#like you just lost something and you’re grieving
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pit in my stomach - lando norris
rating – mature (mentions of cheating, language, sexual references)
requested by @landograndprix - hugging you tight, my friend!
it was hard to pin point the moment his love for you had been diminished by his crippling guilt or when you knew there was nothing he could say or do to piece you back together. maybe it was around the time you’d asked him point blank whether he saw you in his future and he stuttered over his truth with an unconvincing of course i do when the dagger had already been deployed into your unsuspecting back. naively blinded by love.
or maybe it was the night lando stumbled home from the local, half a pint of slushing lager still in his hand while the other held a small, black velvet box. he dropped down on one knee, eyes bloodshot with tears and a trembling bottom lip – a stark contrast to your hardened stare and crossed arms shielding you from the blow, physically and emotionally spent.
“i fucked up… i-god i hate that i've hurt you, baby and i wish i could take it all back – i fucked up so bad and i’m so sorry.”
“you didn’t fuck up, lando – you fucked someone else for six months and lied to my face and made me feel like i was losing my mind! do you have any idea how much pain you’ve caused?”
the room fell silent, boiling blood pumping in your ears.
“huh?! do you?”
“no–”
“no you don’t! i've been stupid enough to keep chasing after you and all you’ve done is let me down and made me look like a fucking idiot! everyone knew about her, about what you were doing behind my back and you knew it was wrong but you couldn’t stop! you’re a monster and i’m not going to cry over a mistake you made…"
sadness welled as you stared down at the man kneeling at your feet. he was a stranger who only resembled the man you loved in appearance, not in honour or integrity or character – you were grieving the lando who had showed you the world with so much love and adoration and hope.
"you will have to live with this mistake for the rest of your life.”
“you’re right. i will never forgive myself 'cause she meant nothing and i have to fix this – i need to fix this because i love you.. so much. i’ll get help, i’ll see someone just give me a chance to fix it…”
“do you really think that is going to fix it?”
you pointed to the dainty box that held so much weight. in a way it represented a future founded on four years of memories, of something resembling happiness. sure, there had been disappointments, hundreds of missed calls, a few missed anniversaries and your gnawing intuition saying that maybe the paranoia wasn’t just inside your head. but ending like this, in betrayal and heartache – you hadn’t seen that one coming.
lando swallowed the lump forming in his throat, queasy from the drunken stupor he’d drank himself into and the dread settling in the pit of his empty stomach, “thought it might be start…”
a strained laugh slipped from pursed lips as venom coated your sharpened tongue, “and that is how i know you will never change.”
“please,” lando scrambled to his feet and reached out for your hand in an attempt to stop you from walking away, “please don’t leave me…” he begged, voice barely above a whisper.
lando knew he would never forget the look in your eyes when you slowly turned back to him – they were cold and punishing, bone-chilling. they swirled with the web of lies and sorrow that he had inflicted upon the person he loved the most in the world, who had given him everything she had, who loved him unconditionally, which made it nearly impossible to accept that he had lost you.
“you left me six months ago when you slept with her, lando.”
more writing...
#lando norris x reader#lando norris imagine#lando norris#f1 imagine#monzamashwriting#monzamusings ✨#lando norris angst#lando norris smut
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Weightless | On Call
summary: your curtains are closed, truck silent on the drive. today of all days, you shouldn't be alone.
pairing: neighbour!frankie morales x f!reader
ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. dual pov. loooots of angst. active grieving for a dead parent. a very soft frankie. vibes are better in the next chapter lmao.
wc: 2.1k
an: my grandad was a man who loved flowers. today marks seven years since we lost him. he was gentle and kind and so talented.
have some forget me nots, which are in my garden and now also in your hands. for @morallyinept's flora and fauna challenge. for anyone you may also miss <3
When the time came
Just like you are
He was weightless
In my arms
- weightless, elbow
series masterlist | main masterlist
Your house is quiet.
Quiet like Frankie has never heard.
There’s always some kind of noise. A record turning, the hum of your voice. The TV on, windows open to birdsong. But today, there is nothing.
His legs are heavy. Heart heavy, fingers shaking, wrapped around the bag of groceries he’s brought. He’s taken two steps in through your front door, and now he doesn’t know what to do.
He watches the dust motes swim in the sun of your hallway. Shifts on his feet to look through into the living room. You must be upstairs, but to call your name in the silence of the morning feels like too much. Invasive. Cruel.
Instead, he swallows and takes the remaining strides into your kitchen. Breathes in the fresh smell of your plants, the familiarity of your spice rack in the corner, the spread of miscellaneous stuff that he’s rarely seen tidied away. He gently places the bag of groceries on the counter before opening your cupboards for a vase.
Once he finds one, he fills it with water and trims the stems. Forget-me-nots and white carnations. Something simple. Remembrance and love. Bright and pretty. No lilies. They only remind you of the funeral.
He’s biding his time. Trying to tamp down the nerves swirling in his gut, the somersault of his heart in his chest. He knows from the gaps left in his own life that today will be hard. And he wants to make it easier for you. He just hasn't worked out how.
He knows what works for him. The long hikes, the pull of a bottle. In murkier times, many years ago now, the sharp taste of powdered gums. Knows what works for the boys. The days with drawn curtains, video games played in the gloom. Tequila and memories shared across barbeques. Even his parents - honorary pastel de choclo, flicking through photo albums. But for you, he’s not sure.
Once he’s happy with the way the flowers are arranged, he takes off his shoes. He leaves his cap on the counter, and pads up the stairs.
It’s still quiet. You’re not in the bathroom. No reason for you to be in any other of the rooms. He holds his breath and raises his knuckles against the wood of your bedroom door.
He knocks, softly - once. Waits for an answer that doesn’t come, but pushes it open anyway.
‘Bug?’ He says gently into the morning sunlight.
You’re swaddled in bed, still in your pyjamas, eyes red and swollen. You sit up slightly with a watery smile as he edges in, managing a crackled hey, Fish.
A sharp lump rises in Frankie’s throat. Something about seeing you upset has always hurt; the same kind of ache he gets in his chest when Lucia or his mum cries. His eyes flick from yours to your bedside table, to the picture of your father settled on top of it. Frozen in time, his smile is wide - just like yours. Greying hair, a little more chin fat than he would have had as a younger man. A younger you tucked into his side, his arm slung over your shoulders. Your arms around his middle, squeezing, laughing. Fuck.
Frankie’s heart shoots out the bottom of his legs and skids across the floor. He looks you over, and your chin wobbles. Too much. Too vulnerable. The smile drops, your face cracks. Your mouth clamps shut with a snap of teeth, and a fresh wave of tears begins to pour down your cheeks.
Frankie feels his own expression crumble, and he’s at your side before he can even think for his feet to take him there. Perched on your mattress, arms around your shoulders to pull you close. Shushing like the gentle in and out of waves, lips pressed to your hot forehead.
You’re tense, so tense. Breath coming in choked hiccups, shoulders up to your ears. Hands gripping the sheets. There’s another pull in Frankie’s chest.
‘Stop trying not to cry,’ he murmurs, ‘I can feel it.’
You release a ragged breath, a heartbroken cry as you cling to his sleeves. Like you're being ripped apart. Like you're being drowned.
‘I’m sorry,’ you gasp, ‘I’m sorry.’
Frankie shifts you further across the bed so he can fit next to you, shaking his head.
‘Don’t be sorry. Why should you be sorry?’
‘You don’t have to be here,’ you choke, ‘It’s okay. You don’t have to stay.’
Frankie closes his eyes. Leaving you here is the furthest thing from his mind, a notion that wouldn’t even cross it.
‘I want to.’ He says.
You nod, curled tight to him. He can feel dampness seeping through his hoodie, and he sits back against the headboard, cradling you to his chest. His heart is beating so fast. You can hear it, the conch of your ear pressed to the cage of his ribs. You try to focus on it, try to think of nothing else. Try not to think of this day four years ago. The weightless feel of your father in your arms in the last minutes of his life. How you held him when he could hold you no longer.
‘What do you need, baby?’ Frankie asks.
The streams of tears, the bow of your brow, serve to split his heart in two.
‘I don’t know.’ You whisper.
So Frankie holds you closer, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
Unwittingly, he’s answered the question for you. For the last four years, you have needed to be held like this. Needed to be held together by someone who is not yourself, someone who can shoulder the weight of the grief you have carried alone for years, just for a moment.
You lose yourself to it. To the warmth, the smell, the comfort. You let the flood come, you let Frankie rock you. You ask him how Luc is, and he understands the need to hear about life outside this room. So he tells you about her arts and crafts, her newfound dislike of mac and cheese, what she wants for her birthday. The daisy chains she's been making, the sweetpeas they're growing in their garden. And it’s wonderful. It reminds you of the good of the world, that it keeps spinning, that there is love out there even when it feels lost to you.
If there is something out there other than life, you hope your dad is in it. On a deck chair with a beer on the beach, a little basket of fries delivered to him every so often. He’s smiling, laughing. You hope he’s still around, because the idea that he’s not is too big, too great to face. It’s too lonely. Too terrifying to be alone in this world, no anchor, no tether, a family with their backs to you after you’d told them who you loved, too far in the distance to turn back to you with outstretched palms. An ex-fiancee who simply didn’t love you enough.
But he’s here, you feel. Here in this moment, watching from somewhere above. Mixed with the fabric of now like clothes in a washing machine. A spiral of colour and feeling. Pink, purple, blue, green. Love, joy, heartbreak, loss.
Orange. Orange and white is what Frankie can see. The warmth of the sunlight, the pale of your sheets. You’re far away but safe in his arms. He wants you there always. Wants to be wherever you need him.
He thinks of this day in his own life, four years ago. The tiny, warm body of his baby in his arms. Weightless as you are now and yet so heavy, the two of them fighting sleep in a nursery elsewhere in Florida. He can still smell her hair, still hear the way she’d babble, the way she still fit tucked into one arm. He swallows, hard. Holds you tighter still, thumbs rubbing your shoulder, your side. There is so much of his daughter’s life to see. He can’t imagine having it cut short. Can’t imagine knowing it would end soon, counting down the days as his body wasted. The milestones he’d miss, the moments and memories. The stories and people she’d introduce him to. It doesn’t bear thinking about, her out in the wide world without him to guide or protect her. And he knows you’d hate it, but he’s sorry. So sorry that that’s the life you have, that you don’t have him to turn to anymore. And he’s sorry for your dad. For him to have missed who you are now, to miss who you will be.
He presses another kiss to your head, hoping to convey this. This nebulous thought, this strange feeling.
‘He wrote letters for me,’ you whisper into his neck. So quietly, voice strained to breaking as you force the words out. ‘For birthdays. For jobs. For my first home. For my wedding. For a first child.’ You try to smile, but it’s flattened with a broken breath. ‘He thought of everything. And I read them again today - the ones I’m up to - but it’s like - it’s like his voice -’ you cut yourself off, burying your face in your hands as you try to calm down. ‘Sometimes it’s like I can’t hear him properly anymore.’
Frankie strokes the back of your hand, and it drops easily. He holds it in clammy palms.
In the cold days after your dad passed, through numb dissonance you had googled everything to do with grief. The stages, the remedies, the processes. What you forget first.
Voice. There would be a day, before anything else, when you wouldn’t be able to remember how your name sounded spoken by his lips. When you couldn’t remember the texture of I love you spoken in his tongue.
Frankie knows this. He googled it after Colombia, when the weight of every body he’d seen or carried seemed to settle on him. It had comforted him. He didn’t want to remember shouts and screams, couldn’t stomach the memory of Tom’s orders rattling through his brain. But he feels so desperate to take this from you, to retract and hide what you know. So useless in the face of so much hurt, so much loss. Even when he knows the best he can do is sit here in it with you.
You press your free fingertips into your eyes.
‘I’m so scared, Frankie,’ you whisper from behind the dark in your head. ‘I’m so scared I might forget him.’
Frankie’s seen the simplicities of grief before. Knows them intimately. Knows the horror of these realisations, understands as he presses his lips to your hairline and you shake in his arms. He loves you too much to lie.
So instead, he tells you a truth.
‘I’ve got you. I’ve got you.’
When the light turns from golden to white, the sun a little higher in the sky, you disentangle yourself to blow your nose. You manage a laugh as you do it, muttering a bashful ew as Frankie watches you, still stretched out on your mattress. Any other time, and your heart would be hammering in your chest at the sight. But now, it’s all the comfort you need.
He stands, stiff, stretching his arms to the ceiling before gathering you briefly in his arms again.
‘You okay?’ He asks.
‘Better.’ You say, brushing a curl from his forehead.
His eyes are so warm, so gentle.
‘Breakfast?’
You hum, offer him the best smile you can. A sludge of guilt slops in your stomach, but you try to swallow it.
‘Thank you. I’ll be down in a bit.’
When he’s downstairs, listening to the sound of your shower, he unpacks his grocery bag and begins making a stack of pancakes. Blueberry, banana, strawberry, chocolate chip. Syrup enough for you to taste through the salt at the back of your throat. Methodical, mechanical, more focused on listening for your movements through the floors of your house. The shutting off of the water, the soft thunk of your drawers. Your footsteps heavy on the stairs, down the hall. You appear in the doorway, hair washed, eyes red, cosy in sweats and a t-shirt. He smiles at you, and you smile back. It’s small, but it’s a start.
You move closer, and he takes you under his arm as he turns the stove off. You wrap your arms around his middle.
‘Thank you for the flowers,’ you say, quietly. Frankie follows your eyes to the bouquet arranged in the vase. Forget-me-nots, white carnations. ‘Thank you for not getting lilies.’
He smiles, kisses your forehead. Wonders whether he could leave a mark simply from doing it so often, so you’d always feel safe.
‘No problem.’
He guides you towards the table, pulls out the chair and makes sure you’re settled. Makes sure you have your coffee, your pancakes. The smell of the flowers is sweet, something blooming in your stomach. you trace the outline of them before you, the simplicity, the thought. Frankie asks what you want to do for the rest of the day. You deflect the question back at him, and he smiles.
‘Anything.’
‘Anything?’
You raise an eyebrow at his mhm.
‘That’s dangerous.’ You say with a wry smile.
Something in Frankie’s chest lifts. There she is.
Later, when Luc is tucked into your side and you’re tucked into Frankie’s, you’ll wonder how you can ever repay him. The kindness he shows you, the patience.
You only hope that you will, someday. Promise it, head leant against his shoulder.
Even if it takes the rest of your life.
#frankie morales#francisco morales#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales x you#jettsflora&faunachallenge#pedro pascal fanfiction#fic: on call
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that’s the home of my love//she’s dancing in the sky
my submission for my beloved @threadbaresweater ‘s milestone event, inspired by one of the most beautiful songs I’ve ever heard (Caroline by Colter Wall). sorry to make him a little sad for the summer collab
tags: Nanami Kento x reader, aging, sudden death, grieving (it’s not that sad I don’t think), drabble, smut (loosely)
He never had enough time. That’s the root of his regret—you were there waiting, and then you were gone and suddenly he had too much time and the loneliness stretched on as far as he could see. Kento almost comes out of retirement for this reason—needing something to keep his mind off of the aching void you left. Even if it is the very thing that kept him away from you in the first place. The thing that took up his space in your bed, when all you really needed was the steady rise and fall of his chest at your back and his arm slung around your rib cage. He gets that now.
He doesn’t go back to work, though. He finds that, in the crest of his 60s, his mind and his memories have not left him yet, and to picture you keeps him just this side of content. The closest he’s gotten since you’ve been gone—he’ll take it.
He remembers being 30, and meeting you like it was normal. There was no curse to exorcise from you, no snapping mouth to pull you from—you in the park on his day off, interrupting his reading to ask him to share the bench. He’d said no, and you’d sat down anyway. You never did let him forget that.
Being 32, and having your first significant fight. He can’t remember what it was about, but the only thing that really mattered was the way the hurt cracked through your own belligerence, just for a moment. He’d never felt a self-loathing of that magnitude—so sudden and swelling and suffocating him. He’d just pulled you to him and you fought him until the tears came. If he thinks hard enough, he can still feel your fingertips dig into his waist. He’d told you he loved you.
