Gateway to magic 🌿✨

chapter: six ( 15.5k ) rating: mature (death, past abuse, eventual smut) genre: mystery | romance | hurt/comfort tags: bts x reader | ot7 x reader | hybrid | poly summary: when an estranged uncle leaves you his massive fortune you wonder if the universe is playing a joke on you. when that fortune comes with seven hybrids, you know for sure that it is. << first < previous | next > last >>

what is hybrid marking

8.2 million results. 

While scent mixing (heretofore referred to as ‘scenting’) is temporary and lasts a maximum of twelve hours if left undisturbed, scent marking (‘marking’ in common parlance) is semi-permanent. A ‘mark’ is created when the pheromones present in a hybrid’s bodily fluids are applied directly to their markee’s skin. When said chemical compounds seep below the epidermis and bond to the sweat glands found within the dermal layer of the skin, the target has been officially ‘marked’. Between domesticated hybrids and their human caretakers, this is most commonly done by applying hybrid saliva to the skin of the neck, where a human’s scent tends to be strongest. While the behavior involved in marking resembles some aspects of human foreplay, it is a non-sexual expression of mutual trust and affection. It is important to note that most hybrids of age are able to mitigate the oral secretion of pheromones and cannot mark accidentally-

“How do I look?” 

The sound of Jimin’s voice makes you jump. You fumble with your phone, trying to exit out of the website, shove it in your pocket and look at the leopard hybrid’s outfit at the same time.

“You look great!” You tell him once the device is safely tucked away.

He rolls his eyes at you. “You’ve said that about everything I’ve shown you.”

You had, but only because it was true. No matter what the trio of hybrids tried on, they all looked great. You weren’t sure what it was, but seeing them in something other than neutral sweat suits made them look even better than they already had. You were discovering they all had unique senses of fashion too. Taehyung preferred earth tones, soft fabrics and slouchy cardigans, Yoongi tended toward plaid overshirts and dark denim and Jimin had just come out of the dressing room in his sixth button down and second pair of chelsea boots. 

When the four of you had arrived at the mall that afternoon, you’d told them to go wild and call you when they were ready to check out. There was an entire section of the shopping center that catered specifically to hybrids and you were certain they’d be able to find everything they needed and more. You’d been all set to sequester yourself in a booth in the food court and indulge your hybrid research habit, but Taehyung had fixed you with a forlorn look the moment you tried to part with them and Jimin had insisted that you personally review every piece of clothing he put on. You wouldn’t deny that you were having fun, but surreptitiously trying to google what every little thing they did meant without getting caught was getting harder and harder. 

Jimin breezes past you to the semi-circle of mirrors on the far end of the fitting rooms, brushing his tail against your shins as he passes. That was another thing that had changed. Since the talk you’d had with the boys last night, it seemed like they were always finding some excuse to touch you or brush up against you . You didn’t know if it was a manifestation of their cat genes or them just wanting physical reassurance that you were there, but it seemed like every time you turned around there was a tail curling around your calf or a nose tip against your ear or a shoulder brushing your own. You were practically wreathed in them. Even Yoongi hadn’t seemed to mind when your fingertips had brushed against each other at breakfast when you’d passed him the juice. You didn’t know if you should count that as progress, but you want to. 

You’re not entirely used to physical contact and nearly every time Taehyung rubs his cheek on the top of your head or Jimin reaches out to link your fingers together, you jump. It feels strange, to have people be so blatantly physically affectionate with you. It’s not like you dislike it, exactly, it’ll just take some getting used to. Whatever adjustments you need to make, you know you’ll need to make them quickly. You don’t think the hybrids will give up on friendly hugs just because you never initiate them first.  

“Y/N-ah,”Jimin calls, catching your attention. He’s twisting this way and that on the platform, trying to catch his reflection in every possible angle. He hums in disappointment as he turns back to the front, tail waving behind him. “This collar,” he says, tugging on the offending band of bright green plastic around his neck, “-is ruining my outfit. We’ll need to get real ones today.” 

You feel like a stone has settled in your stomach. Your shoulders sag, but if the leopard hybrid notices, he doesn’t say anything. “Yeah,” you reply. “Yeah, you’re right.” In truth, you’d hoped to put it off for a little while longer. Collaring and leashing a hybrid had always seemed odd to you. After all, weren’t they people too? The law was the law, you knew, but something about publicly and visibly marking someone as property...well, the morality of it was gray at best. The temporary collars had provided you with a stay from the inevitable, but there was no avoiding it any longer, you supposed. They’d have to get collars. 

“I saw a store for them a couple shops down,” Taehyung supplies as he steps out of his dressing room in a white linen shirt and cream drawstring pants. “We could go there?” 

“That works for me...Taehyung, one of your buttons is in the wrong hole.” 

The tiger hybrid squints down at his shirt, feels blindly for the hole he missed, but can’t seem to find it. 

“No,” you tell him. “Not that one, the other- do you just want me to fix it?”

He pauses and looks up at you for a solid three seconds before giving a single, slow nod. 

You come to stand in front of him and start undoing the buttons from the top. There’s only four of them but each one you pop open reveals more and more of his honey brown skin and prominent collar bones. Your fingers brush his skin accidentally and he chuffs happily, one hand resting on your lower back as you start buttoning him up again. Heat starts crawling up your neck unbidden. Even through the fabric of your t-shirt, you can feel the warmth of his palm, how long his fingers are. He presses you closer until your arms are nearly flat against your chest as you try to finish buttoning him up. It’s hard to move squished between the insistent pressure of his hand and the- surprisingly- hard line of his body, but you make do. “There!” You pat him gently on the chest as you finish the last button. “All done.”

He dips forward and rubs his cheek against your forehead, rumbling so deep in his chest that the vibrations pass into you. “Thank you.” He releases you and pulls away, but as he does, his lips brush against your hairline. You try not to read too deep into it. 

The tiger hybrid sidles over to his friend in the mirror, wrapping his arms around the smaller man’s waist and dipping his head into his neck. Jimin reaches back and scratches behind one of his ears and your heart swells in your chest. It was nice to see them be so openly affectionate with each other. They’re so close in a way you can’t even begin to understand. It’s beautiful. 

Your phone buzzes in your pocket and you thumb the screen to life. An incoming call from Mr. Seo. “You guys keep trying stuff on,” you tell the pair, already standing to make your way out of the dressing room. “I’ve gotta take this.”  They both call at you to hurry back and you give them a shout of assent as you rush away. 

The second you’re outside the store, you answer. “Hello?”

“Ms. L/N,” Mr. Seo’s voice crackles on the other end of the line. “I trust you’ve settled in well.” It isn’t a question and the tone of his voice makes it clear that he doesn’t wish to spend what precious time he has exchanging pleasantries with you. 

“Yeah, everything’s okay.” Everything had most certainly not been okay when you’d emergency dialed him two days ago about the tiger on your couch. The text he’d sent you back six hours later had told you to figure it out. You had and you knew you weren’t his responsibility, but him tossing you in the deep end was still a sore spot for you. 

“There’s been a change of plans.” 

You grimace. Straight to it, then. “What’s going on?” 

“Black Mountain Canines- the company your uncle purchased two of the hybrids from- changed their pick-up date. They want you to come get them in person today.”

“Pick-up?” You frown. “No, they were supposed to drop them off.”

“They were,” Mr. Seo confirms, “But it’s apparently no longer profitable for them to drive all the way into Seoul to hand-deliver two of their charges. They also claim they’re incurring additional expenses by feeding and housing two hybrids who’ve already been purchased, but we’ll see about that when we arrive.”

Your anxiety spikes and your fingers wrap tighter around your phone. You’d promised the boys a whole day out. All you’d done so far was get them phones of their own and furniture for their room. There was still so much to do, so much to see. “What about Yoongi and Jimin and Taehyung?” You blurt out.

Mr. Seo sighs and his breath crackles over the receiver. “Those are the cats, I assume? I suggest you let them know sooner rather than later that they’ll have to share their space.” There’s a flurry of movement on his end of the line, the sound of someone calling his name and papers shuffling. “I have to go; they need me to look over some case files.” He tells you. “I’ll be at Haneul Tower to pick you up in three hours. Be downstairs waiting.”And the line clicks off. 

You sigh and hang up. What were you going to tell the boys? Day one of your new friendship and you were already breaking promises. 

“Trouble?” Yoongi’s voice right behind you makes you flinch and whirl on him. His ears press back against his head and he takes a step back at your sudden movements. 

“Sorry!” You tell him, forcing your spine to relax. “Sorry, I didn’t notice you there; I thought you were still shopping. ”

“I can tell,” he snarks, but there’s no heat behind it. His eyes trace the line of your shoulders, still tense and flick to the phone in your hand. “I dropped my stuff at the register. What’s going on?”

You gnaw on the inside of your cheek, nerves making your stomach ache. “C’mon,” you tell him, walking back into the store. “Let’s pay and grab some lunch. I’ll tell you when we sit down.” He follows after you a few paces behind, trying not to let worry prick in him at the anxious shift in your scent. Something was about to change, he was sure, and not entirely for the better. 

Twenty minutes later, the four of you are sitting in the food court, a mess of shopping bags at your feet and a bowl of tteokbokki between you. Yoongi and Jimin had picked out all the fish cakes first and were bickering good-naturedly over who the last one should go to, but Taehyung seemed content to just gnaw at his rice cakes. You’d hardly touched anything, your eyes flicking back to the time on your phone. 1:20 P.M. Two hours and forty minutes ‘til Mr. Seo would be at your apartment to pick you up and bring you to get two more of the hybrids your uncle had bought. You push a rice cake around on your paper plate with the end of your chopstick. Well, no point delaying the inevitable. 

“Hey, guys?” You call softly. Three pairs of ears swivel toward you immediately. The words die in your throat and your tongue feels like lead as they look at you, all their eyes focused and expectant. You clear your throat and force yourself to continue. “So...you know how I…” You search for the right word, but there’s really no other way to say it. “...inherited you guys from my uncle?” 

Taehyung’s eyes flick toward Jimin and the leopard hybrid brushes his tail against the tiger’s. Silent communication you couldn’t even begin to decipher. “Yeah,” Yoongi says, tossing his chopsticks down and leaning back in his chair. “I told them.”

That was right. What you’d blurted out at Yoongi yesterday on the street you had yet to disclose to his juniors. “Thanks, Yoongi,” You tell him, meaning every word of it. He’d spared you from yet another uncomfortable conversation. 

“...For what it’s worth, we’re glad it’s you,” Taehyung tells you, his tail twining around your ankle under the table. He looks at his hyungs for confirmation and when neither of them deny it, he settles his amber gaze back on you. “We like being here with you, even if you didn’t pick us. It’s...It’s nice.”

You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips at his words. He beams at you, his boxy smile soft despite the sharp incisors poking his bottom lip. “I like having you guys around, too,” you admit, taking the time to meet each of their eyes. Jimin purrs as you look at him, the corners of his mouth curling. When your gaze meets Yoongi’s, his ears twitch but he doesn’t look away. He doesn’t blink either, just holds your stare with an intensity that makes heat crawl up your neck. You suddenly remember the warm stretch of his body over your’s, the sensation of his lips against your neck. You snatch your eyes away and cough to cover your lapse in speech.  “It would’ve been scary, I think, if I had to deal with all this alone.” 

You couldn’t even imagine it.That clinically clean apartment with its blank white walls and its imposing emptiness would have driven you down until you couldn’t stand it anymore. You’d always had a little pit of loneliness inside you. You didn’t know how long it’d been there. Maybe it always had been, a seed of something sad and dark at the core of your soul. You’d done well keeping it contained. You felt it in your goshiwon, but your room was small. It couldn’t grow beyond your keeping. In Oliver’s penthouse, it would’ve had endless room to sprawl and with no one to clip it back, you would’ve choked to death on vines of doubt.

“There are others,” you tell them, before you can down spiral into the mire of your own thoughts. “He bought other hybrids before he died. They weren’t supposed to be coming until next week but their company wants me to come get them today.” 

The mood at the table shifts almost immediately. Taehyung’s ears and tail sag, Jimin’s smile goes sharp at the edges and Yoongi’s lip curls. “How many others?” He asks, crossing his arms over his chest. You notice he does that when he’s nervous or uncomfortable. It’s a defense mechanism, no matter how at ease it makes him seem. 

“Four,” you answer and the bobcat hybrid’s ears tilt back in irritation. “Two are coming home today and the other two toward the end of next week.” Jimin doesn’t say anything, but you see the tip of his tail flicking back and forth. He’s annoyed. Taehyung drops a hand onto the smaller hybrid’s back and rubs circles in it, trying to soothe him. 

“Maybe it’ll be okay?” The tiger hybrid offers. He’s trying his best to be diplomatic, but you hear the strain in the deep timbre of his voice. “Having other cats around again might be nice. We used to live with a lot back at the center…”

You wince. “...they’re canines.” Almost immediately, all of their ears go flat against their skulls and they hiss in unison. Yoongi stifles himself the quickest, setting a hand on Jimin’s knee and squeezing to get the leopard hybrid to get a hold of himself. 

