'd be.

Cloud: My body isn't built to endure heat. Summer in Nibelheim was equal to autumn here.

*Sephiroth offers Cloud a water bottle*

Cloud: Thanks, but I don't drink water unless it's cold.

Sephiroth: Hydration is crucial in combating this heat. Not drinking enough water will lead to dehydration, which can cause dizziness, confusion, heat stroke, and eventually death.

*Cloud starts tapping his forehead*

Sephiroth: What are you doing?

Cloud: Trying to find the off button.

• Zack takes Cloud to Angeal's office since the window there is huge and allows air flow.

*Cloud is rocking back and forth*

Cloud: I can't take this much longer. I can feel my sanity slowly slipping away. Why don't we use ice materia to cool off?

Zack: Because all the materia in the building is being used by the president and the board to keep them cool.

Sephiroth, appearing in the doorway: Inequality. Unfair distribution of resources. The rich bask in their cool environment and leave the rest of us to endure unnecessary suffering.

Cloud: Where did you even come from!?

Sephiroth: Drink the w a t e r.

*Zack shuts the door*

Zack: We don't have materia, but I got the next best thing!

*Zack pulls out a container of dry ice*

Zack: Ta-da! Look at what I got from Kunsel!

Cloud: Uhh....isn't that toxic?

Zack: Huh. I don't know. I'll go ask Genesis since he knows about chemistry.

*Zack opens the door*

Sephiroth: In extreme heat conditions, dehydration can lead to serious health complications and death within a matter of—

*Zack shuts the door*

Zack: Eh, we should be fine. Hey, let's go put these in the vents and cool the place up!

Cloud: Good idea!

• The heat seems to be getting worse. Sephiroth continues to make his rounds around the SOLDIER floor, insisting that people drink water, Genesis refuses to part with his leather, and Angeal is slowly losing what little sanity he has.

Angeal: I'm sweating so much, I feel like I'm melting. I smell like a zoo. I can't wait until the tower has cold water again so I can take a cold shower.

*Sephiroth offers him a bottle of water*

Sephiroth: I believe you will benefit from drinking some water.

Genesis, hyperventilating and sweating: Well, I'm not even bothered.

Angeal: JUST TAKE THE COAT OFF

Sephiroth: Drink the water.

Genesis: NEVER

Sephiroth: Drink the water.

Angeal: YOU WILL DIE

Sephiroth: Drink the water.

genesis: FASHIONABLY AND WITH DIGNITY

Sephiroth: Drink the water.

Angeal: DON'T BE A CHIL—IF YOU DON'T GET THAT WATER OUT OF MY FACE, SEPHIROTH, I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL TIE YOU TO THE CEILING BY YOUR HAIR.

Sephiroth: ........

• Angeal can't take it anymore and leaves. He heads towards the break room, where it's so hot, people have started taking frozen items from the break room freezer and are applying them to their bodies to cool off. This angers Angeal greatly.

*Angeal watches Kunsel walk off with a pack of frozen bacon on his neck*

Angeal: Guys, I get that it's hot, but there's no need for this!

*He watches Roche walk away with a bag of frozen french fries on his head*

Angeal: This is such a waste of food!

*Cloud walks by, rubbing frozen peas all over himself*

Angeal: Cloud, don't—

Cloud: IF YOU TAKE MY PEAS I'LL KILL A MAN

Angeal:

*Sephiroth comes up to them with a knife*

Sephiroth: Hydration or castration.

Angeal: Shiva's tits.

• Zack is sure his dry ice plan is fool-proof, but he wants to consult Genesis first. So he finds him in the data room….spinning on an office chair.

*Zack walks up to Genesis*

Zack: Hey Gen, how much dry ice can I put in the vents without it becoming toxic?

Genesis: If you pour the the dry ice in your lungs it'll taste like ice cream and you can then meet the goddess in another plane.

Zack: …..what?

Genesis: The goddess won't judge you for your sins if you find a raccoon and raise it to become a race car driver.

Zack: This is bad! You're delirious from the heat!

Genesis: Sometimes I wonder how many screwdrivers it takes to bake a cake but then I remember that the mako tastes sweeter if Sephiroth spits it into your mouth like a mother bird feeding her young.

Zack: Man, I know exactly what you mean.

• Zack goes through with his plan, but as the cool air hits his face, he starts having doubts—what if the amount he put in was too much? What if he poisons everyone? Better go tell Lazard before things get out of hand.

*Zack runs up to Lazard, who's struggling to cool himself off with a small, battery-powered fan*

Zack: We have a problem! I tried to cool the entire level by placing dry ice in the vents, but I accidentally put too much and it became toxic!