Being 36 and seeing what all the fuss over marriage was about. He closes his eyes and feels the corners of his mouth tug up, picturing you in that dress you’d pulled out of one of your grandmother’s old trunks. The way you’d lost your bravery by the time you reached him at the altar, your trembling only quelled when you tucked yourself into his chest and didn’t let go until it was over. He’d felt like the luckiest man in the world. He remembers the heat of the summer, and how it paled in comparison the fire that radiated off of you.
That same night, relearning your body as if he’d not touched it for years. The give of your soft skin under his rough hands—the way you shivered and pulled him closer, as if he was not already as close as your skin would physically allow. He thinks of the blinding pleasure behind his eyes when he’d sunk into you slowly, and even now, feels the familiar swirl of blood, albeit flowing slower now. His hand finds himself in the dark, half hard on the memory alone, and he knows that the squeeze of his own hand could never replicate the feeling of you, but it’s all he has.
He finds, at this age, there’s no real urgency. He’s content to think of the way your mouth would part on a moan and let the sound swirl in his gut, fading as quickly as it came. The desire swells and recedes, and it’s not so much the longing to be touched as it is a yearning to be touched by you. But you’re not coming back, and he’s trying to make his peace with that.
Kento remembers how his 40s came and went with little fanfare and more neglect than he’d intended. You’d asked him to slow down, to be there on slow mornings and stormy Sunday nights—and he wasn’t. It never seemed urgent, because he’d promised you forever and couldn’t be bothered to worry about the quality of those days that stretched on before you—only the sheer quantity of what you’d vowed to each other. He’d thought that counted for something.
And then you’d turned 50, but had not made it to 51. As sudden as a light switch, your lungs inflated once, and then never again.
The memory of the 15-odd years between then and now runs together. The pain distorts the passage of time in his mind. He can only recall one long day of grieving that hasn’t ended yet.
But even in his mourning, he finds himself back in that park. He takes up the whole bench now, laying down across it and ignoring the stares of younger passerby, hoping to feel the weight of you press down on his chest. Kento watches the sky—which has seemed far too blue since you died, as if he was expecting everything else to dull when he did. But cicadas still chirp and children still stomp about in the grass. Wisps of cloud swirl and float on, and he wonders where you are. If you have a hand in what he sees—if there’s a record playing to guide the movement of your hips and the direction of the warm, summer breeze. He extends an arm out— straight up, as if you could reach down and touch him again.
There is no grave to visit. Your name is here—on a little gold plaque, fastened to the top of the bench—and on the tip of his tongue, always. His great love in the sky.
#I’ve been waiting for the inspiration for this to come for months#and I just wrote it all in 40 minutes#I swear I love him. I just like to make him sad#nanami Kento x reader#Nanami x you#Nanamin#nanami drabble#jjk drabble#jjk x reader#jjk fic
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i haven’t done 4.2’s archon quest yet but oh my god i’m scared. not because of the actual content but bc i know fontaine will be over when i do. like i am not ready.
#it sounds so stupid but fontaine is so meaningful to me#like have you ever had that feeling when you finish a show you’ve been watching for years and realize#Oh.#it’s Over.#(< — i read that in neuvillette’s voice)#yeah. and then it’s a cold settling feeling deep inside you from your chest to your stomach#like you just lost something and you’re grieving#and it just won’t go away#me with fontaine. augh
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hello sweetheart, i read your prompt list and saw this one "hug?” “clingy, much?……” but hugs them anyway and my heart melted, i don't know if you already did this, but can we have something like that with our sweet but grumpy eddie? 🤍
ty for requesting! — eddie doesn't know why you're avoiding him (fluff, ditzy!reader, 0.9k)
Eddie lost sight of you ten minutes ago.
You were squished between Robin and Steve on the loveseat last he saw you, giggling into your solo cup while they belted Total Eclipse of the Heart to you — at you — over the music and in their best Muppet impressions.
He only remembers it so vividly ‘cause he was jealous. Not jealous because you were subjected to Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum’s drunken antics, of course, but jealous because you were with them. And so, so far away.
Now you’re gone, and he misses you like a stray dog — aggressive and hungry and hurt. He walks up to Steve in the kitchen just the same. Hair wild. Button eyes glittering. Slightly reluctant.
“Where’d she go?!” he shouts over the music, half-muffled into his drink. He uses the plastic cup like a shield ‘cause he doesn’t want people to know he’s missing you. The metalhead freak from the wrong side of town isn’t supposed to need the ball of sunshine from the suburbs.
But alas.
“Uh, I don’t know,” Steve slurs, half-distracted as he pours himself a drink. He doesn’t need Eddie to tell him who she is. There’s only one person in the whole world he’d go looking for. “She went outside with Robin, I think—”
Eddie spins on the worn heel of his sneaker before the words can properly leave his mouth. He ducks through the bustling, drunken crowd and finds you sitting lonesome on the porch outside. Prettier than the full moon and all the stars in the velvet black sky combined.
He walks to stand beside you, shoes thunking heavy on the wooden deck. You tilt your chin to smile brightly up at him while he slips a cig into his mouth. He cups the stick as he lights it. Pretends that’s what he came out here for. Not to see you, of course.
Definitely not.
“What are you doing out here by yourself?” he mumbles beneath the cigarette in his mouth.
“Robin just left,” you answer plainly, half-shy.
“Why didn’t you come find me?” he asks with an air of nonchalance, still trying to play it cool. ‘Cause there’s nothing less metal than yearning.
You shrug. “‘Cause you were busy?”
It’s easier than telling him that you thought he wanted the space. Or that you actually spent the whole night aching to hang on his side — too scared of embarrassing him in front of all his friends to act on it.
You know who you are just like you know who he is. Bubblegum pink doesn’t always go well with black. It gets in your hair. Makes everything go all sticky. It’s an acquired taste you know Eddie’s still getting used to — too much of it, and his stomach will start to hurt. So you figure it’s best to keep your distance.
You just didn’t think he was as grieved by it all as you were.
Eddie scoffs. I’m never too busy for you, he wants to say. He might’ve if he wasn’t such a coward. Instead, he blows smoke from his lungs and jokes, “I wouldn’t call keeping Argyle from crowd-surfing in the living room busy, sweetheart.”
A laugh tumbles from his plush lips. The golden sound falls over your skin like stars. You smile absentmindedly back at him as you rise from the creaking rocking chair. You plant your feet ahead of his and smooth your palms beneath his leather jacket, over his warm sides.
Eddie meets your twinkling eyes with narrowed chocolate ones. “What?”
“Hug?” you ask in a mousy voice.
The boy laughs like he’s too cool for affection, though he’d be lying if he said your offer doesn’t have his chest sparkling something fierce. He flicks the cig to the ground — sheepish gaze going with it — before snuffing it out beneath his sneaker.
“Clingy much?” he scoffs.
You nod with a proud smile.
Eddie’s chest swirls with an unfamiliar feeling. You’re strangely brave about all this — affection and love and all things sweet enough to make him gag.
It makes him feel like he can feel brave, too.
He wraps his arms around your shoulders and holds you with all the intensity of someone wanting to swallow you whole. You hug him back just the same. “I missed you,” you murmur with your cheek squished against his chest.
“Then what’re you avoidin’ me for, huh?” he teases, chin bobbing against your head.
You pull slightly back to squint at him. “I’m not avoiding you.”
“You’ve been hangin’ out with Steve and Robin the whole night,” he grieves, hiding his sincerity behind boyish theatrics. With a feigned pout that feels totally real, he says, “And you didn’t even sit next to me when we played Never Have I Ever.”
“I thought you wanted the space,” you confess in a hushed voice.
His face screws up like he’s tasted something sour. “Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know…” you shrug. “You always talk about how much you like being alone and stuff, so—”
“Well, yeah! I like my space— just not from you!”
It’s likely the least metal thing he’s ever said.
“Oh,” you hum, mouth contorting into a sheepish beam. “Well… Sorry.”
“Yeah. You should be,” he scoffs, mostly joking. He pouts softly and pulls you back into him again, nosing at your hair until his chapped lips brush your temple. “Just don’t let it happen again, alright?”
#published by bug#eddie munson x reader#stranger things x reader#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson x you#eddie munson#stranger things#stranger things imagine#stranger things fic#stranger things fanfiction#stranger things fanfic#eddie munson imagine#eddie munson fanfiction#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson fic#st drabbles#eddie spaghetti drabble
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(DCxDP) The obligations of a rogue versus those of a parent (pt. 2)
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Tw: N/A
Will be crossposted to AO3 eventually
(Pt. 1 here) - (Pt. 3 here)
(Masterlist/subscription post)
—
It was a beautiful morning. Somehow, against all odds, the sun was shining through the thick smog perpetually covering Gotham.
And Danny hated it.
He was in pain, he was exhausted, he was grieving, and all he wanted to do was sleep for at least a week.
In an act of celestial mockery, the sun shone regardless.
After around twenty minutes of tossing and turning in bed, trying to get back to sleep, Danny gave up and pried himself out of bed.
He stumbled through the hallway and into the living room, staring openly at every splash of color he saw in the small apartment. He hadn’t forgotten what color looked like in the time he was in the lab, but it was comforting to see.
Someone cleared their throat. Danny whipped his head around, eyes falling on a scrawny, gangly man sitting down in a worn armchair, hunched over a laptop. He was looking at him with a dull, bored expression.
Right. Scarecrow.
His escape.
The chase.
His mom.
“You look a lot less terrifying without the mask,” Danny blurted out, slapping his hand over his mouth. “I didn’t mean that.”
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t call my normal appearance frightening,” Scarecrow hummed, focusing his attention back onto the laptop, “that’s what the costume is for, after all.”
“Oh.”
After a brief moment of excruciating silence, Scarecrow spoke.
“You any good with computers, Danny? Hacking, and all that?”
Danny jolted. Scarecrow needed his help with something! This was great! Now, he’d have more of a reason not to get rid of him!
“Oh, uh, yeah! Not as good as my friend Tucker, but I think I’m pretty good.”
“And you’re familiar with the GiW’s systems specifically,” Scarecrow continued, beckoning him over. Danny complied, shuffling over awkwardly. “Right?”
“Well, I guess? My friends and I got into their stuff a couple of times before they…”
“Wonderful,” Scarecrow said, standing up with a stretch. He shoved the laptop into Danny’s hands and gestured for him to sit down on the couch. “Then you can hack into their system and extract whatever files you can find.”
Danny stared at the man like he’d lost his mind. He looked back at him expectantly.
Danny sat down.
“Yeah, I-I can do that. Tuck and I built a back door into their system ages ago,” he said, checking the screen. It was clear that for all the skills that Scarecrow had, hacking was definitely not one of them. “But, uh, don’t you have someone else that usually does this sort of thing for you? Not that I’m complaining!”
Scarecrow scowled, and Danny felt his heart fall into his ass.
“Usually, I do,” Scarecrow huffed, “but I chose to leave my most recent job with the Penguin early, so now there’s no way that he or Eddie will help me with anything until I make it up to them somehow.”
“Oh,” Danny said.
He had no clue whatsoever who Eddie was.
Danny got to work quickly, hoping that if he ignored the gangly man, he would leave him be. Luckily, he did just that, leaving to go work on something in another room.
Danny checked the laptop’s security before continuing Scarecrow’s progress, making sure that the GiW wouldn’t be able to grab their location.
It was…threateningly good. Whoever Eddie was, he had somehow crammed the functionality of a top-of-the-line PC into a tiny, beat-up old laptop. It almost reminded Danny of Tucker and his terrifying competence with his PDA.
Tucker.
Amity park.
Home.
Danny snapped himself out of his thoughts, tabbing back into the application Scarecrow had up and began to work his magic.
He had near full access to the entire GiW database within half an hour.
Mumbling out a quick thank-you to Tucker, he called Scarecrow over to appraise his work.
“Fixed up some food for you while you worked,” the rogue said, handing him a bowl of oatmeal, taking the laptop into his lap as he did so, “didn’t know how well you could eat, considering you’re recovering from… surgery, so I decided to stay on the safe side.”
Danny had no clue what this guy’s deal was.
He definitely did not tear up at the first genuine thoughtfulness he encountered in weeks, and he did not look away as he ate so that Scarecrow couldn’t see his face.
At least Scarecrow was too focused on the laptop to notice or care.
Or, maybe, he was just mercifully ignoring him.
Either way, Danny ate slowly, not wanting to make himself sick. He allowed himself to absentmindedly look around the room for the first time, taking everything in.
It was strangely homey. The space was filled with warm browns and yellows, a few splashes of color on the wall in the form of (obviously gifted) paintings. There was a beat-up bookshelf against the wall, clearly second-hand, filled to the brim with psychology books. On every available surface there was a different colored candle, all at different stages of use, clearly collected over the course of years.
Danny knew that the man next to him was a crazed, murderous criminal, but his home was oddly reminiscent of Jazz.
He was not about to cry.
“Danny,” Scarecrow hummed, snapping him out of his spiraling, “can you explain this to me?”
He looked over. The rogue was pointing to a new report, seemingly posted only a few hours ago.
Nodding, he took the computer into his lap, pouring over the contents.
He read the report again.
And again.
And again.
Danny swore loudly, crumpling like a wet paper bag, head in his hands.
“What?”
“It’s…” he swore again, glancing back at the laptop, “they…since you became liminal from synthetic ectoplasm, when we’re within about 500 meters of one another, our ectoplasm signatures resonate, and they can’t track us with any of their technology.”
“How is that a bad thing?”
“If we’re not that close to each other, they can track us down from anywhere in the world.”
Scarecrow went dead quiet. After what felt like the single longest minute of Danny’s life, he let out a truly exasperated sigh, slumping over in his seat.
“Yeah, me too,” Danny mumbled, utterly miserable.
“…I’ll have to move my plans back a little,” Scarecrow sighed, “I can’t drag an injured child with me when I attack the Gotham GiW base, you’ll just get in the way.”
“Oh come on,” Danny whined, “I can take care of myself just fine. Besides, Batman brings kids with him to do dangerous stuff all the time, and he’s fine!”
“Might I remind you that the second Robin died violently,” Scarecrow snapped, “and that Batman most likely has more traumatic brain injuries than all of the Gotham rogues combined. That really isn’t the winning argument you think it is.”
Danny paused, trying to think up some way to win the argument. Then, he realized what he had ignored before.
“Wait, Scarecrow, you’re gonna attack the GiW?”
“That’s the plan,” he nodded, “and call me Dr. Crane. I’m only Scarecrow when I’m in the mask.”
But,” Danny sputtered, “Sca—uh, Dr. Crane—that’s insane! The weapons they’ve got- they’ll rip you apart!”
“Not my first time,” Crane said, making Danny wince. “Besides, I have plenty of experience avoiding gunfire. I’ll live.”
“You…” Danny was silent for a while, trying to think of something to say, “fine, but you have to take me with you wherever you go. As soon as they see either of us on their radars, they’ll hunt us down.”
Dr. Crane sighed.
“…Fine. I need some time to plan anyways. Now, you’re going to help me download these files, properly format them, and send them out.”
“…Why?”
“Well, some of the other rogues might appreciate the heads up, and I’d quite like them to be indebted to me. Besides, I still need to pay back the Penguin for ditching him, and he loves knowing things that other people don’t.”
Danny paused.
“That’s an awful idea, no offense. If any of the rogues know our weaknesses, they—”
“Danny, we’re censoring everything. The only things they need to know about are the GiW specifically, and any sort of laws surrounding them.”
Danny snorted.
“You care about laws now?”
“Yes, because if we get taken to Arkham, they’ll hand us off to the GiW the moment they ask, and it’ll be completely legal.”
Oh. Danny had honestly forgotten that Arkham was an option.
“…Ok. I’ll help you. Who are we telling?”
“I don’t think you really need to know,” Dr. Crane said, the faintest shadow of an amused look on his face, “but I’ll humor you for now. We’re sending the files out to the Penguin, Riddler, Poison Ivy via Harley Quinn, Two-Face, and Red Hood.”
Danny nodded. He could live with that.
“Alright, then let’s get to work.”
