#Parts 1 though 5 are the exact same
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And they were roommates
(Captain John price x F!reader)
Summary: the captain wants somewhere more homely to settle down and when an offer like yours comes alight on Zillow he must take up on it.
Warnings: nightmares, awko moments, kissing?
part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - part 6!!!!! -part 7
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The next morning when John woke up it was as if his life had changed filters, like if he went from dramatic cool to dramatic warm. There was a small pep in his step as he got out of bed. You were usually always asleep before 9AM so he decided he’d go buy the two of you breakfast from this small cafe you like not too far down the road, he knew when he was younger there was nothing like a good breakfast after a night of drinking.
On the other hand when you woke up you thought you’d dreamt it, the kiss couldn’t have been real. You’d never be that bold. But the nervous jitter in your belly at the thought of leaving your room was telling you all you needed to know. Along with the smile that’s been plastered on your face since the sound of your rattling windows from the heavy breeze woke you up.
Thankfully no hangover so therefore life’s great. You did desperately want to shower though after waking up in the same clothes you went out in. Which also meant it was going to have to be laundry day.
When he got back he picked up on the sound of your shower running and the steam that escaped beneath the door. He set the food in the kitchen unpacking what was his and yours, placing it in your usual seats at the table.
After a long shower filled with music and wasted water you dressed into comfortable home clothes, basically pajamas. Gathering the sheets and blankets from your
bed in a bear hug you begin to make your way to the laundry room, when you get there you drop everything on the floor with a huff.
“Doll?” John says from down the hallway as the sound of his footsteps grow closer
“Hey, goodmorning.” Shit shit shit.
“Morning, I got breakfast if you’re hungry.” He notices the way you slightly stiffen and how you don’t look back to greet him.
“Yeah actually, Thankyou.” Back to your shy nature he presumes, except he’s seemingly stepped out of his. There’s nothing John Price loves more than being on the same page as someone and if he’s assured of anything it is that you feel the same way he does.
“Okay, it’s on the table. I’ll eat when you do.” He says, walking away.
You let out a sigh of relief when he left, smiling to yourself at the girlish feelings so alive in you. When you finally made it to the kitchen you saw his silhouette outside. Even in the harsh weather he stood with a beanie and jacket on, lit cigar between his lips.
You give two knocks on the kitchen window catching his attention. When he notices you he snuffs the cigar into the small ashtray you bought for him and heads inside.
“You’re crazy for standing out there.” You say softly as you notice the effort it takes him to slide the door shut.
“I’ve done crazier.” He remarks.
You sit on the table as he does the same. You get that familiar warm feeling in your cheeks when you realize he got your exact order. Maybe it’s from the million times you’ve phone ordered it, regardless it’s sweet.
“So.” You say trying to see if he’ll be the one to bring it up.
“So?” He says with a smirk taking a sip of his coffee.
“So, I kissed you last night.” You have to talk about it, you could never be the one to just let it be.
“Did you?” He smirks.
“I did, and I want to know if that was okay with you or if I misread the room.” He laughs a little wondering if maybe he’s too subtle.
“No misreading was done love, next time I’d just appreciate a proper one.” The blush on your face gives him even more confidence.
“Well for your information I intended on giving you an actual kiss but my coordination had been slightly off.” You laugh as you say it cause although it’s embarrassing it’s very true.
“Well doll, there’ll be more opportunities I’m sure of it.”
“Oh Okay.” Lord save you.
“Besides your rendezvous, I wanted to know if I could have some pals over tomorrow. We have some work to do and I’m not quite keen on going to base.”
“Of course.”
—————
That night you decide to cook dinner, it’s only fair since he bought breakfast. You both agreed on pasta since you have all the ingredients for it. Although you told John you could cook alone he insisted he’d help as it’s the nice thing to do but truthfully he just wanted to be around you.
“So you grew up not too far from here?” He asks as you dice garlic.
“Yeah about an hour away.” You have your hair pulled back and are constantly moving the stray pieces from your face.
“Do you ever visit home?”
“Hah absolutely not, stay as far away from it as possible.” He doesn’t question it further but doesn’t miss the tone in your voice when you speak of it.
“I hear you talk to your sister a lot, are you close?” He loves hearing you talk, loves getting to know you even more.
“Yeah, she’s my best friend.” You smile, reminding yourself to call her and update her on these past two days.
“What about you, any siblings?” You ask looking over to him seeing that he’s done chopping the tomatoes and now just leans against the counter.
“No, only child.”
“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed. You're very selfless.” It’s nice to hear from you. You’re the only thing he can imagine being selfish about.
“Years of being in the military will do that to you.”
He takes the pasta off the burner and drains it through the strainer. When he puts the empty pot back onto the burner you begin on the sauce.
“Will the same people I met when you first moved in be the ones coming?”
“Yeah.” He says while setting placemats and cutlery on the table.
You’re content in the low hum of radio music that fills in the silence amongst you two. He still stands near you but no words are being said. He watches the way you precisely add different ingredients one by one. When you're done you serve onto the plates for both of you.
“Thank You doll.”
“It was a team effort so thankyou.” You offer him a small smile before you both begin to eat. Conversation flows nicely between bites. He makes you laugh over dumb stories from his time in the military and you tell him embarrassing stories that happened in middle school. He feels normal, like a human when he’s around you. Like his hands are clean of all the violence he’s committed in his life.
When dinner is over you tackle the dishes together, you wash, he dries and puts away till there’s no more.
“Well I’ll see you Tomorrow then.” You say washing your hands and drying them on the kitchen towel.
“Goodnight love.” Before you can get the chance to turn down the hall to your room he’s calling out to you.
“Yeah?” He makes his way towards you and it’s slightly intimidating till he reaches you, positioning a gentle and slightly rough hand on your cheek before placing a long proper kiss to your lips. It’s electric now that you’re fully sober. Warm yet slightly needy. He pulls away and places one more on the corner of your lips like you had his.
“That’s a proper kiss doll.” He jests.
“I can definitely tell the difference.” He laughs a little, swiping a stray hair behind your ear.
“Sleep well.” He adds before heading back down the hall.
—————-
“And we kissed again last night too.” You talk into the phone while kicking your feet under the covers as you still lay in bed awake earlier than usual.
“You didn’t.” She couldn’t be happier for you. You worried her sometimes, she knew you never were outwardly going to look for someone new and since she lived so far away she couldn’t just check up on you when she wanted so she smiles widely as you tell her about your escapades.
“We did, I really like him, you know.” You really really do.
“I’m so happy for you.” She laughs but before you can respond there’s a knock at your door.
“Hold on, come in.” You slightly yell out. John opens the door taking notice of the phone by your ear.
“Sorry doll, I wanted to come tell you that my mates will be here soon, just a heads up.” You smile, giving him a thumbs up with your free hand.
If life loved John as much as he wished he’d be lying next to you by now. Instead he smiles at you with a wink and closes the door.
“That was him, did you hear him?” You laugh.
“If the voice matches the man, my sister you are lucky, not as lucky as him though, don’t forget that.”
You talk for a while longer before letting her get back to her busy life. When you get out of bed you hear deep voices enter your home traveling to where you assume would be John’s office.
You change into a simple outfit, certainly nothing extravagant, but also not pajamas. On your way to the kitchen you turn the heater on so it can warm up before it gets colder outside. You search the fridge wondering what to eat for breakfast and decide on eggs and toast.
—
“Captain, do you have a water bottle I can grab?” Gaz asks, they’re doing a lot of talking and debriefing on their last mission filing the paperwork they’ve all avoided.
“Em yeah in the fridge on the door.” The captain dismisses him trying to type in certain coordinates.
“Grab us one too.” The two other men say as Gaz gets up and leaves. When he makes it to the kitchen he notices you but doesn’t know what to say.
“Hello ma’am.” That’s all he could come up with.
“Jesus good god, hello gaz.” You jump in surprise at the unfamiliar yet not complete stranger.
“Sorry sorry.” You wave him off as he apologizes.
“I think I get startled too easily.” You laugh and he smiles.
“Just came to grab water.” He says motioning forward to your fridge.
“Yeah no problem.”
“You have a stunning kitchen by the way, really like the white cabinets.” He compliments.
“Really, when my ex and I got the house I had the old ones which were a grayish color removed and put these ones in, he hated it.” You laugh at the memory.
“A man with no taste. These are lovely and this lighting, it’s really beautiful.” You thank him again and go into mindless conversation about other remodeling projects you had done, he had questions after everything you said and lost track of time.
—
“Gaz, where were you when the explosion happened?” Price questions and looks up after a minute when there’s no response.
“He hasn’t come back yet, captain.” Soap says with a small grin. “I think he’s chatting it up with the lass out there.”
Their captain gets out of his chair. Silently leaving the room to go see what his sergeant is up to. As he approaches the kitchen he hears you laughing and relaxes his tense features before walking into the kitchen.
“So these used to be granite tiles till I changed them to white ones.” You say pointing at the backsplash above the counter.
“You could be an interior designer.” Gaz remarks and you smile.
“Sergeant, where should you be?” John uses the voice of a captain, one you're not very familiar with.
Both of you turn to look at him and you start to defend him.
“Sorry John, I kept him here, that’s my fault.” You say looking at him apologetically. He wants to tell you to stop making those eyes at him because they make him soft, too soft.
“Sergeant back to work.” He says as gaz bids you a smile and mouths Thank You, he quietly passes John to get back to his office.
“Is that your scary man voice?” You ask him with a small smirk.
“It can be a lot scarier.”
“I like it.” He’s weak for you, physically and emotionally this man craves you in ways that are impossible to comprehend.
“Careful.” Is all he says before walking away. He leans against the wall by his office out of view from anyone quickly adjusting his pants like a boy in puberty before getting back to work.
——
By the time they're done it’s nearly midnight. You're laying on the couch watching a movie when you hear the heavy footsteps of the men reach the kitchen and John’s in particular make their way to you.
“You’re still up?” He asks, looming over the back of the couch.
“Can’t sleep.”
“The winds are heavy and it’s a little late. I was wondering if they could stay the night? They’ll sleep in my room. If not doll please don’t be hesitant to let me know.” He asks quietly.
“Yeah that’s fine, where will you sleep?” You smile softly at him and his tired eyes.
“Out here.” You nod letting him know it’s okay before he leaves for a second to tell them. They all Thank You as you get up to grab extra blankets from your closet.
You bring them to John’s rooms seeing them all figuring out where and how they’re going to sleep. You ask John if you could talk to him real quick in the hallway and he quickly excuses himself.
“John, those men are too grown to sleep on the floor and to share a bed.” You quietly exclaim.
“Doll, I can assure you they’ve slept worse.”
“Men, you don’t see the issue. They’re not at work though this is their time to get good sleep.”
“Well I don’t have much more to offer.”
“One of them can sleep in my room, one on the air mattress and one of them can sleep on your bed.” He looks at you slightly confused.
“Where will you sleep?”
“With whoever sleeps in my bed.” He looks at you like you're crazy and is about to very loudly protest. “I'm kidding, we can share the couch I only need like one cushion to sleep on.” It’s true you sleep like a Rollie Pollie.
“Fine.” He doesn’t object to the idea at all which you're slightly surprised about and walks back into his room to tell them. Gaz is the one that gets sent out to you and you take him to your room.
“Here’s the remote, I’m sorry about all the pillows but the sheets are clean and the bathroom is right across the hall.” You smile at him and he thanks you for saving him from the hardwood floors. You laugh and take your favorite pillow, you say your goodnight and head to the living room.
“You didn’t have to do that, you know.” John says as you walk to the opposite side of the couch.
“I know.” You say settling into your usual spot. John throws one of the blankets you gave to him for the boys over you. At this point you're so tired you lay on your side letting whatever action movie John put on lull you to sleep.
You wake up suddenly sometime during the night the tv now off making it hard to see. You hear John murmuring things in his sleep getting louder by the second. You sit up tapping his arm to wake him and realize how warm he is. You reach to turn on the lamp beside the couch so you could actually see. Sweat begins to form on his brow line as his hands shake at his sides.
“John.” You whisper quietly, shaking his arm. He doesn’t wake so you do it again a little rougher. Still nothing.
“John.” You said a bit louder, finally waking him. His wide eyes look around as his left hand reaches to grip the hand you had on his arm.
“Doll?” He says squinting his eyes at you while trying to catch his breath.
“Yeah I’m here.” He continues to breathe roughly as you sit there. The way he refuses to meet your eyes makes you want to cry. He looks distressed and worn down.
“Bad dream.” He whispers gruffly.
You don’t need words to comfort him. You slide down the couch to lay opposite of how you had been before and place your head on his chest. He lifts his arm from beneath you and drapes it over your mid back. You listen intently to the rapid beat of his heart waiting for it to slow. After a while it does as his breath evens out. After a bit you drift back into sleep.
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thankyou for reading <3
comments and reposts are always appreciated.
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This isn't Your Fault (Tara POV)
Pairing: Tara Carpenter x Reader
Summary: “Tara, Tara, Tara,” the voice cracked through the speaker. Tara would recognize that voice changer anywhere, Ghostface.
Warnings: Violence
Word Count: 6k+
Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist
Part 1 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6
Tara stormed down the hall, slamming her door in her sisters’ face. All she wanted was to have a fun night at a party and Sam just had to show up and ruin it, as usual. She struggled swinging her purse off her shoulder before slamming it onto her dresser. She paced back and forth before flopping face down on her bed, letting out a loud groan.
Almost instantly she got up from her bed, making her way over to her dresser again. She started digging through her purse until she found her phone. She scrolled through her contacts, not able to stop the small smile from forming on her lips when she came across your name. She hit your name, pacing back and forth less agitated while she waited for you to answer.
Tara had asked you to go to the party even though she knew you’d say no. She tried to convince you that it was a costume party and that it would be more fun. You hadn’t bought it. Tara couldn’t blame you, with the way the night turned out she wished she hadn’t gone and had just gone over to your place, forcing you to binge all her favorite horror movies.
“Hey, babe,” your voice cracked through the phone in greeting. “How was the party?”
Tara smiled to herself, most of her initial anger melting away just from hearing your voice. She called you to rant and complain about her sister though, so she quickly groaned, telling you how her overprotective sister tased a guy. You questioned whether you heard her right and Tara happily explained the night’s events.
When she told you what happened your first question was to ask if she was okay. Tara loved that about you. She smiled into her phone, her voice softening as she confirmed that she was in fact okay. She probably should have worded what happened better, she should have known you would be instantly worried when she said some guy tried to force her upstairs.
You expressed your gratitude that Chad was there and fought the guy for her. You had never officially met Chad, only seeing him at parties but Tara told you all about him and the others. You admitted besides Sam you were most intimidated to meet Chad. Chad wasn’t overbearing like Sam, but he was still pretty overprotective. Anytime Tara told you about an incident and Chad stepping in you had nothing but nice things to say about him, you always told her whenever you got to officially meet him, you’d thank him.
“I just want a normal life,” Tara said after telling you when Sam decided to step in. Tara frowned, dropping down onto her bed. Tara didn’t want three horrible days to define the rest of her life, she just wanted to move on from it all.
“I know,” you said. Tara knew you understood. You’d never been in a Ghostface attack, thankfully, but Tara knew you understood. You always sat there listening to her rant and complain about Sam. You never dismissed her own feelings about wanting to move on, you just listened. “You know she just wants to keep you safe though, right?”
When Tara let out a groan you laughed, it almost made her laugh as well. “I know,” she mumbled begrudgingly, standing up again to kick at her carpet. She knew Sam just wanted to keep her safe. She wanted the same thing. She would do anything to protect Sam. She just wanted Sam to loosen the leash a little bit.
“This is just the exact reason why I won’t introduce you,” she continued, throwing her hands in the air. “She wants me to open up and share with her but when I try to have a life outside of the friend group, she tases someone!” Tara continued her rant.
“Whenever you decide to introduce me, I’m sure it will go fine,” you said sweetly.
Tara wanted you to meet her sister, her friends, her family. She wanted to be able to invite you over and hangout with everyone. She didn’t want to have to sneak around and only see you when Sam was working late or during classes she didn’t share with Mindy.
“I’m sure I won’t get tased, right?” you continued, chuckling as if you were making a joke but weren’t sure if it was actually a joke.
“Maybe,” Tara couldn’t help but mumble. She couldn’t help but smile to herself when you paused. Tara was certain Sam wouldn’t tase you, probably. “Just stand behind me when that eventual meeting happens,” she said, trying to calm your nerves.
“My fearless protector,” you joked softly.
“Shut up,” Tara rolled her eyes with a smile.
As much as Tara wanted you to meet Sam and the others, she also wanted to keep you all to herself. She wasn’t worried they’d steal you away or anything. No, she was worried they’d scare you away. Tara knew that was a stupid thought, you knew exactly what you were getting into, at least for the most part. You knew who Tara was when you met in your shared class, but you didn’t treat her any different, you treated her like a normal new person you were meeting. You didn’t ask about Woodsboro, or Ghostface, or even her scars. Your eyes glanced at the scar on her hand when you first introduced yourself, but you didn’t let them linger on her scars, your eyes quickly flicked to her eyes, a soft smile on your face as you told her your name.
You also knew all about her friends, how protective Chad was and how paranoid Mindy was. You actually got firsthand experience in Mindy’s paranoia when you worked with Anika on a project for the first time together. The girls had come over to the apartment, well Mindy stormed in, lovingly planting Anika in the chair and began interrogating her about you. Tara had been scrolling through her phone, her thumb freezing at the mention of your name. She talked to you a few times in class and had been developing a small crush on you but was nervous to make a move. When Anika had nothing but nice things to say about you, she decided to say fuck it and give it a shot.
You definitely knew how protective Sam was. Tara felt like she complained about her sister every day. When she saw you in class, she used the few minutes of getting there early to say hi, give you a kiss, then got right into telling you about what new thing Sam had done to disrupt her from trying to live her life. You always listened with a smile, admitting it was a bit overprotective but then asking if Tara could really blame her. Tara would always mumble how you were right, and she knew Sam meant well but she still wanted to complain about her.
Tara had been smiling, silently chuckling along as you laughed when it suddenly stopped. She strained her ears trying to hear anything on the other end of the line but couldn’t hear a thing. She knew you were still on the phone, but you had just all of a sudden stopped laughing and you weren’t saying anything. Tara’s smile fell, fear creeping up her spine.
“You, okay?” Tara asked. She swallowed, trying to calm herself down before she started panicking and would end up needing her inhaler. You were fine, you were at home. There was no reason for Tara to start panicking for no reason.
“Yeah,” you finally answered. Tara wasn’t convinced, you sounded distracted, your voice a little distant as if something else had your attention. “Yeah,” you repeated, sounding more like yourself. “So, what’s planned for the rest of the night?”
Tara paused, you sounded like yourself and as if everything were fine, but you were trying to change the subject. “Sleep,” Tara mumbled, still trying to figure out what could distract you so much. “I’m already starting to feel this hangover. Can I come over tomorrow?” She shook off her worried feelings, if something were seriously wrong, you’d tell her.
“Is that a good idea?” You asked. “I doubt Sam will want you out of her sight after tonight.”
“Fuck what she wants. I miss you,” Tara whined, flopping herself down on her bed.
She knew you were right, sneaking around after what happened would be a lot harder. The smart thing would be to wait for things to cool down and just see each other in class. Tara was tired of only seeing you in class though. She hadn’t gotten to truly spend alone time with you in over a week. She was already thinking of lies she could tell Sam, like that she had to study at the library or stay after for a project or something.
“Tara,” you said, incredibly calm but Tara could hear the seriousness in your voice, she furrowed her brow at it. “This isn’t your fault.”
“What?” she asked, confused, sitting up at the end of her bed.
Tara heard something slam, a lot of shuffling, and then the phone clatter down onto something hard. She shot to her feet, beginning to pace back and forth. She could feel her heart beating faster. She moved over to her purse, grabbing her inhaler.
“Y/N?” she asked, quietly, listening as hard as she could for anymore movement. “Y/N. Y/N!” no answer.
She heard what sounded like metal against metal. Her breath caught in her throat. She lifted her inhaler to her mouth, taking a huff. She mindlessly moved, opening her door, and stepping out into the hall. She walked into the living room as if she were in some sort of trance. Mindy and Anika were sitting closely on the couch, Chad next to them, flipping through channels. Sam was sitting in the chair across from them, head in her hands.
“You good T?” Mindy asked.
Tara didn’t answer, she didn’t even look towards her. Tara kept the phone to her ear, hearing what sounded like a struggle on the other end. It sounded like someone picked up the phone again, but no one was talking. There was the sound of wood cracking, Tara couldn’t help but flinch at the sound.
Sam stood up, moving around the chair, looking at her sister with concern. “Tara?” Sam asked slowly. “Who’s on the phone?” Everyone stopped breathing, their full focus moving to the two sisters.
Tara shifted her gaze from staring at the blank spot on the wall to her sister. Sam was becoming blurry as unshed tears began filling her eyes. She heard stomping up the steps then a door slam. Then nothing. No sound. Nothing.
Tara wanted to ask you if everything was okay. She wanted to know what was happening. Her mind was going crazy, it was going to the worst-case scenario. She needed to find her voice, she needed to make sure you were alright.
“Y/N?” Tara asked in a shaky voice. She swallowed again, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Y/N?” she asked louder.
Sam scrunched her eyebrows looking at the others. Anika stood up, recognizing your name. Mindy furrowed her brow, moving to stand up behind Anika, wrapping a protective arm around her. Chad set the remote down, leaning forward on the couch. He looked at Sam, shrugging.
“Baby, are you there?” Tara asked, her voice becoming desperate. She continued to ignore the shocked and confused faces of her friends. There was still no answer though.
There was a loud pounding coming from the other side of the phone. Tara jumped with each hit. She didn’t move though, she stood frozen in the living room. Her voice went away again, she couldn’t even call out your name. Tears quickly filled her eyes again, her breathing becoming erratic. Sam quickly made her way over to her sister, gripping her by the shoulders to look her in the eyes and get her to focus on something else but Tara looked right through her.
The pounding stopped, everything becoming silent again. Tara held her breath, hoping you’d answer her, that you’d pick up the phone and say you dropped something. Tara wasn’t ready to admit what was happening, but she knew, she knew.
There was a struggle again, a light grunt coming through the speaker as if someone had fallen. Tara sucked in a breath. Her mind was trying to rationalize everything, say that there was no way he could be back, but the grunt didn’t sound like it came from you, it sounded deeper, like from a guy. There was a louder thud as the phone seemed to hit something hard again.
There was some shuffling, then what sounded like someone picking up the phone again. Tears started to fall from her eyes. It wasn’t you on the other end of the line anymore. There was heavy breathing coming from the speaker. Breathing that sounded slightly distorted.
“Tara, Tara, Tara,” the voice cracked through the speaker. Tara would recognize that voice changer anywhere, Ghostface.
“Don’t hurt them, please,” Tara begged, letting out a small sob.
Tara was vaguely aware of movement in the room, but she wasn’t focused on that. Ghostface was back and he was at your house. Ghostface was with you and Tara wasn’t there. Tara was twenty minutes away in her apartment. Tara was completely useless. While you were getting attacked Tara was doing nothing.
“You really should have listened to your sister,” Ghostface sighed through the voice changer. “Not gotten close to anyone.”
“Please! She has nothing to do with this!” Tara sobbed into the phone
“Sure, she does, you care about her. Now she’s just as involved as you.”
Tara was full on sobbing. She was completely unaware of her sister and friends already on the move, standing up at the ready to rush off wherever they needed to go. “Please,” Tara begged.
“Don’t worry.” Tara could tell Ghostface was smirking. “I’ll keep the line open so you can hear the death of your lover, the way they gurgle as they choke on their own blood. It’s gonna be quite the sound,” he chuckled, the voice changer making it sound demonic.
“No!”
Sam tried to reach over and grab the phone out of Tara’s hand, but she swatted her away. She turned her back on her friends, moving more out of reach from Sam’s hands. She heard a thud, then another thud of someone hitting the ground. Ghostface must have lost the phone because Tara heard it skid across the wood floor.
Someone gripped Tara by the shoulder, turning her back around. She was ready to fight, a fist already forming, ready to deck whoever dared touch her in their face. She released her fist when she saw it was just Sam. She tried to turn away again but Sam held her firmly in place.
“We have to go,” Sam said.
Tara shook her head violently. “I can’t,” she said through sobs. “I-I-I-can’t. I-”
Sam placed something in her free hand. When Tara looked down, she saw her inhaler. Sam gently helped guide her hand up towards her mouth. Tara was able to finish the rest of the motion, bringing the inhaler to her lips and giving herself another huff. Her heart was still beating rapidly but her breathing had calmed down.
“Let’s go,” Sam said calmly, not losing the worry for Tara she still clearly felt. “We can’t help here. Let’s go.” Tara silently nodded, following Sam towards the front door. “Chad!”
“Already calling 911,” he responded, phone at his ear.
“Anika-”
“Already texted you her address,” she said softly. Tara finally looked at her, really looked at her, seeing tears in her eyes as well even if she only had a partial idea as to what was happening.
Sam gently pulled Tara out the door, making sure to lock it as they rushed down the steps, taking two steps at a time. Sam ran to the street corner, flagging down a taxi. Tara slid into the backseat right behind her. Sam already had her phone out, giving the driver the address.
Tara heard heavy boots walking across the floor, passing the phone wherever it had landed. There was a moment of silence before your scream echoed through the phone. Tara had to take it away from her ear slightly because your scream had been so loud. Tears were streaming down her face; she couldn’t get a grip on her breathing.
“No!” cut through the phone, followed by several muted thuds.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Sam said, tilting Tara’s head to face her. “Breath,” she said softly, taking a deep breath in then letting it out.
Tara tried but wasn’t able to do the same. Every time she tried to calm her breathing it just got worse. She brought the inhaler to her mouth again, taking another huff. She closed her eyes, her breathing once again becoming steady.
Tara heard you gasping for breath. It seemed like Ghostface was right, she was going to listen to you die, choking to death on your own blood, just as he promised. There was a loud crunch then the phone went dead.
Tara slowly took the phone away from her ear, she looked down to see the disconnected call. She looked to Sam, more tears spilling out of her eyes. “I can’t lose her,” Tara whispered between sobs, shaking her head. “I can’t. I can’t,” she kept repeating.
Sam pulled Tara into a hug, holding her as Tara sobbed into her shoulder. The cab screeched to a halt. Tara let go of Sam, jumping out of the cab and running to the door before the car had fully stopped. Tara flung open your front door, the knife mark in the door being the first thing that caught her eye. She started to bring a hand to her mouth when she heard a strained cough, turning to see you lying on the floor.
“Y/N!” she shouted. She rushed over to you, sliding across the floor to be by your side. She hesitated, gently placing a comforting hand on your shoulder.
Tara’s head snapped to the door when she heard a creak, it was just Sam running after her. Sam entered the house, taking in the damage. She did a quick glance around the place, making sure Ghostface wouldn’t pop out at them before making her way over to Tara.
Tara’s eyes filled with tears as she took in your form. Her eyes found your crushed hand that you were clutching against yourself. She heard the wheezing from not being able to properly breath. Her eyes scanned your face, seeing your eye lids try to remain open. Her eyes trailed down the rest of your body, stopping when she saw the bat lying motionlessly at your side.
“Baby,” she whispered. “I’m here, I’m right here.” Your eyelids started to drift close. “Hey, no, stay awake baby,” she whispered loudly. “Stay awake.” Your eyes closed. The only thing that let Tara know you were still alive was the shallow ragged breaths you let out.
The next thing Tara knew there were red and blue flashing lights outside the front window and paramedics storming through the door. Tara didn’t want to leave your side, but she wasn’t able to fight off Sam who easily pulled her away from you. Sam pulled her to her feet, if it wasn’t for Sam’s arms around her Tara was sure she’d crumble back to the floor.
The medics checked you out before lifting you onto a back board. They strapped you down and carried you off to the ambulance. Tara started to follow but Sam held her back until they were clear from the door. Once they were out the door with you Tara wiggled out of Sam’s grip and ran for you. She started to climb into the back of the ambulance with you but one of the paramedics held out his hand, shaking his head. She stepped back down from the ambulance, frowning as she lost sight of you when they closed the doors, instantly speeding off to the hospital.
“We can meet her there,” Sam said softly, gently touching Tara’s arm, as to not startle her.
Tara wordlessly followed her sister as she flagged down another cab, slumping back against the seat as the driver took them to the hospital. She was aware of her sister constantly glancing at her, but she stared straight ahead out the window.
This isn’t your fault. Those were the last words you had said to her. The last thing you told her was that it wasn’t her fault. You were about to be attacked by Ghostface, for all you knew you were about to die but you didn’t ask for help, you didn’t hang up and call 911, no, you told Tara it wasn’t her fault. Tara was confused when you said those words and now, she just didn’t believe you. You had been attacked by Ghostface. Your life was on the line. If you had never met her, if Tara had just followed Sam’s lead and had never let you in, you wouldn’t be where you are now. Tara couldn’t see how this possibly wasn’t her fault. It was her fault; it was all her fault, and she knew it.
When they got to the hospital Tara planted herself in the waiting room and didn’t intend to move until she was allowed in the same room as you, then she wasn’t leaving your side. They had rushed to the reception desk, asking about you and were told you were being wheeled into surgery to assess the damage done.
Tara had her feet on the chair, wrapping her arms around her legs, pulling them as close to her body as she rested her chin on her knees. She stared at the white wall in front of her, barely feeling Sam rub a comforting hand up and down her back. She glanced to the side when she heard shoes quickly squeaking against the tile and abruptly coming to a stop, it was her friends. Chad offered her a comforting smile, taking the vacant seat next to her. Anika came over, holding out her hand to give Tara’s a comforting squeeze before moving to the seats across from her, with Mindy quickly joining her.
After a few hours they were still in the same spot. Anika was asleep, her head resting on Mindy’s shoulder. Mindy had her eyes shut but Tara knew she wasn’t actually asleep yet. Chad had made a cafeteria run, bringing back everyone sandwiches and juice. He plopped back down in his seat, holding out a juice and sandwich to Tara but she shook her head.
“You have to eat,” Sam whispered softly, rubbing her hand up and down Tara’s back again. Tara shook her head, pushing the food away. Sam sighed, silently thanking Chad before taking the food from him.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” the nurse said, coming out to the waiting room finally.
Everyone woke up, jumping to their feet. “Is she okay?” Tara asked, her voice cracking from the lack of being used the last few hours.
“Relation?”
“She’s, my girlfriend.”
The nurse nodded. “She’s out of surgery and is in a room recovering, you’re welcome to go see her.”
“How is she?” Tara whispered quietly, looking up at the nurse with wide eyes. She wanted to be hopeful, but she was so scared of allowing herself to think everything would be okay.
The nurse sighed, resting the chart she was holding at her side. “She’s alive.” Tara let out a relieved sob. “Her left hand was practically shattered, and she’s got seven broken or cracked ribs.” Tara let out another sob. “It’ll take some time, but she’ll be okay,” the nurse smiled down reassuringly at Tara.
Chad gave her a squeeze on the shoulder, Mindy gave her a comforting smile and a nod letting her know everything was okay, and Anika stepped forward, pulling Tara into a hug. They weren’t all allowed to go into your room, so the others were going to continue hanging out in the waiting room for a bit longer while Tara and Sam went into your room.
Tara sped walked through the hallways, pressing the button to the elevator until the doors finally opened. Once in the elevator Tara hit the floor you were on, her leg bouncing the entire ride up until the doors opened again. Tara was already stepping out of the elevator the second she could squeeze through the opening. Sam quickly trailed behind her sister, trying to get her to slow down but Tara was on a mission, and nothing would keep her from being at your bedside.
Tara stopped in the doorway of your hospital room. She was paralyzed at the sight of you unmoving in the hospital bed. You were pale and had your left arm in a cast as it rested across your stomach. Tara lifted her foot but hesitated to officially cross over the invisible threshold of the room. Sam poked her shoulder, when Tara turned to glare at her sister, she gave an encouraging nod. Tara took a deep breath before stepping down, officially entering the room.
Tara moved to the other side of your bed, pulling up one of the chairs, getting it as close to your bed as possible. She sat down, instantly reaching for your uninjured hand. Feeling your warm hand in her even if it couldn’t grip hers back yet, along with the consistent beeping of the heart monitor connected to you gave Tara a peace she didn’t know she was looking for. Despite the nurse saying you would be okay, seeing you alive for herself lifted an incredible wait off her shoulders. Sam slowly made her way over, sitting in the chair next to Tara’s.
“H-how long?” Sam whispered.
Tara didn’t take her eyes off your sleeping form; she was afraid if she looked away, you’d disappear. “Six months,” Tara answered with a sniffle.
“Six,” Sam let out a shaky breath. “Six months. You’ve been keeping this from us, from me?”
Tara’s eyes dropped from your face to your hand in hers, even if you couldn’t grip it back yet. She could hear the hurt in Sam’s voice. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, rubbing her nose.
Sam sighed. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Have I really pushed you away that much?” Sam’s voice cracked. “Did you really feel like you couldn’t come to me, share this with me?”
Tara squeezed your hand, not letting go as she turned to look at her sister, tears filling her eyes again. She saw Sam had a few tears in her eyes as well. “No, no, no, it’s not that,” she tried to reassure her sister. “I just…” Tara tried gathering her words, she knew why she kept you her little secret but, in the moment, saying it out loud to Sam made it seem so stupid. “I just, I was afraid how you’d react,” she mumbled, dropping her eyes to the floor. “You tend to get a little… intense,” her eyes flicked up to Sam’s before going back to the floor, “when meeting new people. Not like the others are much better. I just didn’t want you guys to scare her off.”
“We wouldn’t-” she was cut off by Tara raising a brow, daring her to finish that sentence. “I mean if she was important to you, I would have given her a chance.” Tara tilted her head, giving her sister an ‘are you serious’ look. “Okay fine,” Sam sighed, slumping back in her chair. “I would have tried to give her a chance.” Tara raised both eyebrows, giving her another knowing look. “Eventually,” Sam mumbled. “Maybe.”
Tara felt a smile tug at her lips. It was hard to smile given the current situation, but she allowed herself the small smile at her sister’s behavior. Sam could be absolutely terrifying if she wanted to be but when she was pouting like she was now she wasn’t terrifying, she was just adorable. This was the Sam, she wanted you to get to know, not the one that had her guard up a hundred percent of the time and saw danger and betrayal around every corner.
“I know you mean well,” Tara said, smiling. “You know I love you.” Sam smiled at her sisters’ words. “I just liked having something for myself,” Tara whispered, her smile falling. “Someone who was all mine.” She glanced back at your broken body. “Someone not touched by all our darkness, until now,” she sniffled again, using her free hand to wipe her eyes.
“This isn’t your fault,” Sam said, leaning forward to rest a hand on Tara’s shoulder.
“If she never met me, he never would have gone after her.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is!” Tara sobbed.
“You can’t live your life controlled by fear about what might happen.” Tara turned to look at Sam, scrunching her brow, she couldn’t believe Sam just said that. Sam chuckled awkwardly. “I know how that sounds coming from me, but I don’t want you sacrificing your chance at happiness just because I’m paranoid.”
Tara turned her attention back towards you. She reached up, gently brushing your hair down the side of your face. “I thought I lost her.”