“Hybrids of different species don’t play well together,” he explains. “Especially not when our animals are solitary in the wild. The only reason Jimin, Tae and I are able to stand sharing the same territory is because we’ve known each other since we were kids and we’ve had to do it before.”

Before? A question forms in the back of your mind, but now isn’t the time to ask it.

“We don’t like sharing what’s ours,” Jimin continues for his hyung, interlocking his fingers with yours on the plastic table top. “It’s instinctual.”

“I know, I know.” You squeeze his hand lightly, trying to reassure him. “But the apartment is big; can’t you avoid each other starting out?”

All three of them give you a strange look and Jimin’s lips curl in a way that isn’t quite a smile. “...right,” he purrs, a little delayed. “The apartment.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, anxiety sinking its claws into you. “I’m really sorry to spring this on you guys, I know it’s not great, but…” Your shoulders sag. “I don’t want to have promised someone a home and rip the rug out from under them, you know?” You knew what that felt like. You wouldn’t wish that feeling on your worst enemy. “I’m just...I’m worried that they’re not being treated well.”

“They were up for sale,” Yoongi drawls. “They definitely aren’t.” 

The taxi ride back to Haneul Tower is uncomfortably quiet. Jimin still holds your hand and Taehyung still leans on your shoulder, but nobody says a word. You help them carry their bags upstairs and drop them off in the master bedroom. You’d told them they could have separate rooms if they wanted, but they’d insisted on sharing, so you thought it was only fair that they get the largest room in the penthouse. Clothes went onto hangars and into closets and before you knew it, there were only ten minutes until Mr. Seo’s arrival. 

“You don’t have to go,” Taehyung huffs. He’s got you wrapped in a bear- well, you suppose a tiger hug and his cheek is mashed against the top of your head. You don’t even think he’s actively scenting you at this point, just keeping you from leaving. “Send your assistant instead and stay here with us.”

You let out a puff of laughter and pat the hybrid on the back in a way you hope is soothing. “Mr. Seo isn’t my assistant, buddy, he’s my uncle’s attorney.” You give a little tug away from him and he lets you go, albeit with a sad little mrow that makes him sound just like a disappointed cat. “I couldn’t ask him to do that. The only reason he’s coming is because they broke the contract. And I can’t drive.” 

The look Taehyung gives you is so downtrodden that you toy with the idea of calling the whole day off and staying with them- but no. You can’t bail out now, especially not with what you’d put Mr. Seo through when the first group of hybrids were delivered. “I’ll be back before you know it,” You tell him with a steadfast smile. 

“You’d better,” Jimin says, nudging the taller hybrid out of the way. Taehyung gives a half-hearted growl, but settles as Yoongi squeezes his shoulder. “The longer you’re away, the longer you’ll have to sit in the stench of those mutts.”

You frown. “Jimin-”

“Only joking,” He soothes, bringing both of your hands up to his cheeks. You don’t believe him, but you don’t press it. The leopard hybrid nuzzles into your palms, purring happily at the feeling of your skin against his. Your palms nearly burn from how warm he is. You feel a warm puff of air against your fingers and tense as Jimin presses all ten of them against his lips. 

“Jimin.” Yoongi’s voice is hard, but his junior’s lips curl up in a satisfied smile, one of his incisors pricking at the pad of your index finger. 

“Hurry back,” he murmurs. You try not to shiver at the feeling of his plush lips moving against your oversensitive fingertips. 

“I’ll do my best!” You say,  a pained smile tugging your lips apart. He hums in response and drops your hands, his fingers trailing across yours as he lets you go. 

“Hyung,” he calls over his shoulder. “Is there anything you’d like to say to Y/N-ah?”

“Don’t let them scent you.” Is all Yoongi says as he breezes toward the stairs. “You know better now.” 

It’s as much as you were expecting. “I’ll see you guys later,” You tell them as you head out the door. “Finish setting your phones up and text me if you need anything!”

True to his word, Mr. Seo is parked out front at 4 o’clock on the dot. You haven’t seen him in a little over a week and you’d almost forgotten how imposing he was. He cuts a sharp figure against the backdrop of the bustling street, dressed in all black and leaning against a brand new Buick Enclave. The poor valet stationed at the front door looks like he’s been trying to work up the courage to ask to park his car for the past twenty minutes and sags in relief as you start heading over.

The lawyer dips his head in acknowledgement at you and checks his watch. “Miracle of miracles,” he says, popping open the passenger side door for you. “You’re on time.”

“I was late one time,” you huff, sliding past him and into your seat.

“And that was enough,” he snips back, closing your door before you can come up with a retort. You grumble to yourself, but don’t press him. You know he’s right. He’d gone out of his way to help you and you’d put him out. 

“I’m sorry,” you tell him as he settles into his seat and reaches for his seatbelt. “It won’t happen again; I know you’ve got other things to do.”

He stills and looks at you over the gold frames of his glasses. For a long moment he holds your gaze, unblinking. You gnaw on the inside of your cheek. Had you done something wrong? 

Finally Mr. Seo blinks and finishes buckling himself in. “I apologize for staring, I wasn’t sure if I’d heard you correctly.” He push starts his car and pulls away from the curb. “I never thought I’d see the day a L/N would apologize to me.” He edges the car into the steady stream of Seoul traffic and you’re off, zooming toward the freeway.

Silence fills the car again, but as Mr. Seo takes on-ramp, you work up the courage to ask your question. “Did Oliver never apologize to you?”

Mr. Seo snorts and it’s such an undignified sound that you almost can’t believe it comes from him. “You could tell your uncle the sky was blue and he’d argue that it was red until he was. And your grandfather-” He seems to catch himself, reigning back whatever meager bits of his personality had managed to slip through the cracks in his normally flawless veneer. You’re all ears.

Up until a week and a half ago, you hadn’t known you had any family, much less an uncle who owned buildings and bugattis. Now you were finding out that you had a grandfather too. “What about my grandfather?” The word feels strange in your mouth. It’d been years since you’d followed the word ‘my’ up with any type of familial relation. 

Mr. Seo cuts his eyes at you, and flicks them back to the front. “Nothing,” he replies, clearly done talking about him. “I spoke out of turn.” He reaches forward and turns on the radio, the sound of national news filling the silence.

You pout and slouch in your seat, disappointment setting in as the promise of new information slipped out of your grasp.

The rest of the drive is easy. Mr. Seo takes the highway out of Seoul and up into the foothills but you’re asleep before he even finds the exit. You’d slept more in the past two days than you had in the previous three weeks, but it seemed like years of bad habits were catching up to you.

Last night, you’d passed out halfway through the second movie snuggled up between Jimin and Taehyung. They’d been so warm and soft and the quiet thrumming of their heartbeats had lulled you to sleep before you knew what was happening.You’d woken up with them still curled around you and -maybe most surprising of all- Yoongi plating breakfast in the kitchen.

Still, it seemed even twelve hours of the best sleep you’d gotten in years and a peaceful morning devoid of stress -for the most part- hadn’t been enough.

You wake up just as the asphalt transitions into gravel, the sound of it crunching under the tires and the car’s shaking waking you up. You’re bleary-eyed and confused, but a sign up ahead snaps you to wakefulness. Standing like a guardian over a chain link fence topped with barbed wire is a metal sign, imposing as it is tall: Black Mountain K-9s, written in stark font.

“We’re here,” Mr. Seo says, as if it’s not obvious. He kills the engine and without its purring to distract you, you feel nerves starting to boil in your belly. What kind of place was this? You half expect sinister organ music to kick on and lightning to start flashing from black clouds. Neither of those things happen, though. The sky remains startlingly clear and the only things you can pick up are the sounds of whistles being blown, dozens of people doing call and response, and one voice, louder than all the others screaming for people to ‘Run faster! Get those knees up!’

You pop the door and step out of the car before Mr. Seo can open it for you and head around to the nose of the car, taking in the compound. 

“This facility produces some of the highest caliber bodyguards in the country,” He says, coming to stand beside you. The attorney rebuttons his suit jacket and flicks his sleeves up before settling his arms over his chest. “Politicians, celebrities, even a few former presidents all have hybrids from this training center.”

“It looks more like a prison,” You remark, nodding toward the barbed wire. “First big cat hybrids, now this...Why didn’t Oliver just get regular pets if he was lonely? Was he worried someone was after him?” 

“Anything I can tell you would be pure speculation,” He replies, walking away from you and heading for the callbox. “Your uncle very rarely confided in me.”

“But you were his attorney.” 

For just a second, the tight grip Mr. Seo has on his composure slips. His lips press together and his shoulders sag- but just as quickly as it’d lapsed, his mask is in place again. “Yes,” he says after a beat. “I was.” And he presses the button on the call box before you can pester him with any more questions about the dead men he’d known.

The call box crackles to life, speakers squealing with feedback. You flinch and slap your hands over your ears to protect them from the splitting sound. Mr. Seo doesn’t react at all and you’re stunned, wondering how he can stand it.

“Seo Seunghan and Y/N L/N for Lim Hangyeol.” 

The person on the other end doesn’t respond. The speaker cuts and a second later, the metal gate before you starts rolling to the side, pushed by invisible hands. It’s like a curtain going up at the theater. 

Before you lies a wide, dusty yard, devoid of any plant life. The thick-trunked trees and lush grasses of the surrounding mountainside had been stripped down to the roots here. All that remains are a few weeds poking out around the base of the long metal buildings that ring the fence, and even those seem like an intrusion. People are making use of the space in whatever way they can. A group of people with matching cropped black ears and docked tails run past you in four straight lines, all perfectly in step with each other. Over to your right, there’s a pack of teenagers working in pairs to scale a ten-foot tall sheer wooden wall and in the center of the field, twenty kids are running through taekwondo forms, supervised by a widely smiling instructor.

You’re in awe of it all. Every single person is like a cog in a well-oiled machine, all in the same black tactical pants and compression shirt. You’d never seen so many hybrids in one place before and certainly not all of the same breed.

Mr. Seo places a hand in the center of your back, steering you away from staring and toward a squat cement building.You let him lead you.

“When we get inside,” the lawyer begins, his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it. “Let me speak first. If we can get him to admit to breaching the contract right away, it’ll be much easier to get him to agree to a settlement.”

You frown at that. “Why would we settle?” You ask him. “It’s not like I need the money.”

“It’s a matter of principle, Ms. L/N.” He sighs, pulling open the heavy metal door and ushering you into the building. “He did something wrong, and it’s most easy for him to bear the brunt of atonement financially. Without requiring damages be paid for breaches, contract law would collapse.” 

“Can’t you just have him apologize?”

Mr. Seo’s mouth twists up like he’s just tasted something unpleasant. “As you attorney, it is my duty to advise you against accepting restitution in the form of an apology. You’ll get a reputation for being a pushover.” 

You wanted to be anything but. “Alright, alright,” you concede, “Do whatever you think is best.”

The building you’ve ducked into seems to be an office. Along one wall are a set of metal folding chairs doing their best impression of a waiting room. Along the other is a metal door covered in peeling paint and one suspicious dent bearing a plaque that reads ‘DIRECTOR LIM’. Set between you and it is a desk covered in a mess of paperwork. An old desktop stands among it like an island in the ocean and middle aged hybrid woman in coke bottle glasses is hunched before it, tapping away at the keyboard at a mind-boggling speed. One of her ears twitches as the pair of you approach. 

“Take a seat,” she orders in a reedy voice, not bothering to look up from her work. “The Director will be with you shortly.”

“Send them in, Eunjung!” Someone shouts from behind the metal door  just as she’s finished. She doesn’t look up or stop typing or even acknowledge you two again. Mr. Seo takes it upon himself to breeze past her desk and open the door for you. 

The office is militaristically organized, all right angles and bare metal surfaces. There’s a black leather couch that’d seen better days to your left as you enter, a half empty water cooler to your right. Bookshelves lined with trophies and textbooks dominate the western wall. You scan the titles as you pass: Predatory Instinct: The Teaching and Training Canines, The Utility of Force, On Raising Hybrids, The Art of War, all dangerous and daunting as the man they belonged to.

Lim Hangyeol is the most grizzled man you’ve ever seen and the only other human besides yourself and Mr. Seo in the compound, it seems. He looks like a drill sergeant from an old action movie, his salt and pepper hair buzzed short and his face craggy with frown lines. There’s a semicircle of pockmark scars marring the skin of his right cheek and as you get closer, you realize they’re teeth marks. You shoot a concerned look to Mr. Seo, but he’s more focused on giving the director a shallow bow than allaying any of your fears. 

“Director,” He says, straightening back up. “Thank you for having us-”

“Spare me the bullshit,” The older man orders, kicking back his office chair and sinking back into it. “Take a seat. Let’s talk business.” 

A cold smile settles on your attorney’s lips and you see a cord twitching in his jaw, but he merely nods and replies in a breezy voice, “Of course.” 

The two of you do as you told, settling into two metal chairs in front of his desk. These ones are nicer than the folding ones in the waiting room, but no more comfortable. You try to slide yours forward only to find that it’s bolted to the floor. 