—
#dcxdp#dc x dp#dp x dc#dpxdc#dp x dc crossover#dp x dc fanfic#dp x dc fic#liminal scarecrow#scaredad scaredad scaredad#not pictured: scarecrow frantically googling to see what he can feed Danny without killing him#and also going through everything in his kitchen to find something that isn’t spoiled#he lives like a 20 year old bachelor in terms of food. just takeout and moldy bread in there#maybe a can of soup if he’s feeling adventurous#scarecrow: ah yes I am feeding him soft foods to keep my lead on the GiW alive. No sentimental reason whatsoever#danny who is about to start bawling his eyes out:#the boy had to battle resurrected food for years. he is NOT used to being fed actual edible things#danny: scarecrow could kill me at any moment. that’s why he’s feeding me and worrying about my health and safety#btw HUGE shoutout to the riddler for cramming an entire gaming pc into a 2007 microsoft computer#or some shit like that#and just giving it to scarecrow. for free. just bestie things
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Mistletoe | R.Lupin x reader
| harrypotter x aunt!reader | remuslupin x fem!reader | golden trio era |
Synopsis: after the death of your brother, you take in your nephew as your own, shutting everyone else out in your grief. However, once you’re reunited with an old friend in Harry’s third year, old feelings start to come to the surface as you help each other through your grief.
WARNINGS: mentions of dea!h, mentions of grief. (In this story, let’s say Voldemorts curse bounced off Harry and killed moldy voldy for good, Harry has a normal childhood)
〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️
“Thank you, for standing with me.” You say, watching as the train leaves the station for the fourth time since your nephew had been accepted into Hogwarts. “It’s always so hard watching him go.”
“It’s no problem at all, you know that.” Remus told you, placing a tentative hand on your arm as you play with your hands worriedly.
It was the same overwhelming anxiety year after year, watching the only family you have left, the only part of James you have left, slip further and further away into the distance.
You and your brother were inseparable, known quite rarely as James and y/n, but more commonly as the Potter Twins. It was a rare occurrence to see one of you without the other, especially at school.
You weren’t with him when he died. No, you were in your own house, washing dishes by hand, because you were to bored to do it by magic. You weren’t with him, but you felt it. Like a knife through the chest, you felt the part of your soul that belonged to him fracture into a million pieces. Your heart that matched his break and turn cold as the glass you held fell to the floor.
You knew part of yourself had died, but not which part.
Not until you reached the Potter’s house.
Not until you found yourself screaming until your throat was raw, begging your brother to wake up.
When you finally heard the crying of a baby over your own sobs, you knew you had to take him before Dumbledore got his hands on him, taking him away from you forever.
“Hello, little one, Auntie y/n’s going to keep you safe.” You whispered, your voice only a fracture of what it used to be.
You tried not to look towards the lifeless form of what used to be one of your greatest friends.
You raised Harry as if he was your own, teaching him everyday about the parents he lost, because you would be damned if James Potter would ever be forgotten.
“I know it’s not, but still, thank you.” You tell him, before turning your head to look into his kind eyes. “You can come over, if you like? Despite what Harry might have told you, I’m a good cook.”
“That would be nice.” Remus chucked, wrapping an arm around your shoulder.
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Sitting with Remus at your kitchen table, you started to realise just how much you had missed him.
“I let him keep the map, last year.” He told you, a small grin tugging at his lips as he sipped his tea.
“Remus Lupin, despite the years that have passed you still have some mischief in you.” You tease, sipping your own coffee.
“Well, once a marauder, always a marauder. Isn’t that what we all used to say?” He retorted, and you genuinely smile.
A rare sighting since the passing of your brother, a sight only Harry has known.
You reach over and take his calloused hand in yours, brushing your thumb over a scar that lay there.
“I’m so sorry that I pushed you away, I never meant-“
“No, no, none of that. I won’t have you apologising for the way you chose to grieve. You lost your brother, and took on the responsibility of raising his child all in a matter of hours. I wasn’t what you needed then, and I understood that completely.”
That’s something about Remus that you had always loved. No matter how wronged he was, he had always found it within himself to understand. No matter how much somebody hurt him, his empathy would always shine through.
“What about what you needed? You lost everybody, and I shut you out.” You said, your confession leaves with shame and regret. He held your hand tighter.
“What I needed was to know that you and Harry were safe. And I knew that. I managed my grief in my own ways, but I managed nonetheless.”
Something else about Remus that you loved, was the way he held eye contact when he spoke. As if people would stop hearing him if he looked away. His eyes held onto yours now, sending secret messages of reassurance that he can’t speak with words.
He smiled, picking up his tea once more to take a sip. You wondered if he had had somebody to hold all this time, if somebody had been there to hold his hand as his world fell apart around him.
As you look at him, you remember the small school crush you used to have on him while at Hogwarts. The way you used to purposely sit next to him in the great hall so he’d have to lean down to talk to you, since he was so tall.
“You know, I’m pretty sure I had a bit of a crush on you in school.” You say, smiling down at you drink. He scoffs in amusement.
“Me? Why on earth would you have a crush on me?” He said, as if the idea was absolutely preposterous.
“Because you were always so kind. No matter how angry you were, you never spoke to me with anything other than kindness. And you’re tall, Godric knows that makes any girl fold,” you laugh. “And I thought you were pretty.”
“Pretty?” He looks scared to ask, as if the answer would somehow sting.
“Yeah, I’ve always thought your beauty was more soft than other boys,” you look into his eyes, seeing the same boy you loved in your school years. “The other girls would always tell me how gorgeous Sirius was, and he was, but I was always too busy staring at you to notice.”
Maybe it was the fact that you finally had a soul your own age to talk to. Or maybe it was the familiarity of talking to an old friend, someone you once spent every waking moment with. But you told him everything, about how lonely you’ve been, about how awful you feel about hating Harry’s similarities to James, about how much you love Harry and how it hurts to not be by his side at all times.
You tell him everything.
And he listens to every word.
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Remus came over almost everyday until Harry was due to come home for Christmas.
He laughed with you, held you while you cried, and grieved with you. The way the two of you should have done all those years ago.
It felt as if the twelve years you were eleven years you were apart never happened.
“Auntie y/n! Over here!” Your nephew called, carrying his case for the holidays with him.
“Harry! Oh, I’ve missed you!” You say, placing your hands on his cheeks and kissing the crown of his head.
“It’s only been a couple of months.” He says, smiling at your antics,
“I know, I know, but you know I have no one to fret over while you’re away.”
Harry hugs you, the kind of hug he knows you need once you see him again.
Harry knows his Aunt struggles to be away from him, he also knows that she thinks he doesn’t know. But since a young age Harry has noticed the way he Aunt always hugs him tighter in the mornings, as if being away in her dreams was far too long, and how she always holds his hand while out and about, and how she sends weekly letter just to check he’s doing alright.
And he replies to every single one, because while others would see it as suffocating, Harry feels nothing to affection and gratitude towards his aunt, because he may be all she had, but she’s all he has in return. And if a letter a week soothes her mind, he has no quarrels in doing that.
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Harry was beyond happy that Remus would be spending Christmas with them. To him, Remus was an extension of his Father, one more person he could ask to tell him stories and memories of the man he never truly met.
You would always tell him anything he wanted to know, but deep down you knew that he knew it pained you. And so he doesn’t ask much of you, but you wish he did.
“Did he get into trouble at school? My dad?” He asked at the dinner table, casting looks toward Remus and you.
You let a laugh slip past your lips, and you hold your hand to your mouth.
“Harry, your father invented trouble.” Remus told him, smiling fondly at the memories.
“Oh, come one. You talk as if you weren’t a step behind him at all times! More often than not, if my brother was in trouble, so were we!” You laughed, for the first time remembering your brother with joy rather than grief.
“And you talk as if you weren’t the mastermind behind most of that mischief.” He says, casting you a look of teasing and humour.
You gasp in faux shock, clasping your chest and looking towards your nephew.
“Absolutely false, Harry. I was no trouble in school.”
Harry laughed then, “Professor McGonagall says otherwise.”
You stop and snap your attention to your Nephew as Remus laughs, no longer able to eat.
“What?” You say, a little panicked, mostly laughing.
Harry watches as his Aunt and who he now sees as an Uncle playfully bicker and argue about who was more trouble to who, and wonders when they’ll realise just how in love they are.
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You’re clearing the table after Christmas dinner, stacking plates into piles and wrapping left overs in foil. Harry had retreated to his room to tend to his new quidditch set before the traditional Christmas movie night before bed, and y/n took it as a great opportunity to clear up.
A hand touched the small of her back, moving her slightly to the left as he squeezed by, taking the plates from her hands.
“You don’t need to do that, I’ve got it.” He says softly, sending her a small wink before carrying them over to the sink.
“Let me do something then, because you did most of the cooking and now you won’t let me clean.” You complained, not a single trace of discontent in your voice.
He turns to you, humour in his eyes but a frown on his lips.
“And what if I want to do all of this, then what?”
“Then you’ll just have to deal with me helping.” You say, stepping closer. You’re standing in front of him now, holding a cup full of cutlery in one hand and a plate of leftovers in the other. “Mr Lupin, I believe you’re blocking my way to the fridge.”
“Oh am I? Thats a shame, I guess I’ll have to take these off your hands then.” He says, taking the plate and cutlery and placing them on the side.
You’re about to argue when he turns back to you, much closer than before. “Let me help you.”
“You’ve done more than enough.” You say in a small voice.
“And what if I want to do more?” His hand reaches up and places a strand of your dark hair behind your ear, but his hand doesn’t fall, it stays put against your cheek.
You look up to see a branch of mistletoe growing from your ceiling, right between the two of you.
His eyes never leave your face, more accurately your lips as your breathing gets heavier.
“Can I kiss you?” He asks, his voice so small you barely hear it. All you can do is nod as his other hand is placed ever so gently on your waist, pulling you in.
He places his lips on yours, and it’s the most gentle kiss, but you feel the weight of a thousand words that have never been said behind it, pushing him closer.
To Remus’ surprise, it was you who intensified the kiss, placing a hand behind his head and pushing further into him. When you broke apart to breathe, he placed his forehead onto yours and closed his eyes.
“I think I’ve loved you for a while now, Miss Potter.”
“I’ve loved you always, Mr Lupin.”
What neither of the two seemed to notice, was their nephew sitting at the top of his stairs tucking his wand back into his pocket, closing the book about growing magical plants with spells.
#marauders#marauders x reader#remus lupin#remus lupin x reader#james potter x reader#james potter#golden trio era#sirius black#peter pettigrew#sirius black x reader#regulus black#harry james potter#harry potter#harry potter x reader#wizard shit#dead gay wizards#all the young dudes#fanfic#pre war#fluff#remus lupin fluff#marauders fluff
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first impressions that your future lover has of you 🥰💓
• pile one •
their first impression of you is that you’re someone who’s very honest. very truthful. i’m mainly interpreting this as you’re someone who searches for the truth of people and situations. so they might be able to tell that you’re trying to figure out the truth about someone or something. maybe even the truth about them. you’re extremely perceptive to this person. they also view you as someone who’s extremely introverted and quiet. someone who’s very self-protective, but your energy is loud as fuck. you keep yourself private. they feel like you ‘keep your cards close to your chest’ so to speak. but you’re not detached from what’s happening around you. you’re extremely conscious of your environment and the people within it. they feel like you can really see through people. you can really see through them. there’s something about you being vilified to this person by others. perhaps then hearing some negative things about you from others before even meeting you. or this could just be the way that other people treat you. others around you might treat you like you’re a villain in some way. perhaps not externally but that’s the vibe that they pick up on. that people see you as an opp in their mind 😂. probably from either fear or jealousy. they don’t see anything to vilify about you though. your energy is strong. it’s clear that you carry a lot of personal power and people are simply threatened by this. that’s what this hating ass energy is from other people - and your future lover knows this. this person can clearly see your inner child that other people don’t have the ability to see for themselves. they’re not someone who’s oblivious to energy. they can read it extremely well unlike these other people who are so surface level that they take you at face value and demonise you for it. they can tell that you’re sweet and kind. but it’s shrouded in privacy and introversion. they see an innocence in you. a good heart that you protect diligently. they view you as someone who’s misunderstood by ignorant people. they can tell that you’ve been through a lot, and they know that your immense power has come from this. they see this clearly just by looking at you - as does everyone else. the difference with them is that they’re not afraid of it.
significant numbers: 21, 38, 16
significant astrological energies: HEAVY scorpio/pluto/8th house placements, Leo/Sun/5th house placement
find the extended reading: ‘first impressions that you have of your future lover’ here on patreon OR purchase the reading individually here on kofi!
• pile two •
your future lover’s first impression of you is that you’re full of wisdom. you put things into conversation that are extremely eye-opening - even if that’s not the belief that you hold yourself for the things that you say. but this person can tell that you have a lot of knowledge. there’s something about this person perceiving you as someone who has lost a connection with someone. someone who’s grieving. whether this is a literal death or a figurative death, they can tell that you’re just trying to take time out for yourself due to the loss of a connection that you have to heal from. you might straight up tell them about this or they just know about it in some way. they view you as someone who is in the middle of a major transformation. someone who has went through a tower moment but you’re really learning to take care of yourself after this. i strongly feel like for most of you, this loss of a connection is a break up. so this seems to be some much needed emotional recovery to this person. they do view you as extremely sexually attractive, but they can tell that you’re in the process of clearing out your life after a major disaster. so i feel like they assume that you’re clearing out your sexual energy through celibacy or something like that. they can tell that you’re going through a huge clean up of your life. they might intuitively know that you’re having to rebuild from scratch - either in your physical life or within yourself. they perceive you as someone who is experiencing a brand new, fresh start for yourself. your energy feels clear or like you’re in the middle of a clearing.
significant numbers: 29, 3, 4,
significant astrological energies: pluto transit (perhaps through your 7th house), mars/aries/first house placements, pisces/12th house/neptune placements, virgo/6th house transits.
find the extended reading: ‘first impressions that you have of your future lover’ here on patreon OR purchase the reading individually here on kofi!
• pile three •
you might already know this person - not deeply but on an acquaintance level. if not, then this person feels like they’ve met you before - but they don’t know where they know you from. you already know that’s what happens with strong soulmates 😂. this person’s first impression of you is that you’re defensive for some reason. if this is energy directed towards them, then they just feel like you’re not someone who automatically puts your trust in them for whatever reason of your own. they can tell that this is your defence mechanism for self-protection. they might meet you for the first time when you’re in a deep sadness about something. and that sadness is perhaps converted into defensiveness. for others of you, you’re being defensive towards someone who’s clearly done something to upset you, and i’m hearing that this person feels like you’re someone who shouldn’t be messed with off of this situation alone 💀. i’m feeling a strong energy of this person’s first impressions of you coming from a situation between you and an ex, an ex-friend, or just someone who you’ve clearly ended something with. there’s a very strong energy that they get from you that you really just want to be left alone by this person and perhaps everyone around you. but i am seeing someone from your past being involved in this situation that your future lover is perceiving. whatever situation this is, your energy screams self-esteem and self-worth. knowing that you’re worth more than whatever this person can give to you and you don’t want to hear shit from this person lmao. there’s something about this other people/people being shocked so your person assumes that this is a new energy that you’ve stepped into. that you’re blooming into acknowledging your worth and you’re not settling for something anymore.
whew, this is dramatic, pile three. but this person has a lot of respect for you, whatever you’re saying, and whatever energy you’re giving to this person/people. they just know that these people fucked up with whatever tf they did. period 💅🏾😂
significant numbers: 22, 36, 26
significant astrological energies: pisces energy, scorpio and strong pluto energy, leo/sun energy, the spring time is also significant here so you could be born in the spring. i’m also hearing that this could suggest that a seed in this person’s mind has been planted in relation to you.
find the extended reading: ‘first impressions that you have of your future lover’ here on patreon OR purchase the reading individually here on kofi!
#pick a card#psychic readings#pac#tarot reading#pick a photo#tarot#pac reading#pick a picture#pick a card reading#pick a pile#tarot pick a card#pac readings
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roommate!lyney annoying you, fluff, kissing, profanity lol!!! feminine french pet name used once (1), implied secret relationship. written in like 30 mins not proofread
“lyney, who the fuck ate my takeout?!”
that’s a stupid question; there’s only the two of you in this dorm room. exasperated, you throw yourself back on the couch, grieving your lost takeout that is most likely sitting in your boyfriend's stomach. lyney pops out of his bedroom with a cute smile and guilt hidden in closed eyes. he walks to you in slow steps, hands hidden behind his back.
you watch him with narrowed, suspicious eyes.