Lazard: Dry ice doesn't just become toxic like that, Zack. I'm sure it's all in your head. Try to relax and handle the heat wave in a civilized manner like everyone else.

*Angeal tackles Genesis to the ground and is trying to force him out of the leather coat*

Genesis: A BEAR IS ATTACKING ME!

Angeal: TAKE THAT DAMN COAT OFF. YOU'RE GONNA HAVE A STROKE!

Genesis: A BEAR IS FORCING ME TO UNDRESS!

Angeal: YOU'RE DELIRIOUS!

*Sephiroth appears with a hose and starts spraying the two of them with water*

Lazard: When this is all over, I will be taking an extended vacation where I will try various calming, illicit substances and none of you will hear from me for six months.

Zack:

• It turns out the amount of dry ice Zack put in the vents was too much, forcing them to evacuate the entire level and regroup in the Skyview Lounge. Word is that they're working on restoring the power, but in the meantime, everyone has to wait there. Meanwhile, Zack is growing increasingly worried about Genesis, and since Angeal has washed his hands with the situation, Zack turns to Sephiroth for help.

*Zack finds Sephiroth in the crowd and runs up to him, dragging Genesis along*

Zack: We have a problem! Genesis is delirious and making no sense.

Genesis: If you grind black pepper and place it in your socks, the ground will taste like cheese when you eventually walk the path to self discovery.

Sephiroth: That's because not drinking enough water will lead to dehydration, which can cause dizziness....

*Genesis sways in place*

Sephiroth: Confusion....

Genesis: Where did we hide the pet parrot who told everyone my secrets and cooked excellent omurice?

Sephiroth: Heat stroke....

*Zack feels Genesis' forehead*

Zack: OW THAT'S HOT

Sephiroth: And eventually death.

*Genesis faints*

Zack: !!!

Sephiroth: Wow. If only we had listened to Sephiroth and DRANK THE FUCKING WATER.

Zack:

Sephiroth:

Zack: Cool your tits, man.

[ghostlynightpanda]

HELLO AGAIN! was wondering if u could do an aguni x chubby reader fic where like the chubby reader doesn't look like she's strong/can fight but she actually can ✊ (again, if u don't feel comfortable doing a chubby reader u can always switch!) take ur time and have a good day/night!

A/n: I tried my best to write chubby reader, I hope you like it! Also, it's probably ooc Aguni, since I never wrote for him before.

Aguni - Tower of Terror

synopsis: In a deadly survival game, you and Aguni battle through a collapsing tower filled with ruthless enemies, pushing your limits to claim victory. As blood is shed and survival instincts take over, an unexpected bond begins to form in the midst of chaos.

Warnings/Content: Aguni x fem!reader, description of violence and blood, character death

The world was ending. Or it had already ended, but that equaled the same thing, right?

This place was an exact replica of Tokyo, maybe even the whole world, but you never ventured beyond the city's borders to confirm. It was like a ghost town. No people were to be seen, except during the games.

That was the biggest difference. Everyone here was just a visitor in this world, bound by visas that would eventually expire. And if they did expire?

Boom.

A laser through the head.

Dead.

To extend your visa, you had to play deadly games. If you survived, your visa was extended by the number on the card you played.

Every game was different. You had survived seven games so far—seven agonizing, terrifying, and brutal games. You weren't sure how you had made it through, but somehow, you did.

Well enough that the Beach had taken you in. The Beach was a supposed sanctuary, a safe haven for the best players. Not for everyone—only those skilled enough to contribute. It was a former beach resort turned into a survivalist compound, housing around seventy players.

Now, you stood before a towering structure, waiting for the next game to begin. You had arrived with two others from the Beach. Survivors were always split into different groups to gather cards more efficiently. But that didn’t mean you were allies. Betrayal was a possibility in every game, and so was murder.

A metallic voice announced the start.

Seven of Clubs. A team battle.

Players had to fight their way up the multi-floor tower to reach the top. Every three levels, the threats intensified. Any floor left uncleared within the time limit would collapse, dooming anyone still inside.

"Don't get in our way," one of the militants snarled. "Not that I think you have a chance anyway," he eyed you with an amused smirked, clearly expecting you to not be able to fight or run. Well, he was in for a surprised if he'd underestimate you.

The militants were the Beach's enforcers. The only ones allowed to carry weapons. They were meant to uphold order, but most of them abused their power, taking whatever they wanted without consequences.