“Good thing your girlfriend is one hell of a fighter,” Sam smirked, making Tara smile softly when she glanced back at her. “I know this isn’t exactly how you wanted it to go, so when you decide to officially introduce us, I can’t wait to meet her.”
“She can’t wait to meet you either, I’ve told her all about you,” Tara blushed. “When we were talking on the phone before-” Tara swallowed, trying to stop herself from crying again. “She-she was worried you might tase her when you met,” Tara chuckled at the memory even though it had only been a few hours, it felt like years.
Sam lightly chuckled at that, nodding as if that was a potential possibility. “Well, no need to worry about that anymore. At least we know she’s not Ghostface.”
Tara clenched her jaw at hearing that name, she gripped your hand just a little tighter. She glanced at Sam out of the side of her eye. “I want to make him pay,” she said through gritted teeth, anger taking over her worry for a split second.
“We will,” Sam said, nodding.
Tara gave nod back. She looked back at you. She was going to make Ghostface pay for what he had done to you and if there was more than one, she would make them all suffer. She would figure out which one of them had harmed you and she would deliver him the same honor.
It was the next day, and you still hadn’t woken up. Tara refused to leave your side, opting to sleep in the chair at your bedside. She tried telling Sam to go home but Sam refused. Tara knew it was pointless to argue, Ghostface was still out there and there was no way Sam would leave her side until he was dealt with. It took a lot of convincing, but the others finally went back to the apartment, agreeing to stick together, keep in touch, and even came back an hour later to drop off a change of clothes for the girls.
It was late into the next night, Tara was asleep in her chair, holding your hand just as tight as she had been since she first got into the room with you. Sam was in the corner of the room, having pulled two chairs together, to make her own little bed. Tara stirred from her slumber when she heard someone hiss in pain. Her eyes snapped open when she heard you suck in a breath. She instantly sat up, offering you all the comfort she could, needing you to know you weren’t in danger anymore, that she was here, and you were safe.
“Wh-what are you doing here?” you asked, your mouth dry from the lack of water in the last twenty-four hours.
“I needed to make sure you were okay,” Tara answered, confused as to where else she would be. You were attacked, injured, having almost died, of course she was going to be at your bedside. She was aware of Sam leaving the room, gently shutting the door as to not disturb your reunion.
“You-you need to get out of town.” Tara could tell you were fighting through the pain to talk to her.
“No, no, I’m not leaving you,” she shook her head, she couldn’t believe you suggested that. Actually, she could but you should have known that she’d never leave your side when you were hurt, just as you had kept quiet when you were getting attacked, to protect her. “I’m not leaving you.” She made sure to look you in the eye, so you knew she was serious.
“How are you feeling?” Tara asked. She knew it was a stupid question, she had been in your position before and she hated when people had asked her that, of course she was doing bad, she had been stabbed, how else should she have been doing?”
“If I sit completely still and don’t breathe then the pain is only agonizing, instead of excruciating,” you said, trying to lighten the mood.
“I’m sorry,” Tara started to cry again. Your attempts at lighting the mood didn’t work. She loved you but she couldn’t stand hearing you joke about your own pain; she knew it wasn’t fully a joke. She couldn’t hear you try to make light of it when she was the reason you were in pain.
“This wasn’t your fault,” you tried to lean up but quickly laid back against the pillows. Tara sobbed at seeing you in so much pain from such a basic movement. “Please don’t cry,” you tried brushing away her tears, but they kept falling. “This isn’t your fault.”
“If it wasn’t for me, you never would have been targeted,” her voice cracked. Despite what Sam said she knew it was true, if it weren’t for her, you never would have been attacked. She couldn’t believe you were trying to comfort her. You were lying in a hospital bed, just breathing causing you pain, and yet you were the one comforting her. You were using what little energy you had to try and convince her it wasn’t her fault.
“No, no, it’s not your fault a psycho wants to hurt you. This isn’t on you. I love you.” Tara felt you reach down, gently lifting her chin to make her meet your eyes. “I love you,” you whispered again.
“I love you too,” Tara instantly said back, resting her forehead against yours. A few more tears silently fell and despite not believing your words you still had somehow managed to comfort her, she didn’t know how you did it.
Tara talked for a few more minutes with you, talking about officially meeting her sister now at some point. She had made a joke and watched as you winced in pain. She felt bad that she caused you pain even if it was unintentional, but she couldn’t help but smile down at you. She couldn’t believe you were here, that you were beside her, you were okay.
Tara started running her fingers through your hair. You had just woken up after being unconscious for a whole day, but you were already struggling to keep your eyes open. She watched you with a soft smile as your eyes slowly closed, this time peacefully going off to sleep. Tara kept gently stroking your hair as she laid her head next to yours. She couldn’t lay in bed next to you with your broken ribs, afraid she’d hurt you by simply cuddling you, so laying her head next to yours was the next best thing, being as close as she could get to you without having to worry about hurting you.
Taglist: @bigbadsofty07
#tara carpenter x reader#tara carpenter#tara carpenter x you#tara carpenter x fem reader#tara carpenter imagine#jenna ortega x reader#jenna ortega#scream#scream 6#scream vi#this isn't your fault
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Why all the crowd scenes look the same, aka: Something is WRONG in Soho
I'm not even gonna tease and draw this out because it's so cool it doesn't need the fanfare. Ready?
Season 2 takes place over the course of 5 days. During that time, most of the passersby in Soho - maybe even all of them - stay exactly the same. It's the same people every day, wearing the exact same clothes, and they wander through the neighbourhood in paths that don't make any sense. You won't be able to unsee it. I can't believe it's taken us this long to realise.
Don't believe me? Rewatch the scene from 2x03, I Know Where I'm Going where Shax confronts Crowley outside the bookshop, appearing in a series of different guises. Pay attention to the people going past.
I've marked out five people you see on screen when Crowley first exits the bookshop at 39:37:
Numbers 1, 2 and 3 are following the path right. Number 4 follows the path left. Number 5 crosses the road.
Here the five people are again, at 40:19, when Crowley goes to return to the bookshop:
Number 5 is still visible in the distance, in the direction she walked in. This makes sense! But numbers 1, 2, 3 and 4 are rounding the same corner they just passed. It's as though 1, 2 and 3 all decided to turn and head back the way they came just 40 seconds ago, and number 4 has circled the block to join them.
This on its own would be super weird, but they're not the only people to do that in this scene. The man in the purple sweater from the first picture crosses the road, then appears back next to the bookshop, then starts walking back the way he came again.
Here's the part that made me absolutely certain, though. At 40:05, a man wearing an orange hoodie with blue sleeves walks past Crowley, who is heading towards the bookshop entrance.
The camera cuts to a view from behind Crowley, and a moment later, at 40:08...
He reappears in front of Crowley and walks past him again.
It's such a distinctive outfit, there's no mistaking it. They are absolutely fucking with the background characters and they are absolutely doing it on purpose.
Your turn. There are at least three other characters in this scene who pass by multiple times. Watch it again and try to spot them.
This scene is really chaotic and obvious, but the phenomena I'm talking about is much bigger than just one scene. Let's go back to the first thing I said: the background characters don't change. All our leads do. Maggie and Nina wear distinctive outfits, clearly demarcating each new day. Even Crowley and Aziraphale, who in season 1 were like cartoon characters with wardrobes full of identical clothing, vary their looks. Crowley changes his (very subtly) each day; Aziraphale is less rigid on timing, but he has a few different coats that he switches between. The background characters, on the other hand, wear the same outfits every single day. They walk by on the street but they never actually seem to have a destination. They sit in the coffee shop or pub and don't eat or drink anything, and nearly everyone leaves together exactly on closing time. It's eerie.
For reference's sake, here's a rough timeline of season 2, with pictures of Maggie and Nina's outfits to show the passing of time. I had to outsource this section because my post was too image heavy, lol. The main point I wanted to make is that five days go by.
Five days, and all the same faces keep showing up in the background, and almost none of them change their clothes. I'm not entirely sure what it means, but there's no way it's an accident. It might, in fact, be a game changer. To me this is proof positive that something is not as it seems. I've been a massive Clue skeptic, adamant that I'd only be convinced by the most unambiguous evidence, and honestly? This is enough to move the dials. It's too big for me to ignore. Whatever grand explanation of Good Omens we come up with has to account for this. I don't have it yet, but my current working theories are that Crowley and Aziraphale are under some seriously heavy surveillance, that time warping is involved, or that reality itself is not what it seems.
It would take a really long time for me to go through all of the background characters who turn up over and over but I do want to show you what I'm talking about. To wrap up, then, I'm going to pick out some memorable characters and walk you through a few of their appearances through the week. I highly recommend looking out for this yourself on your next rewatch and seeing how many other characters you can recognise.
Yellow Skirt
The first person I kept coming back to as being not quite right. You probably remember her from the first episode - she's the one who waves and walks past Maggie and Nina the night they're locked in together. Incidentally, she's also Person Number 3 in the scene with Shax.
Day 1 (2x01 - 36:20):
Day 2 (2x02 - 42:03)
Day 3 (2x03 - 06:36)
Day 5 (2x06 - 30:00)
Coolest Leather Jacket In The World
It's not so easy to recognise people wearing lots of nondescript dark colours, but I love his hair and his jacket, so he stood out to me. I think there might be a lot more people who are wearing fairly nondescript clothes who I just can't recognise from episode to episode.
Day 2 (2x02 - 16:44)
Day 4 (2x04 - 41:20)
Day 5 (2x06 - 29:20)
Dressed In Mustard
Ms Mustard shows up everywhere. If you want to see what I mean about their paths not making sense, pay attention when she comes on screen, because she'll often show up a few times in succession and walk very purposefully to nowhere in particular. The thing that she is doing, essentially, is behaving like an extra in a tv show. Which of course she is, but you're supposed to make that invisible by not having the same person go back and forth in the same scene, or changing up their outfit each in-universe day to give the sense time is passing. Not doing that is a really deliberate choice.
Day 1 (2x01 - 22:37)
Day 2 (2x02 - 42:03)
Day 3 (2x03 - 01:49)
Day 3 (2x03 - 37:07)
Day 5 (2x06 - 29:59)
Swishy Dress
This character shows up a lot in the first episode. I've struggled to find her in later episodes, though. None of the characters seem to follow the same patterns or show up to equal extents each day, which makes me think this isn't a straightforward time loop. I haven't actually cross referenced character appearances to in world times, though. Possibly this is a project for someone who's more across the time-related shenanigans than me.
Day 1 (2x01 - 22:43)
Day 3 (2x03 - 07:01)
Yellow Vest
I've only seen this guy a handful of times, always around the French restaurant. I wonder if there's significance to that.
Day 2 (2x02 - 41:06)
Day 4 (2x05 - 12:49)
Fuzzy Blue Coat
Another background character who shows up frequently. The blue doesn't stand out quite as much as the yellows and reds some characters wear, but it's very distinctive.
While we're getting a lot of shots of the street, it's worth noting that I'm pretty sure the vehicles we see are also just the same few cars repeating each day. A lot of them are in neutral silvers and monochrome, but there's a couple of blue cars, one red, and one black and white that I'm fairly sure I've seen over and over through the season.
Day 1 (2x01 - 22:45)
Day 2 (2x02 - 42:04)
Day 3 (2x03 - 02:00)
Day 5 (2x06 - 40:10)
Day 5 (2x06 - 48:56)
Day 5 (2x06 - 50:06)
One final note: Whatever this is, Nina's employee who you see in the background at the coffeeshop sometimes isn't affected by it. He's wearing different outfits each day. On the other hand, some of the other shopkeepers do seem affected. I'm fairly sure Mr Brown and Mrs Sandwich wear the same outfits a few different days, only changing because of Aziraphale at the ball.
And that's it! Thanks for reading and I hope your mind is blown as much as mine is.
EDIT:
Hey I don't mind anyone pointing out production reasons that this might be the case or disagreeing with my analysis (over-analysis, some might say 😉). Please be kind about it, though. I'm not ignorant of the practical limitations involved in film making, but some of these costumes were really distinctive in a way I thought might be intended to draw attention.
For those of you who do find this theory convincing, I feel I should mention that I was working under the assumption that this stuff would have taken a few days to film, even filming it all together. That would strongly suggest that the actors were deliberately costumed the exact same way over multiple days of shooting, which made me think it had to be purposeful. @coranax was kind enough to point out, though, that behind the scenes videos said the extras were filmed separately to the main actors because of Covid protocols. In that case, they could have done it in just one day and that weakens my confidence in its intentionality.
Finally, all of my points about the scene with Shax in 2x03 stand. That was not a case of accidental continuity errors, it was really elegantly choreographed to enhance the tension in the scene. I say that with confidence because the extras are doing exactly what Shax is doing: circling Crowley, appearing where he doesn't expect them, creating a whirlwind sense of being off balance and out of control. I think it's really cool and effective, whether there's a deeper meaning to it or not.
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ʚïɞ butterfly bandage - 04
note: this is part 4 of a series (part 1, part 2, part 3, part 5)
content: bang chan/reader, university au, themes of twin flames, themes of soulmates, reader is female and referred to with she/her pronouns, angst, self-sabotaging behavior, self-loathing thoughts, mentions of past unhealthy relationships, themes of death/grief, lots of crying (sorry), brief mention of blood
word count: 16.9k
“Do you believe in twin flames?”
Chan’s question hung in the air for a moment, changing the atmosphere so drastically that you weren’t quite sure how to react. Before you could stop yourself, you let out a less-than-appropriate giggle.
“You don’t?” his voice came quieter this time.
“It’s not that,” you tried to contain your amusement. “It’s just…what a very Bang Chan thing of you to ask.”
Even through the dim light of your living room, you could tell that the smile he flashed you didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was being serious, you realized with a start, at least to some degree.
“I mean,” you paused, searching for the right answer to such a heavy question—if there even was one. “I guess it’s something you can only believe in once you experience it for yourself, right?”
It was Chan’s turn to hesitate, nibbling on his lower lip in silence. Whether he was holding back what he really wanted to say, or simply lost in thought, you couldn’t decide.
“Why do you ask?”
“Dunno,” he said slowly. “Just wondering.”
“Huh. Really?”
It was a vague explanation, and you knew better than to accept it at face value. Knowing Chan, he wouldn’t have even raised such a topic with you if it hadn’t been weighing on his mind for some time now, longer than he himself may have even been aware of. The concept was more or less a mystery to you; a special sort of relationship that, judging by name alone, was brimming with intensity, if not defined by it. You wondered just how deeply Chan had immersed himself in its ideals, if it was one of those philosophies he’d adopted into his heart and spent sleepless nights thinking about, despite the superstition of it all, just as a way to understand the world around him—the people around him. Maybe, even, to understand himself.
“I’ve just never really felt like this before,” an awkward chuckle escaped him, as if to lessen the gravity of what he was implying. “I feel like you can see right through me.”
See right through me.
Your heart leapt in your chest. Immediately, you understood what he meant; the exact same phenomenon you’d been trying to wrap your head around since the day you’d first met him. You’d been so caught up in your concerns over how effortlessly he seemed to read you—seeing past every carefully crafted guise you could conjure up like it didn’t even exist—that you hadn’t ever considered he might be experiencing the same feeling on his end. The feeling of knowing each other long before you’d ever crossed paths.
It had a strange effect on you. Elation. Dread. Had you felt like this before? In a certain sense, you knew that you had.
The familiar foolishness of being prepared to give someone your all—of stubbornly believing that, somehow, you would never run out of things to give. At the same time, though, it couldn’t be more different. Chan couldn’t be more different. For the first time, you were faced with an unexpected obstacle in your efforts to trudge mercilessly down the path to your own detriment. He wasn’t there to usher you along like so many had before, feeding off your every step until your legs inevitably gave out from under you. He was there to guide you down a different path—one that was infinitely more pleasant, and one that you were infinitely less acquainted with.
It couldn’t be more different because now, with every drop of yourself that you so willingly offered up to him, you fretted over what you might be draining from him in return. Chan was, after all, every bit as self-sacrificing as you, and then some.
That didn’t even begin to cover everything else that surrounded your relationship. The magnetic pull that drew you to him wherever you roamed, the burning sensation that consumed your body any time he so much as crossed your mind, the insatiable desire to open him up and witness him in his entirety—to know every part of him like it was your own.
If those were the kinds of things twin flames entailed, then, yes, you believed in them. You’d believe in anything that connected you to him.
It dawned on you, suddenly, that you hadn’t spoken for what was probably an unsettling amount of time. The slightest bit frantic, you combed your brain for an answer, overtaken by an urge to reassure the boy next to you before he made the decision to never share an even remotely personal thought with you again. You didn’t doubt that he would. Despite his seemingly endless levels of understanding, Chan was sensitive. He wouldn’t forget.
“Did I say something wrong?” he chuckled again. It wasn’t even awkward this time, just bordering on defeated.
“No, no,” you cursed yourself for even giving him the chance to second-guess such an idea, for giving him any more reason to believe that opening up to you could ever be a mistake. “I was just caught off guard. Sorry, Channie.”
You shifted in your spot, turning inwards to get a better look at him. He wasn’t making eye contact—nothing new there—but it wasn’t just his usual timidity at play. It was something you could only describe as akin to shame, the expression of someone who had overestimated his importance and was now berating himself for ever having the audacity to assume he mattered. You decided, instantly, that it was a look you never wanted to see cross his face again.
“I think it’s the same for me.”
You didn’t think, you knew. You knew it better than anything else. Still, it was difficult to say out loud, even when Chan was sitting before you, looking ready to bare himself to you with a sincerity that you may not entirely deserve.
He perked up a bit, and you relaxed the instant that fog of uncertainty cleared from his face, brightening it once more. “Really?”
“Do you…” you prayed that you wouldn’t sound completely insane in what came out of your mouth next. “Do you feel it, too? That weird sort of heat?”
His eyes widened, fingers flexing where they rested on his thigh.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, I feel it. When we first met, I thought you had a fever or something.”
A wave of sentimentality crashed over you all at once. You thought back to that day; that horribly clumsy first encounter that had you certain Chan would tell Changbin to please keep his strange friend far, far away from him in the future. The encounter that had ignited something you hadn’t been able to explain—something you still couldn’t explain, even six months later.
“I thought you were a human pressure cooker.”
“A pressure cooker?” he grinned, actually taking a moment to consider it. “I kinda am.”
That ever-present tug found your heartstrings again. But you knew he’d intended on it being light, a playful jab at himself that was truer than he seemed to understand. So, you didn’t dwell on it.
“Guess we’ve got the flames part down, then,” you joked.
“I’ve been reading about them.” His eyes twinkled, now encouraged. “They’re not exactly soulmates—more like two parts of the same soul. Kinda like you’re holding up a mirror to yourself.”
“Sounds poetic,” you murmured. He was speaking so earnestly, like he’d been longing for the opportunity to share these thoughts with someone all his life. You might’ve accepted anything he said in that moment as an absolute truth. “So, how do you know if you’ve found yours?”
“Lots of ways.” He pressed his lips together thoughtfully. “Shared experiences, for one. Uncanny similarities, and that feeling of…” he trailed off briefly, features softening. “Like you’re a part of each other, y’know?”
Each example stirred something deeper and deeper within you, rattling the windows and doors of your mind. Shared experiences. Uncanny similarities. A part of each other. Memories from that night two weeks ago swarmed you, demanding all your focus and ripping you away from the present conversation all at once. Chan’s flow of tears, his vulnerability, his dependence on you. How the cracks you’d caught glimpses of in just one of the many, many walls he’d put up finally spread far enough to send the entire structure crumbling unceremoniously to the ground.
Not only that, but his uncontainable guilt the next day, and every day that followed. His profuse apologies for allowing you to see him like that, his promises to make it up to you, and, most heartbreaking of all, his subtle spike in attachment, as if he was afraid that now that you’d discovered a side to him that dared to be anything less than accommodating—anything less than convenient for you—you’d pack up and leave without a second thought. No matter how many times you’d reassured him that it was fine, good even, to allow himself to lean on you, he was nevertheless determined to return the favor. Like it was transactional, like you couldn’t possibly have been there for him simply because you wanted to be. Because you loved him.
You were all too conscious of the fact that your promise to him back in July hadn’t been forgotten. The clock was ticking, with each passing second serving as a wrench to the bolts you’d kept so tightly wound up all these months—all your life, really. If Chan’s feelings were anything like yours, you knew he must be hungry for it, the opportunity to loosen the bolts himself and peer into what was buried inside.
It was as invigorating as it was terrifying. The fear of being known, the comfort of being understood.
“A part of each other,” you echoed. “That’s...”
“Kinda scary, yeah?”
“A little,” you admitted. “But I think my parts are in pretty good hands.”
Chan beamed, eyes crinkling and teeth peeking out under heart-shaped lips, flooding his face with a glow that washed away any remaining trace of his earlier reservations. Despite yourself, you smiled back, choosing selfishly to fall into his warmth. It wasn’t in short supply—not in the slightest, it was limitless—but inexplicably, you always held yourself back just a bit.
Even now, you couldn’t escape that survival instinct, that pesky voice in the depths of your brain telling you to take him in moderation, to keep a distance before you grew accustomed to something you weren’t sure you’d be able to go back to living without. But it was a losing battle from the start, and it was far too late to fight it now, anyway.
Chan’s hand brushed against yours, sending a gentle ripple of heat through your skin and pulling you out of the hole you’d been digging in your head. Before he could ask what you were thinking about—and he was going to, you could feel his flicker of curiosity—you spoke up again, throwing out a question of your own.
“How about you? Do you like your reflection?”
He studied your face, and the lapse in his reply might have made you panic if you weren’t so taken by the fact that, miraculously, he was holding your stare for longer than just a precious few seconds. Your fingers twitched against his, resisting the impulse to reach up and brush them over the tip of your nose.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “For once, I do.”
。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。
October’s pleasant chill came to an end, leaving behind a harsher cold spell for the incoming winter months. Bright orange leaves, once providing a golden canopy of light overhead, now littered the ground, dead and dull. Still, it was a sight to admire in its own way—a paper sheet shielding the grass from November’s sharp winds and more frigid temperatures, like the leaves had chosen to sacrifice themselves for the sake of protecting everything else.
You tried not to think about it, how dangerously close graduation was drawing. The view of the finish line on the horizon wasn’t exactly a comforting one, not when it led right into another race—one that would be even more critical than the last. You didn’t want to think about what it would mean for you once your final semester was complete; what it would mean for your studies, your home, your friendships, Chan. The question of where you would go from here was always lingering in the back of your mind, and no matter how much it haunted your thoughts, you still hadn’t managed to find a sufficient answer. All you knew for sure was that whatever path you walked next, you wanted to be side by side with him, matching your steps and feeling your hand brush against his with each swing.
On a less cynical note, the uncertainty of where the future might take you made days like today all the more valuable, reminding you that, regardless of the tricks nostalgia might play, there were always new memories to be made and cherished. You shoved your hands into your pockets with a shiver as you entered the bowling alley, longing for Chan now more than ever. Just one touch from him, and all the cold nagging at your bones from the walk there would dissipate in an instant.
You felt his warmth begin to spread through your skin as soon as you spotted that familiar head of curls near the front counter. His hair swayed with the rest of his body as he rocked back and forth on his heels, looking absentminded. If you drew close enough, you had no doubt you’d catch a snippet of whatever melody he was sure to be humming.
Before his presence could fully relax you, however, you registered who was standing there next to him, effectively countering his heat with a sharp chill down your spine. You hadn’t known he was coming. Changbin hadn’t told you he was coming. If he had, you surely would’ve found some excuse to stay home, or, at the very least, prepared yourself to deal with the guy who had so diligently been playing the role of bane of your existence these past months.
Channeling all your strength, you forced a smile and called out a greeting to the group.
Two pairs of eyes lit up, and one pair narrowed.
“You’re here!” Changbin piped. He elbowed Chan lightly, a self-righteous look crossing his face. “See? I told you we weren’t late.”
You kept your expression calm as you approached them, but it did little to ebb the unease steadily piling up in your stomach. Without a word, Chan’s hand reached out for yours, and you wove your fingers together, barely suppressing an exhale when warmth kindled in your palm.
“I’ve just learned to give it an extra ten minutes before leaving to meet up with you, Bin,” you teased.
It was lighthearted, but he seemed to sense that you weren’t entirely joking. You exchanged an amused glance with Chan as Changbin’s smug look dropped into the frown of someone whose peace had been disturbed, suddenly reevaluating every occasion where he’d so gleefully believed that he was becoming more punctual.
“That’s messed up,” he huffed. “Maybe next time I just won’t show up at all.”
“You say that like you haven't done it before.”
“And as soon as I did, you stole my best friend.” He looked dramatically off to the side, passing your bowling shoes to you. “On second thought, I’d better stick around.”
Half-embarrassed, you cleared your throat and hooked your fingers under the cuffs of the shoes, surprised to find that he’d chosen the right size for you. Just as you opened your mouth to question it, you found your answer—or, rather, you felt it, in the palm of your other hand. You kept quiet to avoid setting yourself up for more playful jabs, but the affection that buzzed to life in your chest was too much to ignore altogether, instead manifesting as a grateful squeeze to Chan’s hand. It was something you weren’t quite used to, something you weren’t sure you’d ever get really used to: care down to the last little detail.
You’d made it a point thus far to stay focused solely on Chan and Changbin, not keen on confronting the source of the tension looming behind your smile. It was probably best not to utter a word to him, anyway, given the direction your conversations veered into every single time without fail. Regardless of which approach you took, regardless of how tightly you gripped the steering wheel, it always spun into something uncontrollable.
But as your eyes wandered casually over to the empty lanes further inside the building, you made the grave mistake of locking them with his—fleeting, but just enough to make your gut twist. You tore your stare away as soon it landed on him, bracing yourself for that inevitable surge of frost, a glare that spoke a thousand scornful words.
“Hey.”
You wondered for a moment if you’d imagined it, or if Lee Minho was really speaking to you on his own accord. Granted, it was just a simple greeting, but strangely void of his usual disgust when addressing you.
It put you at a complete loss, thoughts scrambling to decipher what his angle could possibly be. You had half a mind to not even respond, but you knew that wasn’t an option when Chan and Changbin were right there, well within earshot. Instead, you settled for nodding at him with a quiet “Hello.”
“You look cold,” he commented.
“Well, it’s cold out.”
Not your most eloquent response. In your defense, you were still trying to make heads or tails of why he was bothering to acknowledge you. His words felt like a taunt in your paranoid mind, like somehow, he was fully aware of the chill that gripped you every time he so much as glanced your way. Mistrust bubbled up inside you, threatening to burst through the surface when he shot you a half-smile that was sickeningly sweet—far too sweet to be natural. To anyone else, it was nothing but friendly, but you knew better than that by now. The closer you looked, the more reminiscent it became of his usual sneer.
“It’s a relief you’ve got someone to call on if you get sick, then.” He cocked his head towards Chan.
Suddenly, the gears fell into place in your head, making it very clear what Minho’s intentions were. You might have found it admirable, how seamlessly he put on the act, if not for the minor detail of it being positively infuriating.
“I make a pretty good galbitang, didn’t you know?”
Minho’s smirk faltered just barely, but before he could say anything else, Changbin finished up with the cashier and clapped his hands together with a bit too much force, startling everyone in the vicinity.
“We’re all set!” he announced, turning to you.“Hope you’re good at bowling, ‘cause you’re gonna be carrying Chan.”
“Hey, hey!” the boy in question protested. “I score the most out of any of us!”
“A whole eight points,” Minho quipped.
Chan gritted his teeth, still, good-natured as ever. “That…was an off day.”
You willed yourself to chuckle in spite of the bad taste Minho had left in your mouth, for Chan’s sake, if nothing else. It was difficult to envision him not immediately excelling at anything he put his mind to, especially in the realm of sports. Given Changbin’s snickers, though, you had a sneaking suspicion that the jeers held some truth to them.
The four of you made your way over to the first open station, slipping on your bowling shoes and splitting up into two teams: you and Chan versus Changbin and Minho. A quick game of rock, paper, scissors, and it was decided that you and Chan would go first. Chan wiggled his hand to push back the sleeve of his jacket and picked up a ball from the rack, testing its weight a few times before deciding on it.
You figured Changbin would be able to hold his own on his team, but, as always, Minho was more of an enigma to you. Even if he didn’t exactly seem like the athletic type, anything you thought you knew about the guy could be taken with a grain of salt these days. He was the complete opposite of Chan in that sense, so unreadable that even the most sensible, the most intuitive of assumptions could turn out to be dead wrong. You could feel Chan’s emotions like they were your own; Minho’s emotions were ones you weren’t sure you’d ever felt.
“What do you think?” You gave Chan a nudge when he approached you, admittedly endeared by the competitive gleam in his eyes. “Do we stand a chance?”
“We’re the better team, no doubt,” he grinned. “But Minho’s got this insane luck. So, we’ll see.”
You tried not to let your own smile dim. Of course he did. It was all in good fun—on the surface at least—but the mere possibility of losing to Minho was one you didn’t even want to consider. He already had enough snarky remarks lined up in his arsenal without you adding to the ammunition.
Chan took a deep breath, lifting the ball up to his face, swinging his arm back in a low arch, and releasing in one fluid motion. It hit the polished ground with an impressive speed, but your glimmer of hope was crushed just a split second later when it rolled directly into the gutter.
Countless sounds exploded all around you at once, so loud you worried you might have to issue an apology to anyone nearby who had the misfortune of being subjected to them. Changbin’s delighted cackles, Minho’s wild laughter, and Chan’s mortified shout of dismay. You covered your mouth to avoid letting your own amusement show, but it made no difference considering that Chan’s face was buried shamefully in his palms as he shuffled his way back over to you, ears already beginning to tinge red.
“Another off day!” Changbin threw his arm over Minho’s shoulder, as if their victory was already guaranteed. “Guess the experience of age is worthless, after all.”
“His old man bones just can’t keep up,” Minho clicked his tongue wistfully.
Chan peeked out from between his fingers, any attempt at a glare rendered harmless by the wide, hopelessly embarrassed smile plastered on his face. “One year!” he cried defensively. “This is your future, Lee Minho!”
Minho’s smirk stayed intact, unfazed by the prospect of such a sad fate awaiting him. You gave Chan a sympathetic pat on the back as soon as he was within reach, trying to meet his eyes.
“Cheer up, Channie,” you encouraged. “Can’t have our ace giving up so soon, can we?”
He managed a shy chuckle, hand reaching up to fiddle with his piercing. Whether it was the other boys’ provocation that had him so flustered, or the fact that you’d been there to witness the pitiful display, you weren’t sure, but you were determined to boost his morale before he had the chance to beat himself up over it. Even for something as frivolous as a game of bowling among friends, you didn’t want to leave any room for Chan to doubt his abilities. You couldn’t help it; you’d do anything to see him shine.
As expected, Changbin was a force to be reckoned with as the game carried on, managing to score steady points for him and Minho’s team with a consistent flow of spares and strikes—that was, when he wasn’t stepping over the line and fouling himself. You were positive it wouldn’t have even been an issue if Minho didn’t point out his mistakes every single time, eventually spiraling into a full-blown argument between the two with Changbin loudly demanding to know whose side he really was on.
Between their bickering and Chan’s bubbly laughter, emitting fondness with every squeak, it almost felt like old times. You almost felt light, just as you had during those spring days spent studying in their apartment. Bumping your shoulder against Changbin’s to keep him focused as you listened to Chan ramble on about thermodynamics with thinly-veiled adoration, taking more and more frequent breaks each passing week just as an excuse to snack and chat with each other, laughing quietly to yourself every time Minho would, inevitably, disturb the study session and antics would ensue between the three boys—more often than not, pulling you into an ambitious new cooking experiment or an hour long tangent to debate the strangest existential topics known to man. In retrospect, it had been the closest to carefree you’d felt in a long time.
“Just throw the ball like a normal person!” Changbin shouted, snapping you back to the present.
Minho sniffed, not breaking eye contact with him once as he bent forward, spread his legs, and tossed the bowling ball carelessly through them. To your astonishment, it rolled down the center of the lane; steady, and by some miracle, steering clear of the gutters all the way to the end. The incredulous sound you let out was only rivaled by Chan’s stunned yelp, half-impressed, half-horrified as the ball managed to knock over a respectable five pins.
It became clear, in that moment, that Minho’s aforementioned luck was very much real, and it operated just as erratically as his own mind did. With each increasingly bizarre stance and tactic he implemented, he was scoring dozens of points before you knew it.
Chan never quite seemed to recover from his initial fumble, and, as much as you wanted to win, it was undoubtedly adorable every time he sank into a crouch, wailing miserably into his knees after yet another failed attempt at gaining some momentum. He was trying to be a good sport about it, even with Changbin and Minho’s taunts making the task near-impossible, but you could still feel the fire of frustration behind his every awkward glance at the monitor and apologetic smile sent your way.
Fortunately, you were able to score enough points to keep the gap between your teams from growing too wide, even pulling a few strikes here and there. It was a bit silly how seriously you were beginning to take the game, but you were fueled on by the desire to lift Chan’s spirits—and, on a pettier note, a desire to see Minho lose. By the time you reached the final round, you and Chan were only behind by nine points.
“Hope I haven’t been too heavy for you,” he remarked, sheepish as he picked up the ball for his last turn.
“I don’t like hearing such defeated words from Bang Christopher Chan,” you frowned. “C’mon, show me some of that showcase confidence!”
He ducked his head with a puff of laughter, thumbs gliding over the sleek surface of the bowling ball. “That was different.”
“That was in front of a crowd of strangers,” you agreed. “This is just me.”
“Exactly,” he hummed softly. “It’s you.”
It took you a moment to understand what he was getting at, only fully registering it when you spotted the rosiness of his cheeks flushing into something deeper, something much more noticeable. Acutely aware of Minho and Changbin’s eyes on you, you tried to keep a straight face, even if every cell in your body called for you to cup Chan’s face and press a kiss to his pouty lips right then and there. He was unreal. It was unreal how, even now, he could charm you so effortlessly—accidentally, even.
“Alright,” he sucked in through his teeth, seemingly reaching a verdict. “Do you think you could turn around? Just this time?”
You blinked, dumbfounded. When you said nothing, he lifted his gaze to give you a look that, despite the absurdity of his request, was resolute as ever. That was all the convincing it took for you to indulge him.
Changbin watched curiously as you turned your back to the lanes, but you made no effort to explain yourself, figuring it would only be all the more embarrassing for Chan if his plan ultimately failed. It was too easy for you to picture his concentrated expression in your head as you waited patiently for him to make the shot—eyebrows furrowed with a striking intensity, but lips twitching in a way that betrayed his excitement underneath.
The heavy thump of the ball against the polished floor met your ears, and shortly after, the crashing of pins, followed by a chorus of disbelieving shouts. You spun around just in time to see Chan rushing back over to you, beaming so wide that his cheeks eclipsed his eyes.
“You can’t be serious,” your voice turned up into a squeak as he pulled you into a triumphant, bone-crushing hug. “No way that worked.”
“Told you,” he sang into your ear. “It’s you.”
Any disappointment Changbin might have felt over losing was crushed by sheer delight when it became apparent to him what had just happened. “Oh, this is too much,” he howled with laughter, leaning against Minho—who, you were surprised to find, had a faintly amused smile on his face, as well. You looked away as quickly as you caught it, driven by that feeling of alienation, an understanding that it wasn’t a sight for you.