“ma chérie,” lyney purrs, and you hope there’s enough venom in your glare to take him down, “do you want a magic trick?”
you stare blankly. you do not want a magic trick.
lyney makes an undignified noise, flopping himself on top of you and the one-seat couch; you barely manage to get your laptop out of the way before he crushes it. “come on, entertain me. you have been giving your laptop more attention. do you want a magic trick or not?”
“if it’s about my food, i’m about to make you disappear.”
lyney fans his face as he turns, whistling. “you’ve done it again. you’re so charming when you glare so heatedly at me like that,” he coos, pressing his nose on your cheek and smiling against your skin.
you groan, pushing his face with your palm. “are you a freak?”
“if calling me that is what it takes for you to realize i just want you to look at me,” he agrees solemnly, muffled by you smothering his lips.
“i know i’m your roommate and everything, but you have a twin. do you have to bother me? aren’t you all for ‘family is everything’ and all that? how will they react if they see their lyney clinging onto his roommate like a lovesick parasite?”
“lynette doesn’t even like talking. and i like looking at you,” lyney says, nearing a whine. he persists in slotting himself between the couch armrest and your body, arms wrapped around your waist. it doesn’t budge when you tug on it.
“you can look at me without bothering me.”
lyney blinks owlishly. “oh?”
“entertain yourself,” you snarl, shifting so your back faces him. he buries his nose on the back of your neck, humming thoughtfully.
he then he kisses where your skin is bare, sighing softly. “i’m sorry. i wanted to take you out tonight.”
“dumbass,” you say, adding more to your essay with hostility in your fingers. “how are we going to enjoy dinner if you’re already full?”
“i can enjoy dinner if i see you enjoy dinner.” he sounds so serious about it, too. “hey, look at me for a sec. there’s something on your face.”
instinctively, you turn your head, startled when lyney takes it as an opportunity to kiss the side of your lips. “hey—” he interrupts you with a kiss on the other side. “lyney, you—” and then he seals the deal by kissing you properly.
it’s a little uncomfortable with the angle, but that’s far in the back of your mind with the press of his lips and the warmth he’s emanating. lyney’s a personified heater; it does help that he loves touching you in any way he can whenever you get too cold.
you have to pull away yourself, gasping deep breaths. lyney looks extremely pleased with himself. “you eat my takeout and try to distract me from my essay—do you want me to request a new roommate?”
but as you return to your laptop, you realize it’s gone. the pillow you’ve used to place it on top of is notably empty. you check the corners and peer at what you can with lyney’s arms caging you, but it’s not anywhere either.
“what? where the hell did you put it?”
“let me treat you dinner, and maybe i’ll tell you after our date,” lyney sing-songs, expertly swerving from your attack with a bright laugh. “come on, up you go.”
lyney doesn’t stop until he gets what he wants; it’s the wisest decision to give in as soon as possible anyway.
a/n hello guys this is like a practice round bc i have a longfic for lyney in the works !!!!!!!! but this is kinda lame so idk HELPP
#genshin x reader#genshin impact x reader#genshin impact x you#lyney x reader#lyney x you#lyney x y/n
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hii i was talking about this on twitter so i think i will just copy paste it here cuz i’ll probably delete it there at some point <3 twitter frightens me but i love my mutuals here we are all insane about flowey in the same way
i think saying “you’re the type of friend i wish i always had” is a really important thing for asriel to admit... this whole time asriel has dealt with so much grief and guilt about chara that it separated the actual person chara from the idealized version of them in his head who he has never stopped grieving. its a huge part of his character that hes unable to view them as they were because that’s just how his ptsd and guilt affects him. as someone who went through a similar thing that kind of grief can mess with your head and how you view yourself and the person who’s gone really badly. the pacifist route, for flowey’s character specifically, is a really good example of how grief and ptsd can make you feel disconnected from yourself, everyone around you, and like if only the person you lost was back everything would be perfectly fine again. the fact that he can admit they weren’t perfect and that he made the right decision is a huge character development that we don’t get to see in the no mercy route because he’s still convinced that this idealized version of them birthed from bereavement will make everything okay. similarly to how he believed toriel might have been able to fix him, he wants to believe there’s someone out there that could somehow return him to who he was before being traumatized, but the reality of it is this is just who he is.
his grief and trauma is a huge part of who he is like it is with real people, but it doesn’t have to be all of him. i think the emphasis the fandom puts on whether chara was Good Or Bad completely misses the point that it doesn’t really. matter i guess?? they were a kid people loved and now they’re gone. we're seeing people deal with the grief this brought and we know so little of who they are because there’s also a degree of separation about who they are to the people they loved as well. idk i hope this makes sense i think a lot about how chara is a kid who hated humanity and calls themself a demon. to me that just shows an EXTREMELY traumatized child with self hatred. i don’t know why there was ever this huge moral argument about chara when they’re literally just a kid with issues. they weren’t taught how to deal with how they felt and likely held themself in lower regard compared to the dreemurrs. its the same thing with asriel, he feels responsible for them being gone and his own trauma. he just wants a friend who can teach him to understand his grief or someone who can at least let him view the situation for how it really is
i just think. flowey is so well written but not understood very well by the fandom because the type of thing he’s gone through is kind of hard to grasp. it’s a weird situation that doesn’t have a completely black or white Is He Or Chara At Fault kind of answer. they were children. people are complicated and want someone to blame when something goes wrong and flowey directed that at himself. hes such a fascinating and well written character i love him dearly i hope u guys understand how insane he makes me <3
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I know some of you have probably been curious how Shelli and I have been doing since we lost him. I’m sure it wasn’t a secret that we had a very strong bond with Thurston. When I say he was my best friend, that wasn’t an exaggeration. And to Shelli he was her baby. Suffice it to say we grieved hard. Things got bad for a while, to the point that our lives fell completely apart for a little bit there. I guess that’s a story for another day, but suffice it to say that, along with help from our families, one of the last gifts Thurston gave us is that we both finally sought treatment for our long-term issues with mental health. And things are going pretty well now.
I feel like we have both reached some measure of peace with his passing. It’s been hard and I still struggle just to see his little face sometimes. I definitely want to keep posting on his YouTube, but going through his videos is really hard for me as I’m sure you can imagine. I am getting closer to being able to do it though.
Thurston was not only a cat but a person to me. Maybe some people would say that are having this level of bond with a cat is unhealthy, but I’ve always believed that when you love it is something you should give freely, completely unrestrained. Because the consequences of regret from holding back love are far greater than the pain of loss later on when you’ve given with your whole heart. It’s worth it to just give! The love I have for Thurston still gives me joy to think about. It’s more important and stronger than the pain of his loss. And that’s really how I would like him to be remembered as a beautiful creature, a beautiful PERSON, that gave us lots of joy.
Every cat is spectacularly special and beautiful in their own way. Perhaps some of Thurston’s beautiful qualities are things you see reflected in your own cat. Or maybe your cat has their own special beauty that no one can see but you. So all I can say, is treasure that animal, and give them all your love. As every cat knows: they totally deserve it 😽
So after a lot of reflection, Shelli and I found we had more love to give. Our new house was completely cat-ified for Thurston anyhow, so we adopted two cats from local shelters. We are learning more about who each of them are so they can show us their own unique personalities. Their names are Nanners and Moon Pie
Anyhow, I hope this post finds you well! How was your year? Have any thoughts to share? I hope you’re doing well.
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Hiya Mae!! How are you?? It’s been a little bit but I was hoping I could request a poly!marauders fic (+plus Lily if you’re comfortable with doing that if not it’s fine). This week is the 6th anniversary of my brothers passing and this year is a bit harder as I’m turning 18. Having such a milestone coming up and him not being here is sorta making me sick. I was wondering if maybe you could base the fic off of that? Or something to do with grief and them helping reader out. I’ve found great comfort in the abundance of love you portray with their relationship and I could do with a lil of it.
If not it’s totally fine don’t feel obligated. Hope you have a good week!!
Hi sweetheart, sorry I couldn't get this to you during the week you requested it. I was also dealing with a bit of grief at the time and it felt too raw to try for a while. I hope you're doing well and that you really enjoy being 18, even if those feelings are complicated by your loss <33
cw: mentions of death, grief
poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 622 words
The sky is turning from deep blue to black outside when Sirus notices you’ve slipped into a melancholy.
The only hint of it is in your tone. You’ve been quipping about the film you’re all watching like you always do, bouncing off his and James’ comments and Remus’ amused grunts, but there’s a falsity to the cheer in your voice. This is something you and James have in common; when Sirius or Remus are upset it permeates the area around them like a thick fog, but the two of you have a way of keeping it contained within yourselves, putting on counterfeit smiles. Sirius often wonders if it doesn’t hurt you more.
He leans away from where he’s been resting his head on Remus’ pectoral, snaking an arm around your shoulders.
“Penny for your thoughts, pretty girl?” he asks quietly.
You shrug. Swallow. “Just thinking about them,” you murmur in reply.
Sirius suspects this isn’t the full story, but he, too, knows the necessity of papering over certain pains. He doesn’t pry.
Before the war—before Regulus—Sirius used to think that grief was the pain that came from the love you had for the lost person being ripped away from you. But even months after his brother’s death, all the love is still there. It’s amplified, if anything, every ounce of it demanding attention now that he can no longer take it for granted even a little bit.
What went was the ritual of it all. The peculiar brand of happiness he’d felt around Reg, never easy but still there, buried beneath layers of troubled history and shared broodiness. The inside jokes they’d barely realized they had, things no one who wasn’t raised in their house would see the humor in. The surety that if they fought, they’d get a chance to make up. Sirius will never have those things with his brother again. In memories, maybe, but now they’ll always be tinged with the love so big it hurts.
He wishes desperately he could keep you from hurting like that.
He shuffles closer, awkwardly wrapping his other arm around you until he’s nearly covering your body with his. It’s like he thinks he can shield you, like he can protect you from grief after he’d failed to protect you from loss.
“I’m sorry,” Sirius says.
You shake your head, turning so it’s jammed in the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Your face feels hot. “I don’t know what to do,” you choke out.
Sirius squeezes you tighter. He gets it, but he doesn’t. He knows how it feels to grieve, but not how to grieve your person in your way. It’s an ache he can only approximate.
“Sweetheart.” James’ voice sounds pained, and he gets up from Remus’ other side, rounding the couch to climb onto the armrest beside you. He rubs your back with one hand, the other coming to rest on Sirius shoulder, a comfort in case he needs it. “I don’t think there’s anything you can do, my love.”
Sirius feels a hot tear slip down his neck into his shirt, and James winces as your shoulders hitch under his touch. Remus makes a soft pitying sound.
“You’re alright.” He latches onto the last unclaimed part of you, rough hand soothing up your calf. “You’re okay.”
“Sorry,” you manage, and Sirius squishes you punishingly in his arms, pressing a staunch kiss to the side of your head.
“Don’t be silly,” he tells you. James makes a half-choked sound of agreement. “No sorries, okay?”
You nod, the bump of your nose moving against Sirius’ neck. He gives you another kiss to show his approval.
“You’re alright, darling,” Remus says again. “Take all the time you need. We’ve got you.”
#poly!marauders#poly!marauders x reader#poly!marauders x fem!reader#poly!marauders x you#poly!marauders x y/n#poly!marauders x self insert#poly!marauders fanfiction#poly!marauders fanfic#poly!marauders fic#poly!marauders hurt/comfort#poly!marauders angst#poly!marauders imagine#poly!marauders scenario#poly!marauders drabble#poly!marauders blurb#poly!marauders one shot#poly!marauders oneshot#james potter#james potter x reader#sirius black#sirius black x reader#remus lupin#remus lupin x reader#marauders#marauders fanfiction#marauders fandom#marauders era#hp marauders#the marauders#marauders x reader
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Shark Bait (Hongjoong)
Shark Hybrid!Hongjoong x Mermaid!Reader
Summary: Living in a world full of different creatures and humans, some mixed together, creating hybrids. You were just a mermaid though, an ancient tale from the sea. He was something every human feared, even merfolk feared. But you fell in love, how could it be so forbidden?
Warnings: Talks of species violence
AU: Hybrid
Genre: Fluff
WC: 900+ (unfinished)
Rated: PG-13 for violence
Nets: not tagging because I didn’t finish this story and I just want to get it out of my drafts.
“Mom, look at this thing I found! It looks like it was from the pirate era!” You shoved a goblet in front of your mothers face, “Must be some kind of cup?”
You pulled it back to examine it further. Your mother shook her head.
“Y/N, we talked about this, I understand you like your scavenging, you’re an adult you can do as you’d like, but please, take it somewhere else.” She folded her arms.
“I don’t like those human objects. They just bring misfortune.” Her tail swayed behind her.
You had rolled your eyes at him before clutching the found object to your chest, “And what misfortune do you speak of mother? It’s a cup.”
You loved living in the ocean, though, you had no idea what land life was like anyway. Still, you loved the shiny sea life, the coral, the seaweed, the little treasures you’d find at the bottom of the ocean.
Some you’d even bring to your little siblings, they’d love the gifts. Sometimes they’d even wanna go on a journey with you, but you or your parents would never allow it. They were still very young and there were dangers that lurked in the waters.
Despite being friendly with the sea life, there were still some that didn’t like you. The sharks for example, especially the great whites. They loved to harass the merfolk.
So you had to be careful when investigating ship wrecks, making sure there were no bodies. You always felt bad for the humans who got lost at sea, so you’d guide them back. However, there were always the bad humans, the ones that would try to capture you for your body, to take you as a trophy or a ‘pet’.
That didn’t stop you from loving your life and exploring. Your parents considering you to be adventurous, they always worried about you, scared you’d get hunted by a shiver of sharks. You never did though, you were always careful.
Your mother scoffed at you, she was almost seething with anger, "It doesn't matter, Y/N! You are always going into the dangerous waters without thinking! Just to get your stupid trinkets, that we have no use of! What, what are we gonna do with a goblet!" Her arms thrown up.
You couldn't understand why your mother was being like this, you were always safe, nothing had happened, ever.
“Y/N, please. Just listen to me. Your step father and I care for you and are worried of your adventures,” you could feel the ‘air’ turning somber, “I’ve never told you what actually happened to your father.”
After so many years, she was finally going to give you answers? And for what? Just to stop you from having fun? It isn’t right. You never grieved your fathers death, because you never met the dude. So what does his death have to do with anything?
Your mother took the goblet from your hands and brought you inside your cove home, "Listen, your father was the same way, he loved his little adventures, just as you do. That's where you got it from," she took a deep breath, "He'd always bring me little presents when I was pregnant with you."
She smiled as she recalled those delightful memories.
"But one day he didn't return. He was with some buddies, on yet another adventure for me presents. He wanted to some stuff for you to have."
You could see her emotions unraveling but continued to listen, "When he didn't return for hours, I was so scared. Then his friends came here. Without him."
"They told me they were attacked by sharks. Your father was the only who didn't make it. Said he distracted the sharks so they could get away."
At this point your mother had tears streaming down her face, even if you couldn't tell with the water.
When she wiped her tears away, she stared at you once again, "That is why I don't like your adventures. These attacks on our people are getting too common. I don't want to lose you, Y/N, you're all I have left of your father. I hated those trinkets after he passed."
-
Even after the talk with her, I still didn't care, I didn't know him. I was always careful anyway, never once have I come across a shark, maybe a nurse shark but they're friendly. It was the great whites, goblin sharks, tiger sharks and other sharks that were aggressive.
I had found another shipwreck, ways from the last one I discovered earlier, this looked fairly new, couldn't know exactly when it sank though.
It was a smaller boat, looked like one those humans partied on, what did they call it? Yacht, I think? Wonder how it got sunk.
Humans could be idiots when it came to anything.
I wedged myself inside, careful not to catch my tail on anything. There were a few shiny things, a small rectangle about the size of my hand, I think the humans called these phones, not too sure. It was useless underwater, so I just placed it back where I found it.
While searching for miscellaneous objects, I didn't realize the boat had been swarmed by sharks. My predator.
Once I had stopped searching, I turned to make my way out, only to be met with huge jaws, razor sharp teeth, and pale gray skin. A great white shark. The King of the seas.