You met his glare but remained silent. There was no point in provoking him. Especially since the other person here was their leader, Aguni. He probably wouldn't hesitate to back his own.

"Let's go," Aguni ordered.

Twelve players stepped through the first door.

The first three floors were manageable—basic combatants wielding bats and pipes, runners who tried to grab and hold players in place, and deadly traps like spike walls and drop floors. Three people died almost immediately, but none of them were from your group.

Floors four through six were worse. Sword-wielding enemies fought in synchronized formations, and snipers forced players to either take cover or keep moving. You had managed to grab a bat from one of the fallen enemies, which helped with defense. But the snipers were another issue entirely. Running and dodging under fire was exhausting. You were strong, but speed had never been your strong suit. Every step felt heavier, sweat dampening your clothes. Your breath came in sharp, labored gasps.

Only five of you remained when you reached the eleventh floor.

"How the hell did you make it this far?" the militant sneered, eyeing you with disdain as he wiped blood off his blade.

Before you could reply, the next wave began.

Silent, hooded figures emerged from the darkness, attacking with blinding speed before vanishing. They were almost impossible to hit and far stronger than their wiry forms suggested. The room was riddled with traps—electrified floors forcing players to jump between platforms while dodging attacks.

Then it happened. One of the hooded figures moved too quickly to block, slicing the militant's throat open before he could react. His gurgled screams filled the air before he collapsed. He clawed at his neck, eyes wide with disbelief, but within seconds, he was still. Dead.

You and Aguni fought fiercely, dodging and countering where you could. You saw him get thrown to the ground, an enemy raising a sword for a killing strike. Without thinking, you rushed in, swinging your bat hard into the attacker's leg. The figure dropped with a muffled grunt, and you followed up with a devastating blow to the head.

"You okay?" you panted.

Aguni stared at you for a moment, surprised. Then, reluctantly, he took your offered hand and let you pull him up.

"Thank you," he muttered, clearly hating the admission. But there was no time to dwell on it. More enemies swarmed you.

"Move!" Aguni grabbed your wrist and pulled you toward the staircase. The door slammed shut behind you just as the floor collapsed beneath the corpses.

"The next floor should be the last," you gasped, your legs shaking from exhaustion.

The final floor was different. One vast, dimly lit room. And one opponent.

A towering figure stood in the center, clad in black. Two gleaming swords rested in his hands. His stance was calm but menacing.

The moment you stepped forward, he attacked.

He was impossibly fast. His blades were a blur as he struck, forcing you and Aguni back. Every block sent shockwaves up your arms. Every dodge left you gasping for breath. You weren't built for prolonged agility, but you had endurance—and you had sheer stubborn willpower.

Then, you slipped.

The enemy's blade sliced into your arm. A sharp, burning pain shot through you. You hissed, staggering back. Aguni immediately intercepted the next strike, his eyes flashing with something—anger? Worry?

"You alright?" he barked, never taking his eyes off the enemy.

"Just a scratch," you gritted out, ignoring the sting.

Aguni's frown deepened, but he didn't argue. Instead, he adjusted his grip and lunged again.

It took every ounce of effort, but you finally won. A well-timed distraction allowed Aguni to land the killing blow. The enemy crumpled. The game was over.

The card materialized in the center of the room. Neither of you moved, still catching your breath.

Then, Aguni turned to you, his gaze immediately landing on your wounded arm. Before you could dismiss it, he reached out, brushing his fingers lightly against the torn fabric.

"You should've dodged that."

"I'd like to see you dodge everything when you're built like me," you shot back, offering a tired grin. His lips twitched—almost a smirk.

The journey back to the Beach was silent. But after a while, Aguni suddenly stopped the car, leading you inside a pharmacy, before gripping your wrist firmly.

"Sit."

"What?"

"Your arm."

"It's fine—"

"Sit." His voice was sharp, leaving no room for argument.

With a sigh, you obeyed. He crouched in front of you, rummaging through his pack before carefully cleaning the wound. His hands were surprisingly gentle.

"You're weirdly nice right now," you mused.

Aguni rolled his eyes, pressing the bandage against your skin a little harder. You hissed.

"Alright, alright, I take it back."

"Tch." He shook his head, but his touch lingered a little longer than necessary.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air felt heavier, charged with something unspoken.

"You should take better care of yourself," he murmured.

You smiled. "Guess that means you’ll have to look out for me now."

He exhaled sharply—almost a laugh.

Then, he offered you a hand. You took it without hesitation.

As you walked back together, something had changed. A quiet understanding. A bond forged in survival, growing into something more.

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