In honor of your victory against all odds, Chan decided to head over to the concessions stand he’d been eyeing since you’d first arrived at the bowling alley. Changbin jumped at the chance to tag along, setting panic off in your mind the instant you realized what that meant for you. You stood a bit too quickly, offering to join and help them carry back the snacks, only to be waved off with a reassuring smile from Chan.
Despite your discomfort, you relented, deciding it’d be best not to rouse any suspicions. You slumped back down in your chair as the two walked away, leaving you and Minho sitting directly across from each other in silence.
It wasn’t long before you began to run out of points of interest to look at other than him. Your eyes shifted awkwardly from your shoes to the monitor, from the monitor to the ball rack, from the ball rack to the distant lanes, and right back to your shoes. The cycle repeated for a good few minutes, and just as you reached into your pocket to fish out your phone in a last resort to quell the awkwardness, Minho decided to speak up. Oddly chatty today, you noted.
“Didn’t see you at Chan’s birthday party.”
You raised an eyebrow. “What of it?”
“Just thought it was interesting,” he pointed out. “Since you care about him so much, and all.”
There was a laughable irony there, that the person who was the sole reason why you hadn’t shown up to celebrate Chan, was now questioning why you hadn’t—an irony that, you were willing to bet, he was well aware of.
“I didn’t think I was exactly welcome,” you said plainly.
“Showing up uninvited is nothing new to you, is it?”
You clenched your jaw. “Look, Minho, I’m really not in the mood,” you hissed. “What exactly are you trying to gain from all this?”
“That’s what I’ve been wondering about you, too,” he bounced off you with ease. “I’m kinda curious—did it make you feel better about yourself when you visited him? Felt like you proved something with that soup?”
“Proved something?” You didn’t bother to watch your volume this time, thoroughly set-off in a matter of seconds. “If you think I have anything to prove to you, you’re fucking delusional.”
Even as you spat the words with an uncharacteristic lack of restraint—and decorum—a wisp of doubt brushed past your mind, the same way it had the day you’d confronted him after checking on Chan. Why did he sound so sure of himself? Why did you even allow yourself to entertain his accusations?
What did he know that you didn’t?
He leaned back in his chair, whatever harsh retort that was on the tip of his tongue immediately being cut short when he spotted Changbin hobbling back over with an armful of snacks.
“Someone go help Chan out!” he called. “I don’t think he can carry everything himself.”
Minho rose from his spot before you had the chance to, eyes glinting as he shot you one last look. “You should get that temper of yours checked out,” he suggested under his breath. “Chan might like it, but others won’t.”
At that, he slunk off, leaving you with nothing to do but fume in frustration as Changbin made his way over to you. He dropped his stash on the table with a self-satisfied whistle, picking up a bag of chips and passing it to you.
“Here,” he offered. “Chan got these for you.”
You caught a glimpse of the brand—your favorite. It brought a smile to your face just in time, wiping away your scowl before Changbin could get a proper look at you, but even the warmth glowing in your chest wasn’t enough to erase the residual tension left behind by Minho. Changbin squinted as he settled down next to you, popping open a bag of his own.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing,” you replied quickly. “Thanks for the snack.”
He crunched down on his shrimp chip with a suspicious hum, not convinced by your dull tone in the slightest.
“Are you having fun?”
“Of course,” you smiled, only half-feigned. “Chan and I just won, didn’t we?”
Changbin chewed thoughtfully a few times, breaking his inquisitive stare to shoot a glance over his shoulder, exactly in the direction Minho had disappeared to. When he turned back to you, his expression was more solemn; knowing.
“Is it Minho?”
You couldn’t find the will in you to hide it, picking uncomfortably at the plastic bag in your hands. “I guess I didn’t expect him to be here.”
“Oh,” he frowned. “Did you ever end up talking to him?”
“I did.”
“And?”
You shrugged. “He just doesn’t like me, simple as that.”
You tried to keep your voice casual, unaffected, but Changbin’s reaction to the news made it difficult to maintain. The fact that he seemed so genuinely puzzled almost rubbed salt in the wound, like he’d had the utmost faith that a simple conversation was all it would’ve taken for the two of you to sort things out. Amidst all the complicated feelings you had on the issue, a new one joined the fray: guilt. You hadn’t been able to make it work. If anything, your efforts had sent the situation spiraling into something much worse. All you could do now was ensure that a problem as ridiculous as this wouldn’t reach anyone else—Chan, most of all.
“I don’t get it,” Changbin muttered, brows scrunching together. “I never got the feeling that he doesn’t like you.”
“You definitely would if you saw the way he talks to me.” As soon as the words left your mouth, you nearly cringed over the self-pity laced in them. You didn’t want to be a victim in this situation, especially not if it meant pressuring Changbin to pick a side between you and Minho like you were children fighting on a playground.
“I can have a chat with him, if you want. See what’s really going on.”
“No, no,” you dismissed it like a reflex. “Don’t worry about it.”
“You sure? It’ll be easier for me to get through to him.”
“No, Bin. Seriously,” you paused, not having intended it to come out so sharp. “Sorry. I mean, thank you, but it’s alright. I’d rather handle it myself, y’know?”
It had been made abundantly clear to you that you were, in fact, doing a terrible job at handling it yourself, but Changbin didn’t need to know that. The last thing you wanted was to grant Minho the satisfaction of Changbin revealing just how much his behavior was affecting you—or, even worse, the very real possibility of Chan catching wind of it. You could already picture Minho’s scornful stare, voice dripping with mockery as he ridiculed you for needing to call on Changbin to protect you, for not being able to fight the battles that, in his head, you’d instigated with your mere existence. The thought alone made you shudder in your spot, visibly enough for Changbin to notice.
A strange look crossed his face, one you’d only ever really seen on a few rare occasions before. It was grounded, mature; a side to him that, oftentimes, you tended to forget existed because he traded it out for something less intense. Without him even needing to say a word, you knew that his attentive instincts had kicked in, and once they had, they would be difficult to shake.
“You just seem upset,” he said at last.
“I’m not,” you insisted. “Sometimes people just don’t get along. It’s not worth stressing about, so, please don’t say anything to Minho. Or Chan.”
He eyed you for a few seconds longer, and briefly, you worried that he may actually let his stubbornness get the best of him. It was comical, in a sense, how you’d grown so accustomed to disregarding your own emotions in all facets of life, that being faced with a shred of compassion felt more like a hindrance than anything else. Fortunately, the concern was short-lived. With a grunt of agreement, Changbin popped another chip into his mouth.
“Alright. If you’re sure.”
The relief you felt upon hearing those words increased tenfold as you spotted Chan returning with Minho from the concessions stand, loaded with snacks and drinks that even his long arms could hardly contain. He was smiling, no doubt still giddy over your unexpected win and the victory meal that was lined up for him. That was all it took to make you absolutely certain of your decision.
“I’m sure. Thanks, Bin.”
You wanted to be the reason for Chan’s smile. If it meant securing his happiness, then you could deal with it, no questions asked.
。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。
The shrill ping of your laptop—a sound you’d come to despise in recent weeks—rang out to notify you of a new email in your inbox, breaking your focus so that you lost your place in the article you’d been reading.
Huffing to yourself, you clicked off the page begrudgingly and switched to your email tab, reluctant to see what academic horrors were lying in wait for you. As expected, it was a followup message from your lab instructor. With the fall semester drawing to a close in just under a month, the pressure was on for you to complete your research paper in time to have your findings included as part of the final study. Having your name on a published academic paper was an essential goal you had set for yourself as an undergraduate; something to give you an extra edge in the fiercely competitive field of astrophysics. The only problem was, (save for the grueling amounts of time and effort it took to reach that point) you had to get your draft approved before it was too late, a task that was beginning to seem impossible with every new response you received from your instructor.
Today was no different, a fresh wave of stress washing over you as you read the contents of her email. Another extensive list of revisions, a reminder of your approaching deadline, and, most troubling of all, another order to have your progress peer reviewed by at least one other student as part of the physics department protocol. Alarm spiked within you. You didn’t have a lot of time.
Before you’d even finished reading the email, you reached blindly for your phone, fumbling with the passcode in your haste to unlock it and open up your messaging app.
you (9:23 p.m.)
hey!
sorry to nag about this again but have u had the chance to look over my paper?
You tried to get a grip on your impatience, telling yourself that it was just the incessant desire to be done with the process already that had you so on edge. But all it took was a few minutes of waiting for you to start tapping your fingers anxiously against your desk, debating whether or not you should try calling instead before you succumbed to the unreasonable levels of foreboding stacking up inside you.
Then, at last, a reply. Any reassurance it might have brought you instantly dwindled as soon as you read it.
iseul 🪷 (9:34 p.m.)
omg…
omfg
no i totally forgot
You pressed your lips together. In a way, you couldn’t exactly say you were surprised. Not in the slightest, actually.
you (9:34 p.m.)
okay no worries
are u still able to? the deadline’s pretty soon
iseul 🪷 (9:39 p.m.)
i’m not sure tbh
i’m kinda busy rn so i’ll lyk later
on a date ;P
Your heart sank, panic shooting through the roof. It’d been well over a week since you’d first asked her to look over your paper, and you’d made a conscious effort not to press the subject too much to avoid coming off as pushy. Now, you wished desperately that you’d been firmer from the start. Surely, then, she would’ve realized how important it was to you. Surely, then, she would’ve prioritized it.
You took a deep breath, mind frantic and scrambling for a solution. It found one almost immediately, like second nature, but you pushed the thought away as soon as it came. You didn’t want to bother him. Absolutely not.
As you continued to wager the possibilities, however, it became more and more evident to you that there may not be any other option on such short notice—or, maybe, you just felt a selfish need to reach out to him in that moment, knowing you would be met with nothing but that certain warmth. It was a foreign desire, completely unlike you, and you weren’t sure you liked how often it wormed its way into your brain these days.
You’d consulted a handful of other friends before Iseul, all of which shared your major; a double-edged sword in this case. While it made them reliable candidates for peer review, the issue lied in the fact that they were all preoccupied with their own capstone research. Even without the added weight of having to complete an extensive documentation by a strict deadline like you had, the amount of work their labs required was more than enough to keep them busy.
Changbin was no exception. You’d already been hesitant to ask him from the start—which was, frankly, a bit ridiculous considering he’d demonstrated time and time again how dependable he could be if the situation called for it—so when he’d apologetically told you that he wouldn’t be able to get to it before at least another week, you’d dropped the subject without a second thought. It would be too far late by then, and bringing it up a second time would only put an unnecessary pressure on him. Even if you got a response in a timely manner (a pipe dream in itself), his answer would be the same, and your paper would more than likely end up falling into Chan’s hands, anyway.
You tapped your thumbs together indecisively, trying to approach it with a clear mind. Maybe it was okay. Maybe it wasn’t wrong to allow yourself to rely on him just a little bit, to lean into that warmth you’d been so determined to ration for reasons you couldn’t fully grasp.
Maybe, it wouldn’t be so unforgivable to take your own advice, just this once.
Steeling yourself, you hit Chan’s contact before you could talk yourself out of it. All it took was a matter of three rings, and you heard the other line pick up. That was another detail you’d noticed lately, another subtle shift in attachment that made your chest tighten when you lingered on it for too long. He was much more responsive ever since that day in October, texting back uncharacteristically fast and calling uncharacteristically more often compared to the usual, comfortable periods of absence between the two of you. It was as if he was on standby for you at all times, ready to jump at the opportunity to meet your every beck and call in case there was something—anything—he could do for you.
“Hey, you.”
In spite of everything, his melodic lilt soothed your nerves. It always did.
“Hi Channie,” you couldn’t mask the stiffness in your voice. “Are you busy?”
“I’ve got time,” he chirped. He didn’t say it, but you knew what he meant; he had time for you. “But first, guess what I’ve been working on.”
Fondness tugged at the corners of your mouth. “What?”
“Not telling,” you could practically hear the dimples carving their way into his cheeks. “You gotta guess.”
“Hm. Could it be what I think it is?”
“Dunno,” he giggled. “You’re the one who can see right through me, yeah?”
You let the pull at your lips form fully into a smile. “In that case, you’d better not break your promise.”
It wasn’t difficult to envision the look on his face, the pure giddiness it etched into his features to know that you’d caught on with ease. Speaking in riddles because he could; a language only the two of you could understand.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he hummed. “So, what’s up?”
You faltered, having nearly forgotten your reason for calling him in the first place. The cheerful rhythm of his voice and the charming tune of his laughter had almost been enough to sway you, to change your mind and shield him from the academic nightmares that he was no stranger to. But anxiety spiked within you all over again as you were reminded of your looming deadline, providing all the push you needed to latch on to him with an embarrassing speed.
“Actually, I…” you began slowly. “I was wondering if you could help me out with something.”
“Anything,” he said it without an ounce of hesitation, ready to comply before he even heard your request. It made your heart swell—with affection, gratitude, and something else you couldn’t quite place.
“So, Iseul was supposed to review my research paper draft before I submitted it for the final publication but…but I don’t think she can anymore,” you hoped to sound nonchalant, not wanting a single drop of your unease to spill on his conscience. “I know it’s a lot to ask on short notice, so it’s absolutely fine if you can’t, but—”
“Of course, I can.”
“Really?” you swallowed. “Thank you, I…”
A critical thought crossed your mind, bringing the sense of calm that Chan always enveloped you with to an immediate halt. You felt stupid for not considering it sooner, for allowing yourself to be so short-sighted, even for just a moment.
“Your project,” you said suddenly. “Your mentor gave you an extension, right? Did you finish it? Because you need to work on that instead if—”
“Nah,” he assured you. “It’s all done, don’t worry.”
You paused. It was just your inner saboteur making excuses, probably—grasping for any reason at all to pull back before you committed to burdening him with your troubles—but why was it that every single time he told you not to worry, it only worried you more?
Still, you forced your reservations to the side. Maybe he sounded so terse because it was still a sensitive topic for him, something he couldn’t think back to without the guilt that surrounded that night plaguing his mind all over again. It made you soften with sympathy, and a faint hope that, just maybe, your gentle words as you’d bathed him had pierced through the fog of doubt in his mind—enough to compel him to be honest with you about this.
“O-okay. Then, yeah, I’d really appreciate your help,” you exhaled. “Thank you, Channie.”
“It’s nothing,” he murmured. “The least I could do, really.”
You nearly laughed out loud. The least he could do. As if he owed you something, as if he didn’t do more for you than you could ever express simply by being himself.
He could read you with such ease—could catch on to your every thought and sentiment, however fleeting, like it was the most natural thing in the world—but the view of him from your eyes, the sight of himself from a lens of pure, unadulterated adoration; that was one thing he’d never be able to truly comprehend.
。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。
“I didn’t lose it.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Lose sounds so…so harsh,” Changbin protested. “I just happened to put it somewhere and can’t remember where that somewhere is.”
“That’s a relief,” you snorted. “You had me scared for a second.”
“It was an accident, seriously!”
“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” You gave him a good-natured shove as the two of you shuffled down the hall side by side, a sight that had become commonplace for anyone who frequented the physics building. “But if I were you, I’d get to searching.”
“C’mon, it could be anywhere!” he complained.
“I’m saying this for your own good, Seo Changbin. Do you really wanna suffer through finals without your lucky charm?”
Changbin’s face dropped, a horrified look of realization parting his lips and widening his eyes.
“I’ll find it,” he mumbled, so serious that you couldn’t hold back a snicker. “For you, of course. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t?”
“Uh-huh,” you said plainly. “Once you do, custody of Cinnamoroll is going right back to me.”
You weren’t upset about it, not really. It was honestly a miracle that he’d been able to keep track of something as trivial as a pencil for so long in the first place. Though, you’d be lying if you said there wasn’t an undeniable feeling of wistfulness there, to think that the prized possession that had initially brought you and Changbin together was now missing. You weren’t exactly the superstitious type—well, maybe that had changed just the slightest bit as of late—but it almost felt like a bad omen of sorts.
“That’s too cruel,” Changbin whined. “I’ll never let him out of my sight again, I swear.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing at you in anticipation of a response; but you were lost in thought. A sea of inhibitions that, funnily enough, had inched further and further up the shore in recent months, months where you’d been objectively happier than even your highest points over the past few years.
You were certain your change in demeanor wouldn’t go unnoticed by Changbin—he’d tapped far more into his observant side as of late, ever since he’d come to learn that you and Minho weren’t nearly as in harmony as he’d led himself to believe. Between his added scrutiny, Minho’s pointed, all-knowing glares, and Chan’s ability to tune in to even the finest shift in your emotions, you didn’t think you’d ever felt more uncomfortably seen in your life. You felt like you were being watched from all angles; nowhere to hide, no way to maneuver yourself so that your loose seams weren’t visible.
“Wanna go bowling tonight?” Changbin suggested, breaking your stream of consciousness before you were completely pulled out to sea.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re so into it these days because it’s the only sport you can beat Chan at?”
“I can beat him at billiards, too! And soccer, even if he won't admit it,” he retorted. “Besides, it’ll just be you and me. Pretty sure Chan’s busy with makeup work.”
You froze.
“What?”
It took Changbin a second to realize that you weren’t walking beside him anymore. He stopped in his tracks, turning to give you a strange look.
“Y’know, that big project with his mentor. It’s due tonight, I think.”
Your stomach dropped. All at once, dread consumed you, at such an alarming rate that it felt akin to plunging into ice cold water on a hot, sunny day. You didn’t want to believe it; you wanted to tell yourself that Changbin had to be mistaken, that Chan had finished his work days ago like he’d told you, and that he certainly hadn’t taken on the burden of reviewing over twenty pages of scientific jargon for you when he still had a very crucial, very future-defining project of his own to complete.
Even as you tried to convince yourself, even if you wanted to cling to the faith you’d put in him more than anything, even though you knew Changbin was notoriously bad with dates, deep down, you already had your answer.
Changbin’s expression grew heavy with concern. “What’s with that face?”
You cleared your throat, praying that your words would come out steady. “Nothing,” you replied quickly. “I just thought he’d already finished.”
He opened his mouth to say something—most definitely to question you further on why you looked like you’d just seen a ghost—so, you spoke up again before he had the chance.
“Anyway, yeah, let’s go bowling tonight. See who the real ace is.”
The playful challenge, strained as it was, seemed to ease Changbin’s misgivings a bit. He flashed you a smirk, taking the bait immediately.
“Haitai Bbasae shrimp chips are my favorite, by the way.” He bumped his shoulder against yours. “So you know what to buy me when I win.”
You rolled your eyes. “Forgot about your pencil debt so soon?”
Your joking did nothing to seal the pit of apprehension that had opened up inside your gut. In fact, it deepened with each step you took, as if your body was physically rejecting the idea of you walking anywhere other than directly towards Phase 8 of the campus apartments; directly towards Chan.
You all but forced the muscles in your face to relax, solely to avoid rousing Changbin’s suspicions again. Already, you were regretting your decision to meet up with him later that night. Spending even an hour or two pretending like the thought of Chan—cooped up in his room, undoubtedly running on minimal sleep and an empty stomach, bloodshot eyes locked on his laptop screen as he struggled to meet the most important deadline of his academic career, all because of you—wasn’t eating away at your insides wouldn’t exactly be a walk in the park, even for you.
You told yourself it was just an overreaction. You were jumping to conclusions. Maybe taking your mind off of it tonight was exactly what you needed; enough time for Chan to finish his work, and enough time for the fog that always seemed to cloud your rationality when it came to him to clear up.
You’d mull it over properly, and then you’d talk to Chan. Everything always worked out when you talked to Chan.
。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。
As it turned out, subjecting yourself to a constant back and forth argument for two days straight—a trial where you were playing the role of judge, jury, defendant, and prosecutor all at once—served no real purpose other than to drive you to the brink of madness.
The more you’d tried to reason with yourself, the more convinced you’d become that the situation was, in actuality, far more dire than you’d initially believed. It appeared so simple on the surface, a harmless white lie that was said only with the intention of easing your worries, to displace some of the weight from your shoulders to his. You loathed the fact that you’d managed to spin such a kind, loving gesture, such an authentically Chan gesture, into something so unpleasant. But knowing what you knew, knowing Chan, it went deeper than that. You never would’ve allowed yourself to shift that weight over to him if you’d known he hadn’t been relieved of his own first.
It was for that reason that when Chan had called you earlier in the day to see if you were free to meet up—a timing that only spurred on your paranoid thoughts, given that he was no doubt reaching out to you because he’d finally submitted his work—you’d all but jumped at the opportunity. You needed to see him, his crinkled eye smile, his face well-rested and bright. You needed to be certain that you hadn’t ruined everything for him.
Each step up the stairwell to unit 8-325 added another layer to the anxiety piling inside of you. It was a sensation you’d experienced once before; that strangely chilly day in April, trudging your way up alongside Changbin, completely oblivious to what the universe had in store for you. Completely oblivious to the warmth you would be met with, the part of yourself that you hadn’t known you were missing until you found him.
You gave the front door a few knocks, a bit harder than usual, just in case Chan had his headphones in. Before the gusts of wind blowing through the hallway could even begin to chill you through your clothes, the door swung open. Despite everything, your heart sang at the sight of him. Eyes sleepy, and, as predicted, accompanied by those dark bags he carried around far too often for your liking, curls ruffled, hoodie wrinkled, smile lazy—just prominent enough for one of his dimples to peek out.
You wondered if he’d been napping. The idea both calmed and unsettled you; the comfort of knowing he’d gotten some rest, the fear that he’d needed to catch up on sleep because he’d been pulling all-nighters to complete his work. Because of you.
“Hey, you.”
“Hi, Chan.”
You hadn’t even noticed the issue with your greeting until he tilted his head curiously.
“Scary,” he giggled. “Am I in trouble?”
You padded through the doorframe and slipped off your shoes, keeping quiet long enough for his grin to waver. It nearly made you grimace. Two words in, and you already couldn’t tolerate the idea of speaking to him with anything but the utmost care.
“Sorry.” You chided yourself for being so pointlessly intense about it. You didn’t even know the full story yet; there was no need to stir unease in him like that. “How are you, Channie?”
“All good, now. I missed you,” he added.
You knew he must be wondering why you hadn’t hugged him yet. So, you leaned into his arms the very instant they outstretched. You took in his scent, his body heat, the peaceful beat of his heart. You wished the tranquility that he washed over you would last. You wished you could fall fully into him and just pretend like nothing was wrong. But then, where would you go from there? How many more times would he do something like this? How many more corners of himself would he cut until, before you knew it, you were doing the exact same thing to him as so many others had done before? The question itself was enough to scare you, let alone what the answer may be.
“I missed you, too,” you murmured. Mustering all your willpower, you pulled your head from his chest, taking a few steps deeper into the apartment with Chan following suit.
You braced yourself, and then you tested the waters.
“So, did you finish your project?”
A heavy pause, then an awkward laugh.
“Oh, yeah. A few days ago, remember?”
You said nothing. Instead, you turned to look at him properly, not bothering to mask the doubt written all over your face. His gaze fell, and you knew, immediately, that you’d been correct.
“Well,” he cleared his throat. “It’s done now, no worries.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Your desire to be gentle with him was already beginning to battle it out with your urgency to get to the bottom of this, to decode what had been going on in his head when he’d made such a potentially disastrous choice for your sake. Chan reached up for his earring, eyes still averted as he rolled the silver hoop sheepishly between his fingers.
“Are you mad?”
Mad. The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. The idea that you could feel anything but boundless affection for him was so incomprehensible to you. No, you weren’t mad. You were frustrated. Because you knew he saw no problem with what he had done, because the damage had been to him and no one else.
“Of course not. I…I’m really grateful you were there for me,” you began, and the hopeful way he raised his head almost made you want to leave it at that. “But I’m just a little concerned that you kept this from me, Channie. I wanted to be sure that you had nothing else on your plate before asking such a huge favor of you.”
He smiled, clearly oblivious to how much you meant it. “It’s no problem, really. I wanted to help.”
Your stomach churned. Of course he wanted to help, you knew that more than anything. Two years ago, he’d only wanted to help, too. That was the detail that had unnerved you most in the 48 hours you’d spent dissecting it all—the eerie similarities between this situation and the one Chan had poured his heart out to you about just a few weeks ago. Once you’d noticed how they paralleled each other, it was impossible to ignore, to the point where that became the driving force for your need to set things right, to put your foot down before history repeated itself.
“Don’t you remember what we talked about the other day?” you prompted, as delicately as your growing tension would allow. “What if you hadn’t finished your work in time because you were too busy helping me? Graduation is less than a month away—why would you ever risk that?”
Chan shifted his weight from side to side. You could tell he was starting to grow uncomfortable.
“This is different.”
“How?” you pressed. “How is it any different? You nearly let me jeopardize your future all over again.”
“I don’t understand,” he chuckled softly. “I finished in the end, didn’t I? There’s really no need to worry about me.”
You took a deep breath. You weren’t getting through to him.
“But what if you hadn’t? What if you failed because of this?” You didn’t miss the way he shrank back when you spoke the word, only feeding into your own distress. “Not just that, it can’t have been easy to balance so much work at once. I don’t want you taking on more than you can handle again, especially not for my sake.”
“It’s okay,” he said lightly, almost dismissive. “It was my decision, y’know? If it’s you, then it’s okay.”
Normally, the words would’ve melted your heart. They would’ve made you coo and fawn and swoon over him and his insurmountable selflessness. Now, they only frightened you. If he was willing to put something as important as this on the line without a second thought, you didn’t even want to think about what else he might try to sacrifice for you.
“Chan…” you hesitated. “I need to know that you’re not gonna do something like this again. I need you to promise me that you’ll put yourself first in this relationship, at least when it matters most.”
His expression darkened, just the slightest bit. It was a look you’d never once seen cross his face, one that felt so unnatural that you didn’t know what to make of it. But the feeling it evoked was one you understood all too well. The feeling of having a core part of himself confronted; challenged.
“I—” Chan sucked in through his teeth. “I don’t think I can promise you that.”
Your heart sank. The dread that had been slowly creeping its way up on you since you’d first arrived, now consumed you in full. He wasn’t going to stop. He was never going to stop. Not for you, or anyone else. Certainly not for himself.
“Please,” you tried again. “Please, tell me you’re not gonna put me in this position.”
You could tell, just from the bewildered look he was giving you, that he was having trouble piecing it together in his head, that he was struggling to decipher why you would ever even ask such a thing of him. Why you weren’t jumping at the opportunity to take advantage of him, to use him for all he was worth, like so many others did.
“You’ve got to stop treating yourself like this,” you continued, not liking the way you were losing control of your voice. “If you keep giving and giving there’s not going to be anything left of you to give.”
Chan remained silent, and for a split second, you felt a glimmer of hope that he was starting to grasp the message you were trying to send. But it was nothing more than a candle in the wind, blown out before it even had the chance to illuminate anything.
“And what about you?”
You tensed. “What?”
“Could you make that promise to me?” he asked quietly. “Would you stop hiding things from me if I asked you to?”
Just like that, the mirror was turned on you.
“That’s…you’re changing the subject. This isn’t about me.”
“Really? I think it is.”
You held your ground, determined not to let him steer the conversation away from himself. “I know my limits, Chan. I wouldn’t hide anything serious from you.”
“Then why have you still not told me about what happened when you went home?”
It was unusually direct coming from him, just short of accusatory. You were reminded, once again, that even the parts of yourself that you thought you might be able to slip past his attentive eyes, he was well aware of—more than he ever let show. Even when he caught on to every minute detail, even when it filled his head with concern for you, he remained considerate as ever; waiting patiently until you were ready to open up yourself. At least, until now.
“And…why haven’t you told me about what’s going on with Minho?”
Something twisted deep within you. He’d noticed. Of course he’d noticed. You’d done a horrible job in hiding it—and even if you hadn’t, he would’ve sensed something was off, anyway. He always did.
When he gauged your reaction, Chan’s face dropped into something heartbreaking, eyes flashing with a resigned sort of fear.
“Do you—?”
“No.” You couldn’t hide your revulsion towards what you were sure he was going to ask, denying it so fiercely that it at least seemed to convince him right away. “That’s not it at all.”
“Okay,” he exhaled. “Then, what’s going on? You can tell me everything. I’m here to listen.”
Countless emotions fought for control over you all at once. Dismay. Exasperation. Vulnerability. Love. Even now, he was finding a way to focus on you, to make sure you were okay amidst your attempts to get him on speaking terms with his self-preservation. It was a testament to everything you adored about him, and everything about him that made you feel utterly helpless. You needed an escape route, a window to break out of before that pure, sincere gaze of his cast its spell on you and made you do something that you were sure to regret. Because you always regretted it, every single time. You couldn’t tell him. Not about Minho, not about home, not about her, not about him. Not because he wouldn’t care, but because he would. He would care so much that all your pain would become his.
It was your turn to break eye contact, brushing your thumb over your nose. “It’s not something you need to hear, right now.”
“Then, when? How can I be there for you if you won’t let me?” Desperation began to seep into every word. “You promised, didn’t you?”
“I know,” you swallowed. “But that’s not the point of all this. You don’t owe me anything for what happened in October, okay? You don’t have to feel guilty just because you let yourself lean on me a bit.”
You meant the affirmations—you knew you did. So why did they suddenly sound so unconvincing? Like something you’d never believe if spoken to you. Chan pressed his lips together, and though he didn’t say it, you could tell he knew exactly what you were doing.
“If this keeps up, you’re going to hate me,” you said plainly. “You’re going to resent me for all the times you helped me when you should’ve helped yourself.”
His fingers curled around the sleeve of his hoodie, picking at its loose threads in a way that betrayed how high his tensions were running beneath the silence.
“Why are you so sure that’s gonna happen?”
“Because…because I know you.”
“Because you do the same thing?” he asked sharply.
He wasn’t going to let you get away with it today. He was tugging at each of your seams, peeling back the adhesives to reveal what you’d let fester underneath. You were trapped. Cornered by someone who you’d come to trust more than anyone else in the world—but that didn’t make it any less terrifying.
“Maybe I do,” you relented. There was no use in hiding it, not when he sounded more sure of himself than you’d ever heard him sound before. “That’s why I know it won’t end well. I need you to stop this, for your own good.”
“Don’t,” Chan interjected. “Please, don’t talk about what’s good for me. It doesn’t matter.”
“Oh my God, Chan,” you let out a hollow laugh. “Am I supposed to agree with that?”
Of course nothing had changed. How naive, how fucking foolish of you to believe that one conversation could ever be enough to undo the ideas that had been hammered into his being by everyone around him his entire life; so extensively, so persistently that, as time went on, he began to do the hammering himself. You were positive now, that everything he’d revealed to you that night in October, as gut-wrenching as it’d been on its own, wasn’t even the half of what he’d been through. It was just a single star in a constellation of hurt.
Minho’s words echoed in your head. He was right. You weren’t special. You would take advantage of Chan just like everyone else, whether you wanted to or not. Your ex’s words echoed in your head. He had been right. You were a liar. You couldn’t even apply your own words to yourself—how could you ever, ever expect them to get through to Chan?
“These…types of relationships don’t always work out, right?”
You didn’t want to use the term he’d used before, it felt unnecessarily cruel in that moment. Ever since he’d first brought the subject of twin flames up, you’d spent any free time you’d managed to get your hands on reading about them. That kind of connection could be transformational, sure, but the further you delved into the phenomenon, the more you came to learn that it could be just as harmful under the wrong circumstances—destructive. Two individuals who shared such core similarities were bound to experience problems far deeper-rooted and far more intense than anyone else, after all. Most people didn’t take kindly to being faced with their own traits completely unfiltered—the good, the bad, the ugly. A mirror that reflected them in their truest form.
“Maybe we’re not ready to see these parts of ourselves. Maybe we just bring out the worst in each other.”
Each word made your tongue feel drier and drier. You didn’t dare to look at Chan as you spoke them, certain you would break the very instant your eyes locked with his.
“Maybe,” you paused. Your heart was pounding, so loud that you felt it in your ears, making it impossible to think straight. There was still a chance to take it back, to change your mind before destabilizing the foundation of everything the two of you had so carefully built until now.
Ever since you’d met Chan, you’d thought that you’d been growing, learning, healing. You’d thought you were reaching a point where you wouldn’t need to hold yourself together anymore, because you would simply be…together. No adhesives. No loose seams. Just whole.
But here, you had him. The kind of person you’d only ever encountered once before in this lifetime, the kind of person you used to dream of knowing again. Someone who noticed every little thing you did for him and returned it tenfold, someone who loved you and meant it, and yet, somehow, you couldn’t make it work in your mind. You couldn’t shake the dread, the belief that it was all temporary, conditional, transactional. Like if you made one small misstep, it would all be lost.
In retrospect, you really hadn’t learned a thing.
“Maybe we should end this. Before we start to hurt each other.”
Chan’s breath hitched.
“What?”
“I d-don't want to hurt you. And if this continues, I'm going to.”
His hand lowered from his ear, crossing over his chest to cup his neck instead. Covering his heart, shielding himself.
“More than this?” his voice cracked. “I think this hurts more than anything else you could ever do to me.”
There was no way to conceal the effect it had on you. A physical, throbbing ache in your chest.
“Chan,” you begged inwardly for him to understand—for him to just know it, the same way he knew everything else about you like the back of his hand. “I’m not going to stand by and watch you ruin yourself for me.”
It made sense, now. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you were saying what you needed to hear. The realization made it all feel infinitely more despicable. Could you even say you were doing this out of care for him? Or were you just a coward afraid to confront this part of yourself?
That was what you always did, after all; you ran. You ran from your ex, your home, your family, your friends. The moment you were faced with any kind of obstacle, you left. And this was no different. You were no different than anyone else who had abandoned Chan in the past. If anything, you were worse. A hypocrite who had the audacity to shame the people who had harmed him, then turned around to do it yourself.
“If you’re gonna leave, just do it, please.”
You wished he sounded at least a little angry about it. You wished he wasn’t so ready to accept it. You almost wished he would snap and lash out and yell, voicing every vicious thought you were thinking about yourself in that moment. A liar, a manipulator, a hypocrite. Cruel, awful, selfish.
You wished he would be a little more selfish.
But there was no contempt in his eyes, no vitriol. Not even the beginnings of tears. It felt worse—far worse. He was saving them. He wasn’t going to cry until you left.
The only emotion you could read on his face was exhaustion. By your own volition, you were no longer the reason for his smile; you’d become the reason for his weariness.
“Okay,” you whispered. “I'll let you be, now.”
You waited. For what, you weren’t sure. There was no one to swoop in and put a stop to this; you were the one who’d started it. Still, you waited. For yourself to change your mind, for Chan to change his mind, for something about all this to change.
You took one last look at the apartment around you. The stray socks, the scattered water bottles, the half-done dishes. You wondered if it was the last time you would ever see it. You hadn’t been prepared to leave it all behind. You hadn’t been prepared for any of this.
You took one last look at him—the boy you loved. His gaze was still downcast, a detail you were, pathetically enough, grateful for. You weren’t sure you’d be able to keep it together if he met your eyes; if he looked at you with anything other than that unfettered adoration you’d come to rely on, despite every one of your instincts commanding you not to. You wanted to tell him that you loved him, to leave him with something to hold on to, but you knew it would do nothing but twist the knife. There was no way to make him understand that because you loved him so much, you had to end this. You weren’t going to let him make you his accomplice in his self-destruction, and you weren’t going to subject him to witnessing your own, either.
You turned to leave. Every step you took towards the door felt like your heart was being ripped further out of your chest.