“Stops the dogs from throwin’ em when they get bad news,” Director Lim tells you as you uselessly tug at the legs. “Got tired of replacing windows.”

You grimace. If the awards on the bookshelf, what Mr. Seo had told you and the dozens of hybrids running boot camp drills outside were any indication, the man before you must’ve had some idea what he was doing. You didn’t end up providing security for high profile public figures without a smidge of credibility, you knew, but the bite marks on his cheek, the little crack about people throwing chairs at him and the way he’d referred to them as ‘dogs’ didn’t inspire confidence in you. 

This was your first time visiting a place that produced hybrids, you realized. You’d never even been into a shelter before and certainly not a breeding center. Were they all like this? Devoid of anything soft or comforting, rigid with rules and regulations? Had Yoongi, Jimin and Taehyung come from a place like this? You don’t know and you’re not sure you’d like the answer if you did. 

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us on such short notice,” Mr. Seo starts, popping open the hinges on his briefcase and pulling out a few sheaves of paper. “After the sudden cancellation of your company’s contract with Ms. L/N, I was concerned for the state of our business relationship.” He slides one of the packets across the desk to the director. 

“If I remember correctly,” Director Lim says, scanning the lines of ink and unintelligible legalese, “Me and your boss signed for delivery, not me and whoever this little girl is you brought.” 

Your eyes narrow and your lips curl, but before you can give voice to the nasty thing crawling up your throat, Mr. Seo gives a subtle shake of his head and taps you twice on the knee, out of eyeshot of the director. You grumble, but cage it behind your teeth. 

“See?” The man jabs one gnarled finger at the page, right over your late uncle’s flourishing signature. “It says it right there: L/N Oliver. Last I checked, he was dead. I’m not holding on to a dead man’s dogs. ”

That same muscle tenses in Mr. Seo’s jaw. “The contract states that Black Mountain Canines would deliver the hybrids my client purchased to his residence on December the eighteenth and that they would be received by a proxy if he was unavailable. You were made aware of the fact that he was unavailable, as well as the fact that he now has a proxy-

“I’ll pay the goddamn fine!” The Director barks, throwing his hands up in the air. “Christ above, I don’t know why he wanted those two fuck-ups in the first place, but I don’t want them on my property a second longer.” 

You shoot Mr. Seo a look of confusion, but he just watches, blasé, as the Director rifles through his desk drawers. The man finds what he’s looking for and drops two manila folders on top of the contract. “The pair of them are useless. If it weren’t for my reputation, I’d’ve had them both sent to shelters years ago. Or put down, but you know how touchy the law is about that.”

“I don’t.” You say, your voice edging dangerously close to a snarl. It slips out before you can stop it. Mr. Seo shoots you a warning look and you ball your fists up in your sweater sleeves, fingernails biting crescent moons into your palms with the effort of keeping your mouth shut. 

You can’t stand this man, you decide. He’s awful. You should’ve known that from the moment you saw elementary school aged hybrids stumbling through taekwondo drills with their ears taped and bandages on their tails. You’re going to take whatever hybrids Oliver bought, get them the fuck out of there and never look back. 

If Director Lim had heard you growl at him, he gives no sign of it, just flips open the folders. “To be honest, I should be paying you to take them off my hands. They’ve been nothing but a pain in my ass since they aged out of training. I told your uncle he could have his pick of the litter for what he was paying, but he wanted a wide-eyed buffoon and a mutt who’d rip your hand off soon as look at you.” Clipped to the insides are photos of two men, staring back at you in black and white. 

One has the same black and tan cropped ears as every other hybrid you’ve seen thus far. Unlike them, he’s smiling. His eyes are little upturned crescent moons and he beams at you through the photo paper. There’s so much light in his face it’s nearly blinding. 

The other is not nearly as inviting. The photo is taken at an odd angle and it’s blurry at the edges, like whoever took it was much shorter than the subject and had to zoom in to even get the shot. His ears, larger than any of the other hybrids and longer furred, are pinned back against his head. His jaw is clenched and he glowers down into the lens, one eye soot black and the other piercing blue. 

There are stats listed on the pages behind their photos: height, weight, shot records and the like. Among them, you see their call signs, highlighted in yellow: Hope and Monster. 

“I don’t know where I went wrong with him,” the director says, tapping Hope’s photo. “He went through all the training, passed all the tests, but when it comes down to it, he just doesn’t have the instinct.” He gives a single shake of his head, clicks the tip of his tongue against his teeth. “No one wants a guard dog that’d sooner talk an intruder’s ear off than actually guard what he’s supposed to. He’s not good for much but nannying the pups, but he’s too soft on them too.”

A light bulb clicks on and you realize the hybrid in question had been the one instructing the kids outside in the center of the yard, his tail wagging a mile a minute as they completed another form correctly.

“Now this bastard…” the director continues, jamming a finger onto the second photo with so much force, it rattled the cup of pens on his desk. “Is my biggest failure.” He crosses his arms and kicks back in his chair, his dislike of the hybrid in question obvious. “His mother was the cornerstone of this facility for nearly a decade. I sold her pups to assemblymen and actors alike. Centers around the country wanted pups with her genetics. If it weren’t for her, we’d never have grown to this size.” He sounds wistful as he spreads his hands out, gesturing around himself like a king taking in his holdings. “But all good things come to an end,” He sighs. “A pack of wild hybrids settled a little higher up on the mountain.” His face darkens and his lips twist. “Wolves,” he snarls with all the disdain he can muster. 

“All that about them being noble and self-sacrificing? Complete and utter bullshit,” He scoffs. “They’re transient lowlifes who’d slit your throat as soon as look at you. At first I didn’t care. They stayed on their side of the mountain and I stayed on mine, but then they started sneaking down here at night to steal my food and fuck my dogs. By the time I managed to get the cops out here, they’d cleared out and my top breeder had gone with them.”

He let out a low chuckle and shook his head. “I tell you, I thought I was ruined. But wouldn’t you know it, she came stumbling back here six months later, barefoot and howling to be let in and heavy with some wild thing’s pup.” Director Lim snaps both the folders shut and slides them to you across the desk. “The thing about breeding hybrids is, the money’s all in the bloodlines. No one wants a dog with mystery genetics. The only way to solve that problem is to cut it off at the root- but it was already too late by the time she got here.” 

You feel sick to your stomach. You hope he isn’t implying what you think he is- that hybrid children he hadn’t planned out himself were mistakes in need of correction- but you know he is. Deep in your gut you know.

“And she spoiled him. She let him run roughshod over everyone and everybody in this compound. I tried telling her wild hybrids need a firmer hand- he certainly did if we were gonna break that wolf he’s got inside him, but she wouldn’t hear it. I tried to crop him with the other pups his age, he gave me these,” he said, gesturing to the teeth marks in his cheeks. “We keep him shut up away from the others, now, in the back when he can’t bother anyone. He gets his meals delivered but we don’t ever let him out.” The grizzled man shakes his head. “A drain on resources is what he is.”

“And his mother?” You ask, quietly. 

“Eunjung?” he questions. “You met her on the way in.” The director stands and unclips a ring of keys from his belt buckle, making his way around the desk and gesturing for you and Mr. Seo to follow. “I’ve got her doing desk work now. Gotta keep her close so she doesn’t cause any more trouble.” He pushes open the door to his office, barks something at his secretary and steps outside, not looking back to see if you two are following. 

You shoot Mr. Seo a look before you stand and he meets it, evenly. “We’ll discuss this in the car,” he says, stuffing papers back into his briefcase and flicking the clasps shut. Oh, you most certainly will discuss ‘it’ in the car. 

You don’t really know what it is or where to even begin. The kids with bandaged ears? The fact that Director Lim seemingly decided who was allowed to see the sun and who wasn’t? You think back to the conversation you’d had with Jimin, Taehyung and Yoongi last night. Right now, it seems years away, in some unreachable, idyllic past before you knew how breeding centers worked and how security hybrids were made. You feel foolish. Who were you to try to get them to let go of their pain and their hurt? If what they’d been through was even a little like what was going on here, they wouldn’t be able to for a long time. You’re angry. You’re disgusted. You are unquantifiably fucking sad. 

You pass Eunjung on your way out. In your time in the director’s office, she’s pulled her ash brown hair into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck. Peeking out of the collar of her sweatshirt you can see a faded scar in the shape of a ring, little puncture marks pale and glossy. It looked similar to the one on the director’s cheek, but this one was a complete circle and not ragged at all, like she’d stayed completely still while it was given. Teeth marks. 

You swallow. You want to do something, to give her some words of encouragement, but you have no idea what to say. You still don’t as you slow to a stop beside her desk, but you open your mouth to speak anyway. “I’m sorry,” You tell her, with all the sincerity in your heart. 

She doesn’t answer, but one cropped ear flicks toward you and her fingers slow in their incessant race across her keyboard. 

You turn to go. Mr. Seo was holding the door open for you and you can hear the director barking orders at a group of trainees to run an obstacle course faster. Just as you set foot over the threshold, she speaks. Her voice is so quiet, you have to strain to hear her over the steady clack-click-clack of her nails on the keys. 

“He likes green things,” she says, not looking up from her work. “And old books.” 

You look over your shoulder at her. Her face is a mask of neutrality, her eyes clear and her mouth set in a relaxed line. She looks fine, but there’s an ocean of meaning behind her words. You see her, just for a moment, as she’d been all those years ago, barefoot in the snow and begging for shelter, her stomach full with one of the moon’s own children. You commit the sight of her to memory. Then you turn and you go.

The director is waiting outside, shielding his eyes from the sun and regaling Mr. Seo with some long-winded explanation on the best way to treat hip dysplasia in Doberman hybrids. “Where to?” you ask, effectively cutting him off mid-sentence. 

The man gives you a disgruntled look but despite the anxiety you feel spiking in your belly, you meet it evenly. Once upon a time, anyone in a position of authority looking at you the way he was would’ve sent you into a tailspin of self-doubt and nerves, leaving you shivering as your heartbeat thrummed in your ears, warning you of non-existent danger. If you were honest, it still did- but you didn’t have the luxury of running away and hiding anymore, not when there were people who needed you. 

“Hope’s bags are in the barracks. He just needs to grab them, and he can be on his merry way,” The direction grunts. “Monster’s still locked up, so I’ll-”

“I’ll go.” You can feel Mr. Seo stiffen beside you. 

“Ms. Y/N-”

“If he’s really that aggressive,” you start, your eyes not leaving the director’s for a moment. “Wouldn’t it be better for me to meet him now instead of when we’re packed into a car on a two hour car ride?” Director Lim narrows his eyes at you, but you don’t falter. You hold your hand out for the key. Your boldness surprises you. He drops the key ring into your open palm and you wrap your fingers around it, stuffing it in your pocket before he can snatch them back. You turn on your heels and march off in the direction he tilts his head in, nothing but a hiss of your name from Mr. Seo’s lips to accompany you. 

You walk quickly, eyes straight and willing your legs to go faster with every stride. It’s a long way across the compound but the less time you spend walking, the less time you have to stew in anxiety. None of the hybrids training in little packs spread across the yard pay you any mind- except for Hope. 

Your path takes you directly behind the group of kids he’s working with. You give them a wide berth, not wanting to disturb them, but you get a little distracted. Your steps slow for just a moment as you drink him in. He’s tall- the same height as Taehyung, if you’re judging it right, but there’s an ease about him the tiger hybrid hasn’t yet mastered. Everything about Taehyung is pulled in. He’s always coiled tight, like he’s preparing to spring forward at any moment, all his energy drawn into the center of his being. Even last night, when you’d been cuddled up with him on the couch, he’d pulled you tight against his side, shifting and rearranging himself til you both fit on one cushion. He’d held you tight through both films, his tail curled around the both of you and his spine tight, like if he let himself relax for a moment, you’d both turn to dust on the wind. 

Hope has no such fear. Everything about him is spread wide open, from the heart-shaped smile on his lips to his arms as he demonstrates a series of punches to his little pack of students. They all watch him with rapt attention, ears perked up and bandaged tails wagging. One of them asks him a question and he laughs, ruffles their hair. He laughs in a way you’ve never seen before, shoulders shaking like he can’t contain the force of it alone. It makes your heart flip. 

His ears twitch, picking up the change in the cadence of your footsteps. He looks up and your eyes meet for the first time. He looks surprised to see you, for a moment, face blank- but then it melts into a soft smile, brimming with affection you’ve done nothing to earn. You snatch your gaze away and fix it to the dirt in front of you, embarrassed at being caught. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him cock his head to the side in confusion, but he doesn’t go after you. All the better, you’re all but running away from him now. 

You shuffle across the compound in a blur of scuffed sneakers and frayed nerves. You barely give yourself time to look up at the small cinder block building before you, shoving the key in the padlock before you can lose what unearned confidence you have left. You twist it, yank the rusted thing open, take a deep breath and enter.