I swam back further into the boat and in response the shark mauled the small entrance with its mouth, trying to get to me. Oh my god, I should've listened to my mother, now I am going to die just as my father did.
I cried out in fear, I didn't want to die.
As the shark approached me, something pushed it out of the way, I could hear shouts, "Back off! Didn't I tell you to stop killing the mermaids!"
You poked your head out in confusion, what was going on?
The figure swam up to me, I could finally figure out its features. It was a boy..about my age. He’s beautiful. However, he adorned a fin on his back and razor sharp teeth.
He held his hand up to me but I slowly swam back into the boat, “Hey! Wait, it’s okay! I’m not going to hurt you.”
He smiled, “My name is Hongjoong, I’m a shark-hybrid. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna do anything, I just wanna be your friend.”
UNFINISHED
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just some short and sweet pregnant!reader x daryl dixon (about 900 words)
please feel free to leave me feedback and show your support by reblogging!
warnings: pregnancy, mention of Lori, super sweet soft daryl and protective daryl
era: prison (season 3 episode 4 spoilers!!!!) (set specifically after woodbury joins the prison.)
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After watching Carl and Rick grieve after the loss of Lori when she gave birth to the youngest Grimes, you and Daryl swore you would be more careful when participating in intimate activities. It hadn’t ever been an issue with you two, and a baby was something you’d thought you never have to worry about. But as they say, one thing led to another, and here you are three months out from your last period, and two undoubtedly expired, yet strongly positive pregnancy tests tucked inside of Daryl’s pillowcase.
You and Daryl were anxious of course, yet elated at the thought of not only another little one running around the prison, but for them to be yours. Nights upon nights you and Daryl have stayed up far too long discussing baby names, having playful debates over whether it’ll be a boy or a girl, and secret words of love and admiration that fell through the two of your lips. You hadn’t yet told anyone, wanting it to be for just you and come out when you were ready, unlike the choice Lori had, but you had a feeling that your group had started to figure you out.
Maybe it was the way Daryl would give you his portion of dinner which led into a quiet argument about who needed it more. “Y’re eatin for two.” “And you need energy to keep the two of us safe.” Carol began giving you a bit more than everyone else, and that’s when you were sure she knew.
Or it could of been the way he was overly protective of you anytime Rick wanted you to go on a run or do anything for that matter. “Y/n will you go-” “Go where? I’ll do it.” “Daryl I’ve got it, I’ll be okay.” “No. Ya ain’t goin’. That’s final.” Rick instead began asking you to tend to the garden, so he might have had a suspicion as well.
It could have also been the way Daryl’s eyes watched you as you helped with Judith, the overwhelming love and longing in his eyes as you cradled the baby and sang to her softly as Beth watched from the sidelines. “You’re droolin more than the baby Daryl.” “Shut up.” Yeah, Beth definitely had an idea.
“I think we’re gonna have to tell everyone soon,” you told Daryl, as you slipped your night shirt over your head, turning back around to see his eyes already on you.
“If you’re ready,” he agreed.
“When you look at me like that, the whole world knows,” you said, making your way toward him to wrap your arms around his neck. His hands instinctively found your waist, looking down toward your stomach.
“Can’t help it, you’ve got a little bump too,” he breathed, a smile spreading on his lips. You smiled back, bringing your lips to his before flicking off the lamp and leading him to your makeshift mattress on the floor.
Soft whispers floated in the air, Daryl’s hand resting gently on your stomach, your hand lost in the growing locks that sat at the base of his neck. Your eyes closed as you took a deep breath, reveling in the smell of him that surrounded you.
“Ya alright?” Daryl questioned, his fingers that had found there way under your shirt rubbing small unidentifyable shapes over the tiny bump on your stomach. You nodded, blinking slowly before looking up at his concerned gaze, a sleepy smirk on your lips.
“More than,” you muttered, scooting over on the mattress so you were impossibly close to him. Digging your head into his chest, he let out a breathy chuckle as he repositioned his arms around you and the leg you had throw over his body, before placing a sweet kiss to your head. He felt the vibrations of your voice against his chest as you spoke but he rolled his eyes as he didn’t catch a single word you were saying.
“Ya know I can’t hear ya when you do this,” he teased, moving back slightly so your face was exposed. He didn’t miss the whine that left your lips as your contact separated and you looked up at him with a pout.
“Whatcha poutin’ for girl?” he asked, placing his hand on the side of your face.
“Was jus’ telling you I love you, didn’t mean I wanted you to go away.”
“ ‘M still right here sunshine, now come on, ya need sleep.” Before you could disagree, a yawn ripped from your throat, a light chuckle following from both you and the man in front of you. You nodded, pushing yourself up from the mattress to reach his lips and kiss him tenderly.
“Goodnight Dar,” you smiled before rubbing your tummy, “goodnight little guy.”
“Gonna be a girl,” he grumbled.
“Keep dreamin’ Dixon, ‘s mother’s intuition. We can always have another.” Daryl laughed again a light shake of his head.
“Let’s get through this one first, goodnight girls. Love ya both.” You rolled your eyes, kissing him once more before laying back down instantly falling asleep in the comfort of his arms.
#daryl x y/n#daryl x you#daryl x reader#daryl dixon#daryl dixion x reader#daryl dixon angst#the walking dead daryl#daryl dixon fluff#daryl dixion imagine#daryl dixon drabbles#daryl dixon fic#daryl dixon smut#pregnant!reader x daryl#the walking dead#twd#twd spoilers
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until forever falls apart | 01.
pairing: kim taehyung, reader
genre: angst, exes au.
warnings: emotional cheating, infidelity, swearing, detailed smut, chain smoking as a coping mechanism.
word count: 11.8k
description: you’ve never been much of a believer in the phrase ‘first love never dies’ but it seems as if the universe badly wants to prove it to you — and you’re absolutely and royally damned the moment you find out that the phrase holds truth.
or alternatively, you come as a stand-in photographer for your cousin’s prenup shoot and you find out that it’s your secret ex who’s about to get married, and kim taehyung really doesn’t make it any less easy for you.
01 | ongoing.
Love has always been easy for you — both falling into or getting out of it, but more of the latter, really.
However, there are things about this so-called ‘love’ that you don’t quite get — will probably never get — and it leaves you in a sticky position when friends come to ask advice that roots from such a concept.
It always ends in a snotty mess and a sigh of I don’t know why I came to you for this at the end anyway. It makes you feel like shit; a clueless, ignorant, wondering piece of shit because how is it that everyone seems to have been looking at love and defining it from a single different lens with a unified perspective, and you’re stuck at seeing it from the other endpoint.
It isn’t your fault you don’t assimilate hurt with loving, is it? It isn’t your fault that you don’t expect to clean up a colossal mess every time love comes to its end. And it most certainly isn’t your fault that when love ends, you let it go. It ended, and that’s that. For you, anyway. So, why exactly, do people fault you for having such a reaction at the conclusion of a relationship?
Why does it seem to be a taboo and something that’s unheard of when a month after a relationship ends, you find yourself not grieving over a love that’s lost? When and why does it seem to have become the standard to mope and pine and cry as if acceptance and moving on is an outlawed concept right after a relationship ends?
That’s because you’re a heartless, unfeeling bastard, that’s why, as your best friend, Jungkook, so likes to put it every single time. And maybe, it is the defeat and the eventual acceptance that people will never see things in your perspective that you just roll your eyes and move on with your day.
Love, for you, is something that ends when it ends. A wound that closes, heals. It leaves a scar, sure. You remember the hurt, yes. But the initial peak of pain wouldn’t be there again if it healed, would it.
With all that, you’ve become unsure — of what to do, of what to say, of how to act — when people lament over a lost love. Which, at this very moment, is what exactly your sister is doing.
All tears, snot, and hiccups under your blankets.
Sobs wrack her body in an uncontrollable shake, a vibrating mess under the sheets as you’re left to wonder what the fuck to do with your hands. But you never get the answer because she wails, head lifting from the blankets, “How could he do that to me? Six years, six years! Six years he threw away for what, a year of meaningless sex with his assistant?”
You don’t really think it’s meaningless when dear, dear respectable Hyunwoo decides to break off the engagement, but you keep your mouth shut and continue to awkwardly pat your sister’s back.
Your hand stills just an inch away from her back when she looks at you, wet eyes and mouth set in a downward curve, and whispers, “What should I do now?” She sniffles and you flinch. Because her goddamn snot is staining your bed but fuck, okay, you can’t think about that now, “I love him.”
You hesitate, weighing the words you’re about to speak in your head and thinking about the consequences before settling for a question, “You–you’re not thinking about giving him another shot if he asks for it, are you?”
At this, your sister remains silent and you sigh because yes, yes she will give him a chance in one heartbeat if the bastard do so much as give her a fucking petal and a printed ‘I’m sorry’ hallmark note.
“You don’t get it.”
Ah, there it is.
Of course, it’s always going to come down to you not getting it.
Maybe your sister sees it, the anger bubbling in your gaze as you glare at her, because she scrambles to sit down with her legs underneath her, knees parallel each other as she kneels on the bed facing you.
And it would have been funny, seeing your older sister like this, but the searing exasperation breaks through and you let it, mouth opening, “No, you don’t get it. See, this is not just a matter of moving the fuck on. He fucked you over, Hana, so much that there’s no amount of apology or groveling he can do to fix that. He fucked his assistant when he’s due to walk down the aisle in a year with you and if that doesn’t spell out how much respect he has for you, for our family, and you still choose to remain blind despite that, then you came to the wrong person because I won’t coddle you.”
“I care about you,” your voice softens and you see her shoulders slump, “This is not just about my once-it-ends-then-it-ends view on relationships. Hyunwoo did an unthinkable, unforgivable thing and there’s no going back from that. I’m not letting you walk back to the person who lacks respect for a relationship, much less for you. Do you get where I’m coming from?”
Hana nods meekly, head hanging low before you hear her sniffle once more. It hurts to see her like this and you want nothing more but to pummel the son of a bitch who did this to her, “I’m sorry.”
You shake your head and you let out a breath, all air knocked out from your lungs when she slumps forward, arms snaking around your shoulders as she pulls you in for a tight hug, the phrase of ‘thank you’ and ‘sorry’ a litany on her tongue. You squeak as her legs slither their way around you in a tight grip and she lets out a weak laugh that sounded much more like a wheeze before you push her off, feeling a wet blot on your shoulder.
“I want to be you for a day. Not like you,” she mutters as she gets comfortable on the pillows, your pillows, “But be you entirely. I want this pain to vanish in a week and just forget about him.”
She pauses, “Maybe after I key his car.”
The pain doesn’t vanish, you think and tell her. “I just learned how to deal with it, Hana. And it isn’t overnight that I do it. And you will get over it too. Heal from it. Someday, one day.”
The silence that follows is comforting, and you think she must’ve fallen asleep, just as most do after a good cry. But she hasn’t, you realize, when she rolls over once more and speaks in a quiet voice, “The way you are right now,” she pauses, only continuing when you give her a nod, “is it because of him?”
There are only a handful of people that could fit about who she means, you know that, but you refuse to speak of any of them and opt to ask her a question instead, “Which way that I am exactly are you referring to?”
“The closed-off you,” Hana replies, a soft tilt to her words, “I had a theory, you know, that you moved on so fast from the relationships you had after because you were never really invested in the people after him. That he broke you, enough for you to place that, whatever you have around your heart that doesn’t allow people to hurt you. You love other people, but you never really allow them to love you as much because of it which makes detachment and parting easier when it ends.”
You don’t really mean to, but the words Hana speaks are like a vacuum, drawing you into a place you’ve managed to tuck away in the very back of your mind. Memories rush in and you drown in it — of honey blond hair, rectangle smiles, and skin that smelled of oakmoss and jasmine.
“Am I right?”
You let out a laugh as you nudge a pillow towards your sister, “You and your unending theories. No, Hana. It’s not because of anyone in particular. This is just how I am, how I think. It’s just unfortunate that it's only the minority that shares the same sentiments as I do.”
Hana looks as if she’d try to refute before deciding against it, groaning when her phone rings and you raise an eyebrow because who in hell would be calling her at midnight. She shakes her head, twisting the phone around so you can see who’s calling and you see the word Studio and you shrug before she takes the call, only hearing snippets of the conversation and it seems as if it's about work.
Hana owns a photography studio — a hobby turned business venture with her friends. Your parents were against it initially, deeming it a ‘not suitable’ business for Hana, but your older sister is a head-strong bull and proceeded with her plans without a single support from your parents and of course, because she’s Hana Park, she can make anything succeed if she puts her mind to it.
“—yeah, you goof, I’ll be right there, don’t worry. Why are you so stressed about this anyway, is this your secret wedding or something?” You lie closer to your sister and she mouths ‘Jimin’ before returning to picking her nails, “I get it, okay. Stop freaking out, I promise to be there tomorrow. M’kay, bye.”
She heaves a dragged-out, exaggerated sigh just as she tosses her phone on the bed where it bounced, “You know, I’d assume it’s our dear brother’s prenuptial photoshoot tomorrow with the way he’s freaking out over the details. I’d actually think that if I didn’t know of him and his single ass and his emotional attachment to his bachelor title.”
“It’s Sunday tomorrow, and you’re booked because of that phone call,” You list, “So I can only assume Jimin knows one of them and used his connections to book your exclusive ass into working on a Sunday.”
Hana laughs, “You’re not wrong. Soyeon made the reservation for November, which is like, a month from now. Jimin moved it for tomorrow in such a rush last week for reasons I don’t know why.”
“Soyeon?” You gasp, eyes going wide, “You’re not talking about Yang Soyeon, are you? Oh my god, how did I not know about this?”
Your sister snorts, ungraceful and loud, “Who would have expected for the youngest cousin in the family to be the first one to be wed, huh? Date’s set for April next year and I don’t even know who she’s marrying,” But she pauses and a frown mars her features, “I would’ve been the first one to walk the aisle and yet, here I am.”
Wait.
“Hana,” you start, “aren’t you meeting Hyunwoo’s parents tomorrow for brunch? To formally call off the wedding? Isn’t that what you came here for tonight, because you were having second thoughts of actually calling it off tomorrow?”
You see the realization dawn upon her, her eyes widening in recognition of the planned confrontation, her mouth dropping to a comical shape of the letter ‘o’ before she sits up so fast you actually ask if her back’s okay and you hear the frantic hits of her nails against the glass of her phone, the worry leaking thickly in her voice as she speaks to multiple people, all of which ending in a frustrated sigh and groan from your older sister.
“Fuck!” she screams as she disconnects from a call once more, “I can’t find anyone to replace me, everyone’s either booked already or have plans for tomorrow. Fuck, shit, I’m screwed. Jimin’s going to kill me. No photographer’s available tomorrow, what am I going to do now, I—you.”
You still, nailed in place by her stare, “Fuck are you looking at me for?”
It’s in this moment you feel the doom coming down on you from all the corners of the universe when Hana smiles, actually feeling it that you shiver. She picks up the phone, calls Jimin, asks if 10 o’clock is okay for everyone to gather tomorrow, kisses your cheek good night.
Kiss of fucking death, you feel like.
You’re never a morning person — nor do you have plans to become one — and you aren’t used to being awakened by a goddamn wet, slimy tongue licking your face all over.
Hana’s laugh echoes around your room, followed by hushed good job from her and a shrill bark from her dog (you really did not know how Orion arrived here when the dog wasn’t even here last night), and you are never one to have thoughts of murder so early in the morning but your family has really been testing your limits. But then you remember that you willingly handed over to Hana the passcode to your apartment, something for emergencies and shit like that, but of course, she took it as an invitation to come and go as she pleases.
Fortunately, she cleans up after Orion’s mess, thank god.
Rolling over, you prepare to squint as protection against the glare of the sun since Hana had already pulled back the curtains, but you sit up at the lack of the sun’s intrusion into your eyes and see that the sun hasn’t even risen yet. The city that you can see through the glass window is quiet, still in deep sleep. As you should be just before Hana woke you up.
“Dad’s going to have a fit when I tell him what you’re blackmailing me to do,” you groan, falling back on your pillow, “I’m running his business and here you are making me take photos of people Dad hates, well, by extension.”