Your heart was there, across the room, watching you go.
。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。
bin 😑 (monday, 1:09 p.m.)
what’s this what’s this???
looks like somebody’s late for class~
bin 😑 (monday, 1:32 p.m.)
ur srsly gonna leave me all alone on review day???
bin 😑 (tuesday, 4:42 p.m.)
guess what i found ><
bin 😑 (today, 12:17 a.m.)
i’m really being ignored…
huuu ㅜ
Two days had passed. You were only aware of that fact thanks to the timestamps of Changbin’s texts. You’d skipped your classes on Monday, the first time you’d missed class the entire year—ever since you’d started university, really.
It was a stupid decision, but, well, you were no stranger to those. You probably would have done well for yourself to attend your lectures. After all, the distractions that came with drowning yourself in academics had proved to be effective even when you were at your most miserable. That was exactly why you hadn’t gone. You didn’t deserve to distract yourself.
Eventually, though, it’d become too much to bear. Sitting alone in your apartment, with nothing to do but torture yourself with thoughts of him, of what you’d done, of the way everything had fallen apart before your very eyes—by your very hands—was a punishment that you decided you wouldn’t even wish on your worst enemy. Which, funnily enough, was probably yourself.
You didn’t deserve to miss him. You didn’t deserve to worry about him. You didn’t even deserve to wonder how he might be doing. Still, you did, anyway. Selfishly.
You squinted at your laptop screen, a harsh, white light illuminating your face. Unnatural, nothing like the soothing glow of the moon outside. It was sure to be in its Waning Gibbous phase by now, the same way it had been the night you’d first fallen for him. But it had been cloudy for two days straight. No sun shining down on you to balance out the chilly autumn air. No stars decorating the sky. No moon to watch over you at night.
It took you a few seconds to process the sound of your cellphone buzzing against your desk. Your eyes flickered over to it, lacking the energy to even turn your head fully. It was Iseul. Given how late it was, she was undoubtedly calling about some problem or another. So, for the first time, you let it go to voicemail.
But nothing was ever that easy. You didn’t even have the chance to find where you’d left off in your notes before she was calling again, not even bothering to leave a message or to give you time to call back first.
It was probably best not to answer. You were in no state to answer.
You steeled yourself, and you took the call.
Before you could even say hello, her distressed voice ran through the speaker.
“Can you come over?”
For once, you wished you’d been wrong about why she was contacting you. You wished that this friendship, which was usually a comfortable constant for you, a way for both of your needs to be met, could be put on hold. You wished she saw any value in you other than what you could do for her.
“Right now?” you tried to keep calm, telling yourself that it wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know. How could she? You’d never let her. “I…I’m kinda busy, sorry.”
“This is important,” she sounded serious, but you knew it was more than likely that this was just another case of a very solvable issue being blown wildly out of proportion in her eyes. “I really, really need your help.”
You said nothing, not even finding it in you to string together an acceptable excuse.
“Are you with Chan, or something?”
A physical pang in your chest.
“Uh, yeah,” you lied.
“Oh.”
An uncomfortable silence stretched across the call. Normally, you’d fill it, say something to keep her from feeling awkward.
“It's really late, Iseul. Can we talk tomorrow?”
“No.” You were taken aback by how abruptly she responded. “I need your help now, I'm so serious. Can you please just come for a bit? I'm sure Chan wouldn’t care.”
Another blow from your oblivious assailant, straight to the gut. You felt short of breath.
“Maybe I can help over the phone?” you offered weakly. “What’s going on?”
“No, no, no, you have to be here! I just lost my whole fucking essay file and it’s due at 6:00 a.m. and you know I don’t know shit about computers!” her tone grew frantic the more she rambled on. “I have no idea how to get it back, I'm seriously about to cry.”
An essay. The very same thing that had led to all of this. That was more important than the maelstrom of emotions swirling inside you, destroying everything in its path. Of course it was. How presumptuous of you to think otherwise. The absolute gall of you to think you deserved any amount of time to feel sorry for yourself.
You gritted your teeth. She doesn’t know.
“Okay, okay. No problem. I can just tell you how to recover it.” You left out the fact that she could’ve easily searched it up online and saved you both the trouble.
“I’m not gonna know what or where anything is!” she objected. “Can’t you just come over and fix it? I'm freaking out. You can go crawling back to your stupid boyfriend after if it matters that much.”
She wasn’t thinking with a clear head, probably—letting her stress speak for her. But it was a push too far.
“I’m not your fucking babysitter, Iseul,” you spat. “You can’t just snap your fingers every time you want me to solve a problem for you. Figure it out yourself.”
The line went silent. Long enough for you to perfectly envision her hurt expression in your head.
“What?” it came quiet, meek. Everything unlike her. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I'm tired.” You rubbed your eyes, trying to get rid of the building sting. “I can't do this right now.”
“That’s n-not an excuse for you to talk to me like that,” her voice trembled. “I didn't do anything wrong!”
You heard a faint sniffle, and as exasperated as you were, it crashed guilt over you all the same. You didn’t want to make her feel like this.
“I’m so stressed out and you know how hard I’ve been working on my grades so I can get into grad school. Is it that crazy for me to call my friend for help? Like, am I wrong for thinking you care about me enough to save me from failing this fucking class?”
Each word, so tone-deaf, so lacking in self-awareness, added to the pressure filling up your head, heightening it so much until it was unbearable.
“Do you ever stop to think about the way you talk to me?” you snapped. “Or is it too much to ask for you to consider someone else’s feelings for once?”
You were being harsh, unreasonable too. Every fiber of your being screamed for you to take it back, to do what you were supposed to do and just go help her. But your conversation with Chan—everything that had led up to that doomed, wretched conversation with Chan—was all too fresh in your mind, manifesting in the ugliest of ways against someone who didn’t deserve it.
You wanted to blame her. You wanted it to be all her fault. If she had just been there for you when you’d needed her, none of this would have happened. Even as you tried to convince yourself of it, you knew it wasn’t true. What had caused everything to crumble between you and Chan ran much deeper than that simple favor. The flaw was in the very foundation.
“I consider your feelings all the time! Are you kidding me!?” she exclaimed, offended by the accusation without taking even a moment to consider if it had any merit to it.
“Right. That’s why you only ever reach out to me when you need something.”
You could practically feel her indignation burning up on the other end of the call, and you stopped to ask yourself just what the hell you were doing. This approach would never get through to Iseul. She was far too proud, far too sensitive to receive any kind of message when delivered so tactlessly. That was why your friendship had worked all this time, why you were one of the few people who got along with her. You were nothing if not tactful, enough for the both of you.
“So what!? Friends are supposed to be there for each other!”
“Yeah,” you said bitterly. “They are.”
Another spell of silence. You wondered, briefly, if she was catching on to what you were implying, but the moment she spoke up again, you knew it’d been nothing but another baseless hope.
“Well, if you hate helping me that much, don't lie to me and act like you want to!”
“I’m not lying to you!” you retorted. “I want to help you! Every single time you come to me, I want to help you. That’s the problem!”
You’d never even raised your voice at her before, let alone to this degree. You didn’t have to see her face to know she was frightened by it—yet another point on your list of reasons to feel guilty.
“So I’m just a problem to you,” she concluded. You could hear the sobs beginning to build in her throat. “Great, thanks.”
“Iseul, that’s not—”
“Forget it,” she hiccuped. “It must be so hard for you, right? You’re so fucking perfect and I’m so fucking selfish.”
The line went dead, leaving you gripping your phone with such intensity you worried it might actually crumple under your fingers. Of all the ever-changing things in this world, the one you’d always been able to control was yourself. But it seemed even that was too tall of an order these days.
Maybe you really did need to get that temper of yours checked out.
。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。
One hour later, you found yourself, once again, trudging miserably up a flight of stairs to meet your impending fate. Cold, exhausted, and filled to the brim with anxiety. You’d forgotten to throw on a jacket before leaving your apartment—far too preoccupied with the round table discussion taking place in your mind, one that was still well underway even as you impulsively made the decision to leave. By the time you reached the fourth floor of the complex, your teeth were chattering.
You gave the door a few knocks, drawing your hand back as soon as you did to rub it against the other, your best attempt at generating some warmth. There was no response for nearly a minute, and, with a tinge of fear, it dawned on you for the first time that Iseul may have very well given up and gone to sleep after your phonecall. It made your insides lurch. How could you have done this to her? How could you have let yourself be so caught up in your emotions that you treated hers so carelessly?
Why did you feel so cold?
Panicking, you knocked again, this time with a bit more force. It was nearing 4:00 a.m. now, there was still a chance for you to fix things before her deadline. There were so many things you couldn’t fix, you needed to make something right.
Finally, just as another shiver ran up your spine, you heard the click of a lock. You didn’t have the opportunity to collect yourself before the door creaked open.
The frown on her face only deepened when she saw who was standing before her. Lips curved sharply down, eyebrows lowering, eyes cleared from any residual redness, but still puffy—that strangely rejuvenated look after a good cry.
“What do you want?”
You flinched. “I’m here to help.”
She studied you without a word, but you didn’t miss the way her features mellowed the slightest bit. However coarse and uncaring she tried to make herself, she could never truly contain her expressiveness.
You could see her weighing the options in her head, and, even as the biting chill on your skin wore your patience thinner with each passing second, you waited. You at least owed her that much.
“Fine.”
She turned, leaving the door open for you as she stalked into her apartment. With a sigh of relief, you followed.
You joined her on the couch, keeping a careful distance from where she’d slumped down. She slid her laptop over to you on the coffee table without making eye contact. It was open on a word document, two pages into her attempt at rewriting her essay. Not far off, you spotted a few stray tissues on the table, smeared black with mascara.
Guilt, guilt, guilt.
You picked up the device, placing it in your lap and getting to work. Iseul’s eyes flickered over to you, more obviously than she probably thought, as you began clicking away, opening up the settings of the program and accessing the version history of the documents.
“Can you fix it?”
“Yeah.” You tilted the screen towards her. “There’s an autosave feature.”
She blinked, trying to keep up with your ministrations as you recovered the lost file with just a bit more fiddling around.
“Here. Make sure it’s the right one.”
Furrowing her brows, she scrolled through the pages and pages of her work, unable to mask her elation when she confirmed it was in fact her full essay, completely preserved from where she’d left off.
“It is.”
“Good.”
More silence. You wondered if that was your cue to leave. You’d done your job. You’d made yourself useful. There was no need to stick around.
Then, she said it; quiet, demure.
“Thanks.”
A simple word, solidifying the belief that none of this had been worth it. Putting your feelings first was never worth it.
“You're welcome.”
A deep breath.
“And, listen, Iseul. I'm sorry about what I said on the phone.”
She lifted her head, looking directly at you for the first time that night.
“I was really stressed out about my own stuff, too, and I let my anger get the best of me. So, I’m sorry.”
Her expression changed, and though she looked like she was already prepared to forgive you, she didn’t quite say it yet.
“Is that really how you feel about me?” she muttered. “Like you’re my babysitter? Am I just a burden to you?”
A burden. It was such a heavy word, you knew it couldn’t be correct. Still, how could you explain to her that you were the problem in this situation? Worrying yourself with details about her that she didn’t even ask you to worry about, wearing yourself down without ever bothering to tell her, then snapping when it all became too much.
It was an issue entirely of your own creation. She’d have to be as stupid and maladjusted as you to understand.
“No,” you said firmly. “You’re my friend, of course I wanna help you.”
“…But?”
“But…” you bit your lower lip. “Sometimes it feels like you just expect me to do things for you. Like, you don’t care about what I have going on as long as I can be there for you.”
You couldn’t explain why you felt near physically ill. You’d known this girl for three years, been friends with her for two, and spent practically every day with her for one. So why did being upfront with her seem like the most terrifying thing in the world? Like you were exposing yourself to a predator, completely vulnerable if she chose to swoop out and attack.
"Of course I—" Just as you braced yourself for another burst of indignation, Iseul forced herself to bite back her words, a rare display of her common sense trumping her impulsivity. She swallowed. "Oh. Okay."
“I’m always gonna want to help you,” you explained softly. “So, sometimes, I just need you to care enough about me to make sure that I can.”
You could tell she still felt wronged, and maybe, she had all the reason to. The way you’d gone about it was less than ideal. All that care you’d always tried to treat her with, nullified in a matter of seconds, just like that.
“I guess I just never thought of you as the type of person who’d need anything like that.” She picked at the skin around her nails. “But sure, okay. I’ll try.”
You leaned back against the cushions, exhaling. It seemed unreal to you, all things considered, that you’d reached this point. That telling her what you’d kept buried in your heart for so long could have ended in anything other than disaster.
“Thank you.”
“Yeah.”
Iseul turned her attention back to her laptop, high-strung as ever as she scanned over her paper once more. A thought seemed to cross her mind, and when she spoke up again, you could tell she was doing her best to sound casual.
“Are you gonna go back to Chan, now?”
You squeezed your eyes shut.
“No.”
“You can go,” she mumbled. “I get that you’re like, in love with him, or whatever.”
The sting was back in your eyes. The pounding was back in your head. The chill was back in your skin.
“Chan and I aren’t together anymore.”
“O-oh.”
Then, more troubled. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“I…I didn’t know.”
You straightened yourself up, forcing a feeble smile.
“It’s okay,” you murmured. “Let’s not talk about it.”
Iseul frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I’m tired.”
“We'll talk later though, right?”
A lump rose in your throat. You could only bring yourself to nod.
For the next hour, you sat, unmoving, as the sound of Iseul’s rapid typing and frustrated huffs filled the room. Once she’d made the finishing touches to her paper, she submitted it with plenty of time to spare, lifting the weight off both of your chests. You sank your head back against the cushions just as she shut her laptop, a sigh of pure relief easing her nerves and yours.
Through her window, you could see that the sky outside was still blocked out by the low-hanging clouds, but even so, the world grew a bit brighter as day began to break and the sun began to inch its way up behind them. Iseul rested her head on your shoulder, and you at last allowed yourself to succumb to the fatigue that had been gripping your body for the past two days.
。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。
When Chan's eyes blinked open, he wondered, faintly, if he’d been drifting off.
It wouldn’t be the first time. Exhaustion consumed him so perpetually these days, not even standing upright could prevent his head from hanging and his eyelids from drooping. He adjusted his vision to take in his surroundings—kitchen, he realized for the first time—but the fuzz in his mind didn’t clear. That was nothing new, either. It hadn’t left him since you had.
He hadn’t slept in three days, not for more than just twenty or thirty minutes at a time. Not even enough to complete a single sleep cycle. Not even enough to dream.
He’d been kept awake by thoughts of you before, more than he’d ever be confident enough to admit out loud. But it was different now. He used to be perfectly content lying wide awake, staring at his ceiling with the giddiest of smiles plastered on his face over the mere memory of you. It had been better than any dream his mind could conjure up. Now, he wished, more than anything, to drift off instead. At least that way, he could be in a state where he didn’t have to think at all. Or maybe, if he was lucky, a state where he could dream of you, to pretend like you were still here with him.
The shattering of glass snapped him out of his thoughts all at once. With a start, he registered that he’d dropped the cup of water he was holding.
He stared blankly at broken shards, scattered amidst the puddle spreading across the wooden floor. He should probably clean it up. The remains could hurt someone.
He sank down to collect the pieces. Changbin liked this cup, he remembered suddenly. He’d gotten it on vacation. He was probably going to be upset.
An unexpectedly sharp sliver of glass grazed Chan’s thumb, cutting it open and earning a slight hiss from him. He winced, dropping the fragments he’d gathered in his palm.
Blood began to bubble up on the surface of his skin, and he brought the injured finger to his lips.
“Good job, Chan,” he mumbled, unsure of why his eyes were starting to sting. “You’re a good boy.”
The words didn’t calm him down like they typically would. In fact, they had the opposite effect. He didn’t want to hear himself say them. He wanted—
He curled into himself, shrinking under his clothes and barely managing to keep his balance as a sob racked his body. He pressed the wound closer to his lips, trying to get it to stop bleeding. But the blood kept flowing, and so did his tears.
He didn’t even process the sound of the front door unlocking, or the approaching footsteps that followed. A familiar pair of green sneakers shuffled into his blurred field of view. Chan lifted his head, tears falling freely as he met Minho's deep stare.
He looked concerned, but not surprised. Not in the slightest.
“What happened?”
Chan kept his thumb to his mouth, chest aching from the cries he was so desperately trying to hold in.
“I’m okay,” he choked out. “Just c-cut my finger.”
Minho crouched down, coming face to face with the older boy. “Let me see.”
Reluctantly, Chan held out his hand, placing it in Minho's waiting palm. Minho gave a light click of his tongue, as if unimpressed by the injury.
“It doesn’t look that deep.”
Chan squeezed his eyes shut, forcing a fresh wave of tears down his cheeks, hot and suffocating. “Feels like it.”
Minho hummed, half-sympathetic. But it was soft. The same way Chan would hear him murmur to his cats back home. He let go of Chan's hand, lifting his gaze to look him straight in the eyes, unfazed by how red and swollen they were.
“What did she do?”
Chan sucked in a shaky breath, nowhere near ready to talk. Minho waited for a few moments, then rose from his spot, opening the medical cabinet to find something to treat him with. He turned his back to sift through their sparse first aid materials, and the absence of his scrutiny was enough for Chan to muster up enough courage to answer.
“She left,” he managed to gasp. “Think it’s over.”
Minho said nothing.
“A-and, please, before you say you told me so…it’s not the same.”
Through the soft hiccups and shallow pants that filled the room, a sigh met Chan’s ears.
“I got tired of telling you that a long time ago,” Minho replied. “And it never made me happy to be right, for the record.”
He lowered himself to Chan’s level again, ripping open the antibiotic packet he’d retrieved and pressing the alcoholic wipe delicately to the cut. Chan tried not to pull his hand away as the harsh burn rippled through his skin.
Once the wound was thoroughly cleaned, Minho put the bloodied wipe to the side and wrapped Chan’s thumb carefully with a bandaid. Chan tried to rasp out a thank you, but it only came out as another pathetic sound. He never felt more pathetic than when he cried in front of Minho. Minho, who he was supposed to be strong for. Minho, who, even at his lowest, only betrayed his heartache before others with a subtle twitch of his lips or a few rapid blinks, shooing his tears away for later.
Minho redirected his attention from the now patched-up injury, stone face softening when he caught the uncontrollable shake in Chan’s shoulders.
“It’s okay.” He rested his hand on Chan’s back. “You’re okay.”
Chan took a deep breath, scolding himself, berating himself, screaming at himself to get it together. To stop being so fucking pathetic. He’d cried so much already, cried until his head throbbed and his lungs ached. He was surprised he had any tears left in his system to begin with. Minho’s voice was gentle, but Chan knew what he must be thinking. He knew the frustration, the judgment, the disappointment that must be boiling beneath his composed visage.
“I c-can’t—” he swallowed down another gasp. “Can’t be okay without her.”
“You can,” Minho said simply. “You’ve been okay before, you will be again.”
“Really hurts.”
“I know.”
“Feels…” Chan touched his index finger to his thumb, running it along the smooth texture of the bandaid. He pressed down, just hard enough to draw out the light pain. “Feels like I lost a part of myself.”
Minho frowned, hand pausing its rhythmic movements along Chan's trembling back. He stayed quiet for several heartbeats, letting the weight of the admission fully sink in.
“Tell me everything.”
#bang chan x reader#skz x reader#bang chan angst#bang chan fanfic#stray kids x reader#skz angst#bang chan imagines#skz imagines#stray kids angst#skz fanfic#bang chan x you
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“Didn’t mean to make your heart Blue” || [2/…]
- OPLA! Buggy x F!Reader
"Do-mi-ti, why not me? Why not me?"
— Mitski, "Washing Machine Heart"
Pairing: Buggy the Clown (Live Action) x F!Reader
Part 1 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6
Summary: You were an apprentice of Gol D. Roger’s crew in your youth, long before his eventual demise. Along with the Red-Haired Shanks and Buggy, you were a formidable trio; the embodiment of a new generation of pirates yet to come.
But times changed, and so did you and your friends. Years have passed since you last saw Buggy following the dispute that you thought ended your friendship. When you finally reunite with the blue-haired menace you once considered your closest friend, it’s under less than “friendly” circumstance.
Warnings: Fem!Reader, Canon Typical Violence, Slight Canon Divergence, Buggy is an asshole, The reader used to go by "Cross-Hairs" in the past, hot tension, resentment and love, flashbacks, Reader is strong AF
A/N: Buggy's behavior in this chapter kinda gives off Yandere-vibes, but he's not. He's just really desperate, and a general asshole, (and lonely).
He's dead.
Gol D. Roger, captain of the Roger pirates, your captain, is dead. Pierced through the back by the Marines like a pig for slaughter, a death unworthy for someone of his rank. He deserved to live a long life, drunk on rum, surrounded by his friends and crewmates, before being finally laid to rest in a casket and shipped off with the waves as per tradition.
As chaos ensues and all hell breaks loose, his corpse remains on the same stand where he met his end, left to roast in the warm sun. At the very least, he did not leave this world without flipping one last bird at the Marines.
His final words leave such a domino effect upon the witnesses, one that will last for years to come. Sailors, pirates, men, women, and children all head toward the vast oceans in a hurry, ships pushing off the docks at record speed as they prepare to hunt for his legacy. To claim his title for their own. A title he earned and subsequently put up for auction.
The Marines were hoping that his death would mean the end of Piracy, but as though fate itself had something else to say about it, it had the exact opposite effect.
You're not moving with the swarm of people. The race goes on, but you do not.
You're still standing in the same spot as you were when you watched the officers drive their spears through your captain's back, having ceased to function as you saw the man who practically raised you, succumb to the same fate that claims all in the end.
Even as people are pushing their way past you, shoving you in God-knows how many directions on their way to the oceans, you can't find it in you to move on your own accord.
The world has gone deafly quiet now, everyone else is gone, and you're its sole occupant now. Despite the unrest going around, and the wind that brushes against your neck, Roger's last words echo in your ears like the whispers of a ghost.
"Wealth. Fame. Power. I found everything this world has to offer. Free yourselves! Take to the seas! My treasure is yours to find!"
Someone - whether accidentally or not - thrusts against your stomach, and you take a tumble to the ground. The world finally perforates your consciousness, yet it leaves you exposed to its chaos. You attempt to stand up, but the ongoing movements from all around halt your efforts.
You raise your arms to shield your face from further damage, suffering several pairs of feet and a handful of scratches from the crowd. Nothing too bad, but you don't dare to try and get up just yet. Your initial plan is to just stay put until the storm is over.
That is, until you hear a voice calling your name from somewhere in the crowd, muffled by the ruckus, but still audible for you to make out among the many others.
"COME ON! HURRY!"
You're hastily pulled up to your feet and collide face-first into a chest. Looking up, you only manage to register Buggy's hand tightly clenched around yours in a near-painful hold as he pushes you both through the ongoing crowd.
While trying to navigate through the masses, you raise your head to gaze at his face.
Not unlike your own, his eyes are stained with tears.
------
Nothing is in its correct shape when you blink your eyes open. For starters, the room is spinning at an incredible speed, and for seconds, there is twice of everything. Two coats are hanging on the rack just on the edge of your vision, the same color and length and everything. You discover you have two pairs of hands and feet as you sit up, and at least over a dozen iron bars are separating you from the rest of the room.
In a minute or two, your sight establishes yourself. The world has become one again, but to your chagrin, you discover that the number of bars caging you remains the same.
Shaking off the dizziness and nausea that accompanies your waking, you get up to your knees and discover that, once again, you're fucking trapped. This time, it's in a metal cage hanging off the floor by a hook and chain, swinging you lightly back and forth with each fraction of movement you commit yourself to.
Exhausted from simply waking up, you clash your forehead against the bars. "Shit."
"Well, good to know that your colorful vocabulary remains the same."
You snap your eyes up to see Buggy striding into the room, and your gaze immediately narrows.
"And your eyes." His right hand dislodges itself from his wrist and hovers over to you with an outstretched finger, where it lands right in the space between your eyes. "Sharp as ever, if not even sharper. Careful, you could kill someone with those."
"Wishful thinking," you murmur indignantly and raise your hand to wave off the offending appendage. Like a fly will with sugar, it merely withdraws for a few inches before returning to the same spot.
You elect to ignore it as best as you can.
He feigns a horrified gasp at your words and clutches his chest with his remaining hand. "Such harsh words! I thought we were friends, you and I. I mean, what kind of friend would threaten the other with their life so cruelly?"
Friends? That's rich coming from him. You haven't considered him as such since the day he left. You won't even dignify that with a response, and so you merely turn your head to the side and rest your cheek against the bars.
His voice lowers a few octaves, enough for you to differentiate between the real him and the act he puts on for a performance. "Then again, what kind of 'friend' leaves the other behind?" His footsteps come closer, each one weighing heavier than the last. "What kind of 'friend' abandons the other?"
Your eye twitches, but you still refuse to look at him, much less speak to him.
"What?" the Showman farce has by now ended and been buried as he takes one last step forward. "Nothing to say? I'd thought that after twenty years, you'd be happy to see this handsome face."
As much as you want to admit that, yes, the years have done wonders on his face and he most definitely would've been categorized as 'handsome' in your dictionary, you don't.
"What do you want me to say?" You tilt your head marginally to the side so that merely one eye is aimed at him. "That it's good to see you? That I've missed you?" Even though both of those statements are true to some extent, he doesn’t need to know that.
"Well, I could go for all of the above if you insist on being cordial, but for starters, an apology might suffice enough on its own." If you weren't already looking at him, you'd think that he’s joking. He isn't. He’s as serious as a heart attack, and he’s not smiling this time. All you can think at the moment is that it's strange not to see a clown smile.
"An apology?" You withdraw the impulse to scoff. "What, exactly, do I have to apologize for?"
He doesn’t answer right away. In fact, he doesn’t do or say anything at all. You can't even hear him breathing, and it’s twice as eerie as his general demeanor. It's a foreboding omen that signifies he's on the edge of his temper like a bomb sizzling just before it goes off.
"What do you have to apologize for?" he echoes.
That's all the warnings you get before the cage rattles with enough force to knock you back against the other side of the cage. Buggy's hand curls around the iron bars with such vehemence that it almost looks like he's about to break them right off the hinges.
He leans forward until his nose barely brushes against the cold steel placed between you, his bright-blue eyes near-bloodshot with the way they glower. Even now, with the few feet between you, you find yourself almost drowning in those blue irises of his.
"You left me. You betrayed me!" he shouts loud enough for his voice to reverberate throughout the room, all thoughts of maintaining his composure thrown out the window the moment you inadvertently admitted your own cluelessness. "Just like all the others! Shanks, now I could've predicted that, but you?"
His hand dislodges yet again to point an accusatory finger at you, but it maintains a safe distance this time. Probably afraid of what you'll try to do with it if you get your hands on it.
You have to give yourself some credit. You've not lost your temper once since you ended up here. In your adolescence, you would've torn him a new one fo the trouble, but you can't be bothered this time around. You’d have thought two decades of separation would’ve led to some pent-up fury like it has done to him, but all you feel is … well, nothing.
Nothing yet, anyhow.
"What you did to me, now that was cruel. That was something I did not expect, but you did it, and for what?" The cage continues to shake as his fingers dig into the rods. This time, you observe, he’s keeping his head slightly tilted downwards, rendering you unable to detect his eyes. "For Red-Haired fucking SHANKS!"
With all the movement going on in your limited space, you’re jolted forth again like a ball and cling to the front bars with your hand positioned right above his. Even with the gloves and the short distance keeping you separated, you can feel the scorching heat emitting from him.
How long has it been since you were last this close to him? It was underneath the stars, you unexpectedly recall. You were clinging to him, crying your heart out as the death of your captain had finally been processed. He was holding you close, whispering something you could not make out at the time.
It was during a time when it was just you, him, and Shanks. The three of you, against the rest of the world, ready to live up to Gol's legacy and become the Pirates of the New Age. With Shanks’ leadership, your strength, and Buggy’s general unpredictability, nothing could stop you.
But now you're here, a captive. No longer a friend, no longer a...
It never went that far, anyhow. No use bringing it up now when it’s hardly relevant.
When Buggy’s raspy breaths slow down and his hold on the iron rods lessens, you decide to finally speak.
"You're the one who left, Buggy," you say, your words laced with such apparent apathy that no one would’ve guessed what you’re feeling. In reality, you want to scream until his ears literally pop.
Your chest constricts just to say it out loud, but you won't even stop and address the tremble that threatens to claim your voice the more you go into it. "I went with Shanks, because who else was I supposed to go with? The Roger Pirates were spread to the fucking corners of the earth, Gol D. Roger was dead, and you left. I had no one except for him. You closed that door, not me."
Silence reigns loudly upon you as you're left there, nearly breathless after your little rant despite having kept your voice even throughout it. You feel pathetic, childlike, small. People say that admitting something is the first step towards overcoming it, but you feel neither achieved or relieved of any burdens.
You just feel ... small. As small as you were the day he disappeared from your life.
Buggy doesn't say anything, his countenance empty of any tell-tale signs regarding what he might be feeling. It's almost ironic. The man who used to wear his emotions on his sleeves, the same expressive man who used to spend hours bragging about his capacities and capabilities on the Oro Jackson, has now been rendered mute like a mime instead of a jester.
His eyes find yours again after an unknown amount of time, only now, it's not just bitterness and resentment you have to salvage from them. For a second, just a brief flash of the moment, there's something else. Something vulnerable.
It goes as quickly as it came.
He shoves himself from the cage, his indecipherable gaze – now laced with both anger and regret – lingering on you before he starts pacing around the room, having calmed down from his outburst but being no less agitated by the turn of events.
"What are you talking about?" he demands, sounding a tad more curious now than accusatory. "You were already going to leave with Shanks before I booked it, I just beat you to it."
This time, it's your turn to point an accusatory finger toward him, lowering your voice just enough for him to hear you recount the most painful memory you have, save for Gol D.'s death. The memory you had spent almost two decades trying to bury deep down inside you.
"The last thing you told me was that you wished that you'd never even met me, and then you fucking left me behind to go do who the fuck knows what. Which, apparently,— " You gesture to your surroundings with a dismissive wave of your hand. "— Includes enslaving people and keeping them in cages."
"Hey, people are allowed to have side-gigs!" he retorts, almost boyishly as if you didn't just have a serious argument moments ago. "Don't judge me! You used to steal shit when we were kids, but you didn't hear me bitching about it!"
You roll your eyes. Some things don't change, that being the childish bickering, not the enslaving and caging bit. Your lip inclines upwards for just a second, and it declines just as quickly. You lean back against the other wall of your cage and heave a breath, tired of it all
"Speaking of kids," he rests his arms atop a crate to his left. "What's up with you and Rubber-Boy over there? Luffy, was it?"
Your lip drops to a scowl. Looks like the kid's Devil Fruit powers have come to light, one fruit eater to another. "What about him?"
Buggy smirks and pulls out a knife from inside his coat. He turns it playfully in his hand, balancing the sharp edge at the tip of his finger as though in deep thought. "He yours or something? 'Cause, I gotta admit, I never took you as the white-picket-fence type."
He’s joking, right?
Right?
"He's not mine.”
The look that befalls his face almost seems like … relief? He’s quick to mask it though with a half-assed smirk.
"No?" He tips his head to each side and lets the knife lie on the crate. "You sure as hell seem protective over him, and I know for a fact that not just anyone earns the favor of the legendary Cross-Hairs.” He puts a hand under his chin, feigning a motion of deep thinking. “What'd he do? Save your life? You found him in the trash? Or did you shag up with his daddy or something?"
You raise an eyebrow. "I made a promise."
At the mention of this, he promptly ceases with his ridiculous guesses and his words turn sharp. "To whom?"
"None of your fucking business." You're pretty sure that if he learns that you made that promise to none other than Shanks, he'd unleash a different kind of hell not even the death of Roger could hope to spark.
Rather than pushing the matter, he shrugs with an air of indifference. "I just find it funny, that's all." He chuckles, but his tone lacks any visible sense of comicalness. "You, one of the most notorious pirates to ever cross the East-Blue, disappeared for a decade to do what, exactly? Look after a simple-minded brat who talks shit about becoming King of the Pirates."
He snaps his attention back to you and moves closer to the cage again, crouching on his knees to gaze up at you instead. "Sorry not sorry to burst that little bubble, but that title will belong to me. Once I get the map your stretchy little runt has hidden, I will find the One Piece. I will become King. I will be known, and I will be loved."
("You were loved,") a part of you wants to tell him. The part that still lingers in your shared past. ("You were always loved.")
But you keep your mouth shut.
He perceives your silence as a sign to continue. "You know, despite everything that happened, I'm opening my heart to forgiveness, for old times’ sake."
"Forgiveness?"
He smiles, but this one, you discover, is genuine. At least, in comparison to all the other ones he's flashed you beforehand. It's a lukewarm feeling, but familiar. You're almost tempted to reach through the bars and feel his cheeks, trace the edges of his lips, and smudge away the red make-up just to know if it is real or just a figment of your imagination.
"If you convince Rubber-Boy to hand over that map of the Grand Line, I might consider opening a special spot in my crew, just for you. I know better than anyone what you're capable of. Hell, it'll be just like old times, like nothing ever changed. You and me, against the rest of the world."
Slowly, he reaches his hand up and towards you through the bars, palm open for you to take.
"Don't you miss it?" he whispers, wistfully. "I do. Save for the One Piece, it's been the one thing I've wanted more than anything else."
You blink, and a feeling settles over your chest. Not uncomfortable per se, but not kind either. Like being enveloped by a warm yet tight blanket, staving you off the cold but suffocating you all the same.
Your dream. You remember your dream. The one you thought gone forever, now seemingly resurfacing from the depths in your heart where it initially drowned. To travel and explore the seas, the three of you by each other’s sides until the very end. That’s all you’ve ever wanted.
Now, Buggy is opening up the possibility of that dream coming back to life again.
You're tempted to take his hand, feel the warmth that once held you so openly when you were younger.
You raise your hand to him ever so slightly.
"Fuck, Rubber Boy can come too for all I care.” He proceeds to add. “He's a special case, and there's nothing I appreciate more than special ones."
Your hand stops and promptly withdraws.
Buggy raises his eyebrows in shock, his fingers curling as they were about to grasp at yours only to find empty air. "What? What is it? What's wrong?"
Luffy.
You shake your head. "He won't give up. He won't give up on his dream."
"What, Rubber-Boy?" he scowls like the name itself tastes like bitter venom on his tongue. "He's just a stupid kid, he'll grow out of it. Once he sees that there's no way he would last in the Grand Line on his own, he'll get in line."
You take a deep breath, preparing for the confrontation that's about to come with your next words. "He won't, and no power or authority on this earth is ever going to be able to change that."
A flash of hurt crosses his facial features, only for a second, yet it feels like longer. Then, it stops, and all that's left is the same bitterness he showed that very day.
Snarling, Buggy pulls his hand back and gets back up on his feet. “I should’ve expected this. You never choose me!" he flares and pulls both his hands to his chest, gesturing to himself. "It's always someone els- Always someone fucking else. First Shanks, then this damn brat! Why?" He briefly pauses, as if weighing his next words. "What did they ever do that was so special that you decided to stick around for them that I didn't do?"
You’ve just about had enough of his self-pitying attitude.