You don’t know what you’d been expecting, but it’s certainly not what you find. The way Director Lim had spoken about him and this place, you’d been expecting cobwebs on the ceiling, blood spatters on the wall and rusty nails on the floor. What’s before you is almost entirely the opposite.

The room is a veritable Eden. 

There are vines climbing every available wall, wrapping around structural posts and digging their way between concrete blocks. Every surface is crammed full of flowering plants in makeshift pots: lilies in old water jugs, violets in a worn out boot, black-eyed susans dripping orange petals from an upturned helmet. The floor is in a similar state, ferns and foxgloves turning what little space around his bed there is into a meadow. It’s beautiful. 

“He likes green things,” you marvel, stepping into the room and pushing the door shut behind you. It seemed every living thing that’d been uprooted to expand the compound had found a second life here, sheltered from the Director’s violence. Maybe the hybrid who lived here had too. 

A plant different from all the others catches your eye. It’s set up on the cardboard box serving as his bedside table and it’s the only one in a real pot from what you can tell. It looks just like a miniature tree, complete with knobs on it’s trunk and tiny leaves. You let out a little sound of wonder and crouch in front of it, your fingers reaching out on their own to trail across the delicate branches-

A massive hand wraps around your wrist, stopping you cold. “Don’t touch that.” 

You hadn’t heard him approach, but now you knew he was there. You could feel his presence behind you, heavy and warm. He’s looming over you. You swallow and make your arm go limp in his grip. No need to give him a reason. “I won’t,” You tell him. “Will you please let go of my wrist?”

He drops your arm without protest and relief floods your body. You weren’t sure if there was a hybrid version of lockjaw and you certainly weren’t itching to find out. You sit back on your heels and struggle to your feet, still hyper aware of the person behind you, his eyes boring holes into the back of your head. By the time you turn around, he’s back where he came from, standing in the entrance for a bathroom you hadn’t seen, half hidden behind a curtain of vines. 

He looks different than the others. You’d been expecting that, but the full-length fluffy tail held stiffly behind his back and the long-furred ears pointed away from you are still a surprise. His fur, instead of being in rigid black and tan points, is marked by whorls of black, brown and gray. Instead of the lean musculature all the other hybrids had -all trim waists and narrow ankles- he’s sturdier, his shoulders broad and the veins in his forearms popping as he clenches his fists. He’s looking at you with that mismatched glare, his chin tilted toward his chest and his eyes shining aquamarine and obsidian. 

“If you’re new,” he starts, voice raspy. “They should’ve told you: you’re supposed to knock before you come in.”

“No, I’m not-”

“You can leave the food over there.” He nods toward a little plastic folding table jammed into one corner. It’s the one surface in his room that’s devoid of plants and there’s nothing on it besides a metal cafeteria tray, licked clean. “I won’t move when your back is turned.”

“I’m not here to deliver your food.”

He frowns, brows drawing together as his shoulders tense. “Then why are you…?”

You ball your hands up in your sweater sleeves and turn to face him full on. “I’m here to take you home with me.” You tell him. “They didn’t tell you?”

He laughs, but it’s a cold sound, devoid of joy. “Nobody tells me anything.”

Based on the short conversation you’d had with Director Lim, his sudden cancellation of contracts and the way he seemed ready to bulldoze over anything and everyone that didn’t fit his agenda, he didn’t seem the sharing type. Still it was hard to believe he hadn’t told him he’d be leaving the compound that’s been his home for over twenty years. 

“You don’t have to come with me,” you add, softly. “If you don’t want to. I know I’m a stranger. But you can leave-”

“I can’t go anywhere.” He taps the collar around his neck. At first, you’d thought it was the same as the ones every other hybrid had been wearing. You can see now that it isn’t. Theirs had all been leather with thin silver buckles holding them in place. His was leather too, but the band was broader and double-layered. There’s a little box on the side with hinges and a small drawing of a lighting bolt. A shock collar. 

Your stomach turns. 

You take a slow step toward him, but the second you do, his ears go flat against his head and he pulls his lips back, revealing sharp teeth. You freeze, hands held up and the keys dangling from your thumb. “I have the keys,” you say, extending them toward him. 

His eyes flick from your face, to the keys in your hand and back again, like he doesn’t believe what’s happening, like he can’t believe you’d actually want him free. The silence drags out into a little eternity before he speaks again. “If I try to unlock it, it’ll shock me.”

You blink up at him and risk another slow step forward, hoping you’ve caught his meaning correctly. This time, he doesn’t growl but his ears stay pinned back as he watches you through narrowed eyes. You close the distance between the two of you. 

When you were six, your mom scraped together enough money to take you to Busan for your birthday. You’d spent the day down at the beach, building sand castles with sea shell windows and wading through tide pools. After the sun had set, someone had set off fireworks and you’d watched them cuddled up in your mom’s arms, eyes wide and filled with a riot of colors you had no name for. It’s strange, you know. The ocean is miles away, but that’s what he smells like: the sea and the sand, and the last curls of smoke from homemade bottle rockets. He smells like that day. 

You lift your hands to the clasp on his neck and slide the key home. You twist it and the collar falls to the ground, a monster that can’t hurt him anymore. His skin is warm under your fingers, but puckered with scar tissue. There’s a ring of it around his neck, branching with whatever current had run through him in different directions. There’s no way this was legal, no way anyone with half a heart could treat another person like this. Your fingers trail one of the splits over his adam’s apple and he swallows beneath your touch, snatching your wrist again. 

“Dont.” His voice is cold. You blink, shaking off whatever spell you’d been under and shuffle back quickly, eager to give him space. He cradles his throat with one long-fingered hand, massaging the skin. He rolls his neck and you look away. You shouldn’t stare; the last thing you want is to make him uncomfortable. “I’ll go with you,” he rasps, answering the question before you can ask it again.

You gape for a second. You really hadn’t expected it to be that easy. “Really?” You can’t stop a note of relief from creeping into your voice.

“Anywhere’s better than here.” He answers back. So, you were a means to an end. It doesn’t bother you. You’ll be whatever you need to be to get him away from this place and that man who seemed to only want to drive him down. 

“Do you need time to pack, or-?”

He gives a firm shake of his head. “There’s nothing from this place I want to keep.” And that’s the end of it. You push open the door and stride back out into the cold mountain air, trying your best to exude the confidence you know you lack. The hybrid slinks behind you, head hunched between his shoulders and every step stiff. He hesitates at the threshold and looks up at you, uncertainty written in the rigid line of his spine. He’s nervous. He has every right to be. 

How long had he spent in that little cinderblock room, shut away from every living thing? How long had he spent being told that he was a monster? You didn’t believe it, not for one second. No one who was as violent as the director had painted him out to be could’ve raised that garden. 

He leans out of the door frame, sniffs the air and lurches forward, out of the shadow of his room, His shoulders bunch up even higher around his head and he goes stiff like he’s waiting for a shock or a shot or a shout- but none comes. The sun is still shining and he’s barefoot in the sand, standing for the first time in years under the open sky. He exhales in a short puff and it looks like he’s going to walk beside you- but he turns on his heels on goes back inside. 

You make a little noise of distress in the back of your throat. Had he changed his mind? Did he not want to come with you anymore? You go to call his name out of concern- but realize you don’t know it. All you have is the call sign he’d been given and you sure as fuck aren’t calling him ‘Monster’. You don’t have to flounder for long. He comes back out two seconds later, cradling the bonsai that’d caught your attention to his chest. 

“I’ll take this,” he mutters, shuffling into place behind you. You can’t smother the smile that starts tugging at your lips. Yeah, no one hateful would hold a little tree with as much tenderness as an infant. 

You give him a little nod. “There’s a terrace where I live,” you tell him, starting your trek across the yard once again. “It’s got a garden and a little greenhouse on it. It’s not very big, and it’s not as pretty as your’s, but you could grow new things there, if you wanted.”

His ears twitch in response, but he keeps his glower firmly focused on the plant in his arms as he shuffles along beside you. It’s then you notice he’s barefoot. “Do you wanna go back and get your shoes?” You ask, trying to make the question sound as innocuous as possible.

“Don’t have any,” he grumbles back. “Don’t need them; I never go outside.” 

Alright, that was understandable. Your first stop when you got back into the city would be a shoe store to get him a pair to wear- or maybe not with the way he kept flinching every time a whistle blew and his ears were swivelling like satellites at each new sound that reached them. You chew the inside of your lip. You don’t want to ask, but you know you should. Better to rip the bandaid off now, than get surprised later. “How long were you shut in for?”

“Fourteen.” He bites out. 

“...weeks?” You venture. There's a hopeful uptick at the end of your words. Even that would’ve been horrible, even that would be worthy of the litany of profanity you’re mentally lobbing at Director Lim- but it’s still better than the truth. 

The hybrid cuts a flat look at you out of the corner of his eyes. “Years.” 

A wall of your scent hits him like a freight train, vacillating between the thick, cloying odor of sadness and the burn of anger. His nose wrinkles at it, brows drawing together in confusion. 

However little you might’ve known about hybrids, however limited your view of them was, you knew they weren’t supposed to be locked up. Domesticated hybrids like hamsters and cats might’ve been fine inside a house all day, assuming they still had regular interaction with people- but dogs weren’t. And he was half wolf. Wild, he’d have had dozens of square miles to roam over, and he’d been limited to a four-by-four yard room for fourteen years. Your goshiwon was a similar size, but it hadn’t been your whole world. All he’d had was one tiny window and what narrow view he’d managed to glimpse in the doorway when his meals were delivered. 

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but you’re cut off by a scream of delight and a snarl keying up in the hybrid next to you’s chest. Your jaw snaps shut with a click. 

A few yards ahead, there’s a group of kids wrestling in a massive pile. They’re all giggling and rolling over each other, tails wagging a mile a minute as they play bite and make grabs for the person at the center of their puppy pile. A head of black hair and a pair of cropped ears pop up and you see that it’s Hope, smiling bright as the sun as his students try to pin him. 

“You can’t leave!” One particularly determined kid yips, adamantly pushing his shoulder back to the sand. “Who’s gonna teach us?”

Hope just laughs.”Lisa is gonna teach you with the older kids-“

A chorus of disappointed barks and howls breaks out. “Ms. Lisa’s classes are too hard!” A little girl complains.

“Yeah!” Someone else chimes in. “And she’s strict!” 

The hybrid ruffles both kid’s hair affectionately, careful of their bandaged ears. “Just because she won’t let you get away with skipping night practice doesn’t mean she’s strict,” he laughs. He’s only met with more grumbles and complaints. 

It warms your heart to see. Even if these kids were at the mercy of their director -for now, at least- it was good that they had him to rely on. Your eyes meet and the sheer force of light in his face makes your own heat up. You look away, but he’s spotted you. He disentangles himself from the mess of kids and draws himself up to his full height. He’s in the same uniform he was in before, albeit with a black tactical bag now strapped to his back. He takes a step toward you and the wolfdog hybrid's ears go flat against his skull. He’s not deterred. “Joonie?”  It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to the hybrid next to you. “Kim Namjoon, is that you?” Hope takes one step forward and the hybrid - Namjoon - takes a step back to counter him. Hope looks like he’s going to advance again, but a small pair of hands wrapped around one of his own stops him. 

A little girl is holding on to him. She can’t be more than six years old. Her tail is still long and her ears are still floppy and she looks so small in her child-sized boots and cargo pants. “Mr. Hobi,” she whines, her head craned back to look up at him. “Please don’t go.”

He falters. His eyes flick from the pair of you back down to her, then he crouches, holds both of her hands in his. “I have to, Sowon-ah,” he says softly. 

She sniffles pitifully and juts out her lower lip.”But why?” 

It’s a fair question. You’re about to tell him that he doesn’t have to come with you if he  doesn’t want to, but he beats you to the punch. “Because it’s my job, sweetheart,” he tells her, smiling softly.

“Y-your job is to teach us,” she hiccups back, face growing blotchy as tears well up in her eyes. Hope swipes one of them away with his thumbs. 

“I teach you so you can grow up well and protect your person, right?” She nods, little hands balling the fabric of her cargo pants up in her fists. “Right. Well this,” he continues, turning and looking at you with a soft smile. “Is my person. And I’ve gotta go make sure she stays safe.” 

You feel your heart jump into your throat. He’s looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky and you don’t deserve it. You’ve done nothing to warrant that much unearned loyalty. Sowon rubs at her eyes with the back of her hands and Hope pulls her into a tight hug. 

“Ah, don’t cry, Sowon! You’ve gotta make sure you get stronger so someone takes you home, okay? You don’t wanna get old and still be here like me, right?” He squeezes her and goes to stand, but gets mobbed by his students again, all wanting their own hugs and making him swear to write them letters. It takes another five minutes of tearful goodbyes and Director Lim approaching for them to turn him loose.

“Get back to your training, all of you!” He barks, stomping out of the office and slamming the door, Mr. Seo on his heels. The kids scatter to the four winds almost instantly, not wanting to be underfoot for whatever scolding the director was about to deal out. Hope’s face remains the same but you catch his ears droop just a little as his students leave him. The wolfdog hybrid- Namjoon, you remind yourself- on the other hand has his ears flat against his skull. A growl bubbles up in his chest and rips past his lips. It’s a dark, full bodied thing that has you taking a step back and Hope shrinking with a whine. 