Hana does nothing but flash you a grin, “You’re the only one I can trust to be on par with my skills, honey. Besides, I already have Dad booked in the freaking out area ‘cause you know, I’m a bachelorette now.”
You roll your eyes and you move off your bed, making it neat and tidy to which Hana scoffs before grabbing the mug of cold coffee right from her hands and chugging it all down. Looks like you’ll need more than a cup with what you’re going to be faced with today.
“Is Jimin coming? My car’s in the mechanic, I’m getting it tomorrow.”
Hana nods before telling you just how far Jimin is from your apartment, “About Jimin, actually.” Your sister trails off and you feel an oncoming headache because of course, there’s more.
“I didn't exactly tell him I can’t make it today so I’m trusting you to, um, calm him down when he freaks? He’s only weak to your charms and absolutely immune to mine.”
Turns out a little while after that, Jimin’s absolutely immune to the both of you. Especially you.
“No, what the fuck. What—no.”
Jimin stands frozen, fingers gripping the edges of the kitchen island. His eyes are wide, mouth open in disbelief as he listens to Hana’s explanations of why she can’t go today, her eyes flashing as if to call you for help but you only shrug because there’s really nothing you can do to help her out of this. She made her own bed, might as well let her lie in it.
It irks you quite a bit though when Jimin starts to become unreasonable despite Hana’s crystal clear explanation as to why she’s unavailable today, and on a typical day, you know Jimin would understand, and would easily let it go because obviously, Hana’s life matters take precedence over a photoshoot that can be scheduled on a different day. Jimin today, however, is extra adamant on not having you take over the shoot and it might have very, just very slightly struck the wrong nerve in you.
“You know, Jimin, if this is a matter of your trust in my abilities, I’d gladly back out of this. I’m doing this as a favor to Hana, I’m not here to help you,” you quip, tight and low as you regard the both of them, “So, if you refuse to accept my help, then call your friend to find another photographer, better yet schedule another one with Hana.”
Hana starts to protest but Jimin shakes his head, turns to you with soft eyes and a pouting set of lips, “I’m sorry, that came off wrong. Really wrong. I swear I wasn’t trying to undermine your abilities, nor am I saying that there is anything to undermine because you’re good as shit at this, maybe even better than Hana, it’s just that—”
He cuts off his ramble mid-sentence as if to catch himself — to keep from spilling whatever his reservation about you being the stand-in for Hana, which you don’t really know what.
Three things about Jimin are these: he rambles when he’s extremely nervous, fidgets with his thumbs when he’s scared, and refuses to make any eye contact if he believes he’s done something wrong. It’s always one of the three when it comes to him and never altogether. And yet, he stands in front of you, doing all three simultaneously and your heart plummets to the marble flooring beneath you because what is he so scared of, really, to be like this in front of you.
“Look, if you don’t want me to do this, that’s okay,” You start to speak and Jimin turns to you and opens his mouth to speak when you shake your head. You aren’t finished speaking, “That is, if you have an alternative, if Soyeon agrees to reschedule, I’m sure Hana can fit them right in some other time—” You give a pointed look at your sister who rolls her eyes but nods, “—but if they don’t, you have no choice, Jimin. Unless you want to take the photos yourself.”
Jimin lets out a breath, agrees, and proceeds to call whoever he needs to and converses in a low tone that isn’t discernible to you, but Hana can hear and your eyebrows furrow in concern when her head turns so fast towards Jimin’s direction, panic clear-cut in her eyes as she picks up on whatever it is that Jimin is saying. She curses under her breath, turns ghostly pale before she pulls Jimin into one of the guest rooms, leaving you to your thoughts and your second cup of coffee.
“You kept this?”
It’s a good three minutes after that Jimin’s voice pulls you out of your trance — your attention previously held by the large black ant that is now on top of an apple. You turn and your breath hitches at the rough sketch of the overly-familiar Pomeranian in his right hand. You shrug, “Jungkook must have left it there when he came over.”
At this, Jimin raises his eyebrows. Stares at the picture a little bit too long before putting it back in place, under Jungkook’s purple-pink painting of a sunset, to the right of Jimin’s present two years before. He then looks at you, really looks at you, that you become unnerved enough to look away and pretend to busy yourself with some imaginary dust on the counter.
You know. You know how the framed sketch is too clean, too in place, and too taken care of to be something that your best friend accidentally left behind. And you know Jimin knows this too with the way his eyes turn to you and you fear. Fear that pity would be reflected in them and so you stand abruptly, deaf to the frantic calls of Hana and you head straight to the building basement and settle comfortably on the passenger seat of Jimin’s car.
You ran because you’re a coward — afraid to face questions you know you have no answers to.
Jimin enters not a minute later, silent and mum, but the silent looks your sibling keeps giving you is not something you miss no matter how discreet he tries to be about it. You brush it off though, citing the tense atmosphere to be the reason he’s doing so.
But little do you know that this is the first of the many mistakes you will be making — the tiniest among all others.
The theme is simple. Glamour, editorial-esque Vogue-spread motif. Fit for the rich. Something that exudes elegance and opulence. Classy, simple, and elegant. You nod as you skim through the print-out Hana rushes to get to you through one of her employees, one hand busy writing ideas and suggestions.
It warms your heart that despite all the things Hana has to face today, she hasn’t failed to make everything easier for you, as she always does. And everything’s in accordance, just as they should be. That is, except for one, someone. Jimin really cannot stop himself from shaking and you actually fear the poor boy is turning into a leaf, dancing in the wind, with how he physically cannot stop himself from moving.
You’ve had enough of it — his nervous fidgeting, the frantic scan of his eyes among the crowd, the unending bounce of his knees — so you move to approach him, just in time to pluck out the cigarette he’s about to light in his hand and he jumps, “Minie, you’re making me nervous here. I’ve seen you nervous but it’s never been this bad.”
Jimin looks at you and your chest constricts at the face he’s making. A beat, two beats before he lets out a shaky breath, “I’m sorry.”
You think of the exchange back at your apartment, the one where it came off as if he had no faith in you as Hana’s substitute and you let out a small laugh. You know Jimin would never think that. Flicking his chin, you shake your head, “It was me who took your words the wrong way, Min. You don’t need to apologize.”
He looks as if he wants to say more but a car pulls up, red and ostentatious with the way the roof is folded down, and you grin as you see your cousin, a matching upward curve to her lips.
It isn’t new, really, when you catch sight of her hair — beautiful shades of cotton candy pink and pastel blue glinting under the sun.
Beautiful, daring Soyeon, the darling of the Yangs.
You nearly meet your end, though, that day if it isn’t for Jimin cursing and pulling you back when Soyeon isn’t able to stop her car at the designated yellow parking line and she too squeaks a wheeze when she steps on the brakes. The car comes to a stop, and you see her breath does too, before she throws her head back and laughs.
“You’re fucking crazy.”
She sticks out her tongue before she jumps over the door, her flimsy taupe pants billowing after her. You only manage to let out a yelp of protest before she has you and Jimin in a bone-crushing hug and you feel your chest rasp to get some air in when she squeezes once more before finally letting go.
“This is a two-people marriage we’re having today, right? You’re not marrying yourself here?” You ask and laugh as she rolls her eyes. It’s definitely her thing and it wouldn’t be a surprise if she did. “I didn’t even know you were in a relationship and now you’re getting married?”
She shrugs, a wide smile still on her lips, “It just happened,” Her eyebrows furrow when she looks over at Jimin who’s uncharacteristically silent and nudges him, “I still won’t forgive you. I know my groom’s your best friend but it doesn’t really give you a free-pass to have him here at six in the morning to get you coffee. Who does that?”
You don’t really hear what Jimin has to say to her because you’re bidding your goodbye to them both when one of Hana’s assistants — the one she had assigned to brief you over all the details of today’s shoot — pulls you from the conversation, apology written all over her face at the thought of interrupting you but as soon as she open her mouth to speak, you dismiss it with an its okay and you signal for her to go ahead.
“This is the final list of the concepts Hana had brainstormed which one of the client is yet to choose from,” she hands you a thin stack of paper, a portfolio sandwiched between two clear binding covers, “The bride has already chosen the concepts she wants that are to be included for today’s shoot, so, all that's left is to hand the checklist to the groom for the shoot next week.”
Nodding, you skim through the portfolio and shit, it’s definitely good.
You’re whisked away towards the building, directed towards the seventh floor of the rented building in which you’re told Soyeon’s groom is, handpicking his outfits for the day.
You give the door a knock, hearing a bustle of people talking on the other side of the door, and when no one answers, you push the door open. You’re immediately greeted by a flurry of people walking back and forth, all of them either with stacks of paper in their arms or Brioni and Gucci suits in tow.
It’s a mess, a downright mess you want to run from because you haven’t ingested enough coffee to face this.
Which is exactly why you nearly cry when someone steps in front of you, a neat smile in place and a large cup of iced coffee in one hand, a hand extending towards you, “You look like you need this.”
He tilts his head once, gesturing inside the room, “I’m Yoongi, Min Yoongi. Jimin texted me earlier that his other sister is standing in for Hana and I assume that’s you.”
Something feels vaguely familiar about Min Yoongi and you list it off as a passing name Jimin had mentioned in the stories he had told you.
“There’s a meeting room on the very far left, grumpy groom’s there,” Yoongi smiles, “Nice meeting you, um—”
“(Y/N). My name’s (Y/N), nice to meet you too, Yoongi.”
You think as you walk that there’s no point in going over next week’s concept today since Hana can already make it by the next photoshoot and she would’ve understand better the dynamics of it all if they talk then, but okay, since you’re already here, might as well help all the way.
Through the frosted glass of the meeting room, you see a silhouette, tall and broad. You have never been a people-person and meeting new ones really isn’t your strong point so you take three deep breaths, hand tightening on the cup of coffee Yoongi handed you, before pushing the glass door open.
“Hi, I’m sorry I ran a bit late. It’s—”
And you stop.
You stop because you suddenly can’t feel the cold cup slipping from your grip. You stop because you feel the liquid pool at the very bottom of your shoes, sticky and wet and messy. You stop because you can’t breathe. You stop because your heart fucking stops too at the sight of Kim Taehyung.
Beautiful, dazzling Kim Taehyung.
First boyfriend, first love, now ex-lover, Kim Taehyung.
Soyeon’s groom and soon-to-be husband, Kim Taehyung.
“Everything okay here?” Yoongi. You hear his footsteps behind you before you see him and you can’t be thankful enough at the interference that’s very much needed.
But you allow yourself to be pathetic, just as you always are around Kim Taehyung. And because you can’t help it, frankly, when your eyes meet his and all sense that is good and common jumps out the window behind him. Because he looks fucking beautiful — him and his honey hair that’s now framing his face, a little bit longer, lighter. Because the room reeks of him, jasmine, vanilla, and oakmoss and it consumes you. The part of you that, despite it all, still longs for the Kim Taehyung from four years past.
On a good day and you meet him once more, you think you would have laughed. A fake smile and a head held high would’ve done it in front of him. But all it takes is one look now. One look, at the time when all your defenses are down, for the self-imposed chain that blocks it all to break and give, a domino effect in your mind as it all comes back; the whirlwind of feelings and emotions that the calamity of him brings forth.
You nod, feeling the light touch of Yoongi’s fingers around your arm, and you anchor yourself with it. Pull yourself from drowning in him once more. “Yeah, sorry,” You breathe, “It slipped. I’m really sorry.”
“No, no, it’s okay. I’ll have someone take care of it, don’t worry,” Yoongi waves you off when you bend down to start cleaning up your mess, nods toward Taehyung, “Go on, he gets grumpy if he’s left to wait.”
Oh, you know.
So, you do.
You drag your legs to where Taehyung stands, feeling like you’re hauling wet logs for limbs. It’s silent, save for the sound of Yoongi’s shoes against the floor as he kicks at the fallen blocks of ice, and maybe, he takes the silence for Taehyung’s bout of pettiness because he hisses a quiet behave before he walks out. The silence becomes even more suffocating when now it’s just you and Taehyung.
“So—”
“I—”
You shut your mouth when he speaks at the same time as you.
You decide, though, to continue because you’re here for one thing and that one thing entails that you have something to say to him. But he doesn’t, he shouldn’t.
“So, let’s talk about concepts. I’ve been told that Soyeon has already chosen the ones for today — for both your individual and couple shots, and you get to choose the ones for the shoot with Hana next week. Here,” you slide the portfolio across the table, taking a seat across his own without waiting for him, “Hana already made an outline for everything so, this, is basically a checklist you just have to choose from and—”
“How are you?”
“—I’m just going to wait until you’re done filling them out so I can bring them back and start with—”
“(Y/N).” You finally look at him then and you look away the second you do because you’re trying so hard to keep yourself whole and you feel like one second more in his gaze and you’ll fall apart, “I’m sorry.”
And you try. God, you try so hard to repress the tiny, evil voice that pushes you to throw reason out the window. But it comes out anyway, and there’s no stopping what flows out of your mouth after, “Why,” you laugh, “Sorry because you wouldn't have chosen Hana's studio if you knew I was the one to take your photos? Or sorry because you had my brother acting like a train wreck just to keep this from me? Don’t worry I won’t be here next week.”
His face pinches, tongue rolling out to wet his lips, “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Then don’t apologize to me—” you grit, fists clenched and heart thundering, “—as if you assumed that seeing you has put me in a position that hurt me. Because it really doesn’t. Not anymore, Taehyung. So if you have anything to apologize for—”
You cut yourself off because no, no he has nothing to apologize for. He doesn’t have to say sorry. One person deciding to walk out of a relationship doesn’t warrant an apology from them. An explanation, sure, but you don’t really need it from him. He made it clear enough all those years ago just before he slammed the door of your apartment shut that he just didn’t love you enough — not anymore then.
It’s been four years. It’s been four long years and you should be over him — and you are, you’re certain that you are. But it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt because it does, fuck, it still hurts so much and you don’t know why.
“—apologize to Jimin because I just know he feels like shit for lying to me because of you.”
You commit your second mistake that same day in the middle of shooting Taehyung’s individual photos. Soyeon had gone for a nature theme this time and so you find yourself in the middle of the forest with a near-naked Taehyung in tow and thank heavens it rains because one more glimpse through the viewfinder at his well-oiled torso and you might have combust and run away from the photoshoot, Hana’s reputation be damned.
Jimin seems to be attached to you now, becoming a human magnet not long after he had apologized so much he knelt, snuggling to your side every chance he gets that it’s suffocating you because he’s overcompensating but you don’t really have the heart to call him out. Not when he looks like a puppy whose tail got accidentally stepped on when you get around to even do so much as try.
So, you let him become your shadow for the time being, finally letting out a huge breath of relief when lunch time comes around and everybody takes a break and you slip past him to the very back of the dilapidated cabin you stumbled upon just before the last shoot ended, not too deep into the forest that faces the river.
Finally, you think, as you savor the peace, even though momentary. You’re glad to be away from the commotion and it makes you realize once more why you choose to be cooped up in an office. It’s because you really can’t handle this many people and it physically and emotionally drains you that you can’t think.
You pause when you reach into your pockets, the gritty warning from Hana and Jimin an alarm ricocheting in your mind how it’s an unhealthy habit and it’s going to fucking ruin you someday. But the short-lived guilt is replaced by justifications of how it’ll be a free-pass and your siblings can fuck off because they’re the reason you’re here in the first place.
Besides, burning through one stick won’t hurt them if they don't know.
So you let your fingers feel for the familiar leather case, pull the only stick inside and you’re so, so close to reaching your sweet release from this damned mental pressure when you realize you left your lighter at home. Letting out a curse, you clamp your mouth around the unlit cigarette, letting it hang and opting to indulge in its semi-sweet smell that goes so well with the rain.
“Want a light?”
You still, the cigarette falling from your lips at the sudden fright. Down, down, and down until it’s washed away by the rain. What a waste, you lament. Sighing, you turn and see Taehyung who’s sporting a sheepish smile, the same familiar white in between his own mouth, lit unlike yours, “I’d accept, but there’s really nothing that needs lighting anymore.”