"I never 'chose' Shanks!" you hiss back at him. "It was never a choice. Why was I supposed to 'choose' anyone for that matter? What made you reach the conclusion that there had to be a choice at all?!"
He parts his jaws to answer with what you can only expect to be yet another sneer when the curtains behind him parts, and a member of the troupe enters. A dark-skinned man with a Mohawk of sorts, with filed teeth resembling a shark more than a man.
"Boss, the kid ain't saying nothin' about the map." The man ("Sharptooth", you decide to call him for now) says with a deep twinge of aggravation. "We're already at nearly thirty-damn-feet, and all the little shit does is fuckin' laugh at us."
Buggy does not even turn to address the man, his attention solely at you, but you can tell he's irritated by this interruption.
"Sharptooth" turns to you, having just realized you’re here. A sinister grin spreads along his cheeks, and he licks his upper teeth lecherously. "What do we do 'bout her? Is she up on the menu yet? I'm starvin'."
You crouch down, one hand positioned between your knees like a predator ready to lunge at the slightest movement. Truth be told, despite your reputation, killing someone has never been one of life's greatest joys for you, and it's been a while since you last committed a murder. However, the years have done little to weaken you, and you're not afraid to get your hands dirty if the situation demands it.
You'll be sure to let him know first-hand that if he dares to try anything.
"No," Buggy replies, voice void of any tangible emotions. "She'll snap your neck like a twig before you can get within a foot of her." He turns to face the disappointed performer, and before the latter knows it, a severed hand clamps around his throat and dangles him above the ground with what you can only expect to be a bruising grip. "I am, on the other hand, not limited by such proximity."
The man's face begins to pale as the blood flow to his brain is cut short, but the grip does not lessen at all.
Buggy speaks like he’s having a normal conversation. "She stays here, and no one, and I mean no one, is going to touch her. Understood?" His soft say leaves no room for opposition.
You watch as "Sharptooth" struggles to form a coherent sentence as he desperately clings to the hand keeping him afloat. "Y-Yes si— Yes, Captain. W-We won't!"
With a bored swish, the hand shoves the performer back a good two feet, where he crashes to the ground and clutches his neck in search of air.
"Splendid!" Buggy attaches his wrist back and claps his hands together, his Show Man act replenished. "Now, be sure to tell the others of that little fact, and while you're at it,—" he draws his palms away from one another in a straight motion. "Add another five feet."
The crew member wastes no time shuffling from the ground and all but books it out of there.
Buggy heaves a deep and dramatic sigh, exaggeratedly slumping his shoulders, and swings back to you again.
"Supporting casts, am I right?"
You don't bother with a reply.
He takes this with a lackadaisical shrug. "Now, as much as I'd like to continue this intriguing, little tête-à-tête, I'm afraid I'm needed elsewhere. The show must go on, but I’ll come back before you know it."
It doesn't matter when he'll be back. You don't plan on waiting for him. You've already waited twenty long years, and as your temper simmers evenly under your skin, you intend to get one thing across.
"Just remember this, Buggy,"
You lean against the bars, pressed so tightly that it feels like your body is about to push through the narrow gaps. "If you do anything to the kid, anything at all, and you can consider our past six feet under. I'll come after you, and when I'm finished,—"
Fist clenched; you deliver a solid strike to the bar that rattles throughout the room to the point where it feels like even the ground is quacking from the force. Buggy jumps a few steps back in retreat, and when he looks up again, his breath halts.
Where there was once a straight bar keeping you contained, there's now a prominent curve pointing out towards him. Not nearly large enough for you to squeeze through, but it's there, nonetheless.
When you lower your fist, knuckles red but intact, you finish your warning. "— Not even your Devil-Fruit powers will manage to keep you intact."
His eyes flicker between you and the now-deformed iron bar. Unexpectedly, he only stares, neither returning a threat nor even a joke to ease the tension. He doesn’t say anything at all, and the absence of words leaves nothing up to interpretation.
Buggy knows better than anyone that you don't make half-assed threats. Never you. Once you’ve set your eyes on a target, you don’t rest. He recalls the look of pure bloodlust in your eyes from back when you were young. It was neither cruel nor sadistic, but it felt cold to witness. Ice incarnate.
A predator just following its prime instincts.
Whenever someone posed a problem to either you or your crew mates, you would counter it with a threat. It didn't matter how bold-faced it sounded, you always made sure to see it through.
As a teenager, he begrudgingly thought that it was hot as hell. You were. Watching the way your eyes would almost glower as you made good on your promises, it did things to him.
Now, even when he's on the receiving end of it, it still does.
He can't deny that the feeling hasn't diminished. For what it’s worth, it means that you’ll keep your focus on him. He’ll have your eyes, all for his own now. Those very eyes, always so sleek and ready to cut and by God, he realizes at that moment just how fucking much he’s missed them.
How much he’s missed you.
“Well,” he says as he makes his way to the exit. “I guess I’ll see you in the front row.”
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Apple Merchant [BOTW!Link x Isekai!Reader] (Part 3)
The house does not make a home, but a home can make a man.
The trash pile has grown again. It's spilling out of the bin.
Part 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6
Alternate Extras: Embrace
Masterlist
TW: Choosing not to display warnings. Read at your own discretion.
Disclaimer: Don't own The Legend of Zelda franchise.
---
The house is bigger than you remember it being from the game. For one, there's a sectioned off washroom hidden partially under the loft stairs and a full kitchen area in the left rear of the house. The ceiling is also ridiculously high for a one story (technically two) house, but you let that detail slide. It's to your- Link's, benefit, after all.
Another thing, upgrades are not offered automatically here. Though that should've been obvious in hindsight and you're a bit embarrassed to admit it'd slipped your mind. Most people would decorate and furnish their own homes with either their old furniture or newly bought.
That's what the many, many shops the game never had reason to show were for, after all.
Therein led to your current dilemma.
Practicality or comfort? The large thin rug with dark patterns, or a smaller plush one with elegant designs embroidered at the edges? Red covers? Blue, white, gray? All of them perhaps? Maybe just three?
Does Link prefer cast iron or the wok? Steel forks or maybe chop sticks? A full set of pots and pans, or just two or three good ones for repeated use? Which set of knives? The specialty set or a general use one?
Should the loft have a rug too? Should you get both? Should you get three? What about the washroom?
Towels? A vase...
Dumb idea. No vases.
Should there be two beds? When Link frees Zelda from the castle, surely the poor woman won't be made to live there in that festering monster's nest of a ruin. And having been trapped there for a century as the world outside moved forward (after having been royalty nonetheless), would she even know how to live on her own?
Would it be presumptuous of you to already set up for her arrival before Link even properly remembered who she was? You didn't want to make Link feel obligated to fufill your assumptions like that. He already had so much on his shoulders. He didn't need you to add more.
So, only one bed. Sheets?
"Jus' get them all, ya cluckin' mother cucco." Adino snapped waspishly, thin brows pulled down into a severe looking glare. His arms were crossed as he leaned against the wall closest to the 'Odds and Ends' shop's door, pointedly.
You barely spared him a glance, used to his attitude after having known him for nearly three years. And honestly, it was all for show anyway. Adino loved shopping with you, but the spiteful little shit would never admit it. Even under pain of death.
'Jus' making sure the walkin' rupee bag doesn't fall dead to an ill fated breeze.' He'd snark if ever questioned why he was following you around on his days off.
Lies, of course. The truth is he's lonely. So very lonely and too hurt yet to reach out to anyone else for companionship.
The man he'd called father for 14 years of his short life suddenly throws him out of the only home he'd known with barely the clothes on his back. All after finding out his recently departed wife had been having affairs. And the kicker, the bastard claims he supposedly doesn't even know if Adino's his or not (despite them having the exact same eyes and brows).
It'd been convenient though, you'd give him that. Just washed his hands of the situation entirely. Started fresh with a new wife and got rid of the unnaturally (Adino had parroted coldly, like a curse and a confession breathed in the same breath) effeminate son that may or may not be his.
No stings attached. Just living comfortably on his late wife's family property and shacking up with her younger sister.
And that abandoned son running, running, running across Hyrule. Until he dropped right outside of Hateno, quiet and hurting and nearly driven mad with hateful, writhing loathing.
You pull yourself from those thoughts. It's not your business. Adino may have shared that information with you during his mandatory background check, but that doesn't mean it's any of your business.
Even if the boy is living with you, and has been for the last three years.
(Even if you already ruined that man's fletching business. Even if you never told Adino why that man'd taken a very long walk off a very tall cliff.
Even if Adino knew and left flowers on your desk every year on that day ever since.)
"I'll take them all. As well as the rugs, towels and curtains, please. Oh. And that tapestry. Yes. The one with the apples."
Adino snorted, rolling his eyes, and you smiled. A merchant's got to advertise wherever possible, after all.
The older, greying woman behind the counter nodded, glancing over to two younger women (her granddaughters, twins and five years orphaned. turned 17 last Fall) waiting unobtrusively near the back of the shop. They didn't need any more instruction than that, swiftly gathering your choices and folding them into neatly wrapped bundles.
You swear this family had to have some sheikah blood in them somewhere. Even if they had pitch black hair and the darkest grey eyes you've ever seen. They were just too quiet and efficient to be normal Hyrulians. (And were little known for their discretion above all else.)
You tipped the women for thier help. They thanked you with a quiet tilt of their perfectly kept heads, before returning to their preferred corner in the far back.
You didn't bother to barter with this woman. You paid full price for everything, and then tipped her too.
Four gold rupees. And a note, which she took with a nod and a knowing glint in her eyes.
(Because they were known for their discretion, and you appreciated that more than anything.
You knew she understood the flowers you left on her desk every year on the same day.
And you knew she'd understand this too.)
You left, but not before catching one of the twins (the one with the blue head cloth and lip rouge) staring longingly after Adino's back as he marched from the store in a dramatic huff. Her sister hiding a probable grin behind her red painted hand.
'Interesting. But not my problem.'
---
Link looked up the curved path to Hateno's guarded gate as he sheathed his guardian sword, the black mist of two hopelessly mangled bodies blowing away in the strong mountainside winds. Further back still was the semi-conscious groan of a young woman surrounded by fallen mushrooms.
Link ignored her slowly rising form, having checked her vitals earlier before being ambushed by a pair of bokoblins. He knew she'd be fine, and honestly, if she was sneaking around monster infested forests for mushrooms (Link could still hear the snorting of the beasts further past the treeline) then she must be able to take a hit or two and come out okay.
She must have had the same thoughts because she merely dusted herself off, picked up her fallen produce and made for the trees once more. Barely sparing Link a backwards wave before disappearing into the thick underbrush.
Link blinked after her. And sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
So. That happened.
Link let it roll off his back easily enough. He had more important issues to deal with. Such as was it appropriate for him to just show up at your (and now his) doorstep fresh from the road and smelling every bit of it.
He discreetly sniffed under his arm and grimaced.
Surely you'd understand. You and him were connected after all, and you knew his name and knew he'd be coming to Hateno. A little roadside reek shouldn't be a big surprise.
Yet. He couldn't shake the self-consciousness. The irrational fear that you'd look at him and expect more than what you got.
Like that old man who was actually a dead person. Like that Impa woman, and everyone in that little village she lived in.
For how quickly he'd steamrolled through the untamed wilds of Hyrule just to meet you, he was oddly reluctant to continue now that he was at your metaphoric (and soon literal) doorstep.
He glanced down at himself, taking himself in with a critical eye.
The Sheikah armor he wore (it had been under 10,000 rupees, he checked) was covered in dust, grim and the unflattering stains of sweat, dried bloody drool (from that unfortunate incident with the bokoblin horse), grass and meat grease. His hair was so filthy it was nearly brown despite that equally unfortunate incident with the octorok having put him in the water several times (strong inconsistent winds make aiming bows hard, he'd discovered).
Hopefully you wouldn't be disgusted. He hoped you understood that he wasn't- well-
He wasn't who he used to be. Apparently.
"Link." A flat voice called out, and Link nearly jumped to attention at the unexpected interruption. He nearly reached for his sword too, before he stopped himself.
When Link looked up and met dark gray eyes, his heart started to tightened.
'Is that you, AM?' His eyes asked earnestly, wide and round with quiet searching. For recognition. For understanding. For anything at all.
Instead he got a slow, dispassionate blink and confusion as the woman spoke into the silence between them. "AM instructed me to lead you home, Master Link."
Link pointed to himself. "Master?" He rasped out quietly, voice rough and unpleasant even to his own ears. Nothing to say for the pain it caused at the base of his throat.
Without missing a beat the young woman nodded once, the blue bandana holding her dark hair back catching slightly in the wind. Blue painted lips barely moving as she said. "Yes. I will explain more once we arrive at your home."
Link nodded, still uncertain but trusting enough of this strange woman who knew the name (Alis? Nickname? Title, perhaps?) of his sheikah slate partner.
Tomorrow, he would be given a small journal detailing many of the dangers and wonders of this beautiful, wild world he now lived in. And he wouldn't be so trusting anymore.
And he'd have bananas, apparently. So many bananas.
But that's for tomorrow. Today?
Today was the first time he walked across the old, but sturdy footbridge. The first time he glanced over at the shrine glowing faintly to his left, peeking from behind a small cluster of buildings.
It was the first day he stood on the threshold of his (and your) new home. The first time since awakening he felt the beginning of heartbreak as he realized you were not there to greet him. That you would not be living with him. Ever.
('For now,' He thought in quiet defiance.)
And the first time since he opened his eyes in that dark, eerily glowing shrine he felt loved. When his eyes adjusted to the darker light of the house and found a home waiting for him.
Not just an empty building with four walls and a bed, but a rug with pretty dark patterns under a heavy wooden table. A bowl of apples at its center, with thick candles at either side. An intricately sewn tablecloth just slightly hanging over the sides in delicate little weaves.
He felt loved when he walked around the front room, boot-heavy steps thumping softly on polished hardwood floors, slowly taking in the space (the blue woman waiting patiently at the door). The small wooden sculptures upon carefully arranged tables, cute and quirky banners and tapestries brightening up the dimly lit room (one was slightly lower than the rest, another was slightly off-center, and Link felt warm at the imperfections). Sunflowers, a bird, a rock formation, an apple tree, a cat with a bell.
A sword and shield rack. Two armor stands. A few weapon's plaque hanging above them.
The food in the kitchen pantry. Completely unnecessary, but for the way it made Link feel. The way it made his throat tighten and itch. The thought that this was put here because it was meant to be his home.
And so much more. So many things he couldn't even remember the uses for. So many bits and pieces that slot together into the jumbled mess that is a home. It was more than he had the heart to acknowledge without weeping.
Noticing his brewing turmoil, the blue woman spoke. "Perhaps a bath and bed before we speak of business. AM said you may be tired when you arrived."
Link nodded, unwilling to speak and risk his voice breaking entirely. Instead he allowed himself to be led to the washroom, holding back tears when he found bottles of sweet smelling soaps and hair cleansers on a small table beside a stool above a drain. A tub beside it all, shaped like a bowl but with a drain at the bottom and a water spout at the rim.
He looked to the blue woman, overwhelmed and dazed by the strength of his emotions.
Something in her softened at his lost expression. "Let me bath you, Master Link." She said, keeping her voice even, though her dark eyes were gentle. "Just until you learn how to do it yourself."
Link nodded. Quiet and trusting in his vulnerability.
She helped him undress. She made him sit on the stool as she gathered what she needed.
Her hands were so, so gentle as they brought a warm, wet towel over his dirtied, battered skin.
He nearly fell into a doze twice as she washed his hair three times until the suds came off white. He was only minimally aware of the strong (deceptively strong) hands that helped him into the tub. He nearly slumped into the side of the bowl, body completely lax within the warm, welcoming water.
He opened his eyes from one blink to the next and blankets (thick and soft, smelling of fresh soaps and linen) were being drawn over his shoulders. The pillow beneath him gave under the weight of his head, as did the mattress he laid upon.
Every part of him felt warm and soft and safe. He smelt like flowers and sweet nuts, his skin felt clean and supple under the tender caress of his nightclothes. The further dimming lights eased him further down into slumber.
"Rest well, Master Link. I will guard you as you sleep."
Link couldn't even bring himself to respond, lost as he was to the call to nothingness.
He was lost not long after.
"One day." The blue woman said softly, sitting beside the unconscious man with an amused smile. "I will teach you to identify sleeping oils before they reach you. But not tonight. For tonight you sleep. Tomorrow, you will learn to be wary."
She wiped her delicate finger tips across his relaxed forehead, a slight sheen left in their wake.
"Sweet dreams, Courageous One."
---
Link,
I apologize that I could not be there to greet you properly. However, after careful consideration I decided it would be safest for our paths to remain separate at this time.
Herein this text, you will find all relevant information I've amassed over the years regarding our world and the dangers within it. Including, but not limited to, the continued threat of the Yiga clan.
May you never have to make use of the less savory of this knowledge.
Yours truly,
AM
---
To the shadows I return.
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being their sibling
characters: tsukishima kei, oikawa tooru, suna rintarou
a/n: i write a fic every time i rewatch hq LOL sorry ik i said im abandoning this blog buuuut…happy bday to this blog!! (repost from 1/5 because tags broke :(( )
part 1
TSUKISHIMA KEI
looks out for you, but he can’t help that hes so emotionally constipated :’( he tries to give you advice because he genuinely is concerned for you but just is unable to word anything properly. see: “you need to stop talking to that person, you’re being a pushover,” but he just wants you to realize you’re letting people walk all over you.
god forbid he has to comfort you because hes the wrong brother for that - you’re definitely in better hands with akiteru. he might walk in on you crying and contemplate if he’ll even say anything or just ignore it flat out, or he’ll say something like “don’t cry, you look stupid.” if you cry more, he’ll end up swallowing his pride and sitting next to you. he’ll groan and reluctantly, “fine, spill it.”
other than that, he’s going to be a sneaky little prick. definitely the type to take revenge on you if you annoy him. you eat the last piece of chocolate he was saving and suddenly you find your charger hidden deep under your bed. also loves to take things without your permission. “why? i’m just using it, it’s not like you need it now.”
if someone picks a fight with you, he’ll be quick to extract you from the situation before saying something ruder and harsher than usual to the person. and if you tell him you like someone from his team, he’s going to look at you like you’re crazy. “are you insane?!” he’s honestly more bewildered than upset. doesn’t let you anywhere near the gym. he can make an exception for yamaguchi though. “at least it’s not hinata…or worse, kageyama.”
OIKAWA TOORU
your life is never boring with this guy as your brother. you’re literally being dragged everywhere, practices, shopping, team events… you’re like “i’m not even part of the team.” he goes “we can fix that!” and the next day you find out that you’re the manager for the boys’ volleyball team. huh, wonder how that happened.
oh my god, he MILKS you being his manager. “hold my drink, my fans are calling.” “y/n get my towel please.” you’re absolutely seething at the power trip that this guy is on. eventually, you start doing all that for his other team members and not for him, and he gets so whiney. “y/n you’ll get big ugly iwaizumi a towel but not your own sweet brother?!” that earns him a spike to the head from iwaizumi.
he tells you all the gossip about the school, because believe me, he knows A LOT of things. he’ll do his skin care while he forces you to listen to his gossip, cue him getting mad if you try to leave. everyone realizes why you two are siblings when you two walk down the halls and pull the exact same faces at the people he’s told you about in his gossip.
he makes you his little scapegoat for his fangirls. “oh, you want my number? you’ll have to ask y/n for that, they keep my phone with them during practice!” (you dont) “now, why don’t you girls hand all these gifts to my lovely sibling for me?” (you almost immediately chuck them at his face when you see him) but you know the best way to get back at him? when he sees you even slightly conversing with ushijima or kageyama, all hell breaks loose.
SUNA RINTAROU
the devil if the devil was your brother. he takes the ugliest pictures of you, when you’re asleep, when you’re yelling, when you’re crying over a movie. he also loves to send you pictures of animals and send a “look at you in this picture, so cute”. he also takes your things without asking and never returns it, you’ll just find it in his bag one day.
he also is one to order you around, and it drives you mad. “pass me the remote, y/n.” “but it’s nearer to you.” “i’ll tell mom that you-” // “y/n get me a drink from the vending machine.” “why would i do that” “remember when you snuck out and i-” // “get my bag too when you get yours.” “no.” “what i post that one picture of you when you’re about to sneeze-”
but he’s always looking out for you. when creeps try to approach you, he’s quick to react by shooting them a nasty glare. he’s a silent kind of care. standing behind you on elevators, walking on the outer side of the sidewalk, staying up late til you come home and just telling you he just couldnt sleep. little do you know, it’s something he’s always done even as a kid. putting more food on your lunch box, holding the corner of tables when you pick something up so you don’t hit your head, returning your things that are sprawled around the house to your room so you don’t lose them.
and if he ever finds you crying over some guy, he sighs and sits down next to you. “why’re you crying over an idiot?” he then makes snappy insults at the expense of the guy, making you laugh. “see? you look better like that. now stop crying and let me get some sleep.” he closes the light and shuts the door on his way out.
#haikyuu#haikyuu x reader#haikyuu!!#oikawa x reader#tsukishima x reader#oikawa tooru#tsukishima kei#oikawa tooru x reader#tsukishima kei x reader#suna rintarou x reader#suna rintarou#suna x reader
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Drawing Hornet everyday until Silksong comes out - Day 200!!!
(huge thanks to this person for the art suggestion!! <3)
I genuinely can’t believe that I’ve made it to 200 days, it’s truly been wild how time flies by like that and the amount of doodles I’ve made during that time. Over 200 doodles (217 to be exact if we’re counting double pictures/extra doodles) have been made over the past 200 days. :0
And thank you all so much for the love and support! Not only have we reached 200 days but also 1400+ followers about a week ago! <3
But, having said that I’d like to make a few announcements—some good, some not so great—about a few things regarding the blog, myself, and other stuff.
Putting it all under the cut so the post isn’t long if you’d like to know more
______________________________
Announcements!
My pfp!
1.) I’ll be changing my pfp again!! I’ve officially decided that after every 100 days or so I’ll change up the pfp so it’s up to date with my doodle style (assuming it changed at all lol), but generally it’ll look relatively the same as the last!
Possibly more admins?
2.) As of right now I’m looking into the idea/possibility of having a second (maybe third?) person help me with daily doodles! As much as I’d like to keep doodling everyday there are some days that it can be tough or some situation might be happening. (i.e. recently got injured)
See, the problem is I don’t exactly have a proper way of trying this out??? My idea was to maybe do this through dms or more preferably Google Forms. I also don’t really know what form of communication afterward would be best either, suggestions to help me work this out would be great! (as you can tell I’m not very good at this stuff lol)
Commissions!
3.) After much consideration and a lot of thought, I’ve decided that in the near future, I’ll be opening commissions again for the first time in years. I don’t have everything set up quite yet, but expect more info in the near future!
About requests:
4.) You may have noticed recently that I haven’t been doing as many doodle requests recently. Sure, there’s usually quite a few in a row at once but you may have noticed I’ve also been doing “non-requested” doodles aka ones that I just do on my own.
Expect this to become a very normal thing going forward. I probably won’t be doing as many requests as before because frankly with the amount of requests I get daily when it’s open is a lot to handle sometimes. Does this mean requests will be stopped entirely? No, I’ll still do some occasionally, but not as much as I have in the past.
Also I’ll likely be doing strictly anonymous requests.
About Burnout:
5.) Alright let’s address the elephant in the room.
There have been quite a few instances where people have wondered if I would ever have burnout and have occasionally joked about “dying” from said burnout because “Silksong will never release, you’ll be doing this forever” etc etc.
In the past I’ve been fine, motivation has been great, but recently I’ve noticed it a little bit.
Unfortunately life has its own plans so it can be a little hard for me to make a doodle that day, expecially recently since I’ve been experiencing personal/medical issues. It’s part of the reason I’m hoping to get a second (maybe third) person to help me do daily doodles so I can take a little bit of the load off my shoulders.
So what does this mean for this blog?
Not much right now. But in the future, there may be some changes. My current plan is to keep going on daily doodles/posts for the length of a standard year, so roughly 365 days. After that, if things in personal life keep up the way they have, I may have to stop daily doodles and instead will post only if I have time. That likely means doodles every other day or every three days or something. At the very least I’ll still post a doodle once a week.
Not to worry though! I’ll still try my best even after I reach day 365 :)
I’ll discuss how things work a little more on my main @miizori later, but that’s as much as I can think to explain rn.
———————————————
Just a few more things I wanted to say!
This community has been so cool to interact with, so much tamer than some others I’ve been apart of in the past. I’m genuinely thankful for how much support and how nice everyone has been. I truly didn’t expect to get this far, I was fully expecting to have stopped like 10 doodles in lol. I especially love to see all your comments in the tags and people sharing their art. You’re all so cool :)))
I have a dtiys from back when I reached 300 followers that’s still available if you’re feeling up to it!
Also my main (again, @miizori) is where I make updates on doodle stuff, regular art stuff and so on if you’re interested at all in that lol
I think that’s all that I can remember wanting to say, so thanks!! I look forward to more doodles for you all :)
#hollow knight#silksong#hk hornet#hollow knight hornet#silksong hornet#hk shade lord#shade lord#hollow knight shade lord#hollow knight fanart#hk fanart#silksongeveryday
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soul snatcher
pairing ↠ demon!ryujin × (f) reader
genre .. warnings ↠ smut, dubcon, wall sex, monsterfucking, g!p, demon!ryujin, dom!ryujin, sub!reader, oral
summary ↠ when your best friend invites you on a adventure to an abandoned house in the woods, you're inclined to decline, but you want to prove that you're not afraid of ghosts. little do you know, there's something else you should be scared of - demons.
wc ↠ 3.5k
a/n ↠ part 1/5 of the legend has it series!
don't like it, don't read.
you were not a scavenger. going into the woods and traipsing around random places was your best friend’s thing, not yours, but saying no was never something that came easy for you.
especially not when you felt like you had something to prove. yeji teased you, asking if you believed in ghosts or something, which was borderline ridiculous. for centuries, there’d been myths of supernatural creatures and the like residing in your city, but they were like bigfoot sightings. just conspiracy bullshit that only idiots believed.
just like there was no such thing as ghosts, there was no such thing as mermaids or vampires or anything other unnatural beings. you were sure of it.
kind of.
there was a vacant, abandoned house that yeji led you to, and she gawked at how large it was for a house in the woods. according to her, most of her finds were merely small cabins. you didn’t find it fascinating. matter of fact, you thought that it was a death trap and what belonged to nature now should remain with nature alone, but it was too late to back out.
“come on,” yeji said, beckoning you inside with a motion of her hand.
your footsteps were tentative, making it evident that you didn’t want to be anywhere near this godforsaken place. the person that owned the property was probably a thousand years old and haunting it as you spoke. maybe you would find their skeleton in a closet upstairs.
the front door opened with a begrudging groan, almost like it was not meant to be pried open, but yeji was undeterred. she let you inside before herself, as if you wanted to be first in line when the ghost haunting this place jumped out and attacked, but you went in anyway.
obviously, the whole house was dark when you went inside, though courtesy of the daylight seeping through the windows, it wasn’t like you were totally blind. you were standing in the foyer, a long single staircase directly in front of you. it was almost like out of a movie or something, which was not comforting in the slightest. you knew how those movies played out.
you jolted when yeji closed the door behind you, but willed yourself to remain calm. it’s just a door. it’s just a door. it’s just a goddamn door.
“woah, it’s beautiful,” yeji marveled, glancing around. there was a thousand-year-old chandelier hanging above your heads that you’d failed to notice, because all you could think about was how badly you needed to get the fuck out of here and never return.
you deadpanned, “yeah, i was thinking the exact same thing.”
yeji snorted. the vicious sarcasm in your tone was not lost on her, but she was entirely unaffected, grabbing your hand and dragging you to what appeared to be a kitchen.
the style was like nothing you had ever seen before, you had to give whoever built it that. if this whole house didn’t give you the creeps, you might’ve even had the courage to admit that it was beautiful. somebody used to eat here a long, long time ago.
“there’s something strange about this place,” yeji mused, tapping her chin cutely. “it’s got to be, like, a billion years old, but it’s in great condition. no debris, minimal spiderwebs, all that jazz.”
that was alarming to you. “wouldn’t that mean somebody’s living here?”
yeji scoffed, “oh, please. nothing human has lived here since the birth of christ.”
“how can you be so sure?”
yeji opened a cabinet, where a couple of flies flew out, though she didn’t seem the least bit bothered. “would you eat peanut butter older than the civil war?”
“peanut butter wasn’t invented until after the civil war,” you quipped, arms folded.
yeji rolled her eyes. “anyways, i wanna go upstairs. come on, scaredy cat.”
you grumbled something under your breath before following her up the unnerving, creaky stairway. you were half expecting a hole to open up in the middle of it and swallowing you from head to toe, but you made it to the upper floor without any of that happening.
after poking around, you noticed a light coming from one of the rooms and stopped following yeji, steadily creeping closer. though the door was closed, you could just barely see underneath it, taking three deep breaths before you pushed the door open.
it was a bedroom. there was a window where sunlight beamed onto a mirror, casting a light onto the floor. you glanced around, inspecting the room curiously. yeji was too right for your liking. this place looked a little too lived-in to be completely abandoned, like maybe travelers stayed from time to time.
either way, you wanted out. you stood in front of the mirror, lifting it and setting it upright. all you could see was the terror etched onto your face that had every right to be there, spooky as this place was.
“i was wondering where you went,” yeji said, poking her head through the doorway. you flinched, setting your hand over your chest. your heart was racing over the scare she’d just given you. “oops. sorry. didn’t mean to scare you.”
“it’s fine,” you muttered, heaving another breath. totally fucking fine.
yeji noticed the mirror that had evidently caught your attention, grinning from ear to ear. “ooh, an old mirror. you should try summoning a demon.”
you rolled your eyes. “and how do you suggest i do that, yeji?”
she shrugged. “i don’t know. say something weird in the mirror three times. like, ‘child of satan’s inferno, i summon thy spirit.’”
you snorted.
“have fun. i’ll be across the hall. scream if you need me,” yeji said.
“will do.”
then, she turned around and left. you eyed the mirror, thinking what the hell. it wasn’t like an actual demon was going to pounce on you and gobble you up for dinner.
boredly, you droned for amusement, “child of satan’s inferno, i summon thy spirit. child of satan’s inferno, i summon thy spirit. child of satan’s inferno, i summon thy spirit.”
though you weren’t expecting some dramatic change in the first place, you waited a couple of seconds, holding your breath. obviously, nothing happened. there was no demon. not even one. you snickered at yourself for considering it for even a second.
then, it felt like a gust of wind rushed through the air and your body felt lighter, a misty cold breezing through your thumping chest. but the window wasn’t opened, and it didn’t look like it every would. your head snapped back in the direction of the mirror when its glass started to break, crumbling in on itself, piece by fucking piece.
you swallowed, dampening your dry throat, and stepped away. your shoulders felt bare and naked, but you could not at all liken it to a puff of air on a nipping wintry night. much to your fright, it was more like a cool breath sweeping over from behind you.
almost as if there was someone behind you, breathing on your neck.
“i’m here,” came a voice, but it was much less distant than you would have imagined. it sounded like it came from within your own head.
you screamed at the tippity top of your lungs, panic flooding your chest as your pulse quickened more than it ever had before in your life. that wasn’t you. that couldn’t have been you. though when you turned around, nobody was there.
“shh,” shushed the voice, wherever it was. whoever it was. “you’re a noisy one, aren’t you?”
you didn’t get the chance to reply, because yeji immediately darted back, concern washing over her face. her eyes fell to the broken mirror and then to you, asking, “what the hell happened? are you okay?”
the voice in your head chuckled, like there was something funny about this predicament you’d landed yourself in. and you had to admit that it was laughable, but not the least bit funny. “such a pretty friend you have here,” it said. “i’d hate for something to happen to her. tell her that everything’s okay and she’ll be fine.”
that threat had you horrified to your very fucking core, so you quickly did as told. “sorry. everything’s fine,” you lied to yeji, chuckling to hide your nerves. “i just accidentally broke the mirror.”
yeji sighed. “that’s a bad omen. you’re such a klutz sometimes, you know that?”
“yeah,” you agreed, scratching your head nervously.
“alright. well, i’m gonna go. again. you know the drill.”
“mm-hm.”
as much as you didn’t want her to, yeji walked away again. but there was obviously someone - or something - here and the last thing you wanted was to see your best friend get hurt.
“good girl,” crooned that same voice.
you whispered, “who the hell are you?”
“you can call me ryujin,” answered the voice.
“okay, ryujin, what the hell are you?” you hissed. “and where are you?”
“i’m a demon, dummy,” ryujin giggled. “you summoned me. remember?”
every breath you took was shakier than the last. you didn’t think the summoning would actually work out. you were just goofing around, trying to make sense out of what yeji saw out of spine-chilling places like this.
ryujin continued, “and i’m inside you.”
as if that couldn’t be right, you repeated, “inside me?”
“yeah. i can come out, if you’d like,” ryujin said, a kind of mischievousness to her tone that you did not want to entertain.
you aggressively whispered, “get the hell out of me!”
“if you say so.”
the windy feeling intensified as you assumed ryujin left your body, as insane as that sounded, and you couldn’t really tell if she was actually gone or not until you saw a woman materialize in front of you.
you almost screamed again, but ryujin held a warm palm over your mouth, pushing you against a wall. “you know, if we’re going to play, i really need you to do something about that mouth. we can’t get caught. unless, you’re into that.”
given that ryujin’s palm was flat over your mouth, your noises were muffled, but it wasn’t difficult for her to tell what was troubling your pretty little head, just from your wide, petrified eyes looking into her soulless black ones. never had you seen anything like her. you were confronted with the fact that demons were very real and you didn’t know how to proceed.
what you did know, regardless of how much you fought the feeling, was that you were a little turned on. you couldn’t exactly explain why, teetering between the thinning line of arousal and total horror.
ryujin removed her hand from your mouth and stuck it up your skirt, rubbing you through your underwear, and grinning at the fact that you were already wet. “now what do we have here?”
“it’s not… for you,” you huffed out, lying through your teeth. you couldn’t admit to being wet for a demon of all things. that went against everything you stood for.
“not for me?” ryujin repeated, cocking a brow. “who’s it for, then? yeji? the old man that used to live here?”
your eyes flickered. “how do you know her name?”
“you said it.”
that didn’t ring a bell. “i did?”
“you did. when she came in here, you muttered it under your breath,” ryujin lied, covering her tracks smoothly. “don’t you remember, baby?”
you didn’t, not even a little bit, but you were so terrified in that moment that you didn’t question the validity of her statement. ryujin fought a smile. you didn’t need to know that she’d been watching you way before now, but you attempting to summon a demon was the perfect excuse to finally reveal herself. of course, your chant was very faulty, but you wouldn’t ever know that.
to distract you, ryujin slipped two fingers underneath your panties and into your hole, making you gasp out in shock when you felt her fingers grow inside of you.