“Joonie-” he pleads. 

“Don’t fucking call me that.” All the fur on Namjoon’s body is standing on end, from the points of his ears to the tip of his tail. Even his hair has fluffed out. His mismatched eyes are narrowed, lips pulled back in a snarl that reveals his incisors and all that fury, all that rage, is leveled on Director Lim. 

To his credit, the grizzled man doesn’t shrink back an inch before the enraged hybrid. His lips twist and he yanks a little remote out of his pocket, mashing a red button in the center. Namjoon flinches, his hands fly to his neck- but nothing happens. The shock collar is gone and the director has no power over him anymore. 

The man in question’s eyes widen, flicking between the remote to the column of Namjoon’s throat, now devoid of his one element of control. “Where’s his collar?” He demands. “How the hell did you get your collar off?” He advances on the tall hybrid, his hand in the air and though he doesn’t stop snarling, Namjoon ducks his head, anticipating the blow. 

You don’t know what moves you. Maybe it’s Hope pleading for it all to ‘stop, just stop!’. Maybit’s how Namjoon knows exactly how to move when he’s about to get hit. Maybe it’s your own lack of self-preservation. Whatever it is, you blink and you’re in front of Namjoon, your hand up and clutching the director’s forearm, stopping him from striking the hybrid behind you. You’re not strong enough to stop him, not fully. Your elbow buckles in and you stumble back, your back pressing into the wolfdog hybrid’s chest.

The director yells something at you, red flooding his face. You can’t hear him over the rushing of blood in your ears, the pounding of your heart. You force a dry swallow down your throat, put on your bravest face and glare up at him. “Don’t hurt him anymore.”

He reaches out with his free hand to tug you out of the way, but before he can touch you, Hope is there. He presses close to your side and holds the director’s wrist firm, his eyes on the sand and his shoulders hunched up by his ears.

Director Lim looks angry enough to spit. “Hell of a time for you to grow a backbone,” he snarls at Hope, making the doberman hybrid flinch. “I want all four of you off my property now.” He snatched his arms free and you don’t miss the nasty glare he casts at Namjoon. “And if this mutt ever shows his face around here again, I’ll-”

“Director Lim,” Mr. Seo cuts in, his voice cool. “You’ve made yourself clear; we’ll leave. You needn’t make threats.” There’s an underlying warning in the attorney’s voice. The director locks his jaw.

“Get out.” He breathes. Hope ducks around him, his head low and his docked tail pressed close to his back. If he could tuck it, you think he would. You follow after him, eyes fixed straight ahead and your back ramrod straight. He might’ve scared the shit out of you, but you weren’t going to let him see that. Mr. Seo fixes you with a hard look and the second you’re within arms reach, he presses a hand to your back and ushers you toward the gate. The only one who remains is Namjoon.

He looks like his anger has rooted him to the spot. His ears are still flat against his head, his lip still curled. 

“Do it, boy,” the director taunts. “Give me a reason-”

“Namjoon.” At the sound of his name, his ears prick up and you turn around. It’d come not from Hope- which you’d expected, seeing as he seemed to be the only one who actually knew his fellow hybrid’s name- but from the open door of the office building where Eunjung stood. She looks at him, her expression unreadable and he stares back. All the tension in his body has shifted and for a moment, you think he’s going to spring toward her and fall into her arms- but she gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head and his face hardens. His arms tighten around his bonsai. You think you know, now, why it was the only plant in his room that had a pot. 

“Go,” she says and all the tension leaves him. His shoulders curve in and he drags himself past the director, out from the fence and toward Mr. Seo’s car. There’s something final about the way the gate rolls shut after him. If you hadn’t known better, you’d’ve sworn you heard him whine as it locked. 

The car ride down the mountain is...interesting to say the least. Hope insists that the seating arrangements inside the Buick be done to his specifications,( “You’ve gotta sit in the middle,” he tells you, pointing to the narrow center seat. “And Joonie and I will sit on either side of you to protect you in case we crash!” His tail is wagging a mile a minute behind him. You’re surprised it can move that much, given how short it is. Mr. Seo looks affronted at the unintentional jab at his driving and Namjoon just looks irritated. “I told you to stop calling me that.”) and he keeps throwing an arm across your middle everytime the car hits a bump. You’re going down the side of a mountain. There are a lot of bumps. He also keeps pressing his nose against the glass of his window, ears pricked up and trying to take in every tree that passes by. Namjoon, on the other hand, slouches back in his seat, his body curved around his plant and ever so slightly away from you. He still watches the world pass by, but he doesn’t acknowledge any of you or speak- which would be fine if anyone else would. Hope seems to be doing his best to appear stoic and alert every time you look at him and Mr. Seo seems comfortable with the quiet. So, you’re left to ride the two hours back to Seoul in silence. 

You almost cry with relief when your phone buzzes with an incoming text. You fish the device out of your pocket, thumb it to life and scan your notifications.

Unknown Sender [7:13 PM] where are you

You frown. Very few people had your number or any reason to text you. You’re about to chalk it up to a wrong number when the second text rolls in.

Unknown Sender [7:14 PM] it’s yoongi

Now that’s a surprise. When you’d hurriedly told the boys to text you, you’d been expecting Jimin to urge you to hurry or for Taehyung to ask for updates, not for their hyung to check your progress. A little smile pricks at your lips as you rush to reply

You [7:14 PM] We’re on the way back now!

Unknown Sender has been changed to Yoongi 

Yoongi [7:14 PM] can i call

You bite the inside of your lip, suddenly nervous. You know there’s no reason to be. After all, you tell yourself, what’s scary about a pair of roommates talking on the phone? You give him the go ahead and not three seconds after the delivered notification pops up, you get a call. You answer it on speaker.

“...Hello?”

“Did you just start driving?” Yoongi’s voice is thick with sleep, like he’s just woken up. It’s different than normal, his usual smooth drawl gone gravelly. 

“Y-yeah,” you reply, trying to ignore the way Hope is watching you out of the corner of his eyes and Namjoon’s ears have swiveled back toward you. “It’s gonna be awhile, still. Are Taehyung and Jimin-”

“They’re fine; They ate dinner earlier and they’ll be asleep til you get back.” He yawns and you picture him slouched on the couch, his hair mashed up on one side and his face puffy.  “Why do you sound nervous?”

“I’m not,” you counter. It’s a blatant lie and he knows it. He hums in doubt, but doesn’t press you.

“I’ll see you when you get back.”

“Do you want me to text you when we’re close?” It’s an innocuous question. There’s no reason you can see for him to pause as long as he does. For a second you think you’ve lost him- after all, mountains aren’t known for having great reception- but then you hear his breath fan over the receiver. 

“...Yeah.” 

You give a little nod you know he can’t see. “Okay.” He makes a little noise of assent and then his line clicks off. You hang up. Just as you do, another text comes through. 

Yoongi [7:16 PM] don’t let them scent you

“Who was that?” Hope asks in a small voice, pulling you away from your phone screen and Yoongi’s insistence that you remain scent-free. His tone is open, but you can tell by the way his knee is bouncing that he really, really wants to know. “Is that your husband?”

The bark of laughter that rips past your lips is out before you can think to stop it. Namjoon flinches and you wince at him in apology, your hand flying up to cover your mouth. Hope is frowning at you in confusion, his head cocked slightly to the side. You force yourself to calm and answer him. “No, Yoongi is not my husband.” You weren’t sure if you even really qualified as friends at this point. “He’s another hybrid that lives with me.”

Hope perks up in his seat. “You have another hybrid? Director Lim always told us that once we left the center, we’d be alone.” Your expression sours at the mention of the ill-tempered man and you shake your head. 

“No, there’s a lot of hybrids in Seoul,” you tell him, eager to dispel some of his misconceptions. “The three that live with me are named Yoongi, Jimin and Taehyung. Yoongi’s around your age, I think. Jimin and Taehyung are younger.” The doberman hybrid sits at rapt attention, soaking up every bit of information you give him and waiting eagerly for more. What else could you tell him about them? You remember the boys’ reaction that morning when you told them you’d be bringing dog hybrids home. “...They’re all felines,” you say, slowly, trying to gauge their reactions. 

“So that’s why you smell like that.” It’s the first words Namjoon’s spoken since you all piled into the car. You turn to him, but he’s not looking at you.

“What do you-?”

“You smell like other hybrids,” Hope says, covering for him. “But I’ve never smelled any that weren’t other dogs before.” He leans closer, his seatbelt stretching. You tense and lean away from him, but he’s not deterred. The tip of his nose brushes your neck and you have to fight off a shiver as he breathes you in. “They smell the same…” he starts, his breath fanning over your throat. “...but different? And one of them isn’t as strong as the others-” He presses closer, trying to catch the scent that’s eluding him. You make a noise of mild distress and lean further back, pressing into the solid wall that is Namjoon. 

“Hoseok, let it go .” Hoseok. That was his real name then. To your surprise, the dog hybrid pulls back as instructed, settling back into his seat without so much as a whine.

“I’ve never met a cat before,” he muses, turning his attention back to the window. “I hope they’re nice.”

You think about the chorus of hisses you’d been met with when you told the boys they’d have to share their space. You hope so too.

It’s 9:30 by the time Mr. Seo drops you off back in front of your building. He wishes you a good night and promises to call later in the week to discuss Black Mountain Canines. You’re not sure if there’s anyone to report him to or anything you can do, but you want to try. What you’d seen at the compound was wrong any way you looked at it. It made you sick to leave anyone there knowing how the director treated Namjoon and Hoseok. No one was useless. No one deserved to be locked away for years at a time for the sheer crime of existing. You’d make them see that. 

The moment you step out of the car, Hoseok is all wide smiles and exclamations. “Woah, you live here?” he asks, tilting his head back to take in all fifty-one floors of Haneul Tower in their sparkling, glass-paned glory.

“Yeah,” you tell him, handing him his bag. In his excitement to get out of the car, he’d abandoned it and Mr. Seo had nearly driven away with it. “But I just moved in a couple days ago, so it’s still pretty empty.”

Hoseok nods, scanning the windows like he’ll be able to pick out which one’s your’s. Behind you, Namjoon is lingering on the sidewalk.

He’s still got his bonsai clutched close to his chest and he’s hunched down around it like he’s trying to stop unseen hands from picking at it. His shoulders are bunched up by his ears, and he flinches with every car horn, every siren that comes to you on the wind. He’d grown up in the mountains and spent the better part of his life indoors. It only made sense that he’d be sensitive to the sounds of the city. 

“Is there a security system?” Hoseok asks, still enamored with the building. “How many entrances does your apartment have?”

“Just one second,” you tell him, forehead wrinkling as you take in Namjoon. You slide slowly toward the wolfdog, not wanting to startle him. “Namjoon?” He flinches when you call his name, head whipping toward you. “Do you wanna go inside? I know it’s new, but it’ll be quieter, I think.”

His mismatched eyes flick from you, to Hoseok, to the building and back to you before settling firmly on the concrete at his feet. He seems different than he had in the mountains. He’s smaller, quieter, less sure of himself. Was it because this is all new territory for him? Or had the snarling hybrid in the mountains just been a roll he was forced to play, the mythic monster to the director’s tyrant king. 

“You don’t have to go inside if you don’t want to,” you tell him, in a voice you hope is reassuring. “We can wait, if you need to.”

“I’ll wait with you, Joonie,” Hope chimes in, giving the larger hybrid the same soft smile he’d given his students earlier. 

He swallows, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “It...it’s fine,” he mutters, “We can go in, I just…” He takes a few hesitant steps forward and huddles closer to you. There’s still an inch between you, but it’s closer than you’d thought he’d come. 

You peer up at him. “Okay?” You ask. He gives a single nod and your little group moves through the double doors and into the lobby. 

It’s quieter at this time of night. You don’t recognize the woman standing behind the reception desk. There’s no one really around except one man, pacing the width of the lobby looking thoroughly put out. You can’t really see his face, but there’s something familiar about the slant of his body. He whirls around as the glass doors click shut and you catch sight of a fringe of gray hair, pointed ears, narrowed yellow eyes and an all too familiar pout. 

Yoongi. 

“Fuck.” You’d completely forgotten to text him. Judging by the look on his face as he stalks toward you, he wasn’t happy about it. To his credit, Hoseok does his best to guard you, sliding in front of you and pushing you behind him. You can’t see Yoongi’s ears beneath the hat he’s wearing but if his curled lip and narrowed eyes are any indicator, they’re pinned straight back. 

“Move.” He snarls at the doberman hybrid. Hoseok is taller than he is, but the closer Yoongi gets to him, the smaller he seems to shrink. There’s fire in the bobcat hybrid’s eyes. Hope whimpers and slinks out of his way, ears low. 