He has a shirt on now, you notice, flimsy and buttoned up halfway. His hair is tousled messily, now free from the rigid form it previously had, and you give him your back when you feel the urge to fix the fraction of hair that has fallen forward. You hear him take a drag and you smell before you see the tendrils of gray smoke when he releases and god, the small whiff, even in the tiniest fume, has your shoulder relaxing.
“I’d offer one but I don’t have any spare with me,” you hear him say before you feel him move, “I’ll get the fallen one for you, if you want.”
You roll your eyes and wave him off before you see him lean against the other column, the change in position means that he’s now closer, closer than he’s ever been since the day you last saw him, years ago. And he’s close enough that the thin material of his shirt brushes against your hoodie when the wind moves. And you want to move too, only if it isn’t for the fact that one move and you’ll either fall into the river or be skewered by the worn down wood and you don’t really feel like dying today.
Ironic, how you went for a smoke break to relieve the stress of the day, only to have it doubled.
Now, this is where you make the second mistake.
Because you really don’t mean to stare at Taehyung. You don’t mean to let your stare at his mouth linger a second too long that he sees. It’s just unfortunate that the cigarette is in his mouth, and you stay fixated on the damn cigarette that you fail to see him catch your gaze and hold it.
It’s unfortunate that you don’t take a step back when he takes one step forward.
It’s unfortunate that you become pliant when his cold fingers softly grip your chin, coaxing your mouth to open and welcome the smoke that he blows from his own mouth, hot and intoxicating and tinged with the memories of all the nights past that he’s done this.
It’s unfortunate that you take a long drag when he places the soft end of the cigarette from his mouth to yours, unhesitating and eager.
“Feeling better?” He asks, gentle as he pulls the stick, planting it back to the hold of his mouth. You see a slight upward curve at the corners of it.
This is bad. Wrong and unacceptable and absolutely inappropriate, you know. But you can’t help but accept when he offers one more drag, an offer of release. This time you pluck it out from his fingers, feel the warmth of him around the smoke, and inhale.
It’s only when the embers die out that you feel it, the heavy feeling coming back tenfold as you realize the gravity of what you just did. Not for anyone else, but for you. The toll this will have on you when you go home and have all the time in the world to think about your stupidity. So before you get sucked into the void of self-destruction, you excuse yourself, not caring about the delicate drops of rain that fall but not before you turn back and shout your thanks.
“Okay, you shared a smoke, so what,” you mutter to yourself as you dry yourself off. You’re two people who share a history, a history that’s now dead and gone. A flame that was once bright but has now burned out, never to be rekindled again.
You enter the building with thoughts of rationalization that tries to justify what you’ve done as something harmless, clouding your mind enough that you don’t see Jimin barrel towards you with a smile on his face, only to be replaced with disgust when he breathes and chokes at the ghost of smoke that clings to your clothes.
He rummages through a nearby luggage and returns with a bottle of perfume, “If you want your head still attached to your shoulders by tonight, you’d know better and douse yourself in that shit because Hana’s here to take over and you only have two minutes to shove Listerine down your throat before she finds you.”
In the haste of trying to avert your sister’s wrath, you damn near shower the entire contents of the bottle, only to realize that night when you come home that despite the endless showers you take, you still smell like him. Because of all people, Jimin just had to take from Taehyung’s things and now you’re doused with him all over again.
It’s later that night that you’ll fall asleep to the smell of jasmine and vanilla despite years of trying so hard to rid your apartment of any scents.
Of any trace of Kim Taehyung.
The third and fourth mistake, you make five days later. A Friday that you’re miraculously off work early. Well, technically, you can get off whenever you want but as the faithful, loving, and overworking youngest child that you are, you’ve assimilated longer hours at your father’s company to productivity and so you’ve never really found reason to clock off early when you can do so much more if you stay a bit later than most.
Besides, the company won’t run by itself, so there’s that.
Now, though, you wonder why you thought like that because as you walk down the street, everything looks divine. The setting sun settles on the horizon, sandwiched between two skyscrapers, bleeding purple and orange and pink and it’s breathtaking. Painfully so. For the first time, you indulge yourself in the sounds of the busy city and for a change, it’s peaceful despite the loudness. You can’t remember the last time you took a stroll like this, having been so immersed in work. The last time you walked down the street the like had been years ago, with—
The breath you take is sharp and sudden that it has you bent over on the sidewalk, coughing and wheezing your lungs out that people start to look. You flash a smile, sending a quick thanks to your sister’s ex-lover for choosing to establish the studio within a five-minute walk from the company building, and nearly combusting on the spot when you pull their glass door that clearly says push right after you nearly heave your lungs out from climbing 10 sets of stairs because the elevator isn’t working, coincidentally.
“Hey,” you greet the people on the lounge before specifically turning to Younha — the one who had walked you through everything on the previous shoot, “Is Hana here? I have the initial photos ready if she wants to see. Played around and edited most of them.”
Younha looks sheepish as she raises her hand to her nape where she nervously scratches, “About that,” she grimaces, “Hana phoned earlier that she’s running a bit late tonight so she told me to look over the photos and pick the final ones with the client, but I don’t trust myself enough to do that just yet, so would it be okay if we go through it together?”
You assure her it’s okay. And really, it is, because you’ve finished work anyway and it’s a Saturday tomorrow. You can afford to be late an hour or so. You watch her plug the USB on one of the computers lined up against the wall, see her gasp when she pulls up the photos.
“Oh my god, these are beautiful. You’re telling me you shot each of these by yourself, edited them all on your own, all in less than a week,” Younha turns to you, eyes wide, “Can’t you come and work with us?”
You laugh, genuine and loud, “The raw files were already beautiful untouched. Just touched up some lighting here and there.”
“Yeah, and who took those raw shots, hm? Who coordinated every single thing that resulted in those shots looking like that? You, that’s who,” Younha seems to realize who she’s talking to and she blushes before muttering something else you can’t hear, “Also, about Hana—”
Uh-oh. This can’t be good.
“—so she told me earlier if I can pick out the final photos with the client, right? And since you’re here,” Younha trails off and you still there is no way, no way that you’re going to sit hours dissecting each photo with Soyeon, worse if it’s Taehyung. You have your pride and you’ll cling to that even if it’s the last thing you do in this world.
No way in hell. “Hana’s on her way here, right? I think she can make it.”
Younha nods, a low hum before she answers, “She can. In two hours. Maybe. Not sure. Our client, however—” She tilts her head to the right. Towards the direction of Hana’s office. “—is here.”
It’s a sigh of defeat you let out. Walking away from here means you admit you’re a coward, walking in Hana’s office will mean you’re weak. See, it’s always a lose-lose thing for you everytime a certain Kim is involved. The very, and only, Kim who seems to be haunting every part of your daily life the past five days. Or in this current case, a future Kim but a Kim nonetheless.
Younha smiles, the sly fox, when you place your bag back down on the table, “If I’m going to stay here for the night, might as well ask for coffee. Lots and lots of it.”
You only barely get the full sentence out but Younha is already on her heels with a mock salute.
You push the door to Hana’s office, making sure (twice) not to pull this time, and your eyes land on Kim Taehyung whose eyebrows rise in surprise upon seeing you. If he thinks you’re meaning to keep on meeting him like this, well, he’s wrong. The universe likes to spring surprises down your path of life and it just so happens that for now, Kim Taehyung might be its play thing — to torment you with, most probably.
He sits on the couch that rests against the white wall, beside the windows that occupy the whole one side of the room that overlooks the city. Hana’s office is more like her office and a miniature studio, exclusive for her and whoever she decides to let in here, separate from the lounge and the main studio. It’s an industrial loft, made modern and more suited to her taste and it’s just so goddamn bright in here, you realize.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” you mutter as the door clicks shut behind you.
You head straight to Hana’s computer, turning it on and plugging the USB before you plop down on the office chair. “I had the photos with me and I dropped by to leave it for Hana but she apparently has things to attend to for the next two hours and you’re here already so, yeah.”
Taehyung only nods, silent and awkward when he stands.
You sigh, “Grab a chair and come here, I guess. We have, like, a thousand photos to sift through. See if you’d like any changes done to them. The earlier we finish, the better.”
Three hours pass after that and you’re left with no Hana in sight, 325 file numbers listed down, a faint headache and tired eyes, a hungry stomach, and three accidental brushes of Taehyung’s hair on your cheek because what before is a ruler-long distance between the two of you has been reduced to mere centimeters, and Jesus Christ, you don’t know who moved between the two of you that it has come to such. You’re firm to say it isn’t you because your ass remains frozen, stiff as a board everytime Taehyung does so much as inhale.
“Can you—” Taehyung clears his throat, pointing to the keyboard, “—move to the next one, please.”
You mutter an apology, pressing the right arrow and you see the photo move. Frankly, you aren’t paying attention. Not to anything, least of all the photos. It’ll be like knocking consciously on Hell’s door if you do pay attention.
Because you can take being around Taehyung, you can easily detach yourself from reality when you are — and not feel anything, to look at him alone and think of him as an ex-friend, an ex-lover without the rest of the titles attached. But to look at the photos, the pictures you took, there’s no detaching from that reality. The reality that the man you had feelings for — might still have feelings for, but you push that thought back — is getting married, of all things.
And you list this off as feeling weird, an ex marrying a cousin. You aren’t jealous, god, no. It’s just that — weird. Well, you think.
“Okay, I can’t take this anymore,” Taehyung breathes and you still, unmoving as the statue on the corner of the room, “I’m going to order Chinese. I’m not going to last the rest of these photos if I don’t eat. Anything you want?”
He might as well have slammed the mouse he’s holding with the way he casually lets it fall off from his hand to the table, leaning back on his chair and oh god, his head is leaning on the back of your chair. One move of your shoulder and the back of it will touch the side of his head. He has his phone over his head, elbows hanging in the air as he opens his phone with a click. He hums as he scrolls and this is so, so painfully domestic that you struggle to breathe.
It’s been push and pull the whole night. He asks, you answer, and never the other way.
Fifteen minutes that you’re plunged in deafening silence and you punch the air in your mind when Younha knocks, take-away bags at hand and a smile on her face.
Taehyung hands you your food, places the utensils in neat order, pokes the straw through your bubble tea and gently places it in front of you and you stare. You stare because never in your life did you ever think you and Taehyung would ever be in this situation. Toeing around each other, walking on eggshells.
There had been a time that silence wasn’t an option — it’s either you filled the quiet or he did; mouths off about Pokemon and stickers and dogs he met on a certain day, or silence filled with wordless communication through flesh and skin and heavy breaths.
Never this — a fragile silence that no words could ever fill. But of course, Taehyung knows how to break that. Break you when he speaks, “I think we’ll have this one framed for the reception.”
You blink at the photo on the monitor, big and taunting. In it, Taehyung smiles, a wide rectangle stretch of his mouth as his chin rests on top of Soyeon’s head, the latter leaning her weight on Taehyung. It’s evident, palpable even, the happiness that’s shared between them. A running joke between the two of them captured on a permanent photograph only they can understand.
“Yeah,” you nod, a smile, or an attempt at it, stretching your lips, “it’s beautiful. Definitely worthy for the reception. You can hang it in your home after.”
It’s an instinct – you’d like to believe so – when you feel Taehyung move beside you and you mindlessly mirror him, freezing the moment you take in the miniscule space that’s left as you both huddle to look at the monitor. A good couple inches you can count on one hand. And you refuse to move away because no, this is not at all affecting you. And it’s Taehyung, you justify, who’s currently invading your space.
The third mistake is when you try to steal a glance at the corner of your eye because you think he’s engrossed with the picture.
But then you see that he isn’t. Not when his stare locks with yours the moment your eyes move. Had been on you all this time.
The fourth is when he moves and you don’t.
Not when his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth to wipe whatever it is he sees there.
Not when he flashes you a smile – something so fond and warm and tender that renders you mute.
Not when he succumbs to sleep an hour later, head lolling on your shoulder.
But the entire world moves when he stirs and the overhead lights hit something golden. It crumbles and caves beneath your feet when a locket falls out of the top of his loosely buttoned shirt. An identical locket to the one that now sits heavy on your chest – once heavy with the broken promises, but now empty of the love that first came with it.
You see his forehead wrinkle as he slowly wakes and you feel the start of the burn that first settles on your chest before it moves and starts from the corners of your eyes. You train your eyes on the monitor, fingers clicking away on the mouse and the keyboard faster than ever.
“I’m sorry,” you hear him say. His head stays on your shoulder as he speaks. “What time is it?”
“Quarter before ten—”
“I missed you,” he breathes and you hear him let out a soft laugh before he whispers, “I always miss you.”
It feels as if all the air in your lungs has been knocked out and you turn to speak when you see that he’s fallen back asleep. And god, you wanted to shout at him, let out the years of pent up frustration and grudge you’ve had all these past years and ask all the unanswered whys and hows. But looking at him now, after so, so long, you realize you do too.
A tear drops and a multitude of realizations follow.
You missed him. You missed him. You miss him.
And fuck, you’re still in love with him, you realize. So much and enough to make you not think of the consequences of the realization that you do.
Not when his fiancée finally comes and places a chaste kiss on his lips.
Not when a wedding invitation lands itself on the desk towards you.
And especially not when the ghost of him lingers when they’re gone and you find yourself praying for it to stay just a little bit longer.
You did not plan for your Friday night to be like this at all.
The initial – and final – plan was this: show up to the club your sister wanted you to show up to, make it look like you’re genuinely happy to be there, flee the moment midnight hits when your sister and her friends are too drunk to realize you aren’t there anymore, and sleep away in the solace your tranquil and quiet apartment offers.
The night and plan had been going well, much to your delight.
Just until the fleeing part, that is. Because the moment you press the unlock button to your car half past one in the morning, you see a very drunk Kim Taehyung eagle spread on the hood of your car, with only a rumpled halfway-buttoned shirt that’s tucked into his pants, one of his shoes already on the roof of the Mercedes.
And so instead of proceeding to the sleeping part of your plan, here you are now, struggling under the weight of Taehyung as you try to push in all his limbs in the passenger seat because he refuses to go away. Why, of all people, must you be the one to find him like this? Other people would’ve paid no mind leaving him on the pavement but of course, the universe had to make sure it just had to be you because old, cruel fate had it out for you and your demise.
Two weeks spent in isolation from the rest of the world in an attempt to justify and get over the realization you had of still being in love with an ex and the world just dumps him in the hood of your car of all cars.
“Kim Taehyung, I am not above violence, I will fucking knock you out if I have to if you step your foot out and kick me once more, for the love of god,” you heave, “Are you with Jimin?”
At this, he grins and nods, eyes half-closed, “Jimin went home. I think. Or wait, maybe he’s passed out in Yoongi’s tub. I think. I don’t know, do you think he’s still here? Wait, do you know Jimin? How do you know Jimin?”
You sigh, “Give me your phone. I’ll get Soyeon to pick your ass up.”
Taehyung lets out a loud gasp, proceeds to choke on air before he looks up at you, “How do you know my girlfriend?”
You pause for a second before rolling your eyes, “Phone.”
“It’s in my left pocket, can you get it for me? I’m so tired,” he whines, wincing as his head lands on the head rest. You reach over to pull his phone out, only to retrieve a pack of cigarettes but no phone. You freeze when his hand grips your wrist that’s still in his pocket, feeling your heartbeat in your ears when he leans forward, so close that you feel his breath on your cheek, “Butt pocket, sorry.”
You take a deep breath as he continues to look at you with a grin. You move closer, angling your head away because you would be fucking cheek-to-cheek if you don’t and you pause just before you touch his back pocket, “No, you know what, you can get it yourself. Either that or I leave you out here on the streets.”
Taehyung pouts but he moves his arm behind him nonetheless, proceeds to feel his other pocket when he finds the first one empty.
“My phone’s gone,” he huffs, “Oh! It’s in Minnie’s car!”
You let out a loud groan, rounding the car to open the driver’s side to look for your bag so you could use your phone and you let out another sound of frustration, louder this time, when you remember the picture of a beige bag being left underneath your couch’s pillow. You look over at Taehyung, a war in your head as to what to do with him, before you finally settle on the choice that you never, ever think you would’ve made.