“what’s happening?” you asked, confused.
ryujin shushed you with a kiss, something unnatural about the way her lips felt as they attached themselves between yours, one hand working through your cunt while the other meandered down to knead your thighs. you didn’t want to admit it, but it felt like paradise. the sounds birthed from your mouth were swallowed by ryujin as she sucked on your tongue, and there was only the wet sound of your lips locking.
you could feel something growing against your crotch, too, and you weren’t oblivious to what was happening, but it felt so wrong. she was a demon, for fuck’s sake, from hell for all you knew. to say nothing of the fact that this house wasn’t even yours.
almost as if it meant nothing, as if you were wavering at the threshold of right and wrong and finally took one, definitive step, you succumbed to pleasure broiling in your belly, warmth unfurling throughout your body as release was dangled dangerously close to your face on a string.
then, when you least expected it, ryujin pulled back completely. you didn’t realize that you could barely breathe from how long she’d been sucking on your tongue right against that very wall, you didn’t realize that your hips were desperately grinding against her hand. all you knew was that the satisfaction you longed for was ripped out of your palms like nothing, and something bitter and needy stirred inside.
“ryu…,” you started, not able to finish with how out of breath you were, and ryujin liked it that way.
“if you wanna come,” she whispered, nibbling at your ear. “you have to do it on my cock.”
very much against your better judgment, you were throbbing at the lone thought of being stuffed full of her cock, and started to beg, “please. please, please, please…”
“human begging for demon cock. god, i’ve seen it all,” ryujin teased, revealing her cock from underneath the skirt she was wearing.
you could only stand there and gawk. it made no sense how much you could feel pulsing between your thighs.
“say you want it,” ryujin hissed.
you didn’t skip a beat. “i want it.”
“say you need it.”
“i need it,” you echoed. “please.”
ryujin, seemingly pleased, abruptly lifted you against the wall and you cried out in shock, but bit your lip when you remembered that yeji wasn’t far and you needed to keep it down. it wasn’t like ryujin was making an effort to keep you silent, either, judging from how she roughed impaled you on her cock, prompting whimpers out of you that you tried your hardest to conceal.
not to mention that ryujin was bigger than anything you could’ve imagined. you didn’t realize the extent of how wet you truly were until you felt her cock stretching you out, slipping in and out with ease. you didn’t know how you were taking it - it was just a blessing that you could, even if barely.
“ryujin,” you whined, at a lost for words at how deep she was.
“fuck,” ryujin hissed. “i always knew you’d be tight.”
your eyes flickered. “always?”
ryujin latched her tongue onto the pulse at your collarbone, making you gasp as she sucked a bruise just below your neck. all the while, your body was being forcibly jolted up against the wall with every thrust, and yet you could hardly feel it over the feeling of her thick cock filling you to the hilt.
the room heated up, almost as if she was bringing hell to you on a silver platter. you couldn’t contemplate longly about what she said, now right now, anyway. the heat was getting to your head and her touch stripped you bare of every thought, her hands holding your thighs in her palms.
it had been so long since you’d gotten properly fucked and this was unlike all of your past sexcapades. this was lethal tenfold, like she would fuck the soul out of you and then take it for safekeeping. and if she was being frank, ryujin was more than a little tempted, but she had already waited so long just to have you and she’d be damned if she lost you even quicker.
in the back of your mind, you wondered if any ghosts were watching. now that you knew demons were very real, that had to mean that other supernatural creatures were, too. though you had many questions for ryujin, you could bring yourself to ask none of them, every word leaving your mouth when you parted your chapped lips being a curse, a cry of ryujin’s name, or a combination thereof.
ryujin was just so bewitched by you. you would never grasp the irony of you trapping her in your human-like spells, nor would you know the extent of how crazy you made her. she couldn’t believe that she was fucking her first human, she’d dreampt of this moment many times before. matter of fact, there were instances where she was enticed to take you in your sleep, but she wanted you to be mentally present.
maybe, in the near future, she could come back and fulfill her temptations, but for now she was grateful for her willpower. “fuck, baby, if your friend wasn’t here, i’d make sure the entire forest could hear you calling out for me,” she exhaled, yearning.
you clenched around ryujin when you heard her moan your name, the sound so beguilingly sweet that you failed to realize you had never once told ryujin your name, nor did yeji ever call you by it when she was around. all of your thoughts were solely in the moment, dedicated to what you could feel and not what you could reason.
“feels so good,” you whimpered, maddened that she could somehow bring you to the very peak of ecstasy itself.
ryujin chuckled. “i know it does. you’re shaking.”
“to say nothing of you,” you retorted, though your voice lost its bite as a result of its shakiness. “moaning my name like a bitch.”
ryujin thought about not fucking you at all, but she was too selfish for that, so instead she pulled out of your pussy, giggling cutely when you whined and shoved her cock inside your mouth, asking, “you wanna say that again?”
you huffed something out bitterly, but it was muffled into her cock, and your knees were being bruised by the floor now as she wrecked the back of your throat.
“what was that?” ryujin asked, teasing. “i can’t hear you.”
you lifted your middle finger. surely, it was universal enough for her to understand.
ryujin merely giggled, grabbing your hair. “that’s it, babe. keep doing that.”
you did as told, even though the throbbing ache between your legs was unbearable and you could feel your own arousal slowly dripping down your thighs, because a part of you hoped that she would find it in her heart to make you cum in the end just as you were resolved to do for her. you bobbed your head around her cock, licking and sucking, taking as much as you could in spite of the fact that she had the biggest cock you’d ever seen.
ryujin kept pulling your hair, and simultaneously little smothered whimpers from your mouth that she loved because they sent vibrations down her shaft. a swear or ten escaped her, because you were indescribably good at this, and she knew then and there that this couldn’t be the last time.
it wasn’t very long before you started to tune out every bit of your surroundings, just so focused on pleasuring ryujin that you couldn’t even hear yourself anymore. not your thoughts or the wet smacks of your lips sucking her cock. you were just so addicted to how she tasted that nothing else seemed to matter.
that was, until you felt ryujin smack your cheek, bringing you back to the real world instead of the one you’d escaped to where it was only you and her. ryujin taunted, “so cockdrunk you don’t hear me talking to you?”
your eyes flicked up to her, baffled.
“i was trying to tell you that your, fuck, friend’s coming,” ryujin moaned, still yanking at your hair. “but it’s a little too late now.”
panic filled you immediately, and you flitted your gaze towards the door, where you saw yeji standing, paralyzed with shock.
you tried to move, anything to save face, but ryujin kept you rooted in place and it was clear that you weren’t going anywhere until she was done with you. she had long started to fuck your throat, making you gag while tears pricked your eyes, but she didn’t stop. nothing would get her to.
you tried to push at her thighs, but it was no use. and then, her hips grinded to a halt, and you could feel her cum release at the back of your throat. ryujin rasped, “swallow. show your friend how good you are for me.”
you did your best, you really did, but your lips were a mess when she finally pulled out.
ryujin sighed, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “well, that was fun while it lasted. but i’ll be back.”
you gawked when she disappeared without any other warning, casting a glance to yeji who finally started to move, and you knew you a lot of explaining to do.
but first and foremost, was it just you, or did yeji not blink at all until ryujin vanished into thin air?
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1. Asterism || KSJ
(banner by @itaeewon)
Title: Amalthea (Masterpost) - Part 1: Asterism
Rating: NSFW - minors go away i mean it
Genre: best friend's older brother!au, angst smut fluff trifecta
Pairing: Seokjin x female reader
Beta team: @yoongiphoria, @here2bbtstrash, @kookstempo
Summary: You can count on two things in life. One: that your lifelong best friend Minji will always be there for you, in your corner, your brightest star. Two: that you'll never be free from her older brother Seokjin's orbit - the gravitational pull is just too strong.
Warnings: language, drinking, angst, kissing, fingering, explicit protected s*x
WC: 9.5k
Part 1: Asterism
Asterism: (noun) a recognizable pattern of stars that does not make up the full constellation
Things start when your mother texts you asking for a favor.
To be more historically accurate, things started when you were a child. But for the sake of brevity, for a tighter focus on the now, it starts with this text -
[5:41 PM] Mom: can you do me a big favor?
When you send her back “sure”, she calls you, which you expected all along. You’re surprised she texted first at all, instead of going straight to the phone call. She’s a creature of habit, your mother.
“I cooked a few dishes and stuck them in the fridge,” she tells you. Pacing across your own kitchen, a fifteen minute drive from her place, you squint as you pass through the one exact spot where the afternoon sunlight assaults you from the window every day around this time. You’ve lived here for years - you’ve just been too lazy to put curtains up in this room. Your mother continues, her voice coming through your phone so loudly that you can hold it like it’s on speaker (although it’s not) and still hear her loud and clear. “You’ll see them, they’re in the tupperware with blue lids? Can you bring them over to the Kims’?”
“What?” you say - not because you didn’t understand the directions, but because you didn’t understand the why. She starts to repeat herself but you cut her off, clarifying, “Why are you making food for the Kims?”
“Didn’t I tell you?” she asks. “Or at least Minji? Mr. Kim had his knee replacement today.”
You call Minji from the car, but she doesn’t answer. You’ve been best friends since kindergarten; her dad’s house is just across the street from the one you’d grown up in, where your parents still live. You kids have all grown up, and away - you, Minji, and her two brothers - but Mr. Kim still lives in that same house, the light blue one that you can see from your childhood bedroom window.
You still live close, and Minji’s just a few towns over. Her brothers moved far - requiring planes and trains to get back. You see Minji at least monthly, if not more often - usually you meet for brunch at a place between your houses. Sometimes, though, you meet back home home - for holidays, usually. The last time you were at her dad’s house with her was for the winter holidays two years ago; you’d rung in the New Year on her back deck.
You try not to think about that night.
You let yourself into your parents’ empty house with the code and head straight for the kitchen. As promised, there’s a small stack of blue-lidded containers, and you load them into a reusable grocery bag you steal from the cabinet beneath the sink. You lock the house back up and head across the street on foot.
Once upon a time - for most of your life, really - you would have just let yourself in. You and Minji grew up in each other’s homes. This was your second home, her dad your second father. It had been like that your whole life. But once you and Minji went away to college, things changed - just slightly. Part of it’s just becoming an adult. You don’t barge in anymore, you knock.
You expect Minji, or maybe one of her aunts if they’ve come to help, to answer the door. Instead, it swings open to reveal her older brother, Seokjin - full lips frowning slightly, strong brow furrowed as he tries to piece together why you’re standing on his father’s doorstep holding a grocery bag.
The moment stretches, stills. It can go one of two ways - you can let it be awkward, or you can be sure that it isn’t.
“Hi,” you say, hoping it sounds breezy. “My mom cooked some dishes for you.”
Seokjin takes a minute step backwards, lips parting to speak, but then you hear your name squealed from over his shoulder and you brace yourself for impact.
Jin acts fast, grabbing the bag of food from you and flattening himself against his open front door as Minji launches herself past him to hug you, laughing.
“I called you on my way over!” you scold her, smiling, hugging her tightly back.
“Sorry!” she says, still holding you, still laughing. Jin’s still holding your food, just to the side of you, watching this display with a blank face. “I was helping my dad lay down. I left my phone in the kitchen, I think? You should see his knee, it’s disgusting. Is that food?”
She releases you and turns, heading through the house towards their roomy kitchen. You know you’re expected to follow. You reach to take the food back from Jin, shooting him a thankful smile. Your fingers brush as you take the bag, and you drop your gaze, hurrying to follow the sound of Minji’s voice as it floats through the house. Seokjin stands in place as you leave, and you hope he doesn’t see you shudder against goosebumps as you hurry away.
He’s had that effect on you since you were fourteen years old.
But that’s ancient history.
There’s a lot you want to ask him, starting with how long he’ll be in town, ending with… well. Not now.
In the kitchen, Minji is trying to make room in the fridge for everything your mom sent over. You sit at the table, watching her absently, answering whenever her chatter pauses to ask you something.
Jin joins you two wordlessly. He reaches over Minji’s head and then turns and holds out a beer bottle, offering it to you.
“Ooh, yes please,” you say, taking it from him. Minji looks up to see what you’re talking about and then nudges Jin’s shin - which is next to her head - to indicate that she wants one too. He sits across the table from you and sets a beer for Minji at the seat to his right. When she’s done in the fridge, she sits heavily next to her brother and they both look at you as they drink.
“So,” you say, because you have to say something about now, have to keep yourself from getting swept up in twenty-something years of memories that this house holds for you. “How’d the surgery go?”
“Great!” Minji beams. “The surgeons said it was exactly as expected. He’ll start physical therapy next week.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” you tell her genuinely. Mr. Kim was always important to you. You turn your attention to Jin, who’s downed half of his beer already. “Are you staying long?”
He nods, swallows, then answers. “A few weeks, probably,” he tells you. “I got approval to work remotely through the end of the month. Hopefully by then he’ll be back to a point where he doesn’t need someone here 24/7, and Minji can just pop in on him…”
He trails off, his eyes going over your shoulder, watching a few birds hop from the bird feeder to the deck railing. The deck railing where you’d hung wet bathing suits to dry on never-ending summer afternoons, where you’d placed soda cans with rivulets of condensation running down their sides, where you’d leaned with Minji as you talked about boys and school and boys again, where you’d buried your hands in Seokjin’s hair as he’d - nope.
Not going there. Not unless you want to drown.
“Do you want to eat dinner with us?” Minji asks, throwing you a life preserver by dragging you back to the present.
“Ah,” you say, letting your regretful tone do the answering for you. “I’d like to, but… I should get home.”
I should get out of this house, you think. I should get away from your brother.
She grins at you slyly. “Got that man to feed?”
You laugh in surprise. Seokjin is suddenly very interested in the label on the beer he’s almost finished.
“No,” you say. “He’s out of the picture.”
Minji narrows her eyes at you, assessing. “We don’t seem sad,” she observes finally.
You shake your head. “We aren’t sad,” you confirm. Jin gets up wordlessly and opens the fridge again, reaching for a second beer. His shoulders take up almost the whole space. You try not to notice, try not to think about the muscles of those shoulders rippling under your fingertips - enough. Enough, now.
You stand, needing the escape, needing to get away, draining the rest of your beer in one long drag that would make your college-self proud.
“Listen,” you say to the room at large, to both of them, after placing the empty bottle back on the table, “call me if you need help, okay? My place isn’t far. I can pop over if you need an extra pair of hands, or a break, or some errands handled. Okay?”
Seokjin’s still hiding in the refrigerator, taking a million years to choose between two of the same beer. Minji, oblivious, takes your hand gratefully.
“Thank you,” she says warmly, giving you a squeeze.
You start to head back towards the front door, Minji still clutching your hand.
“Bye, Seokjin,” you say over your shoulder.
He glances up at you around the open refrigerator door.
“See you,” he says. There’s something hollow in his voice.
You get it, though.
The last time the three of you were here together, two years ago, he’d welcomed in the New Year buried inside you against the back of their house, gasping your name against the inky dark of the frigid December night.
You’ve never told a soul, and you don’t think he has, either.
You’ve never talked about it at all.
You and Minji spent New Year's Eve out at bars and clubs together almost every year. The year you were twenty-six, though, something had changed. Suddenly, the idea of vying for bar space, in heels, for overpriced drinks and sleazy dudes seemed abysmal.
“We could stay in,” Minji had suggested. “Pretend we’re sixteen, sneaking booze into dad’s basement again? Seokjin is back in town for the week because he dumped that shitty girlfriend of his for the sixth time, might be kind of fun to all hang out.”
You’d pretended to dislike the idea, grimacing a little as you thought it over. Your brain snagged on dumped his shitty girlfriend.
“Come on,” she’d said cajolingly. “We can put on 90’s music and play card games, like we used to.”
You knew the whole time that you’d go; all you needed to know was that Seokjin would be there. Since he’d left for college, he only came home twice a year - Christmas holidays, and over summer breaks. Since he'd moved far, even those weren't promised.
Minji ended up with a small crowd - a few that you were friends with in high school, but most of them you thought were friends of her brothers.
You’d spent most of the night trying to avoid staring at Jin - or at least avoid getting caught staring. It had been about two years since you’d seen him last - four years since he moved away. He was twenty-eight to your twenty-six that year, and you weren’t sure if it was the way he was aging or if it was the tequila, but he seemed - somehow - even more handsome than you remembered.
It had gotten more and more difficult as the night went on to focus - on conversations, on card games, on how to balance as you walked; your brain wanted to spend its energy cataloging the quirk of his full lips when you said something funny, his windshield-wiper laugh when Minji dropped a whole tray of lemon slices she’d spent twenty minutes cutting, the strip of bare skin his shirt revealed when he bent down to help her pick them up. It was like your brain was trying to soak up every little detail of him that it could after so many years of distance, of him being somebody you used to be close to.
Eventually, you’d retreated to the back deck, alone, just minutes before midnight. Outside, the noise of the party fell away, and you took in deep gulps of cold air, your hands gripping the splintery wood of the railing.
When the door opened behind you, you expected Minji. Instead, Seokjin stood there, staring at you like he’d asked you a question and was waiting for an answer.
Maybe, in his own way, he had. Maybe it had been all the quick glances he’d given you that night. Maybe it had been the way he’d stuck close, listening when you talked, smiling wryly when you cracked jokes. Maybe it had been the way his eyes had followed you from room to room, the way his fingers had tightened around his glass when you bent down to grab one of the wayward lemon slices.
You’d stared back at him, unsure what the right move was. This was Minji’s brother, and you’d promised her almost fifteen years ago to never get tangled up with her family. This was Minji’s brother, who had bought you girls beer before you were old enough, who had once driven to pick you up from the mall on a rainy day when your date had gone badly. This was Minji’s brother who’d once held your hand in the backseat of your dad’s car as you sobbed over a broken wrist, who’d often let you sit and watch him play video games even after he’d told Minji to bug off and leave him alone.
This was Seokjin, who was staring at you so intently that for a moment you weren’t sure if he hadn’t asked you something.
“Seokjin?”
His eyes met yours.
“Explain to me how you got even more beautiful?” he’d murmured, and your heart had leapt into your throat.
“I - what?”
He was close enough to touch. You’d dreamed of this for so long - pathetically long, really. You’d never dreamed that he’d want you.
He stepped closer, and you did touch him - one hand acted without permission, coming up and resting lightly on his chest, over his heart. It had thumped beneath your tentative fingers.
Your fingers had curled in the material of the thick hoodie he’d been wearing, had pulled him just closer.
And then his mouth was on yours, searing, and your hands were in his hair, and that deck railing was pressing into your lower back as he pinned you against it, and one of his hands was creeping beneath the hem of your shirt, and you could feel him hardening against your lower stomach, and -
And through the window, you could see the party carrying on.
You broke the kiss, pushed gently on his forearm to extract his sneaky hand from inside your shirt.
“They can see us,” you’d gasped, and he’d followed your gaze somewhat dumbly, like it hadn’t occurred to him that everyone else existed in the same place as the two of you.
Then he’d taken your hand, pulling you down the deck steps, away from the glow of light from the house’s windows, down into the darkness, where witnesses would have to work a little harder to see what was going on.
He’d pressed you against the wall of the house, beneath the deck, and as you’d tipped your head back to allow him access to nip and soothe lines up and down your neck you’d thought of all the summer nights you’d spent in this exact spot. This is where the keg usually goes, you’d thought absently as that sneaky hand returned to the bare skin of your belly beneath your sweater.
You hadn’t felt even remotely cold, despite the threat of snow in the air.
You’d kissed until your lips hurt and you wanted it to hurt just a little more, your hands starting to toy with the waistband of his jeans as his thumb rubbed determined circles around your puckered nipple beneath the fabric of your bra.
“Tell me what you want,” he’d said, the words mumbled against your lips. He’d pulled back just enough, just enough to watch your face as you told him -
“Anything. Everything. All of it… all of you.”
His hand had traveled up the back of your thigh, beneath your skirt, fingers pushing the cotton of your panties aside before stroking through your center. You’d moaned, low, aware that anyone could come out onto the deck above you without warning. His breath had hitched in response, and his hand had left your pussy long enough to tug you to him again, pressing you against his hips for just a second before returning. This time he didn’t toy with you, pressing his index finger into your messy heat, followed quickly by a second digit.
You’d mouthed his name against his jaw, trying to keep yourself upright as he pressed you against the brick of the house, as he pumped his fingers leisurely, fingertips rubbing circles against your front wall until he found the place that made you gasp and buck against his hand. He’d laughed, asked, “Yeah?” in a cocky voice you’d never heard on him before. It’d made you, impossibly, wetter.
“You’re so fucking hot,” you’d whispered, half delirious, and he’d laughed again, like he knew already.
There had been a flash of foil between his teeth, the sound of his zipper echoing across the frozen backyard, and then he was pushing inside you, fingers still wet from you now gripping your hip to keep you in place.
You’d groaned in unison as he slowly bottomed out. The brick had bit at your back, the winter air had bit at your face, and Seokjin had bit at your lower lip as he pounded into you steadily.
It had been hurried. It had been hushed.
Your name on his lips when he came took the air from your lungs.
You’d wanted this, wanted him, in silence for as long as you could remember. Before you had words to put to it, before you were old enough to understand why your stomach hurt when he left the room.
It had hurt, after. The scrapes from the brick wall. Your sore hamstrings. Your chapped, cracking lips.
His silence.
You’d both missed the countdown. Happy New Year.
You don’t know what you had expected after seeing Seokjin at his dad’s house unexpectedly. Apparently, some foolish part of your subconscious thought he’d reach out to you, because you find yourself disappointed when he doesn’t.
Stupid, you think. I don’t know what you were thinking. Aside from that one slip on New Year’s Eve two years ago, you’d done a stellar job at orbiting Seokjin in silence, keeping your feelings under control and out of sight, never pushing yourself into his path but never letting him stray so far as to forget you, either. Nothing’s changed.
You tell yourself this for two days, until Minji’s name lights up your phone as you’re packing up from work on Thursday evening, your stomach growling and your feet aching to get out of their heels.
“Yeeees?” you answer her as you power down your laptop and cast your gaze around your cubicle for anything else that needs to come home with you.
“Are you still at work?” she asks, sounding a little breathless, a little irritated.
“Packing up right now,” you tell her, rising and pulling your bag onto your shoulder. You give Dale, your cubicle-mate, a silent wave goodbye and head for the elevators. “What’s up?”
“I tried your mom first, but your parents are apparently out to dinner tonight,” she says. “Is there any way you can swing by my dad’s? I think Seokjin is having a hard time with dad, and I’m stuck here at least another two hours -.”
“No problem,” you tell her, cutting off her explanation. It isn’t needed. “I’ll head there now. Tell him I’ll be like…” You glance at your watch for the time, “...twenty-five minutes, tops, if traffic is bad.”
“You’re a saint,” she breathes in relief. “Thank you. Seriously, thank you. I’ll get there as soon as I can. I promise I’ll hurry. Did I tell you that deal with Mr. Lee fell through? I have been non-stop -”
“Don’t worry about it,” you tell her, meaning it. “I’m happy to help. I’ll be there soon. See you later, okay?”
You grew up on a dead end. You never tell people that, now. You always fancy it up if it’s brought up in conversation - you call it a cul-de-sac, though it isn’t according to the yellow sign that marks where you turn left to reach your parents’ house.
Every inch of this street is steeped in memories for you - memories of growing up with Minji and Seokjin, running wild through these streets whenever the weather allowed it, learning to ride a bike, having snowball fights and water balloon fights and - once - even a foodfight. Thinking of your childhood with those two, you think mostly of chaos and laughter.
You miss it, a little, and that’s only a little bit nostalgia talking. Maybe the lack of chaos is nice, but the lack of laughter kind of sucks.
It takes Seokjin forever to answer the door when you knock. When he does, it’s evident immediately why Minji had called for backup.
He’s sick as a dog; his nose is red, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy and sleepy.
“Minji sent me,” you explain. “She said you need help with your dad.”
“I don’t,” he protests, just a little whiny. “We’re fine. Why’d she call you? I told her we were fine.”
This clear untruth is punctuated by a fit of coughing. You purse your lips and raise an eyebrow, waiting.
He shakes his head, recovering. “It’s just a cold,” he says, doubling down. “I’m sorry you drove all the way here, but I don’t need help. I was just about to help Dad get showered - I need to get back up there, he’s waiting.”
He starts to turn to go, but you reach out, catching his sleeve. He turns, brows furrowing in frustration, but you cut him off.
“Jin,” you say seriously, “come on. I came here to help. What needs to be done? Do you want me to start heating up dinner while he showers?”
He sags back against the wall behind him, raising one hand to rub wearily over his brow, his eyes, down over his mouth. You let his sleeve slip between your fingers and you wait as his resolve cracks.
He sighs heavily, eyeing the ceiling. “Could you strip his bed and put on clean blankets? So when he’s done showering, I can put him back in a clean bed?”
“Absolutely,” you say, relieved that he’s delegated a task. He leads you upstairs silently. Your feet remember the way to Mr. Kim’s bedroom. You weren’t often allowed to play in there as kids, but you have to pass it to get to Minji’s room; you think you could walk the path in your sleep.
Halfway up the stairs, you pause, stopping by one of the dozens of framed photos on the wall. You smile, putting your finger on the glass.
At the top of the stairs Seokjin pauses, turns to see why you stopped. Something on his face softens when he sees.
“Yeah,” he says. “That one’s still up.”
You give him a small smile. The photo your finger rests on is a group shot with blue water meeting blue sky as the backdrop.
Mr. Kim stands in the middle, beaming, one arm around Minji and the other around Seokjin. Minji’s little brother Jungkook - only a year behind you girls in school - sits on the ground at Seokjin’s feet, grinning with a scrunched nose. You’re behind Minji, peeking around her shoulders, your eyes closed as you laugh. You’re all kids in the picture - Seokjin, as the oldest, is probably around ten.
You’d been shy to be included in the picture, but Mr. Kim had told you that you were one of his kids in spirit if nothing else. You’d all been at the lake that day. Seokjin had been the one who made you and Jungkook laugh as the camera snapped. You remember it like it was yesterday. After the picture had been taken, you girls and Seokjin had dug a hole in the sand and buried Jungkook up to his neck. You’d splashed in the water, squealing over the slimy rocks that lined the lake’s floor. Later, you’d all eaten thick slices of watermelon, the juice dripping on your bare legs as the summer sun set over the horizon, the four of you sitting in a row on the picnic table bench like a matched set. You’d chased fireflies until Mr. Kim called your names, ready to pack you all into the car to return home, smelling like sunscreen and lakewater.
It was one of your favorite memories, that whole day.
You strip the blankets and sheets from Mr. Kim’s bed and toss them in the hamper. You collect a clean set from the linen closet in the hallway without needing to be told where they are. You spent as much time in this house as your own growing up. In the ensuite, you can hear the shower running, the low murmur of both men’s voices as they chat. You make the bed, fluffing the comforter, and then take the hamper down to the basement, where you dump them into the washer and get it started.
When you head back upstairs, Seokjin is in the living room, slumped sideways on the couch, eyes closed. You’re not sure if he’s awake, if he knows you’re standing behind him. He has that hand pressed to his brow again, and you know a headache when you see it.
You pad quietly up the stairs and into the hallway bathroom, where Mr. Kim used to keep all the over-the-counter stuff - bandaids, pain-killers, lozenges, even tampons back when Minji still lived here.
Heading back downstairs, you grab a glass of water from the kitchen and find Seokjin exactly where you left him, pressing his face pitifully into the arm of the couch.
You nudge him gently, and hold out your offerings - fever reducer and the water.
He grumbles as he takes them, pushing himself to a more upright position so he can drink from the glass without spilling.
When he sets the glass down, he looks over at you somewhat warily. “How have you been?” he asks, and there’s something resigned in his voice. Something defeated. You wonder what battle he’s lost, to make him sound like that. You feel - have always felt - that so much of what goes on in Jin’s mind is kept behind the curtain. For someone so loud, he’s the most private person you know.
“I’ve been fine,” you shrug. “Normal.”
He looks sideways at you for a long moment. “Is that a lie?” he asks finally, voice low.
“No,” you say, trying to keep your voice light. It isn’t, right? You’ve been fine. What happened between you was two entire years ago, the lid closing tightly on a lifetime of maybes. You’d had your moment together and it hadn’t led to anything. What choice did you have, but to accept it and move on? So, there you have it. You’ve been fine.
You make the decision, right there, not to bring it up - what happened two years ago. His lips on yours, his body under your hands, the way your legs had trembled as they’d struggled to hold you up. Better to let it stay dead. If Seokjin had wanted to talk about it, he’s had two years and four months to do so. If he wants to pretend he didn’t fuck his sister’s best friend and then ghost her completely, who are you to mess with the plan?
You need something sweet; you’re far too bitter.
But honestly, you can’t even hate him for it. He hadn’t promised you a thing, so logically there’s no reason to feel like a toy played with and discarded - even if you’re left wishing he had never picked you up to play with at all.
You look him over, taking in the sheen of sweat on his brow, the haze you can still see in his eyes. “You look like shit,” you tell him.
He lets out a single puff of a laugh, his eyes closed. “Now I know you’re lying,” he says, lips quirking into a smile.
“You look like you have the flu,” you say flatly, ignoring his nonsense.
“It’s just a cold,” he says.
You lapse into silence. He keeps his eyes closed, that hand still resting on his head. Finally, you say, “How about you? How’ve you been?”
He shrugs. “Been fine. Working. You know.”
A tiny smile tugs on your lips. “What are we playing these days?”
The smile creeps sideways across his face and he opens his eyes to actually look at you, sending you a conspiratory smirk. “Now you’re asking the right questions,” he says, and starts to tell you about a console game he got last week.
You head to the basement when it’s time and move the sheets you were washing into the dryer. You pause in the doorway when you return upstairs, looking Seokjin over from afar. He looks better than he had when you’d arrived - eyes less glassy, cheeks less pink.
“I think your fever’s down,” you say, as you return to where you’d been sitting before.
“I feel better than I did,” he agrees. He looks at you appraisingly, like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time. And, considering the fever, maybe he is. “So Minji said you live pretty close?”
You nod. “Not far. That apartment complex over behind the plaza with the grocery store? You remember, the one that we used to go trick-or-treating at?”
“Wow,” he says, giving an appreciative whistle. “Those are swanky.”
“I’m swanky these days,” you joke, smiling.
Just then, there’s a soft beep from outside - someone locking their car.
“That’s Minji,” Seokjin observes, and you find yourself standing, feet carrying you towards the kitchen.
“Do you need anything to drink?” you call over your shoulder. Jin is watching your sudden departure, clearly bemused. You busy yourself in their fridge, even though you don’t have a real reason to. You just didn’t want Minji to enter the house and find you and Jin having domestic hours on the living room couch.
The front door opens, and Minji calls your name through the house.
“I’m in here!” you call back, and head for the doorway of the kitchen.
Minji hurries to you, setting her bags down on the kitchen floor and flopping dramatically onto the doorjamb.
“I am so sorry,” she says. “Thank you so much for coming over.”
“Your brother’s sick,” you tell her flatly. “He had a pretty high fever when I got here.”
Her eyes widen, and she turns to look over her shoulder at Seokjin, who gives her a cheery thumbs up.
“He says he’s fine,” you inform her, “but he’s got about two more hours before the fever-reducer wears off and then he’s gonna be useless again.”
“Thank you for the warning,” she tells you, while Seokjin squawks from the living room, “I am not, and have never been, useless!”
You give Minji a quick hug goodbye and head for the front door.
You meet Seokjin’s eyes as you pass through the living room. They’re sharp, now that the fever’s receded, locked on you and looking.
“Feel better,” you tell him. “Make sure you hydrate.”
“Hey,” he says, making himself comfortable against the couch cushions, “thanks.” Then, an afterthought - “Seriously. Thank you.”
You give him a tight smile and slip out the front door.
Going home doesn’t stop you from worrying, even though you know Minji is home and capable of taking care of everything. But at work the next day, your eyes keep darting to your phone screen, as if you’re expecting updates on how Jin is feeling, if everything is okay at the house.
No one texts you.
You can’t ask Minji. She’s too fucking smart. If you so much as said, “Hey, is your brother feeling better?” she’d be all over it.
You try your mom instead, texting her, “How’s Mr. Kim doing? Any updates?”
She answers, “Haven’t heard anything!”
You groan, tapping the corner of your phone on your desk in frustration. You try to focus on work for a little bit, but it’s truly a lost cause. With a defeated sigh, you open your phone and thumb through your contacts.
Kim Seokjin.
You’ve had his number in your phone since you got it - your mom was the one who programmed it in for you when you were fourteen, citing Jin as someone you could call if you had an emergency. As if by being two years your senior, he qualified as a helpful adult.
You haven’t used his number in over five years - not since you were still in college, probably.
Actually, you realize, you remember the last time - though there were definitely parts of the night you didn’t remember.
It was your senior year, the first weekend of December, and you and Minji were drinking in some girl’s dorm. You’d never even met this girl before, but there you were, perched on her desk with a bottle of flavored vodka in hand, watching her LEDs change color along the ceiling.
You and Minji were both wasted, even though it was relatively early - not even midnight yet. You leaned against each other, holding the other up, both of you giggling and tapping around on your phones as the conversation flowed around you.
That’s what had happened - you’d noticed it was about to be midnight, the clock about to change from 11:59. And despite being so drunk that Minji was mostly propping you up, so drunk that you had to close one eye to read the letters of this girl’s alarm clock, so drunk that you’d be throwing up in just minutes - a little part of you brain informed you that midnight meant it was officially December 4th.
You’d texted Seokjin happy birthday at exactly midnight, one eye closed to make sure you were typing actual words. He was hundreds of miles away, had graduated and moved out already, and you hadn’t talked since the day the Kims had loaded all of his shit into a rented moving van, about five months ago.
And he’d answered - “thank you! what are you doing up??”
To which you’d replied, “getting baja blasted with your sister” and he’d replied, “i do not want to know, thank you!!”
And then Minji had looked at you drunkenly and narrowed her eyes. “Who are you texting with that smile?”
The floor had swooped below your feet, and you’d run for the bathroom. Minji had forgotten about interrogating you, and you and Seokjin had never texted again.
Now, at your job, you stare at his name on your phone screen, wracked with indecision.
“This is ridiculous,” you finally sigh. Behind you, Dale glances over his shoulder to determine if you’re talking to him or yourself. Ignoring Dale, you tap Seokjin’s name and type, “how are you feeling today?”
You don’t even have time to feel nervous about it - his response is almost instantaneous. He sends you a picture of a gaming screen, where he’s clearly playing a shooter POV. He follows it up with the sunglasses emoji. You laugh out loud, trying to keep your chuckles quiet to avoid calling attention to your cubicle.
“What a nerd,” you mutter affectionately. You type back, “you must be fine then 🙄”.
Seokjin’s played video games his whole life; it’s one thing you do know about him. How many hours of your childhood had been spent with him, Jungkook, and Minji crowded around the tv in their basement, fighting over whose turn it was to play?Usually Seokjin got to play the first controller (since he was older, stronger, and technically the console belonged to him), which left you and Minji and Jungkook to fight it out over the second one.
But you remember other times, too - especially as you got older - when you’d just sit in silence and watch him play. By the time you were a teenager - fourteen to Jin’s sixteen - Minji was over wanting to join him. She’d argue for use of the tv, and when she lost she’d flounce upstairs to her room to sulk about it. Sometimes you’d join her - usually, you’d join her. But sometimes you’d cast a glance at Seokjin, see if you were welcome. He’d always play it the same - look at you sideways, give you a tiny nod, pat the couch behind him like an invitation. (Seokjin played video games from the floor, letting the base of the couch prop him up. He said he focused better that way.)