You wince. “Heeeeey, Yoongi. I’m sorry I forg-“ before you can even finish the sentence, he tugs you toward him by the shoulders. His face roves your neck, sniffing in earnest as he tries to pick up the scent of the other hybrids on you. All is well until he reaches the right side of your throat and grazes over the exact spot Hoseok had nosed earlier. He pulls away slowly, his shoulders tight. His head turns slowly to the doberman hybrid, mechanical. 

“You.” He hisses at the other hybrid with so much virulence it makes your blood run cold. He takes one step toward him, teeth bared in a snarl, but Namjoon slides in front of him bumping him back. A growl bubbles in the bobcat hybrid’s chest and the wolfdog matches it, both their ears pinned flat against their skulls. 

“Hey-” If either of them hear you, they don’t react. They’re too focused on having a staring contest. “Hey!” You push between them, a hand on either of their chests. Namjoon snarls as you touch him and Yoongi looks ready to skin him alive for that alone. He pushes against your hand, trying to get closer to the taller hybrid. You ball your hand up in the fabric of his shirt. “Stop it!” The receptionist already has the lobby phone in her hand. She’s whispering earnestly into it and you’re sure security will be on the way any second. You exhale and squeeze your eyes shut. “Everybody, elevator.” 

Yoongi hurls an accusatory finger in Hoseok’s direction. “These fucking-”

“Yoongi, please,” you plead. That gets him to stop. His arm falls to his side and he glowers down at you for a few seconds before stalking over to the elevators and slamming the up button. “I’m sorry,” you murmur to Hoseok and Namjoon. The smaller of the two hybrids is still hunched in on himself and the taller has Yoongi fixed in his mismatched gaze, his lips curled in anger. 

This was not the way you wanted this to go. You’d wanted them to have time to settle before you discussed next steps and gave them the same talk you’d given the felines, but it didn’t look like that was in the cards. You don’t know what’s gotten into Yoongi. You’d thought the bobcat hybrid was calm, cool and collected, completely unflappable in the face of anything. Apparently not. He seemed upset that some of Hoseok’s scent had gotten on you, but there’d been no way to help that. You’d been packed in a car with him and Namjoon for two hours. It was inevitable, wasn’t it?

“It’s not okay,” you tell them, wanting them to know you didn’t condone the way Yoongi had acted. “I don’t...I don’t know why he’s acting like this; he doesn’t normally. Do you wanna go up separately?”

It’s Hoseok who answers. “No, we’ll go up together,” he assures you with a small nod. “If...maybe if we get used to each other, it’ll be okay?” 

You’re not optimistic, but you give him a pained smile you hope is reassuring. “Yeah, maybe?” You cast a look back over your shoulders. Yoongi is waiting by the elevators, his arms crossed over his chest and his tail flicking in irritation. The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Well, there was no avoiding it. “Come on,” you tell them. “Just...keep to the other side, for now. I’ll stand between you and him.” 

The four of you pile into the elevator, all tucked into your own corners. It’s strange, you think. It’s never seemed small until now. Hoseok keeps casting worried looks over at you, Namjoon keeps subtly shifting closer and Yoongi is still glowering at the both of them, angry for a reason you can’t quantify. 

“If it helps,” Hoseok starts softly, his voice an intrusion in the awkward silence. “I really didn’t mean to, honestly-”

“Don’t apologize.” Namjoon counters. “If it bothers him that much, he can speak up” 

You don’t know what they’re talking about. It’s too late that you realize the canines aren’t addressing you. Suddenly, Yoongi’s fingers are hooked through one of your belt loops. He yanks you backwards and you stumble, falling against the length of his body. “My bad,” You shoot out, before the hybrid can hiss at you. “I just lost my bala-” The words die on your tongue as Yoongi fixes his mouth to the soft skin of your throat. The elevator goes quiet.

The canine hybrids avert their eyes almost instantaneously, instinct telling them they’re witnessing something they shouldn’t be. Yoongi keeps them fixed firmly in his sights, a dark growl bubbling in his throat. 

Your fingers flex uselessly at your sides, hands clenching unclenching as the hybrid works over the sensitive skin of your neck with his teeth and tongue. ‘Don’t make a noise,’ you plead with yourself. ‘This isn’t what it feels like. Don’t make a noise, don’t make a noise, don’t make a noise-’ Yoongi’s incisors graze over a vein and a little whimper slips past your lips before you can stop it. The grip he has on your hips becomes bruising. You feel your legs turning to jelly beneath you. Any more of what he was doing, and they’d have to mop you up off the elevator floor. You force your throat to swallow. “Y-Yoongi, I think that’s enough-” You don’t know if he hears you over the noise he’s making, so you lace your fingers through his and untangle them from your hips. He releases you with a wet pop and you slap a hand over the skin he’d marked. Heat floods your face and a smirk spreads across Yoongi’s, his teeth flashing at the canines. He leans in again to rub his nose against the mark he’d made- but a hand on his chest stops him. 

“Can you stop?” You ask in a small voice. Honestly, you’re embarrassed. Regardless of what the articles said about mark-making being platonic, it doesn’t feel friendly. It feels possessive and mean and you don’t like it. “I’m sorry I didn’t text you like you asked, but what is with you today?” Yoongi’s expression changes from smug satisfaction to confusion and then surprise, like he hadn’t expected you to protest. “I know what I said about you being ready but…” You rub a hand over the mark, wiping away saliva and your sweat. The bobcat hybrid visibly deflates. The elevator chimes for the fiftieth floor and the doors roll open slowly. You rush out before any of them can and start punching the code in your door with shaky fingers. You don’t know what to say. You’re tired and stressed and you don’t know what’s going on. Was this about the apartment? You knew the felines wouldn’t be happy about sharing their space, but why had Yoongi gone this far?

“Y/N…” He trails after you, his ears drooping. You shake your head, You can’t talk to him right now. 

“In the morning,” you tell him as the door swings open. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.” You can’t deal with everything that’s happened today, and Yoongi flipping out and getting the canines settled. You weren’t that good at juggling. 

By the grace of all that’s merciful, Taehyung and Jimin are still asleep when you walk in. You’d need to have an extended meet and greet tomorrow, you decide. Maybe do some icebreakers or team building exercises. If they reacted anything like their hyung did, you were in for one hell of an adjustment period. 

Hoseok and Namjoon trail you into the penthouse warily, sniffing the air. You want to give them time to explore and get their bearings, they deserve that, but with the way Yoongi still seems agitated when they venture anywhere but exactly in your steps, that’ll need to be saved until tomorrow morning too. You give them the most spartan tour you can muster up and show them each to a guest room, promising to order them furniture and get them the things they need tomorrow. 

By the time you collapse into your own bed, it’s damn near 11. You groan and drag a pillow over your face as you ask the universe for the thousandth time why it had decided to continuously kick your ass. Having three hybrids had been hard enough. Having five of all different species was likely to prove impossible and having seven was going to be a sisyphean task you’d had no training for. You groan and kick your feet in the air, allowing yourself the brief respite of a temper tantrum before crawling under your covers and flicking the lamp off. Maybe in your dreams there’d be no stress and no snarling hybrids with behavior you couldn’t explain.

right where you left me

summary: this is the fourth prompt of @caplanbuckybarnes ‘s summary challenge! this idea kind of went a little crazy on my part, but the prompt is: remember when you said you’d marry me? today’s our wedding day and you’re not here to see it. 

warnings: y’all, i really said that i didn’t write angst and then made cardigan, and then this after one serious talk with @teenwonder - yeah, so this is angst? i wrote this while extremely vulnerable so this is very messy- deepest apologies

note: yes, the title is a taylor swift song. it is a must listen if you haven’t heard it, please!

word count: this is literally a baby, the shortest thing i’ve ever written- 1.4k

also guys, i got to 300 followers sometime last night- thank you!! i’m so glad that other people are enjoying my stuff, it’s such a great feeling.

If you had known that one person wasn’t coming back after retrieving the soul stone, you would have gone with Natasha instead of letting Clint go, and you would have forced her to let it be you. At least, that was your main thought for weeks and weeks, until the hole in your heart grew bigger and the rock on your finger grew almost too heavy to carry. Then, after your anger at her for leaving you in the dark and alone faded, you realized that it was just sadness. Nothing but. And for a while, it seemed to be going on a steady incline, and nothing was even close to getting better. 

You woke up every morning in emotional pain. Every morning, the right side of the bed was cold. Every morning, there was a lack of eyes on your face, and of feather light touches going down your back. There were no whispered Russian words or sweet nothings spoken in English. It was just you and no one else, and you could have never imagined that peace and quiet could have ever been so destructive. You would never be over the fact that it seemed like everyone had gotten their loved ones back, clicked right back into place like they never left to begin with, but you were stuck. Stuck in time, stuck in emotions, stuck with your body still aging but your heart never moving on. You were on a spinning platform, watching everyone grow old and renewing old vows and having kids, and you couldn’t get off. You would be there for the rest of your life, right where she left you. And then, that was when you took your original thought back. 

You would have never been able to leave her in the amount of sadness that she left you. 

You knew that she was always self-sacrificing, no matter how much she liked to pretend that she wasn’t the sort of team player that the world needed. It showed in the way she spoke about certain topics, the way she always secretly cared for the underdog, how she always stood up for recruits trying to prove themselves,  and even how she always watched out for the little guy and stuck her neck out for the people she knew needed a little more help than others. Hell, she met you by sticking her neck out for a stranger. You were fighting a man inches taller than you who had a knife swinging at you so wildly that you were sure that he was actually going to get you with his manic jabs. She came flying in out of nowhere without a sound like some sort of battle angel, and before you even realized who she was, she stepped in, took a shallow stab for you, and then dropped him so quickly that you were scared he was dead. 

  She sported that scar for the rest of her life, and at first, it brought shame to you. It made you feel guilty; knowing that your weakness caused another person to wear a scar on their body. Especially her and her body, because she was flawless. Because as hard as she seemed, she was beautiful inside and out, and she didn’t deserve to have any scar of any kind. As your love grew on, things changed, and that godforsaken scar became the flame to your hovering moth. Your fingers always managed to find it, even over her civilian clothes or tactical suit, and your lips always brushed over it when the lights were out and the air was thin between the two of you, when all there was was you and her and the candles that burned on the other side of the room. 

Now, you couldn’t imagine not wanting to see that scar. All you wanted was to trace it with your fingers even though you knew every single puckered spot that hadn’t healed correctly, and every curve of the scar itself. You couldn’t think of a more peaceful scene than placing light kisses on it and then looking her in the eyes, watching her smile that pretty little smile she did every time, the one that said that she would jump in front of the knife a thousand times over again. 

 So, yeah, you knew that she was self sacrificing. But you would have never thought that she would leave you in shambles. And shambles was what you were in as you sat in the apartment, the one that you used to share that you had nearly cleared out with the help of a pitying Sam and Maria Hill, in your beautiful white gown that you were so certain matched the one that Natasha had picked for herself. 

You still hadn’t seen it. 

  You were in the entire outfit. Your shoes were strapped on lazily, your veil was pushed back and crinkled, your mascara was running, but your dress was perfect. Your dress was frozen in time, stuck in a day that it had never even seen play out. Your sobs echoed louder than any laughter in the apartment had now that all the picture frames and decor had been torn down. 

  She was supposed to marry you. That was the promise that the both of you made when she got on one knee after the best day at Coney Island, surprising you only because you had a black box in your pocket, too. You were supposed to marry Natasha Romanoff, and your wedding day was here, knocking loud and proud, standing on your doorstep. It was the day, the one that was staring at you in the form of the glaring pink sharpie that you two had used to circle the day on the calendar. The calendar was the only thing still up in your apartment, as if you could ever forget the date. 

Suddenly, the dress that fit you perfectly began to feel tight. The necklace that you picked because it was elegant and light felt heavy around your neck, like a collar of sadness preparing to choke you at any second. You stood up, ready to take it all off and throw your dress and all of it off of the top of Stark fucking Tower, but then the heels that were your perfect height felt too tall. You collapsed back onto the couch, bawling your eyes out and whispering her name like a prayer over and over again, like it would bring her back to you, standing in a radiant white dresses that you could have only dreamed of. You could imagine it, her staring down at you with the soft smile she reserved for you that you missed so much, hand reaching out for yours, and you would have stretched to the point of desperation just to touch her. The door to your apartment had been unlocked and there was a quiet shuffling that signaled people coming in, but you didn’t care. 

You didn’t care that they were her friends, or yours. You didn’t care that they had somehow gotten a key to your apartment, or that they looked almost as heartbroken as you did, sitting on the floor of the apartment that used to be shared, and so full of life and love. You didn’t care that you could hardly breathe through the pain or through your chest rattling sobs, nor did you care that someone had their arms wrapped around you and was trying to break through your eternal wall of grief. 

You and your dress were stuck in time. Stuck in a place where nothing bad ever happened to you or Natasha, in a timeline where you two managed to get married. In your mind, you were looking at Natasha while you threw your bouquet at your small group of friends, wide smiles on the both of your faces as you heard their playful squeals. In reality, you were sobbing on your floor, dust collecting on you and your true emotions as pages of reality and dream world stuck to each other. She left you, and she left you with no choice but to stay in a moment that would never happen forever. You flinched when you felt the arm squeeze you gently, forcing you to look at who was truly there in the flesh in front of you. It wasn’t her. 