“Fine,” you grit as you turn the engine on, “I’m going to drop you off your house but I’m not gonna be held accountable for the reasons you’re going to have to explain to your girlfriend if she greets your drunk ass as to why the fuck her cousin’s dropping her fiance off, alright? Now, are you still staying in the same apartment ‘cause I’m going to drop you–”
Taehyung snores, body folding in on himself as he slightly shivers. You sigh, dropping your forehead on the steering wheel, enough to hurt and make the horn whine, “This is fucking unbelievable. I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“Hey, Taehyung,” you shake him, poking his shoulders the way you know he hates, “Wake up and tell me your address, asshole. I’m not driving to the other side of the city only to find out you changed address. Hey.”
He makes the tiniest wave of his arm before he goes back to sleep.
You glance at the clock that says it’s now nearing three in the morning and you run your hands over your face because fuck this.
Now, you head to your apartment with the plan of just dumping Taehyung in the foyer and letting him sleep there until he has his mind back in the morning – you figure he’d probably run off the minute he wakes up.
“Hey, wake up.” You nudge him when you arrive and you sigh once more as he merely stirs, opening his side of the door before attempting to move out of the car only to heave when the seatbelt he still has on pulls him back.
With a grimace, you round to his side and lug one of his arms around your shoulders and basically carry all of his weight towards the elevator. You give a tight smile to the staff at the reception as you pass by, dismissing the offer of help. You nearly drop to your knees as soon as the elevator doors close, exhaustion flooding you all of a sudden.
As soon as the door opens to the penthouse, you remove your hold on Taehyung and he slumps against the wall. You let out a breath before pushing him to one of the guest rooms where he immediately plops down on the bed after knocking his shoes off. A small smile plants itself on your face and you reach over to pull the covers over him.
Kneeling down on the floor beside the bed, you brush off the loose hairs that cover his face and you whisper, “You’re making it so hard for me.”
Deciding that you’ve helped him enough, you head to your room to change and shower – a long bout of internal battle against yourself as you try to wash off all that happened.
It is an hour later when you’re already in your bed, tossing and turning that you find yourself a long way from sleep, and so you push the covers off of you to head towards the kitchen to find something to drink. The sun is starting to rise, you see, as you stare at the large windows, uneasy at the thought that Taehyung is there. Here.
And you know you shouldn’t care anymore. You’ve done enough and beyond to help him, you remind yourself. But that doesn’t matter, really, because here you are, pushing the guest room open to check on him, a bottle of water in hand. He remains as he was the second he got here and you sigh as you pull one of Jungkook’s shirt and sweatpants from the cabinet, a spare he leaves in the case he unintentionally sleeps over, and you walk towards Taehyung before slowly shaking him awake.
“Hey,” you speak softly as his eyes crack open, mind still swimming in alcohol, “you should change into this. Your clothes must be uncomfortable to sleep in. Here’s some water too.”
His eyes open a little bit wider, voice hoarse when he speaks, “(Y/N)?”
You swallow, “Yeah, it’s me.”
“I can’t remember most of tonight, how did I—”
You smile, “And you probably won’t remember all of this when you sleep once more. Just change and drink this, Taehyung.”
A part of why you’re doing all the things you’re doing is the fact that you know he will forget this.
He sits up, swaying as he does so, twisting the water open. You greet him good night, and just as you turn to head back to sleep, his hand dart out to grip your wrist – as tight as the grip that has your heart beating so loud in your chest as he does, “I’m sorry.”
Without turning around, you answer, “You don’t have to be. I would’ve done the same for anyone else.”
“No, you wouldn’t have.”
Pressing your tongue against your cheek, you rip your arm away from his hold, now turning around to face him. He slowly stands, eyes trained on you. You open your mouth to speak but he beats you to it, “I’m not saying sorry just because of tonight,” he speaks quietly, “This is an apology that’s long overdue. An apology I never had the courage to give you. An apology that I owe you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being the coward that walked away without an explanation. For not being the person I promised you I would be.”
“I told you,” you say through gritted teeth, “You don’t owe me an apology, Taehyung. It’s over and done with. Apologizing to me would mean that there’s still loose ends between us, and I’m telling you that there’s none. You may have burnt those ends the moment you walked away and I have burned mine in the years that followed. You don’t owe me anything.”
He’s closer now, so close that you feel yourself getting overwhelmed by the smell of alcohol and his perfume. “Then why are you still wearing this?”
You feel all the walls come down, then, when his fingers trace the golden chain of the locket. The once emblem of young and promised love, of an oath, of Kim Taehyung. The necklace that never was once removed from you since then.
You chuckle, bitter and harsh, “You’re still wearing it too, Kim.”
You flinch as you feel the pad of his thumb wipe away at the trail of tears that has somehow escaped, “Leaving you was the only choice I had then. It killed me to walk right out of that fucking door but it was the only choice. For you, for me, for us. Even if it meant me becoming the asshole, it was the only choice.”
“Don’t feed me that bullshit, you left me. And in my vocabulary and everyone else’s, leaving the person you claim to love without a single explanation is a shit move,” you nearly damn snarled, “I could’ve accepted you telling me you didn’t love me anymore but you fucking walked out without a single word. Well, I guess it worked out great for you, huh? You’re getting married now.”
“I did l—”
“Don’t fucking dare say it,” you sob, feeling all the energy draining out of you in a second, “You’re four years too late, Taehyung.”
The chains that hold all the hurt and grievance of the past four years had been unlocked and with the thought of Taehyung not being able to remember this tomorrow, you let it all out.
“I lied,” you whisper, lips and chest shaking as you breathe, “It hurts me seeing you now. So fucking much. Because you never wanted to get married. I remember when we were together you said that we could live without the titles, the labels, and the technicalities of it all, because you’d love me the same. So yes, it hurts. I can’t deny that it does when the things you didn’t want with me, things I wanted to have with you, you learned to want with someone else. Shit like this hurts because even if I was okay without all the titles, I thought then that spending a lifetime with you wouldn’t be so bad. But you made it seem like you never wanted marriage, not with anyone ever and so I accepted it, content even with just being with you.”
“But then you show up like this,” you say so quietly you don’t know if he can hear it, “You can’t expect it not to hurt, Tae, because it does. So, so much.”
“I’m sorry,” Taehyung lightly rests his forehead on yours, “I’m so sorry.”
“Answer me this one question,” you look up at him, “Please.”
You feel him nod, “Anything.”
You feel it again, the suffocating claws that grips around your chest, the pain of unanswered questions and doubts, “Was my love not enough for you?”
You feel it before you hear it, when he nods against your head, hands coming up to hold your cheeks, “No, no, god, no. It was more than enough. It was so much more than enough that you became someone who didn’t deserve someone who couldn’t reciprocate the amount of love you were giving me. I’m sorry.”
“I miss you, Tae.” You whisper, and you can barely see him through the tears, “And it’s so, so wrong and I shouldn’t be doing this but fuck, I do. Four years and I still miss you and now you’re here, back in my life, and yet you’re still the farthest you’ve ever been from me.”
Maybe it’s the realization that he is – so far away from you and will never be close enough anymore – that you think maybe this is the long-awaited end. The closure you’ve once longed for but never had. Maybe there really was no reason for him leaving you beyond the fact that he didn’t love you anymore – and maybe that was enough reason. You just didn’t want to accept that fact. Maybe it’s time that you do.
After Taehyung, you’ve become someone who believed that love is something that’s easy to let go, when in fact, all this time, it is the love you had for Taehyung you’ve never let go of. And maybe, it was never love for the people that came after him and so it became easy for you once it’s over, once it ended. Because what has started that really counted has never reached its end, for you anyway. Because it will never be the same.
Because they weren’t Kim Taehyung.
“Don’t cry for me. I don’t deserve it,” he smiles a small smile as he wipes a tear away.
“Then stop making me cry, asshole,” you softly retort, hands coming up to wrap around his own to pull them away from your face. You can’t think straight when he has his hands on you, “I’m not asking for you to love me again, not anymore. Maybe we could be friends?”
It’s a weak attempt at humor, you know. And you really don’t think you can be just friends with Taehyung. But you’re weak for Kim Taehyung and you’re still so fucking in love him that you’d settle for whatever there can be between the two of you. He doesn’t need to know the specifics.
“Can we, really?” He laughs softly, a sad smile appearing, “I’m about to do something very stupid, for the very last time, so please, stop me if you don’t want to because I don’t think I can stop myself.”
He leans forward as the inches between you decrease down to a zero, his lips pressing against your cheek, your forehead, your eyelid, and to the corner of your mouth before he pulls away. “No, you had something to drink too, I’m drunk, you’re drunk. I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking, ” Taehyung breathes against your cheek, eyes shut tight.
“I’m not.”
Whether that’s an answer that refutes your state of intoxication or a statement that debunks Taehyung’s apology, you don’t know. Because the next moment finds you pulling him forward, arms snaking around his shoulders as you kiss him. Soft and unhurried and sad – a declaration of what had remained unsaid for the past years.
The last time, you swear, and from tomorrow then on, you’re going to be friends. This night will be void – forgotten and discarded. Taehyung is going to continue with his life and you with yours.
It’s so easy to become so lost in Taehyung that you forget the rest of the world.
That you don’t hear the sound of the door opening.
Or the second set of drunk footsteps that follows the first one.
“What in the fuck is going on here?”
#bts#bts fiction#kimtaehyung#kim taehyung#taehyung fanfiction#taehyung fanfic#taehyung smut#kth fanfic#kim taehyung angst#angst#bts angst#taehyung angst au#taehyung fic#bts x reader#taehyung x reader#taehyung#taehyung imagines#bts taehyung#taehyung angst#bts v#kingminie#until forever falls apart
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swan song — satoru gojo
summary — why work so hard when you could just be free?
pairing — satoru gojo x f!reader
warnings — major jjk spoilers, graphic depictions of violence, hurt/comfort, angst, happy endings, reader has a cursed technique (mentioned once), established relationship
word count — 1.3k
author’s note — based on swan song by lana del rey. this is the most self indulgent selfship coded thing i’ve ever written but i needed to give gojo the happy ending he deserved idc if its cheesy or out of character
He’s dead.
Dead.
The strongest. Dead.
Satoru Gojo is dead.
A flash, then his body becomes two — legs here, torso there.
He’s not moving. Scarlet splatters the ground, blooms like a lily.
The air is disgustingly thick, and it hangs like a noose, and it cuts your throat. Nobody is breathing. Everybody knows.
This time, he’s not getting back up.
A scream claws its way out of your throat, vicious as it pierces through the air.
Someone else is stepping up to replace him already, a sorcerer with hair like seafoam. The King of Curses turns towards him, his stolen face twisting into a demonic grin, dripping with victory.
Right now there’s just one thing on your mind. Like instinct, like it’s your destiny. You don’t care about the politics, the consequences, the implications of his death. None of it matters.
You just want to be with Satoru.
Your feet are moving. They almost take off, but a steady grip pulls you back.
“You should leave.” Shoko’s voice quivers as she speaks. You’ve seen her composure crack so rarely that when you do it feels like your first time witnessing it.
Your face is hot, and it’s wet now. Your eyes sting. You don’t try to stop the tears, or even wipe them.
If you were to look up, you’d find eyes full of sorrow and shock and pity—you’re the grieving widow. His students have lost a teacher, his friends have lost a friend. At least I’m not her, they all think, I haven’t lost the love of my life.
Without another word, without even so much as one final glance at Satoru’s corpse, you leave. You can’t bear to be there any longer.
The taxi driver does not question why you’re crying. He pretends he does not hear the way you sniffle and gasp for air. He drives you to your home and drives away when you’ve paid him.
You breathe out. Your shoulders sag with relief. You will yourself to stop crying.
He’s in the living room, a thick arm thrown over his eyes as he half-naps. As soon as he hears you enter however, he springs up, beaming like the sun.
Satoru laughs a little at your puffy face and your glimmering eyes. He gathers you into a hug, his body hard and imposing and warm, and you cling to him. His heart pumps blood around his body and it’s loud in your ears.
“That was traumatic,” you say, but it gets muffled when you bury your face into his chest. He smells fresh, like the wind on a warm day. He must have showered since he teleported home.
Satoru’s laughing again. You wish he’d never stop. “You knew it was fake the whole time, how bad could it be?”
“I had to watch you die, Satoru! It was horrible even if it was fake,” you admit, tightening your arms around his waist, where his torso meets his legs.
He laughs, and it reverberates in his chest and rumbles through your body. You’re angry. You can’t climb inside of his skin and live there and you’re angry about it. His giant hands draw circles all over your back.
“I’m here, baby. I’m all yours now,” he tells you. For the first time, he means it without any exceptions.
…
“What if you faked your death?”
Satoru’s head whips over to look at you, scanning your face to find something that will tell him you’re not serious. But you are serious.
One word, he asks, “why?”
“So we can give up being sorcerers and leave Japan and never come back.”
Satoru grows quiet. There’s a pit in your stomach. He tells you constantly that he’d give you the world, and you believe him, and he loves you more than anything, yet he can’t bring himself to give up on humanity. Without him, the world doesn’t stand a chance. He’s the strongest, after all.
“Is that what you want?” he asks. It’s sincere.
“Yes,” you tell him, swallowing as you consider your next words. “I just got you back from the Prison Realm and now you have to fight Sukuna, who might actually kill you… You just give and give so much to the Jujutsu world and what do they give you back? Shit all. And I’m tired of watching you be wrung dry.”
He’s silent again. All the years that you’ve known him make it easy for you to know what he’s thinking. More than likely he’s thinking of Yuuji and Megumi and Yuuta. Maybe he wonders what Nanami would tell him to do, or what Geto would say.
It’ll be selfish. He’ll be abandoning everyone at the worst possible moment. He turns your words over and over in his head. Then he thinks of a life with you, a peaceful one, where you’ve left behind your days of sorcery, where he doesn’t have to be some pseudo-god.
Where he can grow old with you.
Perhaps, he thinks, it’s necessary for him to disappear. It’ll be a struggle without him, but he has faith. They’ll persevere.
“What are you thinking?” he asks eventually.
“I’ll use cursed energy to create a clone of you. Since my clones can’t use cursed techniques it’ll have to be right when Sukuna is about to kill you. You switch out and teleport out of there.”
For a moment he stares at you, then he chuckles, shifting sideways so he can lay on his back and stare at the ceiling with resolve.
“You’ve been thinking about this,” he says.
“I have,” you say. “For as long as I’ve loved you.”
…
He thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful.
He’s convinced of it, actually. Life has filled your cheeks out and erased your dark circles away. Your eyes shine brighter. Fear no longer lives in them, nor does hopelessness.
Your fingers are gentle as you pluck fresh, plump tomatoes off the vine. Satoru’s heart swells because you’ve been so excited to harvest them.
“It’s just a handful for now,” you tell him, letting him peer inside the basket you have on your arm. There are a few bunches of rocket and basil leaves, and a small squash too.
He reaches in, takes a tomato and pretends to take a bite out of it until you snatch it from his hand and scold him.
“They just look too good, baby,” he says between laughs. You roll your eyes, but you don’t manage to bite back the smile that grows on your lips.
“Go finish building my chicken coop,” you tease, calling him by his last name, the one he took from you, then brushing past him to head back inside your home.
“I told you it’s almost finished!” he exclaims, trailing behind you as you make your way to the vintage renovated kitchen of your house.
Satoru settles on a stool at the island at the centre, observing the way you rinse the vegetables in the sink. To him it’s fascinating—well, you’re fascinating. The way your brow scrunches slightly with concentration. He hopes you never run out of vegetables to harvest and wash. He’ll make sure you don’t.
“By the way, what do you think about getting some mini goats?”
“I don’t care as long as you take care of them,” you tell him. “Do you want salad or roasted vegetables for lunch?”
Satoru’s heart races. He’s transported back to 2006 for a moment, when for some reason he wanted to be around you all the time and thought it was weird that he liked it when you teased him. Before he realised.
“Roasted vegetables, please. I love you.”
Satoru doesn’t look much different now. He’s gotten a little more toned, put on some muscle from some of the heavy work he does on the farm.
And when he smiles, he’s not pretending anymore.
#gojo x reader#gojo satoru x reader#gojo fanfic#gojo satoru fanfic#gojo imagine#gojo satoru imagine#gojo x you#gojo satoru x you#jjk fanfic#jjk x reader#jjk imagine#jjk x you#jjk spoilers#꒰ lovers. ꒱ — gojo
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