You’d sit, quiet, watching him work the controls, listening to him whine and groan and complain and shout his way through each map. And you’d feel special, because he let you stay after he’d told Minji to fuck off, because he didn’t mind your presence, because sometimes he’d ask if you wanted him to teach you how, even though you always said no thanks.
You text your mom and ask what she’s making for dinner.
“Why?” she sends back. “Are you asking me to feed you?”
“Maybe,” you send back.
You join your parents for dinner, “just because”. It’s not that uncommon for you to join them for a meal now and then, considering how close you live. You go because you love your parents and you want a home-cooked meal - definitely not because you know it puts you back in proximity to Jin.
Your mom glances up at you from across the table approximately every four-tenths of a second through the entire meal, until finally you slap your palm on the table and snap, “What?”
She purses her lips, amused. “Nothing,” she says, feigning innocence. “We just don’t usually see you on Friday nights.”
“Jagi,” your dad warns, his voice full of affection. Like he knows it’s a lost cause but he thinks he should try to rein her in for your sake.
“I’m just saying!” she says, still all innocence, eyes wide. “I’m not complaining! It’s nice to have you here.”
You grumble a response, aggravated that she seems to be onto you. To escape their scrutiny, you rise and move to bag up the full garbage, tying the top of the bag and heading out to the trash cans at the end of the driveway.
You pause there after hefting the bag up and into the bin, taking a second to breathe. It’s a nice night - the sun has mostly set, the sky deep and dark above you but still clinging to shades of pink down near the horizon. It’s warm, too, for April.
You’re standing there, arms crossed, watching the sky inch closer and closer to darkness, when you hear a door shut across the street. Your eyes follow the sound immediately, and you see a man’s silhouette do the same thing you were doing - make its way down the driveway, a trash bag in hand.
Romantic, you think wryly. A garbage date. You stay rooted to the spot, watching as Jin - just an outline, a shadow - tosses the bag into the bin and brushes off his hands. Then, he stops still, seeming to notice you.
You hold your breath, not sure how this will go, and then he starts to lope over, and you exhale in a whoosh.
“Hi,” he says simply, as he gets close enough that you can finally see his face through the dark.
“Hi,” you say around a tiny smile. “You seem better today.”
He scoffs. “I told you it was just a cold. I just needed to sleep it off.”
“I’m glad,” you tell him softly. Maybe it’s dangerous, maybe it’s stupid - to be soft with him. To act like you didn’t already get your answer from him, years ago. To pretend your affection for him is still as pure and untainted as it was when you were a teenager.
But it feels safer, out here, away from his dad’s house. In there, the memories of that New Year’s Eve are too fresh, too strong - they cling to the air, slide down the walls. The heating unit sighs to life and you hear your own sighs as Seokjin’s fingers danced along your bare skin. The refrigerator grumbles and you hear the grumble of pleasure that originated low in Seokjin’s throat as he felt you squeeze around his fingers. Someone’s footsteps crunch gravel outside, and you hear the crunch of gravel as Seokjin made his way back to the front of the house in the dark, leaving you hidden in shadows, clutching the bricks and gasping for breath.
It’s better out here. In the fresh air, away from that house, the memories are looser, less focused - bike races, raucous laughter, chalk drawings, bouncing beams of light from flashlight tag.
“Thank you for the help yesterday,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck like he does when he’s embarrassed. “I know I kind of gave you a hard time.”
“You didn’t,” you say, letting him off the hook. You’ll always let him off the hook, for everything. You always have. “How’s your dad?”
He glances back at the house over his shoulder, like he needs to verify this answer before giving it. “Not so good today,” he admits. “He’s in a lot more pain, starting to get frustrated needing so much help.”
“Hmm,” you deadpan. “A Kim man who gets frustrated at needing help. Interesting.”
Seokjin laughs, full from his belly. “Shut up,” he says, but there’s no ire in it. “Can I help it if I’m a chip off the ol’ block?”
“We’re supposed to learn from our parents’ mistakes,” you tell him, like a reminder. “Not continue them.”
Just then, a car turns around the corner, the headlights casting you in blinding white light before throwing you back into shadow. You both turn to look - since it’s a dead end, traffic doesn’t just pass through here.
You recognize the car - it’s Minji’s. She parks and pops out, calling hello to you, ignoring her brother. He makes a face at you like, what am I, chopped liver?
“I have your mom’s tupperwares, do you want to take them?” she asks, pressing the lock button on her key fob and making the car behind her beep once, loudly.
“Sure,” you say, following her into the house. A glance over your shoulder tells you that Seokjin is following, too, a few feet behind you, his hands in his pockets.
Inside, Mr. Kim is sitting sideways on the couch, his leg propped up on a small stack of pillows, a bag of ice over his knee. He perks up when he sees you, lowering his phone away from his face and pushing his spectacles further up his nose.
“How are you, sweetheart?” he asks. “I’d come hug you, but -.” He gestures at his leg.
“I’m doing fine,” you assure him. “I heard you had a rough day today.”
Mr. Kim shoots a dark look at his son, who looks innocently at the ceiling. “Just a little pain today,” Mr. Kim demures.
Seokjin glances at his phone. “We might want to get you upstairs soon,” he tells his father. “You know you’ll be asleep in about fifteen minutes, so unless you want to spend the night on the couch…”
You watch, feeling awkward and unable to help, as Seokjin helps his dad swivel and stand, an arm over Seokjin’s shoulders. They make their way slowly and laboriously up the stairs, and you feel a little anxious watching.
“Are they okay?” you ask Minji as she returns from the kitchen, pushing your mother’s empty tupperware back into your hands.
“They’re fine,” she says easily. “It takes a while but they’ve got it down to a science. Hey, listen, do you want to go grab a drink? It’s Friday, and I’ve had a hell of a week, and what I would really like to do is Uber into town and drink like college-Minji.”
You laugh at this. “I’m not sure I’m prepared for the return of college-Minji.”
“Pleaaaaaaaase?” she begs, blinking her lashes at you. “We haven’t gone out together in ages.”
“Alright, alright,” you laugh. “Let me go tell my parents goodbye and drive home and change. Text me the details and I’ll meet you there.”
“Yessss!” she cries, dancing in place a little. You feel a swell of affection for her; you love Minji with your whole heart. You’ve been through a lot together. You’ve been through a lot separately, but always side by side.
There have been many times through your life where you felt like you were clutching Minji’s hand through the fire.
You still remember clearly the way she’d bounded up to your locker, back when you were thirteen, squealing and excited because the most popular girl in your year had asked her for her number, had invited her over.
You still remember clearly Minji sobbing on your bed weeks later when it came to light that the girl - who wouldn’t be the last to try - was just trying to get an “in” with Minji’s hot older brother.
“You know I would never, right?” you’d promised her. Stupid, at fourteen, not clarifying that you mean never use you to get to him. Stupid, because then you were sixteen and then eighteen and then twenty-one and then twenty-six and you weren’t sure what you had actually promised - had Minji heard it as I would never get involved with him?
“I know,” she’d sobbed, reaching one hand blindly to clutch at yours. “I know you wouldn’t.”
And now you’re twenty-eight and the secrets you’ve kept keep piling up - each day you loved him, another pebble atop the pile. The slightest shake could topple the tower, and you’d be absolutely buried.
You could never let Minji know you loved him. Not when you were fifteen and he was untouchable. Not when you were twenty, and he was the best part of coming home. Not when you were twenty-six, pressed between him and the deck railing.
Not now, after two years of existing outside his orbit again.
The bar she picks is small, but quiet - quiet enough that you can actually carry on a conversation from opposite sides of a wooden booth, which is exactly what you do.
What you hadn’t banked on was that Seokjin would join her, sitting on her side of the booth, complaining loudly that he’s not going to come out with you two ever again, he’s never been such a third wheel in his life.
“You could have stayed home with dad,” Minji says, giving him a swift elbow to the ribs. “Don’t be such a complainer. You jumped in on my plans.”
“Can we please talk about something besides your hot coworker, then?” he begs. “Anything, anything else.”
“We could talk about my hot coworkers,” you offer, even though you have none. But this - teaming up with Minji to push Seokjin’s buttons - is a song and dance you know by heart, something you’ve done since practically infancy.
He narrows his eyes at you. “Believe it or not, that’s not better,” he deadpans.
You laugh, knocking back the rest of your drink and sliding out of the booth to go get another, leaving the Kim siblings to bicker in your absence.
You don’t expect Seokjin to follow; you don’t expect him to press up behind you as you stand at the bar, waiting for the bartender’s attention.
But he does, his body heavy and warm against yours. The blood rushes to your pussy so fast it almost makes you mad. All he’s doing is standing in close proximity, can your body get it together?
“What are you doing?” you murmur, trying not to meet his eyes in the mirrored wall behind the bar.
“Minji wants shots,” he answers easily. Like his body isn’t pressed against yours, like he isn’t causing your heart to hammer against your ribs.
“You’re too close,” you manage to say, because it’s the best option you can think of. Better than she’ll see us. Better than you still aren’t close enough. Better than don’t do this if you’re just going to leave again.
He does catch your eyes in the mirror, then. He must read something honest on your face, because he shifts sideways, leaving you cold. The bartender comes by, takes both your orders. You take your drink back to the table. Seokjin follows with a tray of bad decisions poured into tiny glasses.
Even though he gave you the reprieve when you asked for it, it’s clear he’s got a mission to ruin you. You’re sure of it, more and more sure as the night wears on. Sure of it when you reach for the same shot glass, your fingers brushing, his lingering. Sure of it when his eyes on your face make you so warm that Minji accuses you of having a drunk flush. Sure of it when his foot hooks around your ankle beneath the table, slides up and down your calf, slow and tantalizing, inches from Minji’s stilettoed feet. Sure of it when this causes your breath to hitch and his fingers tighten around his glass and his gaze goes to the opposite wall, anywhere but towards you.
You’re drunk, but it’s Seokjin that’s sending you spinning.
You’ve made this mistake before, you remind yourself sternly. Nothing good can come of it.
You excuse yourself and head for the bathroom, a marked up door at the end of a narrow, poorly lit hallway. You grip the sides of the sink and breathe deep, closing your eyes. The room sways and you press your forehead to the mirror, trying to ground yourself.
“You cannot fuck him again,” you whisper to yourself, eyes still closed. “It wouldn’t mean anything even if you did.”
The alcohol catches up to you as you whisper these words; the truth of them slam you harder than normal. You blink away tears, taking a few shuddering breaths.
“Time to go home,” you tell yourself firmly, turning off the water and wiping quickly under your eyes in case any makeup ran.
This is what it means to be in Seokjin’s orbit, now: to crash into each other, to fight with yourself - fight with the truth that he doesn’t want you, and then run away scared until he’s too far away to hurt you again. Spin idly along until the next time your circles cross paths. Do it again.
He’s in the hallway when you emerge, arms crossed as he leans against the wall. You have to pass him to get back to the table. He pushes off the wall when he sees you coming, stumbles a little. A tiny, sensible part of your brain whispers that he might be drunker than you are as you sidle into his personal bubble.
“What are you doing, Seokjin?” you ask him for the second time that night.
His eyes comb your face. You don’t know what answer he’s looking for, what question he’s secretly asked you in his mind.
“You tell me,” he retorts, which doesn’t make a lot of sense, but speaking somehow brought him looming closer and you’re drowning in the smell of him, the warmth of him, the desire to feel his body hard against yours again, to feel him split you open again, to have his mouth hot on your skin again -
You close your eyes, sag a little. His hands come to your elbows quickly, holding you up. “You’re confusing me,” you whisper, and then look up at him through your lashes.
There’s something aching on his face, and then he whispers back, “I’m sorry. Y/N, I’m so sorry - I never meant -.”
The click-clack of high heels approach and round the corner. You and Seokjin leap apart like you’re burned, your arms tingling where his fingers had been.
It’s not Minji. The stranger murmurs an apology and brushes past you both, towards the bathroom.
Spooked, startled out of the moment, you turn to head back to the bar, back to Minji.
Seokjin grabs your arm, pulls you back. You teeter back a step, then look at him expectantly as you regain your balance.
Seriously, so seriously, he tells you, “I swear, I never wanted to hurt you.” Then he releases your arm with a tiny push, guiding you back out of the dirty hallway and into the light.
You Uber home alone. You brush your teeth, remove your makeup. You change into pajamas, drink a glass of water.
You wake up to your phone buzzing incessantly next to your head.
[10:14 AM] Jin 😎: oh
[10:14 AM] Jin 😎: my god
[10:14 AM] Jin 😎: i think i am dead?
[10:15 AM] Jin 😎: are you dead too? are we ghosts?
[10:15 AM] Jin 😎: can ghosts throw up??? 🤔
You giggle despite your own headache.
[10:15 AM] You: whats wrong old man, you can’t hang anymore??
[10:16 AM] Jin 😎: WOW
[10:16 AM] You: 😇
You check all your other socials, answer a few emails, and then finally drag yourself out of bed and head for a hot shower. As you stand beneath the hot water, you think about your first hangover, when you were sixteen.
You’d woken up next to Minji on her basement floor, a hoodie balled up beneath your head like a pillow. You’d closed your eyes again, hoping the splitting pain in your head and the roiling adrenaline in your stomach were a bad dream.
They were not.
You spent most of the next hour in the basement’s tiny bathroom, curled up on the floor next to your porcelain jail. When you felt like you could stand, you rinsed your mouth and pulled the pillow-hoodie onto your body, taking comfort in the way it swam on you, the hemline brushing your thighs just below your cutoffs.
You’d made your way upstairs, hoping to sneak past Mr. Kim and your own parents and make it unscathed to your own bed. You wanted nothing but to sleep for the next fourteen hours. Or years.
You got busted at the top of the stairs. Luckily, it was Seokjin bustling around the kitchen, not his father.
He had taken one look at you and started laughing, low in his belly. “Too much fun?”
“Shut up,” you’d whined, literally covering your ears against the noise. “Or I will throw up again, I promise.”
Jin had smiled at you, open and easy. “Sit down, kid,” he’d said kindly, jerking his head towards the kitchen table. “I have an age-old remedy.”
And actually? It had worked.
After drying your hair and throwing on some jeans and a t-shirt, you scavenge your kitchen. You have most of what you need, and you toss it all into a tote bag and hunt for your keys. You finally find them on the floor next to the kitchen counter - chances are you’d tossed them at the counter last night and missed - and head out.
Your parents are home when you let yourself in. They both stare at you, baffled, then exchange a sly, knowing look.
“You’re back, I see,” your mom says, something sneaky in her tone.
“Do you have any bean paste?” you answer. “I’m going to go make Minji hangover soup.”
Only one word was a lie.
This makes your mom laugh, and she rummages in her cabinets and helps you complete the list of ingredients you need.
The Kims’ front door is locked, so you make your way around the side of the house and fish the key out of its hiding spot, letting yourself in the side door that leads to the kitchen.
The house is still and quiet, and you try not to clang any pots and pans as you get to work. When you finish, over an hour later, you set up the table - a bowl of hangover soup, and a mug of steaming hot coffee, black.
You text Seokjin, “come to the kitchen”, and set your phone back down, turning to start on the dishes.
You’re informed of his presence by his laugh. You turn, hands red under the hot water and covered in suds, to see him sitting down at the spot you’d set up. He looks up at you, amazed, an uncertain smile playing across his face.
“It’s an age-old remedy,” you tell him seriously.
“You are…” he trails off with a quiet laugh and reaches for the coffee.
You’d love to know the end of that sentence.
When you finish the dishes - save for the pot with the remaining soup, still on the stove for when Minji wakes up - you pour your own mug of coffee and sit across from Jin, watching as he finishes his soup. He closes his eyes and sighs happily, then sets down his spoon reverently.
“Thank you,” he says, like a prayer, but also like a joke. “That was so needed.”
“Consider it payback,” you tell him.
It feels different, sitting across the kitchen table. Different than sitting across that booth at the bar. Less charged. Like it wasn’t something physical burning between you, like you’d thought, but the need for catharsis, for apology. Even if you don’t know what he’s sorry for, even if you still don’t know what exactly happened with him two years ago.
He’s thinking about it too, apparently. He says your name quietly, and you look up to meet his eyes. You can read the apology all over his face. The house is still still and quiet, no one awake but you and Jin. Like no one exists but you and Jin.
You’ve felt that way before.
Sitting beside him in the basement. In the passenger seat of his car, driving through a rainstorm. In his backyard, in the dark, your breath visible in the air as it leaves your mouth in desperate puffs.
“I kind of wanted to talk,” he admits, and your stomach twists. Maybe you should have had some of the soup. “About -?”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” you say quickly, already standing, already moving to gather up the tote bag you’d used to carry ingredients. You shrug back into your jacket, ignoring Jin’s wide-eyed look of surprise. “I should get going,” you say, still not looking at him. You go back to the kitchen door you’d entered through, picking up the key so you can return it to its hiding place outside. You pause on the threshold, turning, eyeing the stovetop thoughtfully.
“Tell Minji you made the soup,” you instruct, and then you close the door behind you.
Next ->
Thank you so so much for reading - i hope you like this one as much as I do! Please don't feel shy about letting me know what you think!
Part 2: Retrograde will post next Friday, June 2nd. Hope to see you there!
#bts x reader#bts fanfic#bts fic#seokjin fanfic#jin fic#jin fanfic#seokjin fic#seokjin x reader#jin x reader#seokjin smut#jin smut#seokjin fluff#jin fluff#seokjin x you#jin x you#seokjin x y/n#jin x y/n#kim seokjin fic#kim seokjin fanfic#kim seokjin smut#kim seokjin fluff#bts smut#neighbors au#s2l#seokjin angst#jin angst#kim seokjin angst#fic: amalthea
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Evil Morty and the other Mortys (part 2)
A continuation of this blog.
Theory 7: Internalized victim blaming
Evil Morty is not the only Morty acting extremely harsh to other Mortys. We've already seen random Mortys in the Citadel being jerks to other Mortys.
1) Mortys in Morty Town seem to be particularly aggressive towards Cop Morty. It's unclear if it's because he's a cop (and therefore they're equally aggressive to Cop Rick), or if it's because a Morty accompanied by a Rick. Or if they are aggressive to Cop Rick because he dared enter Morty Town. It could be all of the above.
Cop Morty, in turn, returns the favor.
Here we have a Morty who dares to utter the phrase "Mortys are human!" (I mean... is it a matter of debate?! YIKES)
And he gets (a) called a "Rickless animal" (b) electrocuted for his trouble.
Soon after, we see Cop Morty:
(c) calling Mortys another derogative term ("yellowshirts")
(d) electrocuting another Morty for absolutely no reason:
Note that the derogative insults obviously apply to Cop Morty as well. He, too, is a Rickless Morty, as he keeps making clear that Cop Rick is simply his partner, not his Rick. And he might wear a uniform right now, but at some point in the past he definitely wore a yellow shirt.
2) AT THE SAME TIME, having a Rick is also an insult:
(and things escalate fast)
3) Initially, Cop Morty was capable of overplaying his "Mortyness" to other Mortys...
...who also did the exact same thing to him, before making fun of him:
Mortys are also overplaying their Mortyness to Ricks...
...which apparently is a thing that happens often, judging from Cop Morty's immediate explanation:
Cop Morty tries the exact same technique against his partner... (and it's clear at this point that Cop Morty actually liked Cop Rick... but doing as Cop Rick was asking him to do would have serious consequences for him, so Cop Morty put his own well-being first)
However, Cop Rick is wise to this trick by now, and so he is ready. He shoots first.
4) Mortys are quick to throw other innocent Mortys under the bus, so that they can escape:
Here is a description of the Mortys responsible for the perpetration of the store robbery:
No noteworthy features. Just four normal Mortys.
And here is a picture of the Morty Town Locos:
They have facial tatoos... THEY DIDN'T ROB THAT STORE.
5) Cop Morty is ready to go to extreme measures to erase every trace of the Morty Town Locos:
Do any of the above sound familiar?
Derogative terms to other Mortys...
...including self...! (pretty justifiably though, in this case)
2. Getting angry at the suggestion that he is accompanying a Rick:
3. Overplaying his Mortyness
4. Throwing innocent Mortys under the bus:
5. Going to extreme measures for your own well-being...
They're all textbook variations of the things Evil Morty has been doing.
Which makes sense. After all, if he is one of the many excess clones in the Citadel, then his experiences must be similar to the experiences of the other unwanted Mortys, and they should have similar reactions. The only difference between them is that his actions have been careful, calculated and ultimately successful (and, uh, excessive), whilst theirs have been uncoordinated and heated.
If we take into account all of the above, it seems to me that there might be a lot of internalized victim-blaming among the excess Mortys of the Citadel.
If they partner with a Rick, they're sell-out yellowshirt Mortys who throw away their self-respect in favor of Ricks' interests, who choose to turn a blind eye to all the atrocities Ricks have been committing, who worship an undeserving being all for the sake of a mocking semblance of family, encouraging other Mortys to engage in the same self-destructive act. They want to be a human shield. (They might as well be a human shield, then...)
If they don't partner with a Rick they have very few tools in their disposal to survive. They have to become as ruthless and unforgiving as their surroundings. They have to become their own Rick, so that they can catch up to their Rick-full environment. And the Mortys who choose to not do that? It's their fault for being weak and emotional and not doing what needs to be done. I mean, think of it. Evil Morty overpowered his Rick simply by making him drunk. Literally every Morty could do that, if they wanted. They just choose not to. Morty Prime can disassemble neutrino bombs. My bet is he could assemble one too, if he wanted. He could easily kill a black-out drunk Rick C-137, if he decided to. Or he could try to find a way to keep Rick in stasis, so that he doesn't return via Operation Phoenix. But he doesn't. He chooses to let the abuse keep happening to him, so he's deserving of his fate.
(I mean, not really, of course, but I can totally see Ricks mocking their Mortys for not having the guts to stand up for themselves and claiming that Mortys want the abusive relationship to continue... otherwise, why even enlist in a Morty Agency, if not because you want more of the same?)
(At the same time, Ricks manipulate Mortys into believing they're selfish for trying to set boundaries... Into believing they're evil for not putting Ricks' wellbeing first.) (might as well actually be evil then, huh)
...I'm glad the Citadel's gone.
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Glitch- chapter four
pairing . . . max verstappen x reader / mason mount x reader )
summary . . . when mason mount finds out that his assistant has been harbouring feelings for him for years, he makes it clear he doesn't feel the same way. but once he sees her become closer with formula 1 world champion max verstappen, he realises he may have underestimated his feelings towards the girl he has now pushed into the arms of another )
genre . . . angst )
song . . . glitch- taylor swift )
warning . . . tbd )
series masterlist . . . available here )
a/n . . . the timeline of races to football season is going to be a bit whacked i'm not going to lie to you all, but i think i've settled on going for what works better for the plot rather than how it happens in real life, so turn a blind eye to that please <3 )
After that night in the hotel room, Y/N and Mason tried their best to return to normal, however even though Mason had apologized, and Y/N had forgiven him; the pair didn’t really know how to correctly navigate their friendship now everything was out in the open. Could they go back to how it was before? Mason didn’t think that was likely, even if they wanted to. For that exact reason, they had not spent time together just the two of them since coming home from Spain. There had been a group party that they had both attended and hung out together at, but spending time alone was something neither of them knew how to navigate so it was avoided. That was until it was unavoidable at least; with the season rapidly approaching, Mason started to need the assistance of his, well his assistant.
Y/N was thankful to get the call from Mason saying he needed her help with organizing a charity event, she missed her best friend. Even when they had seen each other at the party, there were so many people there they didn’t get to spend much time together. She did feel some apprehension as to how well they would be able to work together after everything, but thankfully 5 minutes into the workday and things felt like everything was back to normal. The pair of them had always worked really well together, and when that remained it was clear just how much it meant to them both.
A little while into arranging the event with Mason, Y/N received a text that made her stomach flutter.
Max Verstappen
Hey Y/N, A little bit last minute but I’m in London tonight, I’d love to see you.
Y/N hadn’t heard from Max since she got back from Spain, she had assumed that whatever spark there was between them was destined to just fizzle out. The timing and circumstances couldn’t be worse after all. Yet as she looked down at her phone, she couldn’t help but feel butterflies in her stomach. She had really liked Max when they spent time together during that weekend, and she did want to spend more time with him now. But it was complicated, her situation with Mason was complicated, the distance between her and Max was complicated. It seemed like everything was pointing towards that she should just ignore the message; apart from the fact that she really actually wanted to see him.
.
Nervously, Y/N hesitated. Her mind raced with thoughts about Mason, their evolving friendship, and the potential implications of seeing Max again. A part of her still harbored feelings for Mason, and the prospect of complicating things further left her in a state of uncertainty. But, after a brief internal struggle, she decided to go for it
Fighting a hesitant smile, she typed a response.
Y/N Y/L/N
Hi, yeah I’m free tonight, would be great to see you.
As she sent the message, a mix of excitement and anxiety flooded her. She couldn't deny the flutter in her stomach, but the prospect of seeing Max again also stirred a concoction of conflicting emotions.
Meanwhile, Mason noticed Y/N engrossed in her phone, a subtle smile playing on her lips. He couldn't help but wonder who she was texting, and the hesitation to ask lingered. But, despite his curiosity, he opted to keep the question unspoken, allowing Y/N her moment of privacy. After his behaviour recently, he knew he needed to prove that he had changed and questioning her about who she was talking to would be the opposite of that.
As they continued working on the charity event details, Mason couldn't shake the feeling that Y/N seemed a little distracted. Her mind, usually razor-focused on their tasks, appeared to be elsewhere.
After they wrapped up their work, Mason, trying to lighten the mood, suggested a movie night. "Hey, want to do a movie night tonight?" he asked, a hint of anticipation in his voice.
Y/N's response, however, caught him off guard. "I'd like to, but I'm busy tonight," she replied, avoiding eye contact.
Mason's enthusiasm deflated, and he simply responded with a dejected, "Oh, okay." His assumption that she was dodging spending time with him sunk in, and a subtle disappointment clouded his expression.
Noticing Mason's reaction, Y/N realized he misunderstood. She hesitated for a moment before deciding to set things straight. "Actually, I'm seeing Max tonight," she admitted, her tone carefully neutral.
Mason's eyebrows furrowed. "Oh, is it like a date or something?" he asked, trying to sound casual.
Y/N shrugged, a mix of uncertainty and honesty in her response. "I don't really know, Mason. We're just hanging out."
Mason's expression shifted. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he held back, opting for a forced smile. "Alright, have a good time," he mumbled, a hint of disappointment still lingering.
Feeling the weight of the moment, Y/N decided to address the unspoken tension. "We can do that movie night tomorrow if you're up for it," she suggested, hoping to salvage the plans and the mood.
Mason, trying to mask his feelings, managed a half-smile. "Sure, sounds good."
Despite the agreement, an unspoken layer of complexity settled between them. Mason knew that he had no right to feel disappointed that Y/N was seeing Max again, although strangly enough, that did little to comfort him. He didn’t even really understand why he felt this way, all he knew was that thinking of Y/N on a date with Max Verstappen made him feel like he had just swallowed a bunch of razorblades.
Getting ready for a date that you didn’t know even if it was a date was not easy, as Y/N quickly found out. She truly did not know what vibe she needed to aim for, was it two friends hanging out casually or was it a real, romantic date? Y/N had absolutely no idea, eventually settling on the fact that it would be better to be overdressed than underdressed. She carefully selected an outfit, giving thought to every detail. As she applied a touch of makeup and styled her hair, she couldn't help but feel a growing sense of nervousness in her stomach.
In the midst of getting ready, she noticed a text from Reece come through.
Reece James
Mason just told me that you have a date tonight?? Go you!! Let me know how it goes
Y/N smiled to herself, if there was one good thing to come from the past few weeks it was the fact that her friendship with Reece had grown a lot. Before, they got along well but never really spoke to each other outside of group gatherings. But when Mason found out about Y/N’s crush and reacted badly, Reece had been there for Y/N and helped her a lot, and since then they had just gotten closer and closer. The fact that he cared enough to message her about it made her heart swell, although she did question as to why Mason told him in the first place.
When Y/N arrived at the venue that Max had given her the address to, she had to take a second look to make sure she got the right place, it was one of the fanciest restaurants she had ever been to. The entrance of the restaurant was adorned with intricately carved wooden doors, their deep mahogany finish exuding an air of timeless elegance. As she stepped inside, the plush carpet underfoot whispered luxury with each silent footfall.
The dim lighting of the foyer cast a warm glow, creating a sense of intimacy that enveloped the space. Ornate chandeliers, suspended from the high ceiling, glittered like cascading waterfalls of crystals, their reflections dancing on polished marble floors. The walls were adorned with carefully curated artwork, each piece contributing to the ambiance of sophistication.
Moving deeper into the restaurant, Y/N couldn't help but admire the attention to detail in the decor. The tables, dressed in crisp, white linen, bore silverware that gleamed under the soft glow of candlelight. Crystal glasses sparkled in the ambient light, catching reflections of the flickering flames.
If the restaurant didn’t make her nervous enough, the second she caught sight of Max waiting at their table she felt anxiety settle at the bottom of her stomach. She couldn’t help but second guess herself and her decision to come tonight. Max stood up to greet her as soon as he saw her with a dazzling smile plastered across his face, his eyes lighting up with genuine joy as he pulled her into a warm embrace.
The dim lighting played on Max's features, casting a romantic glow that made the moment feel almost cinematic. His playful yet flirtatious tone conveyed a sense of intimacy as he admitted,
"Hey, Y/N. I’ve missed you." The words lingered in the air and Y/N couldn't help but blush at the unexpected intimacy. "I missed you too, Max," she replied, the air between them charged with a subtle energy. Almost immediately she felt assured that she had made the correct choice to see him again.
As the evening unfolded in the lavish restaurant, Max, still holding Y/N close in conversation, apologized for taking a while to message her. "I've been swamped with work," he confessed, a hint of regret in his voice. Y/N, appreciating his honesty, reassured him with a smile. "No worries, Max. I'm just glad to hear from you."
They delved into the menu, ordering an array of exquisite dishes and selecting a fine wine to complement the evening. As they waited for their meal, the atmosphere between them remained warm and inviting. Max, ever the conversationalist, leaned in with genuine curiosity.
"So, how have you been? What have you been up to?"
Y/N shared the highlights of her days, mentioning that she was working with Mason earlier that day to arrange a charity event. Max's expression shifted slightly, as if he wanted to ask a question, but he chose to redirect the conversation instead. "That sounds like important work. Good on you. Do you enjoy your work?”
Y/N sensed the unspoken curiosity but didn't press further. Instead, she answered, “I do yeah, working with Mason is great fun we get along really well. Of course, I never planned to be a personal assistant for this long; it was supposed to be a temporary job when I first moved to London initially but that.. Well, that obviously didn’t happen”
“What did you want to do when you moved to London then?” Max asked with genuine interest, surprising Y/N a bit, she wouldn’t have thought that Max Verstappen, a multi-millionaire Formula One driver who spends his life travelling the world in luxury, would be happy having a conversation so dull and insignificant as she thought this one was. Yet here he was doing exactly that.
Y/N hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her features. "It's kind of silly," she admitted, her gaze momentarily dropping. Max, sensing there was more to the story, pressed on with a playful grin. "Come on, you can tell me. I promise I won't laugh."
After a moment of contemplation, Y/N sighed and locked eyes with him. "You really promise?"
Max nodded sincerely. "Cross my heart. I won't laugh."
With a shy smile, Y/N finally revealed, "I wanted to be a model. That's why I moved to London."
Instead of amusement, Max's expression shifted to genuine surprise. "Why would you think I'd laugh? You're incredibly beautiful, Y/N. I can totally see you as a model."
Y/N blushed, taken aback by his unexpected support. "I don't know. It just seemed like a silly dream."
Max shook his head, his eyes reflecting sincerity. "Not silly at all. You'd be amazing."
Encouraged by his response, Y/N couldn't help but smile. "Thanks, Max. You know, I’ve never actually told anyone that before.
Max, intrigued by the unexpected revelation, couldn't help but ask, "Why did you tell me if you haven't shared this with anyone before?”
The question took Y/N aback for a moment. She paused, reflecting on the spontaneity of her confession. After a thoughtful moment, she looked at Max with sincerity in her eyes. "I really don't know. I guess I just feel so comfortable around you that it makes me think I can tell you anything."
Max's smile widened, a warmth spreading across his face. Y/N could see that her revelation meant a lot to him.
As the evening progressed, the subject seamlessly transitioned to Formula One, a shared passion that sparked animated discussions. Max, recalling their time in Spain, remarked, "I remember that you said it was your first live race. How did you find it?"
Y/N's face lit up as she recalled the thrill of the race. "I enjoyed it a lot. The atmosphere, the speed—everything was amazing."
Max, a playful glint in his eye, leaned in a bit closer. "Well, if I invite you to another race, would you come?"
Y/N giggled, catching the flirty undertone. "Hmm, I could probably be persuaded to come," she teased.
The evening quickly drew to a close and the pair began to finish off their meal and savor the last sips of the wine that Max had chosen. The ambiance of the restaurant lingered in the air, creating a space where conversations shifted effortlessly between light banter and more serious reflections.
Max, his demeanor taking on a more serious note, looked at her with a contemplative expression.
"Hey, Y/N, can I ask you a question?"
Y/N, sensing the shift in atmosphere, felt a twinge of worry but nodded. "Of course, Max. Ask away."
Max took a moment before posing the question that had been on his mind. "I just wanted to know what the situation is between you and Mason, I noticed that in Spain it seemed like there was some hostility between you and him, especially when it came to you spending time with me.”
Y/N, caught slightly off guard, hesitated for a moment. She could sense that Max was genuinely concerned, and his straightforward approach deserved an honest response, but she just didn’t know what to say.
In the time that Y/N took to think, Max spoke up again. “It’s just that, I’m really starting to like you; but if there’s something between you and Mason, I don’t want to come between anything you guys have.”
“There isn’t.” she started speaking. “Well not really. Mason and I have been friends for a long time, best friends. And during that time, I started to develop feelings for him. I tried to keep it hidden but he found out just before we left for Spain and he didn’t take it well. He made it clear that nothing would ever happen between us, but he also seemed to get really annoyed at the way I felt”
Max’s expression was unreadable as she continued. “It’s complicated, really complicated. We’re working on getting our friendship back to how it was before, but it’s not been easy. All Mason and I are ever going to be is friends, and I’m starting to really like you too. But I understand that its’a a pretty awkward situation, so if you want to leave I understand.”
Max's expression remained unreadable, and for a moment, Y/N thought he might be considering leaving. However, to her surprise, he stood up. Her heart sank, assuming that he was about to make an exit, and she tried to hide her disappointment behind a polite smile.
But instead of walking away, Max extended his hand toward her. Confusion filled Y/N's eyes as she looked at his outstretched hand. Max met her gaze and spoke with a gentle smile, "Come on, I want to take you to my favorite part of London."
Relief and surprise washed over Y/N as she realized he wasn't leaving. She took his hand, feeling a sense of curiosity bubbling within her.
A short car ride later, Max and Y/N arrived at a hidden gem of a coffee shop nestled in the heart of London. The exterior exuded a quaint charm, with ivy climbing the brick façade and a small, hand-painted sign welcoming patrons inside. As they stepped through the door, a soft chime announced their entry, and the cozy ambiance enveloped them.