  But it was your wedding day. And she was never going to be there to see it. 

****

i got sad and selfishly decided to make it other people’s problems- this is the result

The Cardigan

A certain artist has the biggest brain and the wonderful opinion that Munkustrap deserves a little cardigan. I absolutely agree; so @not-gothicc, this is for you. All my love to all who read/like/reblog! ♥

The weather was of the miserable, dreary, drizzly mid-autumn kind when Stanley shuffled on the tram that took him to work that morning. He wrapped his thin scarf a little tighter around his neck and silently cursed his boss for not increasing his salary as he had promised. How was he supposed to afford a new coat for the winter? Maybe he’d leave and join the steelworkers after all. Being a steelworker certainly proved to be a much deadlier job than guarding a junkyard, but it paid a lot better.

Then again, he supposed he was lucky that he had a job at all.

As soon as he approached the little watch house a few meters away from the entrance of the yard, his colleague Earl called a greeting from behind his newspaper. Stanley greeted back, staring at the ruins of what had once been a run-down hotel and now was more or less part of the junkyard after the back wall had caved in on itself.

“Mornin’,” Stanley said to Clarence, who stepped out of the watch house to smoke.

“Morning, Stanley. Alright?”

“Alright, Clarence. How’re wife and kids?”

Clarence lightened his cigarette and took a deep breath. “Ah, little Peggy’s got the sniffles, but the rest of the lot is just fine. My wife’s got a few wealthy customers lately, so we’ve used more gas than in the last year in this week alone.”

Clarence’s wife Wanda was a seamstress, and she often visited Clarence with one or two of his seven children in tow, and Stanley liked her a lot. She was a beautiful woman, smart as a whip, with more courage to give their boss a piece of her mind than any of the junkyard’s guards together.

“Will she come over later?”

“Possibly. The doctor said Peggy needs to get outside more, for some fresh air. Don’t know where the fresh air is supposed to come from, but doctor’s orders are doctor’s orders.”

“Well, let’s hope the residents are kind enough to show up and entertain her, then,” Earl commented from behind his newspaper, and Clarence snorted.

“That girl needs barely more than to make a peep and they come running. She’ll be entertained just fine.”

Stanley smiled and entered the watch house, having to pull vigorously on the doorknob to open the lopsided door. A few candles burned inside to save money for gas. Their boss was a scrooge, but Stanley couldn’t help but admit that candlelight was more cosy by far. As long as Earl didn’t accidentally set his newspaper on fire, that was.

He turned on the radio and tuned out Earl reading out loud from his newspaper to listen to his favourite jazz channel.

A quiet scratching sound on the window made him look up. The tiny cat on the windowsill stared back, cautiously lifting one paw to resume scratching at the windowpane. With a smirk, Stanley opened the window and let the curious kitten inside.

“I haven’t seen you before,” he told the kitten, which sniffed at his hand before rubbing against his sleeve. “Are you hear to pay rent? I fear that it’s gotten more expensive, but you know how it is. We all have families to feed and clothe.”

Unsurprisingly, the kitten didn’t answer, busy with biting at Stanley’s shoelaces. Stanley chuckled and stretched out a hand to scratch behind tiny brown and white ears.

With a loud hiss, the kitten jumped back and – to Stanley’s astonishment – performed a flawless backflip. Then it shot back outside onto the windowsill, gave a truly ferocious squeaky meow, and fled.

“Huh,” Stanley said, scratching his stubbly chin.

He decided to call the kitten “Fred Astaire”.

Sometime around noon, Wanda and Peggy showed up, much to the delight of the rest of the bored guardsmen who were holed up in the watch house most of the time to not get a cold.

Peggy was supplied with lots of handkerchiefs and then sent outside to play and get dirty, which she did without any complaints. Wanda smiled and sipped a cup of lukewarm coffee as she watched her little daughter jump around in puddles, mud splattered up to her elbows.

They shared news, gossiped, congratulated Wanda on her customers and hard work and drank more coffee than was probably healthy.

It only took five minutes of silence to make every head inside the watch house whip around to look out of the window for Peggy. The sound of her shrill little voice pacified them just as quickly.

“Kitty, kitty, kitty!”

Her siren’s call worked flawlessly, as always, and in no time the tiny clearing at the edge of the junkyard was bursting with cats.

Big cats and tiny cats, cats of every shape and colour, cats everywhere, and a delighted little girl in the middle.

All that hustle and bustle drove the five guardsmen outside, because honestly; on some days one just needed to pet a cat.

Stanley spotted his Fred Astaire sitting with another kitten with a similar patch over his eye, just on the other side, but he didn’t dare approach them. God knew that cats were very protective of their kittens, but the junkyard cats seemed to be even worse in that matter.

Peggy had obviously been accepted as honorary sibling, but the guardsmen were still eyed warily, and Stanley really didn’t want to take on the leopard-spotted giant of a cat lounging on a ratty sofa a few meters away. Its spiked collar alone was enough to scare him away from trying to approach a kitten without permission or even thinking about perhaps adopting one and taking it home.

“Ha, look at that one,” Tom laughed suddenly, pointing at a lanky ginger cat. “What a dapper fellow.”

Stanley and the others couldn’t hold back their delighted laughter – the cat wore a cotton vest, complete with a little watch and chain and a leather collar with a bell.

The vest-wearing cat lifted its long brown tail and gave a very loud meow, which made them shut up immediately. Then they scratched their heads and wondered why they had the urge to apologize to it for laughing and pointing.

Peggy’s voice distracted them from their moral dilemma. “Mumma, look! My doll dress!”

They were greeted with the sight of a sleepy, chunky cat with a spotted and striped coat. It sported a flapper dress with tassels.

Since Wanda was a seamstress, she often tailored little clothes for the dolls and teddies of her children, and she was Peggy’s role model. Indeed, Wanda had the most hope for Peggy to take over her tailor shop when she was older.

Clarence had told them of Peggy’s recent tries to tailor dresses and jackets for her dolls. He’d even brought one of the dresses to show it off, and they had been very impressed. What Peggy lacked in technique, she certainly didn’t lack in creativity. Unfortunately, it had been far too big for the doll was meant for, and not long after Clarence had went to the loo, the dress had vanished from the watch house and was nowhere to be found.

Stanley knew of the hoarding behaviour of cats, but he hadn’t known that cats actually wore their stolen goods. At least they knew what had become of the lost doll flapper dress.

He imagined the black and white cat wearing the socks that he knew it had stolen from his bag and chortled.

The cat in the flapper dress (which fit like a glove, as if it had been made for the cat all along) rubbed against Peggy’s mud-splattered legs and purred so loudly that Stanley could hear it from where he stood a small distance away.

When Wanda stooped down to take the dress off the cat, thinking that it might suffocate itself, the cat ran off. Petting her head and holding her paw in a handshake proved to be no problem, but every time Wanda, Peggy or one of the guardsmen tried to make a grab for the dress, the cat gave them the slip, much faster than it appeared to be, with its round body and short legs. They gave up after it hissed at Earl, obviously set on keeping the dress.

Two hours later, Peggy was tired out from all the playing and petting, and they bid the cats goodbye and went back inside. Peggy was planted on the table, proudly showing off all the new clothes she had made for her dolls. They were all far too big for a doll, but very fashionable. The guardsmen ooh-ed and aah-ed, admiring the soft fabrics and chaotic patterns stitched on sleeves and dress hems.

Wanda and Peggy took their leave soon after, both kissing Clarence and earning doffed hats from the guardsmen.

Quite a few cats where still around when Stanley, Frank and Earl stepped back outside to smoke.

Stanley and Frank borrowed Earl’s newspaper to look at the pages with job offers. When Stanley looked up, Earl was leaning on a broken-down cupboard, scratching behind the ears of a silver-black tabby cat.

Stanley recognized that one. He even knew that it was a tomcat, since Earl had taken him together with a dopey looking puppy to the veterinarian once after he had eaten rat poison or something. Poor thing. He seemed to have recovered, though.

“Hello there, Spoon,” Stanley said to the silver tabby, stepping over and stretching out his hand to let him sniff on it.

“Mrrrp,” said Spoon, rubbing his chin on Stanley’s fingers.

“Doing better, hm?” Earl asked him, petting his ears.

“Mrrr.”

“Fabulous.”

Stanley squatted on the floor next to them and squinted at the grey sky. “Dreadful weather today, innit?”

Spoon meowed his affirmation. The sound of a small squeak made him twitch, and his half-closed eyes opened wide, ears alert.

Stanley smiled and finished his cigarette when little Fred Astaire struggled his way up the cupboard, being halfway intercepted by Spoon sticking his head down to him and pulling him up by the scruff of his neck.

“Sorry for offending you this morning,” Stanley told Fred, and the kitten stared at him a little and then folded over to wash his tiny paws. Spoon chirped approvingly, but Stanley wasn’t sure if the approval was aimed at him or at Fred.

With a creak of the door, Clarence joined them at the cupboard, tapping two fingers to his hat to greet the two cats with a smile. “Say, Spoon, are you going to grow a winter coat soon? All those kittens of yours will be cold!”

Spoon trilled, grooming Fred’s muzzle as if protesting. Or perhaps he was worried, as well?

Cut it out, Stanley, Stanley thought, it’s just a darn cat.

Frank folded a small newspaper hat with the politics page and set it on little Fred’s head. The kitten mewed in confusion when his face vanished under the rim. In no time the paper was ripped into shreds as Fred bravely fought against his attacker, white paws quickly stained with black ink.

Spoon settled down into a loaf position, regarding the carnage before him with seemingly never-ending patience.

“Wouldn’t want you to get cold, either,” Frank mused, smoothing one hand over Spoon’s back.

Clarence hummed, turning back to look at the watch house. “Very true. Hold on for a moment…”

Stanley, Earl and Frank shared confused looks, but kept on petting Spoon and setting Fred back on the cupboard when he rolled off, too engulfed in slaying the newspaper to watch where he tumbled.

Clarence returned, a light-blue piece of fabric hanging from his hand. When he spread it out, it was a little cardigan, lovingly handmade with far too long sleeves for a doll.

Stanley eyed the forelegs of the stately tomcat before him. Perhaps Clarence was onto something.

Spoon seemed to be a little astounded when the guardsmen picked him up and dressed him in the cardigan with much giggling and head scratches for both cats, but he didn’t fight against them.

They debated a little if it was too cruel to go through with it, but since the round cat was so possessive of its flapper dress and the ginger cat seemed to like its vest quite a lot, they figured that it would be alright.

At last, Spoon was dressed, forelegs sticking out of the sleeves and cardigan carefully draped over his back, arranged just so to not upset his long fur.

It suited him very well, the soft light-blue cotton fabric complimenting his silver-black coat.

“I wish I had a photo camera,” Earl sighed, and his colleagues chuckled when Spoon sat upright with his forelegs in the air and nosed curiously at the fabric. Little Fred finally fell off the cupboard with a squeak, and Spoon followed him and jumped down to look if he was alright, nudging him upright with his nose.

The kitten rubbed his entire body on Spoon’s right foreleg, curiously licking the fabric he found there, and scampered away into the junkyard, no doubt to tell his mates of his big kill. Stanley flicked a scrap of newspaper off the cupboard.

Spoon was still trying out the cardigan, walking around and jumping on and off of various junk, curling up and stretching out. After a few minutes of this and the guardsmen applauding for him whenever he walked by as if he was leading a fashion show, Spoon came to a stop before them and meowed.

“Yes, excuse us, Spoon, terribly sorry,” Earl said, wiping away a few tears of laughter, “we’ve had our fun. Let’s get this thing off of you.”

He picked up the purring tomcat, reaching for one of the sleeves and starting to pull them off his foreleg.

Spoon yowled.

Earl startled so badly that he let Spoon go, letting him fall to his paws, where he sat back on his hind legs and tugged the fabric back up his foreleg with a soft growl.

The guardsmen exchanged another confused look and Clarence stooped down to try taking the cardigan off the cat, but Spoon screeched and hissed, jumping back and onto the cupboard.

“I think he wants to keep it,” Stanley said eventually, scratching his stubbly chin.

“Seems so, doesn’t it?”

“It does. Will Peggy be very unhappy?”

Clarence waved Earl off. “Ah, she tailors new dresses every day, and the cardigan didn’t fit anyway. Although it might be hard to explain to Wanda how I managed to lose another doll dress to a cat.”

Spoon gave them no mind, stretching and rubbing his back on the floor to righten the cardigan to his liking.

“Well,” said Earl, carefully offering his hand for Spoon to sniff at, which he did with only some wariness. When he was sure that he wouldn’t try again to take his cardigan away, he rubbed his head on the back of Earl’s hand and chirped.

Stanley shook his head with wonder as Spoon chirped again as goodbye, hopped off the cupboard and made his way into the depths of the junkyard, the blue cardigan wrapped around his shoulders as if it had been made just for him.