The interior was a delightful blend of rustic and eclectic, with exposed brick walls adorned with strings of fairy lights casting a warm glow. Mismatched wooden tables and chairs created an intimate setting, each piece seeming to have its own story to tell. Vintage-style lamps with patterned shades added a touch of nostalgia, and the air was infused with the rich scent of freshly ground coffee beans.
The counter, adorned with handwritten chalkboard and small potted plants, beckoned them to explore the offerings. Quirky artwork hung from the walls, ranging from local artists' pieces to hand-drawn illustrations that added to the uniqueness of the place. Soft jazz tunes played in the background, creating a backdrop of soothing melodies.
Max, with a genuine smile, gestured around the coffee shop. "This is one of my favorite spots in London. I found it on one of my first trips here for factory work, and I've loved it ever since."
As they settled into a cozy corner, Max leaned, speaking softly. "I took you to that fancy restaurant because that's what you're supposed to do on dates, but truthfully, I wanted to bring you here. There’s just something about this place."
Y/N took in the charming details, appreciating the unique character of the coffee shop. "It looks absolutely lovely," she remarked sincerely.
Max grinned. "They make the best hot chocolate you will ever taste here; can I get you one?."
Approaching the counter, Max ordered two of their signature hot chocolates and as they settled in, the coffee shop transformed into a cozy haven—a perfect setting for a more relaxed and intimate continuation of their evening.
As they drunk their drinks, Y/N couldn't help but express her wonder. "Max, how is it that someone who doesn't even live in London finds such amazing places? I've lived here for years and never stumbled upon somewhere this nice."
Max chuckled, a playful glint in his eye. "I've always had a knack for finding those hidden gems. It's a talent, really. I've got plenty of spots like this in Monaco. I'd love to show you around sometime."
Y/N's eyes widened at the mention of Monaco, a place she had always dreamed of visiting. "Monaco? That sounds amazing, but you know, it's not the kind of place I can afford on an assistant's salary."
Max's smile remained, genuine and inviting. "You should come with me one day. Seriously."
The unexpected proposal made Y/N's heart race a bit. Everything seemed to be moving so quickly, and the idea of jetting off to Monaco felt like a whirlwind. She managed a tentative smile and replied, "Yeah uh, maybe one day."
As the conversation lingered, Y/N suddenly found herself panicking. It felt like a lot was happening too fast, and she needed a moment to process. "It's getting late, and I have work tomorrow," she explained. "I've really enjoyed tonight, Max. Thank you." With a kiss on his cheek, she excused herself and left the coffee shop.
Walking home, Y/N's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. She truly didn’t know what to do, she really liked Max, but things were moving really fast. Sighing, she took out her phone, found the contact she was looking for and dialed the number.
"Hey, I know it's late, but can I come round?"
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This has been eating at my brain for 5 minutes, but why does aziraphale wear reading glasses sometimes. Is it for aesthetic? Is it their eyesight? Help
Hi @electronicturtlepaper, thanks for the ask! I gave this some thought, and I propose four reasons that Aziraphale wears reading glasses:
Aziraphale imagines himself having a 50-year old human body
He likes doing things the human way
They are integral to his enjoyment of art
He uses them to communicate with Crowley
Expanded arguments and evidence, as always, below the cut:
Aziraphale likes to imagine that he is a 50-year old human.
I think there's a little bit of a tendency to think of the ineffables as being superhuman. They are, but not the way Superman or Wonderwoman are. We get the best illustration of this in S1E6 when Crowley is driving through the M-25 inferno:
Crowley has something no other demons have, an imagination. Right now, he's imagining that he is just fine, and that a ton of burning metal, rubber and leather is a fully functioning car.
We know from this Season 1 scene that Crowley's imagination manifests reality; in this particular instance, it is to defy the laws of physics, to keep his body from discorporating and his car from falling apart.
Even though the way it's being used feels "super," we can see how the mechanic of "imagination manifests reality" could be used in the exact opposite way by someone who likes to think of themselves as a homely, affable pillar of the community that has owned the bookshop on the corner for as long as anyone can remember. We see other ways this manifests, like not being able to keep up with Gabriel while jogging:
He could think of himself as a battle-ready soldier, but he doesn't. He thinks of himself as someone who likes culture, good food, and fine clothes; cardio doesn't really play into that, so his corporeal form manifests accordingly. By the same token, he's an avid reader, and as far as his Whickber Street neighbors are concerned, has spent all day, every day reading books for the past no-one-knows-how-long; how would he not need reading glasses?
By sheer power of imagination, Aziraphale has manifested himself into needing corrected vision.
Aziraphale Likes Doing Things the Human Way
Keep in mind that this is the angel who absolutely did not fool Nefertiti with a single caraway seed and three cowrie shells, but he sure did put his whole entire soul into learning prestidigitation from the best human magicians of their day, and took French lessons so that he could ask his aunt's gardener for a pen.
Wearing reading glasses to read is part and parcel to a 50-year-old man running a bookshop. Miracling himself some Lasik eye surgery would be cheating, just like using a miracle to make the farthing vanish in a sleight of hand trick. In order to do something the human way, all the normal human handicaps must apply, including myopia.
Aziraphale's Enjoyment of Art is Enhanced by Wearing Glasses
I also think that Aziraphale considers wearing eyeglasses to be an integral part of the human experience of the joy of literature; reading a novel without peering at the page through silica lenses framed by metal wire would be like eating sushi without dipping it in soy sauce. The experience would be incomplete.
But, then again, look at this dork:
He's wearing his glasses to listen to music. Clearly this isn't necessary or even helpful (but as someone who has taken off their glasses so they can listen better to somebody, I can assure you it's very human). So this tells us that Aziraphale's glasses are, among other things, his "I'm enjoying art right now" accessory.
This is further reinforced in the following beat, when he's opened the door, and he's not wearing his glasses anymore:
So sometime between turning off the gramophone and opening the door for Gabriel, he took off his glasses to signal that he has quit shastakovich.exe and is returning to "normal adult responsibilities" mode.
Aziraphale Uses His Glasses To Communicate
...and we know exactly who he learned this from: @goodomensgifs credited for this wonderful gifset, hereafter incorporated by reference because my computer is so mad at me rn and can't handle loading gifs.
Crowley uses his glasses to communicate his emotions a lot. He uses them to show vulnerability. He uses them to show contentment. He uses them to threaten. He uses them to show that he is wounded and defensive. He uses them to demonstrate that he is or is not willing to talk. Aziraphale has learned from the best.
The first time we see Aziraphale leverage his lenses this way in Season 2 is when Crowley returns to the shop after their fight about Gabriel. When he's alone, waiting for Crowley to return, Aziraphale isn't wearing his glasses:
but quickly puts them on when Crowley walks in the door:
Quite a few analysts have published metas on equivocation (@cobragardens and @ao3cassandraic, maybe we should start using an #equivocation tag? Because this is becoming a recurring topic), which I incorporate here by reference. Crowley and Aziraphale have had to learn to communicate without saying a lot of things out loud, and glasses are playing a role in that.
By putting on his glasses, Aziraphale has just put up a big "I'm feeling hurt and defensive" sign; at the same time, Crowley takes his glasses off, to signal that he's ready to talk. Aziraphale peers through his glasses while he's pretending to ignore Crowley, reinforcing that his glasses are assisting him in demonstrating his umbrage.
Aziraphale finally takes his glasses off to tell Crowley that his "you were right" wasn't a good enough apology:
At this point in the conversation, the angel is allowing himself to be more vulnerable and show just how upset he is.
This evidence is taken from limited samples, but it fits with the general dynamic of the characters observed elsewhere.
Thanks for the great prompt, I never would have done this exploration otherwise but it was very rewarding.
Good Omentober!
~~~~~~
If you liked this, you may like:
Clothes + Equivocation = Romance by @cobragardens
The Colors of Crowley by @cobragardens
The Golden Lion by @cobragardens
Angel Pinky Rings by yours truly, @indigovigilance
...and any fan is welcome to drop an analysis request in my askbox!
#good omens#good omens 2#good omens meta#aziraphale#crowley#ineffable husbands#glasses#equivocation#ivoc#indigovigilance answers asks
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Pinball, Hair, and Detention Pt. 1 | Vance Hopper x Reader
Part 1 (here) | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
Word Count: 2.9k
Categories: Enemies to Lovers (eventually lol), Rivalry, Angst, Fluff, mentions of past Bruce X Reader
Content Warnings: Swearing, Bullying, Mentions of Blood, Fighting, Female Reader implied
Summary: Reader and Vance have some sort of ongoing rivalry. You accidentally spilled your drink on his hair and he in turn gave you a “fresh cut.” You both end up getting detention together due to fighting. On the walk home one day— where you both live merely a block away, he barely misses your abduction and watches as you helplessly get carried away in a black van.
A/N: let’s pretend the grabber decided to start grabbing like a year or two later or smth cuz high schooler Vance and Bruce seems more plausible to me personally
A/N 2.0: Please excuse weird formatting like spaces behind paragraphs n shit. I wrote this on docs because my personal laptop is broken and my school laptops block tumblr—so all this uploading is done from my phone lol
——————————————
You never figured that walking into the Grab ‘N Go on a hot Denver summer day would have catalyzed as big a domino effect on your life as it did—and yet it did.
It was the middle of a Denver summer in 1977, the year before high school; and everyone was dealing with a week hotter than satan’s armpit. Most kids were either in their houses with the AC on full blast, in stores and the local theater, or away to go to the beach with their family. It explains why the town was just a little more empty this week. Both of your parents worked full-time jobs down in the city around an hour away, so you were confined to either your house or local entertainment attractions—the same ones you had been using since you could open your eyes. It was kind of old by the time you were twelve and stuck in your small town for yet another summer.
You were currently situated on your bed, reading last week’s edition of the Teen Beat magazine, flipping through the pages of celebrity interviews, dating tips, and latest fashion trends—which eventually got old, especially considering this was last week’s magazine. You checked the time. 12:53 PM. Probably the hottest part of the day. You only lived three blocks from the Grab N’ Go though, so if you biked or just walked quickly you probably wouldn’t get heatstroke just from being outside.
“Ugh.” You groaned, peeling yourself from the comforts of your bed. You had to change. “All of this for a magazine and some cola.” You muttered to yourself, sliding on the nearest (and hopefully clean) pair of jean shorts and exchanging your spaghetti strap pajama top for a plain white tee.
Getting out of your room and down the hall, you picked up the shoes you kicked off in the hallway yesterday and slipped them on, grabbing the $5 bill your parents left on the counter for you to order lunch with—which you were deciding to use for snacks. Maybe you’d pick up a small lunch thing on the way home. The money’s use was ‘to be determined,’ you decided.
Leaving your house and out into the Denver summer air, any amount of chill you felt on yourself before was wiped away completely. You needed to make this trip quick. What was a little jog compared to the instant relief of the too-cold Grab N’ Go?
Walking into the small convenience store was instant relief. Not too many people were around—and those that were wouldn’t bother you, the lady at the counter looked less bothered too, which was surprising since Vance Hopper was stationed at the pinball machine as per usual. Maybe it was because no one who would piss him off was there. Then again, anyone who bothers Vance must have a death wish.
Grabbing a soda and the new edition of Teen Beat, you walked over to the counter and slid the money over, opening the drink and quenching your thirst for a cold drink. Taking the return cash the lady gave you, you walked over to the exit, flipping through some pages absentmindedly. It was this exact moment where life seemed to have changed forever. An excited kid—probably an elementary schooler if you had to guess, ran into your arm, causing your soda to splash out of the bottle. You definitely had a death wish now, because your soda got all over Vance Hopper; the sugary drink now in his hair and on his back.
When the losing chime of the pinball sounded around the store and the blonde went still, the air in the mart tensed. Everyone was waiting. Watching. You didn’t bother to wait either, quickly speeding out of the store. Maybe he wouldn’t remember your face. You had never really talked with him before, the most you had done was look at him a few times in classes you had previously shared.
You had drank a little more soda and tossed it in the nearest trash. Sure you were running away from what was probably certain death, but you already bought the soda. Might as well finish what’s left before running away. You rolled up your magazine and tucked it into a pocket before moving into a slight jog to go back home. Or maybe you should go get something from a restaurant. Usually when you commit an unsaid crime hiding in unexpected places could benefit. You barely made it a block away before you heard Vance shout at you, his footsteps getting increasingly louder.
“Hey dumb shit! You just got your soda shit all over me!”
You sped up, breaking into a run and not responding to him. If you made it home in time then maybe he’d leave you alone. But what about school? You’d have to change your name and face and move across the country.
“I’m going to kill you!” Now he was running after you. He wasn’t unused to running after kids who fucked with him, so he was pretty used to this kinda thing. And he was fast at it too. “Gotcha!”
You yelped when you were grabbed and thrown down onto the grass next to the sidewalk. At least you were next to a park. Maybe God would be a little more merciful today, considering you could’ve been thrown onto the pavement. You really hoped that the next thing that would happen would be you getting saved right before he starts beating your head into the ground. You really didn’t feel like going to the ER today, and your mom would be pissed about how you knew you shouldn’t start shit with ‘Vance fucking Hopper.’ Your dad would probably beat you for a second time over the medical bills.
“I swear it wasn’t on purpose!” You pleaded, choosing to explain yourself as he straddled your waist, keeping you in place between his legs as he grabbed at your shirt collar. Maybe he’d punch you softer? “Some kid ran into my arm! I promise I’d never bother you ever, Hopper!”
Vance just started down at you, fist by his side, assessing your words. “Huh.” He said, letting your shirt go as your upper body fell to the ground. Now you were winded. Better than the alternative. “Guess I’ll just get a similar payback then.”
You watched in horror as he pulled out a pocket knife. What was he gonna do? Carve his name into you? Cut up your face? Oh god, he was gonna murder you. With a not-so-gentle hand, the blonde boy pulled your hair, hands threaded firmly in your locks. “What…?”
Vance cut off a good length of your hair, and you watched in horror (as best you could) at the hack job. What previously used to be your clean-cut hair was now resting on the floor or cut in the most uneven way possible. Maybe a bright side would be the fact you had the layers all of your hairstylists could never give you. After he was finished, he stood up and looked at the hair in his fist while you sat there crying. “Now we’re even.” He said, tossing the rest of your hair into the grass next to you.
That was the start of your burning hatred for Vance Hopper.
——————————————
High School had finally started a few weeks after your and Vance’s incident. At least your hair could grow into its new form for a little bit. To say your mom was angry when she came home that night to find your hair hacked up was an understatement. She was livid—ranting about, ‘how could you let this happen?!’ And, ‘We need to schedule you an appointment with Shelly immediately.’ You had to hand it to your mom and Shelly though; cuz they got your hair not looking as horrible as it did. Hell, they even kept the layers, which was actually really nice. As you walked through the halls, you could tell there were a few people talking about your hair. It made sense though, considering you ended school with longer hair.
You walked up to your friend, Bruce Yamada, leaning against his neighboring locker as you let out a quiet groan of exhaustion and annoyance. He just chuckled and closed his locker, slinging his bag over his shoulder and gave you a light punch in the shoulder. “Spur of the moment decision, or did you get caught in something?”
“Does Vance Hopper count?”
“Yikes.”
You quickly socked him in the shoulder, lips turned into a frown as you looked at him. Bruce just gave a light chuckle and apologized for the remark while rubbing his shoulder. You weren’t by any means a crazily strong badass, but you can pack quite a mean punch. Just not against Vance Hopper, or Robin Arellano. Though, after your run-in with Vance this summer, you did practice your swings and basic attacks—just in case, you thought,
“Whatever, let’s just go to class.” You sighed, grabbing Bruce by his backpack strap and pulling on him. You two were lucky to have three out of your six of your classes together, and they were in every other class period, so it wouldn’t be horrible.
Rolling into your first period, which was Biology, you were relieved to not see a certain blonde-headed dickhead anywhere around. Bruce chuckled at you when you let out a sigh of relief and dragged you to the last available seats that were next to each other. You both would be damned if you didn’t sit next to each other. Bruce wanted someone to help keep his ‘crazy fans,’ as you dubbed it, away from him. You? You just didn’t really wanna sit next to someone you didn’t know well. You really hated the awkward silence when the teacher asked you guys to do the ‘get to know your classmate’ activities.
“Class one cleared.” He whispered to you, getting a giggle out of you. That was the nice part of being friends with Bruce, is that he always knew how to keep the mood light. Previously, a few summers ago, you both dated. It wasn’t anything big, and it just felt like being friends. You both decided to just keep up with the friends thing, considering there was no romantic chemistry there. Now you were both the other’s special person. Bruce’s break-ups, your family issues, no secret was kept between you two.
——————
After Biology ended and you started heading toward English, your stomach lurched up your throat. Vance Hopper was right in front of you. Luckily he was walking forward so he didn’t see you, but you almost bumped into him for a second time. You didn’t need to be re-acquainted with his pocket knife again. You saw a small space in the hallway clear out and give you a direct ‘in’ into your English classroom, so you quickly ducked your head and hurried into the classroom, finding a seat in the back of the class next to the windows. Thank god this spot was still open.
You set your bag down on your desk and laid your head on top of it, listening to the buzz of kids talking with their friends as they entered the classroom. What was a short 5-minute power nap gonna do? Just before you could relax fully though, the buzz turned into a quiet hum suddenly. It was weird. Did the teacher walk in? Was it Mr. Manning? He was the worst teacher to have. You lifted your head up to see what the quietness was about, expecting to see a balding middle aged man at the front of the class, but you were met with Vance Hopper.
“Fuck.” You mumbled, watching him walk up to you.
“Hey dipshit, you’re in my seat.”
The kids in the classroom visibly tensed as he spoke to you, watching as you gave him a tired look. You knew the easy path would be to relinquish your seat and move, but you were particularly pissed at him. You didn’t want to give him the right to walk all over you. It was the middle of a school day—what was he gonna do?
“No I’m not. I’m in my seat.���
Vance gave you an angry look, standing right next to you. “Do I need to cut off your tongue next? I’m telling you to–”
“Everyone sit down and be quiet. I’m taking attendance.” Your teacher walked in, and what did you know? Mr. Manning. “Also, these are your seats for the rest of the school year, so enjoy.” Everyone looked up at him, waiting for him to finish with whatever paper he had in his hands. Please look up. Please notice Vance. “Hopper! I know about you. Sit your ass down.” He said, pointing at the seat next to you. Fuck. That wasn’t occupied?
Vance gave you one more angry glare before dropping his stuff and sitting down begrudgingly in the uncomfortable plastic chair. Well, at least Vance wouldn’t be able to torment you too much here. When you looked up though, he slid his finger across his throat. A warning.
You’re dead.
——————
“I’m telling you Bruce, he kept kicking my legs during class! It hurt like a bitch too. Have you seen his boots? I’m gonna die.” You finish telling Bruce, sitting at your table and chewing angrily on your sandwich. It was Friday, the last day of the first week of school, and you were just hours from 48 hours of freedom from Vance Hopper. “And I have to deal with him in history next.” Yes, you had Vance Hopper in two of your classes
“Wow. Good luck.” He says, trading you his apple for your peach. “I mean, good luck with getting through high school. With Vance in your classes and all.”
“Your support speaks volumes.” You say flatly, laughing along with Bruce. You couldn’t ask for a better friend—he just always made things feel so much better.
That was until you felt a cold substance coat your head entirely, slowly dripping in your hair to your clothes. Vance fucking Hopper just poured his milk all over you. Bruce just stared at you for a second, standing up instantly as you took a moment to process what happened and wipe the milk off of your face.
“What’s your problem with (Y/N), man?!” Bruce shouted at Vance, the blonde walking away with a cocky smirk.
“I mistook her for a trash can, my bad.” He chuckled, kids turning to look at the commotion building. “Maybe you shouldn’t hang around her so much, you wouldn’t want me to have to—“
Vance was met with a right hook to the face, not expecting you to fight back ever. The first time you had cried over a simple accident, but now you were swinging at him? Oh were you getting bold. He blinked in shock for a moment, pressing a hand to his face and looking at you. Maybe now would be a good time to back down and accept what you had coming, but you were feeling really stupid today.
He seized you by your collar, holding you close as he growled out, “You’ll regret that when you’re six feet under, you bitch.”
You spat in his face, kicking at his knee to get him to let go—which he did, and you fell back to the ground with all your body weight, watching him wipe the spit from his face as he wound back and gave you a good kick to your legs, a yelp caught in your throat. Now the entire cafeteria had eyes on you both, kids watching in horror, shock, and excitement. You’d love to see these kids go toe-to-toe with Vance Hopper the way you were now.
After a short while of fighting, you and Vance were on the floor. Scratches, bites, punches, hair pulling. Blood, and bruises, and welts. Vance’s arms were for sure fucked to hell and back, but he did a large number to your torso. You would totally believe it if you were told you broke a rib. It wasn’t long before Bruce had run back in with security and staff, watching the two of you get pulled apart.
Vance had a bruise already taking place on his cheek and his arms were visibly harmed—hell, you even got a hold of some of his hair. The previously fluffy but somewhat tamed mop on his head was now a mess of tangles and abuse. You meanwhile had a bloody nose, and you were holding an arm around your stomach, knees wobbly. While you managed to get back at Vance in your own way, you definitely took the brunt of the beating, and not to mention the milk in your hair was still there.
Vance fought against the grip on his arms like an angry restrained dog, while you stared at the floor, walking to the office with the teacher who was next to you. Looking over at Bruce, he mouthed a ‘sorry’ and you just gave him a small smile, shaking your head. You could always count on Bruce to somehow end up a hero in a sense. With a last look back at Vance, he also walked in defeat to the office, refusing to look at you. What a fucking asshole.
#the black phone x you#the black phone x reader#the grabber#the black phone#vance hopper x you#vance hopper#vance hopper x reader#vance the black phone#pinball vance#bruce yamada#bruce yamada x reader#robin arellano#finney blake#robin arellano x reader#finney blake x reader#brady hepner#mason thames#miguel cazarez mora#tristan pravong#blumhouse#fanfic#x reader fic#requests open#asks open#enemies to friends to lovers#fanfiction#ethan hawke
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As you all know by now
Metatron is sus af. And if you haven't noticed, or you live under a rock (no judgement here) I'm here to add some interesting things I have noticed as someone so obsessed with this show I can only see in the colors and outlines of Good Omens at any given moment.
Fair warning, the only theories or analysies I see are sent to me by my sister, or appear on my dash (and I don't follow many Good Omens blogs that theorize.) So if any of this has been stated or pointed out before, apologies. I'm trapped in tunnel vision mixed with an aching brain.
This one's a doozy and a conglomeration of stuff that I have noticed that I'm not sure actually hold any significance so hang in there, it's worth it.
SO. Let's dive in.
First things first, lots of different theories going around, not sure I believe a lot of them but am fully willing to indulge, and admire the effort people put it. I'm not a huge fan of the 'Metatron poisoned Aziraphale theory' but I have a feeling this post might possibly give those girlies a little 'W.' We'll see, I have various points to touch on.
Something fucked is going on with Metatron. For starters it's very uncomfortable to me, and hits very strangely that no one recognizes him (except Crowley.) Which is so strange because we previously see Michael, Uriel, Gabriel, and Saraqael all in a meeting with the Metratron about....oh maybe ten minutes prior, not to mention Muriel and Crowley were there witnessing it also??? Hello? Why does only Crowley recognize this person that this group of people have seen (Saraqael and Muriel only moments before at the same time as Crowley.)
So how come Crowley is the only one who recognized him??? Sus to me. Any thoughts as to why cause I have none....
But then things to me seem to get a little weirder. I enjoy playing with audio, cutting out background audio and emphasizing little things that might sounds strange to me. And I went through checking all of episode 6 for any weirdly placed miracle noises or waving of hands, and I came up with three things (one of them was actually from episode 5 though).
1.) There's a miracle noise after Aziraphale asks Metatron what they'll be doing in heaven and Metatron responds with 'It's something we call the Second Coming.' This one, with a lot of back tracking and examining other scenes, I've come to the conclusion is simply the elevator being summoned, though I do find it strange to hear the noise yet not see that miracle happen.
2.) In episode 5, during The Ball ™️, Maggie walks up to Nina who is sitting in a chair and offers a hand to dance. Aziraphale, my beloved, is watching so happily and excitedly from the side while holding a tray of hors d'oeuvres. Right when Nina grabs Maggie's hand there's a miracle noise. I'm not sure if it's part of the overall thing Aziraphale has cast over the bookshop, or if it's him from the side and we once again don't see it...(which feels weird) but it's there. And if it is because of the overall miracle cast over the shop then why don't we hear that sound every time something happens that is effected by said miracle. Something is weird about that one to me, but that's not Metatron related sorry. (Here's a screenshot from the exact moment if anyone is wanting to go looking for it.)
And 3.) My big one. This noise is...so unsettling to me. The first time I heard it I flinched. I still cannot figure out if it's part of the soundtrack or if it is a separate noise that segues into the soundtrack or not. But this one. So when Metatron originally enters the bookshop there is obviously a commotion and then once he gets everyone to leave, he looks at Aziraphale and tells him he wants to speak with him or have 'a chinwag' (weirdly Earth term if you ask me) and then offers Aziraphale a coffee who then takes it and sips it blah blah blah we all know that part. But then Metatron says something...weirder. He mentions that he's also consumed things before...which...makes something about him feel all the weirder. He then again asks Aziraphale to chat with him. Aziraphale hesitates and looks to Crowley who is lounging behind him who tells him to go ahead because the 'day can't get any weirder.'
Immediately following that is where I am horribly sus. Aziraphale looks at Metatron who gives him this kind smile and ushers him forward, and once Aziraphale can't see them anymore, Metatron turns a glare onto Crowley, who I'm not sure if we see him acknowledge this sudden cold change.
But that's not the sus part. In my opinion the sus part is the audio. THE MOMENT his demeanor changes to glare at Crowley. We get this little....noise that sounds like a deep kinda dark little twinkle of some sort (and holy shit I'm screaming over this noise because upon checking the official soundtrack the noise is not there) that sounds like magic is happening. And it just. I have listened to the dark way the soundtrack picks up and listened to it through over and over searching for any more signs of that out of place noise and I CAN'T FIND IT. So because I care deeply and am not going to make you people go hunting for this one, I have a screen recording of the audio clip. I kinda took the audio of an actual miracle noise first (I was using it as my reference) and then all the audio surrounding that noise and reduced it, but kept that noise kinda emphasized by not touching it at all. (My apologies now because my editing audio isn't the greatest, I'm no professional, and I did get the first notes of the soundtrack starting in there too.)
HOLY SHIT????? HELLO???? What was that dark little sound there??? I don't know if anyone else has pointed it out but if you have you're amazing and I love you.
BUT WHAT THE FUCK???? I'm sitting here trying to figure out what that strange little audio blip is right there because if I'm correct and when Metatron tells Aziraphale 'the Second Coming' followed by the miracle noise I believe to be summoning the elevator???? Then what is that sinister little???? Almost miracle sounding noise there???? My goodness.
That being said, I did check through the audio in other places, trying to listen real close (and if anyone else is good with audio and can actually find it, then please share I wanna know) and I heard no miracle noises during their kiss scene or when Crowley gets in the Bentley and the Nightingale starts playing. (Disclaimer that could just be because of my hearing loss, so if it is there and you can isolate it, I'd love to hear.) I tried, I searched endlessly to try and help you guys with your theories but I found nothing. I will say though, a bell tolls very frequently in the show when something significant happens and there's a bell toll right as our beloved angelic beings pull away from their kiss.
Now that I've pointed out the strange little audio things I personally have noticed, I want to move on to more colloquial audio and less background noises.
I wanna talk more along the lines of this post by @meatballlady (sorry for tagging you I wanted to give you credit where it's due.)
After seeing this post and doing a rewatch of the show, I have been working more at trying not to make assumptions and trying to think of the ways different things can be taken.
Well the Metatron says something that I think maybe we should focus more on the different things if could mean???
This thing is said (i believe during Aziraphale's retelling of what the Metatron said to him) but also right after another one of those moments of misinterpreting the meaning of what someone's being said. This happens after Muriel interprets Crowley's 'Us time' to include them.
The line I'm thinking of here is
"I've been idling back on a number of your...previous exploits, and I've seen that in quite a few of them you've formed a de facto partnership with the Demon Crowley. Now if you wanted to work with him again, that might be considered irregular, but it would certainly be within your jurisdiction to restore your friend...Crowley...to full angelic status."
Holy shit there's a lot to unpack in that, both for Aziraphale and us. this whole thing could be interpreted multiple ways, I think, and that's why I've included this whole quote rather than just the specific line. It's a lot said in one go with multiple things that are....worded interesting. For a start.
Exploits -
Several different meanings both in the words form as a verb and a noun, and Metatron puts an emphasis on 'previous exploits.' So how is he using the word? Noun meaning bold and daring? Probably not a software tool. What about a verb? 'derive benefit from' is an interesting way to put it. 'Use a situation or person in an unfair or selfish way.' There's plenty of options here. And to say that he is using one specific meaning of the word would be assuming that you know for sure what he's saying. And when it comes down to it, we don't. After all doesn't this season play a lot with the misinterpreting of what someone is saying?
Let's continue.
de facto partnership - is technically an informal arrangement generally for business, formed by two or more parties.
Which is cool, but that's not the emphasized word here. The word Metatron seems to hang on is 'partnership.'
Partnership -
At this point it feels like an almost sterile way to talk about their very clear relationship together. But strange that he hesitates on the word.
The thing I really wanna talk about is
"...restore your friend...Crowley...to full angelic status."
Restore -
Now everyone, Aziraphale included seemed to interpret this as 'reinstate' your friend Crowley. And again it would be very presumptuous to think that it could ONLY mean giving Crowley a position in Heaven next to Aziraphale.
One of those meanings in there says something along the lines of 'to return it to its original condition.' And we all immediately go 'well that would be an angel of course.' But we forget to take the time to realize that...as an angel, Crowley wasn't a demon. He didn't have all the memories and experiences as such. In fact, it feels hinted at throughout this season that Crowley doesn't have all his memory from his time as an angel. And who's to say that if he was restored to angelic status that wouldn't mean wiping him of his memory of his time on Earth? Who's to say that the Metatron isn't implying here that this is another way to make Aziraphale compliant while also keeping him separated from Crowley.
We all know as a team those two will 'raise Earth' for lack of a better term against Heaven and Hell to prevent Armageddon. They are their own side. And I think Metatron knows he has no chance of the Second Coming if those two are still working together.
Who's to say that Metatron wouldn't put limitations or a status quo on the allowances of Crowley returning to Heaven. He can't ensure that Crowley wouldn't cause problems, he can't ensure his trust.
Sorry if all of this has already been said and pointed out, but I personally haven't seen any of it and needed to get it off my chest before I exploded.
#good omens#good omens 2#ineffable husbands#crowley#aziraphale#metatron#metatron meta post#meta#i really hate metatron#good omens 2 spoilers#good omens spoilers#good omens season 2#sorry for the long post with a lot of words#i have a history in theory making and it's been a long time since I've done anything like this#I have to find a way to prevent myself from getting more and more obsessed with this show.
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inumaki headcanons — 2
notes: inumaki my beloved… as promised this one is a xreader, slice of life, reader wears dresses and is implied is a ‘girl’, toge goes viral on tiktok so kind of socmed!au
part 1
so like when you met him you thought he was mysterious at first
and then you were just like ??? he thinks he’s so cool not talking… geh, rude
so you start being cold to him for a while until one day he writes you a post-it asking you to go out to a cafe nearby
confused, you were interested in seeing his face and, like, you had nothing else to do so why not
you were apprehensive at first but you guys ordered the exact same drink and food without knowing and you got along because of it
that day you got really close even though it was mostly through his notes app (he types really fast)
you guys had the same humor (albeit he’s more outward and immature)
he took his mask down to eat and you, like, stopped chewing on your mochi waffle and started staring because you did not expect him to be so good-looking
and he definitely noticed because he started chuckling and he tried to hide it as he took a bite of his waffle
and oh my god his smile
a/n: ok I’m definitely writing this fic comment if you want to be tagged!!
you find out he’s really scared of making you do something you don’t wanna do, like terrified, like it’s his top 3 nightmares
the first couple of times you slept over he taped his mouth shut in case he sleep talked LMFAO
you only found out because you woke up earlier than him and you laughed almost waking him up
you guys getting together was a crazy feat tbh
he’s a gentleman
but he’s a troll first
like you were starting to think he just wanted to dress up fem after stealing your clothes for the 4th time
so you bought him a dress for his birthday
it wasn’t a cheap dress either (you bought it in your size) lol being a jujutsu tech student you couldn’t even spell broke so
one day during training he’s late and as you were about to check on him at his dorm he turns the corner and holy shit no fucking way
he’s wearing the fucking dress
he couldn’t zip it up so the open back was flapping around as he walked towards you with this exact smile :] on his face
it was supposed to be a maxi dress that ended at the calves but since it was in your size it ended at his knee
luckily (not) he was wearing sweatpants
everyone was so confused but gojo didn’t even make any comment he was just like “ok now that toge’s here..!”
you were dying while everyone was just confused whether he was serious in wearing the dress 😭😭😭 yuta was like “oh… you’re gonna wear that for training..?”
toge puts his hands in the pockets, emphasizing it “shake shake!” with a shit eating grin
“where’s your scarf thingy?” “it didn’t match with the dress :(” he typed
and he was deadass cuz he actually trained with it until it got in the way so he just took it off and he trained shirtless
but you weren’t complaining though hehehe
when you first made out you flinched in shock because you felt cursed energy from the marking on his tongue
you got addicted afterward…
I imagine him to have like really nice (?) aegyo sal and really pretty eyes
his love language (giving) is 10000% physical touch and teasing you
he does that “what’s that?” rizz shit and you fall for it every time
he went viral on tiktok for doing the dance to sekai no owari’s habit in his uniform because he did it COMPLETELY nonchalant despite shaking ass like he does it for a living
it was his first public tiktok too and it had 637.2k likes in 5 days
you’re like wtf and he’s just like the algorithms just love me (cuz he’s lwk famous on twt too)
the comments are like “lol how did his scarf not fall down” “oniisan were you forced to do this” “he looks like he would have a pretty face” “show us your face”
and then like yuuji (whos posts somewhat regularly) makes him do the kawaiikute gomen trend a month after toge’s habit tiktok and again he did it hella nonchalant
that one went crazy too it got 721.6k likes in 6 days
“this is the habit guy” “I knew he would have a cute face” “what’s with the weird makeup?” everyone’s just thirsting for him because he’s so nonchalant
you, and everyone who knows him, however, know that it’s a fuckING FACADE
he looks quiet and you’d think he would be cuz he can’t talk normally but he fucking yaps as if people understand him
he makes sure you know his opinion on everything
you’re watching a movie and he’s spitting “okaka! takana ikura ikura ikura!” every nine seconds
I mean he talks with the tone/intonation of what he actually means to say so it’s actually easy to understand him
and it’s only words he can’t say so he screams laughs and emotes like a normal teenage boy
he hates waking up early but you like taking walks in the morning sometimes and he never misses it for you
he loves you sm hehhehehe
part 3 coming soon! comment or submit an ask if you’d like to be tagged to the waffle cafe date!!
#𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺𝘶𝘶’𝘴#I think im gonna call this toge waffleverse toge#inumaki toge#jujutsu kaisen#headcanons#fluff#slice of life#socmed au#megumi hcs next?#inumaki x reader#jjk headcanons
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