Just a darn cat, huh, he thought. Maybe he’d ask Peggy if she’d make a cardigan for his dog so that Stanley could wear it in the winter.

Perhaps he preferred to see these dear little cats more than earning more money with the steelworkers, after all.

There are probably quite a few inaccuracies for the 1930's in here, but I'm too tired right now to look it up. Sorry! Also, "Fred Astaire" is Tumblebrutus, in case I've been a little too ambiguous here. And the dopey puppy is George! :D The rat poison incident will be the topic of a future fic I'm planning. The idea of Munkustrap's first name being "Spoon" comes from @rumpleteazers-swag-bag. Thank you for reading!

Somewhere to Begin | Pannacotta Fugo x Ghirga!Reader

He has always adored you, like the sun and the moon and more - but he had a brilliant way of convincing you otherwise.

- 200 Follower Giveaway Piece iii for @idontlikerisottounlessitsnero​ -

Content Warnings: Not SFW Content, Post Break-Up, Emotional Hurt & Comfort, Regret, & Explicit Sexual Content (Aged-Up Characters)

You had promised your brother Narancia to never involve yourself directly with Passione; even the occasional stay for a meal at Il Libeccio made him antsy, yet you failed to see the harm in sharing a plate of bruschetta with Fugo, or a pot of hot tea with Abbacchio – two of his closest companions. It was only fair that you ought to spend time with the men who gave you unbridled protection at the behest of nothing more than goodwill and magnanimity. Not that you needed such security, but it kept street thieves from picking your pockets, at least.

You had promised him indeed, and now that he lies in the casket before you – clad in the suit from your mother’s funeral that you never thought to see him wear again – you intend to keep it. Giorno had offered to have an outfit tailored for your brother, but you refused him with consternation that your he would not be buried in something from the boy responsible for his death.

“No,” you had told him, cold as the wall of ice that has crept around your heart, while clutching the woolly material to your chest. “This one will do nicely.”

And so, the mortician severed the seam along the back of the jacket and draped a silk sheet over Narancia’s legs so that no one would be wiser to fact that his ankles stick out past the bottom hem of his trousers. It was bad enough that you could not afford the casket on your own. You knew better than to believe it when Mista told you that it and the headstone were paid for with the money yielded from the liquidation of Bucciarati’s assets. If that were true, then why not pay for a new suit, too?

Trish snatches a single white lily from the memorial wreath and tucks it between your brother’s still, clasped fingers. She hides her grief behind a pair of sunglasses that do not match the overcast weather that looms above your heads. You had not wanted to wait so long for the funeral – for two months, Narancia’s body had been left in the morgue to chill on ice, par Giorno’s insistence that the service must wait until his transfer of power over Passione has finished.

Thus, for two months, you had lain awake at night, shuddering at the melancholy and its melody that reminds you how you your brother died without saying farewell – his platonic little soulmate. Giorno may have his victories and suffer for them, but you would not let him entomb Narancia in the mausoleum with Bucciarati and Abbacchio.

“He’ll be buried next to our mother,” you said to the new Don with indignancy. “After everything you’ve taken from me, let me have this. Lascia che mio fratello torni a casa – let my brother come home.”

Your wish was granted, though you suspect it only so because he was growing tired of fighting with you over burial rights and passages. The congregation is kept small, consisting only of yourself, Mista, Trish, a tortoise named Jean-Pierre Polnareff, regrettably Giorno, and a handful of bodyguards, though the latter kept their distance from the immediate service; it would not come as a surprise to you, should you learn that the men in black suits were employed to protect their Don from the mournful sister of the deceased.

The handkerchief clutched in your grasp is damp with past tears. Not even your father had come, despite your pleading that he ought to pay his respects to his only son. Too preoccupied with his floozy of a new wife and her children from two previous marriages than to love his own – you never needed him in your life anyways, because you had Bucciarati. Now, you suppose that you must be a proper orphan.

You do not weep when the casket seals and cleaves the line of sight betwixt you and your brother forever. You do not weep when the mechanical apparatus lowers the coffer made of Osage orange wood into the steel vault that already holds your mother in oak. You do not weep when the gravediggers shovel the dirt mound back over the crest of opened earth.

You do not weep until Mista clasps your trembling hand, pulls you to his chest, and embraces you amidst the anguish that burns you alive. His is the consolation that you needed, but never thought to ask for, though it is not his touch that you long for. One by one, the attendees disperse for the train of luxury cars and you remain alone with the gunslinger who had been courteous enough to come without his oddly patterned beanie hat.

“Why don’t we get going?” Mista urges to coax you away from the gravesite – away from yourself and the suffocating agony. “Giorno’s having dinner for us all, back at the estate.”

You pull away. Rivets of mascara stain his white dress-shirt. “You can go on ahead,” you tell him, not quite liking the way your voice strains in your throat. “I’m not hungry.”

“Then, let’s go grab some coffee or something –”

“I’m fine, Mista.” He frowns and averts his gaze. “I have some things I need to take care of.”

“Oh?”

You tug your cardigan closer to your chest. “I’m going to collect Narancia’s belongings from our dad’s house. Not sure what I’ll do with it all, but I know it can’t stay there.”

Mementos of life, from when things were far simpler and your brother far more alive. Family photographs with tattered edges and holes of where your father should have been, wedged between unread and abused schoolbooks. Worn out blue jeans with patches of fabric scraps from your mother’s old dresses that you had sewn on for him. A collection of empty glass soda bottles. CDs and cassette tapes of Snoop Dog, Tupac, and whatever other American rappers had appealed to his tastes.

“Alright, I guess. Promise me you’ll call when you get there.”

Soon to be packed away in cardboard boxes and to be stacked precariously in the living room of your studio apartment – another gift from Bucciarati – with nowhere else to go. You simply cannot afford to rent a storage unit downtown.

“I will.”

Mista does not offer to help, because he knows you will refuse it. With that, he takes his leave of you in the cemetery. Left to your solitary devices, you clench your fists and stew on hatred and loathing for none other than Giorno Giovanna. You do not blame Narancia for his eagerness to trust the boy so quickly; his charisma, as appealing as it entreats to the willing, is an infectious disease.

If not for Giorno, your brother would have been buried two months ago. If not for Giorno, your brother might still be alive. And perhaps you must resent Fugo too, for what he has done – or rather, the lack thereof of doing; yet for everything, you are incapable of such feelings, as you have always been fond of each other. The optimistic heart within you stands that he has saved you from suffering more – that in his choice to stay behind in Venezia, it only meant you would not have to bury him, too.

Because surely, his unrestrained anger would have gotten him killed – if not before, then certainly after Narancia’s death.

With a quivering sigh, you turn from this dreary place and meet his illegible violet stare. A row of crackling headstones separates you from the boy whom you love more than life itself. Fugo clutches a pretty bouquet of daffodils wrapped with parchment paper and a white-string bow – your favorite flowers, though you wonder whether they are meant for you or your brother’s fresh grave.

You do not know, nor will you ever, as he sets the flowers atop the nearest monument and makes off, as if on sabbatical to you.

And it fills you with nothing more than bitterness.

“Everyone misses you,” Mista confesses between a sip of tea and a bite of strawberry cake. “You should come around sometime soon.”

Nearly a year has passed since the funeral, and you have yet grace anyone from Passione with your presence, with the exception of Mista for weekly sojourns to Il Libeccio to catch up on life – because, as you have learned, much can happen in seven days’ time. With each occasion of crossing the archway’s threshold into the private dining room at the back of the restaurant, you find yourself preening for two heads of black hair – one neatly combed and clipped, the other a sprawl held in place with an orange headband –, taut lips painted in black, and Fugo. And every time, you are left with the kind of disappointment that curdles your soul like sour milk.

“Who misses me, Mista?” you reprimand, pointing your icing-lacquered fork in his direction. “I barely even know Trish, and I have no interest in ever speaking with Don Giovanna again.”

You wish Giorno would call off the bodyguard who trails you every waking hour of the day; it makes you feel like a child who has proven herself untrustworthy to her parent. But you have done nothing deserving of such punishment. You suspect that his intent is an extension of the olive branch treaty that does not exist between you two – a reiteration of Bucciarati’s protection that should not have to be reiterated, because he should not be dead, either.

Or, alternatively, he wants to irk you so far that you might barge into his office one day – fuming with unspent determination to admonish him regarding his dominion over your life – just to trap you in a conversation wherein he might attempt to suspend your animosity towards him. Alas, you are simply not interested; you will scorn him, because it is all you can do.

“Forget I asked . . .” Mista trails off, swirling a dollop of whipped cream with his knife. “So uh, by the way, have you seen Fugo lately?”

Just the utterance of his name has you perking in your seat.

“No.”

“Hm, well, rumor has it, he’s working at the public library. Shaking people down for late fees or something like that.” It is not implausible to imagine Fugo in the position of extorting old ladies and young children for overdue fines – but, you know that it is only a jest. Regardless, he has always been the type of boy to surround himself with books instead of people. “Why not visit him sometime? He’s not affiliated with Passione anymore. Or, not now, at least.”

You stab at a strawberry. It bleeds beneath the weight of your fork.

“I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?”

Mista’s question is one that you ought to be asking yourself, as you sit here at the scratched pine desk of the library – pretending to study for an upcoming exam on the history of art in Pompeii – though you look up from your scrawl of notes every few minutes to see if Fugo should pass you by; perhaps pushing a cart of books to be put away, or branding return cards with a plush red stamp to mark the date in two weeks’ time.

You have seen him only once more since his implied attempt of reconciliation at your brother’s funeral. It was by chance that you should wander into the same café as him that day; and by extended odds that – while you stood over his table with a sad smile and a cup of coffee – he stood abruptly and left without finishing his own drink. He had not even bothered to wish you well.

Today, you catch him on your way to the reference section. The look of hurt in his eyes – like salt instead of sugar on the tongue – brings a scowl to your face. “Please, Panni,” you plead, and though your fingers ache to catch his hand with your own, you refrain for you know the gesture is a crossing of the line between you two. “Can’t we just talk?”

“No,” he says, so dry and unrecognizable. “I’m not getting paid to do that. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Panni, I – Please, don’t do this. I already lost my brother: don’t make me lose you, too.”

A fuse switches in his head, and you have been the one to flip it. He clutches the encyclopedia in his hands with such fervor that his knuckles pale, and for a moment, you wonder if he means to hit you with it. And maybe he thinks it too, but he drops it atop the ground as soon as the thought crosses his mind. He takes a step back, as if you have scorned him – maybe, after all, you have.

The cover spills open, and the pages bend against the hardwood floor. You wish he would do the same to you – to disclose his grievances and let you in. Instead, it is the toxicity of acrimony “Don’t ever come near me again,” Fugo warns. “Haven’t you realized by now that I never want to see you again? Get out of my life – get out of my dreams – and leave me alone.”

You will save the tears for when you stand in front of the bathroom mirror tonight before bed to wash away your makeup from the day, amongst other regrets. But you will never understand the guilt that suffocates him – a noose that is just taut enough to keep him breathing – each time he looks at you, and even when he does not. You are everything he has ever wanted and more.

And you are the emblem of everything he has ever done wrong.

“I still care about you,” you tell him with an affirmation that will not fix the desolation. “Doesn’t that mean anything?”

He bites his lip and looks away.

“I know you’re hurting. I am too. So, can’t we heal together?”

“Are you stupid?” You grimace at his words. “I told you to go.”

There is no chance to dispute it, nor to bid him an aggrieved adieu, because he is gone again. Burying him might have been easier, after all; a corpse cannot remind you of what a fool you have become.

And so it seems to you that dying dreams are the best ones.

Adulthood is – as you have found in your years of treading its waters – a dreadful inevitability. You and your brother’s boxes have outgrown that compact studio apartment, though for years, you had made it work perfectly fine. When Giorno pulled the strings to terminate your lease and forcefully relocate you into a sizeable townhouse in the Chiaia district, you wanted to hate him for it – for his reminder that you cannot sever your connection to Passione. Yet, boggled down with university loans, you were in no position to turn down his assistance.

And he knew it, well.

A pretty townhouse located in one of the nicest regions of Napoli cannot bring Narancia back, nor can it attune for every bit of suffering incurred since his death; but if it is a strain upon the aging Don’s wallet, then it is all the better.

On the day of your fourth birthday spent in solitude, you treat yourself to a tub of gelato and a dress from the costly boutique across the street that you will never wear because you have no need to. It will hang in your closest amongst other unworn gowns, still pinched with price tags, that you have impulsively accumulated over the years – a hereditary habit of your mother’s that had caused more than a few spats between she and your father. You know your vice, but there is something so gratifying about it.

You sink into the tweed couch that does not quite match the architect’s vision for the living room – with its crown-mould white walls and hardwood floors the color of wenge; too clean and proper for what furniture you have kept from your former residence. Silver spoon clenched between your teeth as you page through television channel after channel, you balance that melting gelato on your lap. Perhaps you should have grabbed a straw from the kitchen as well.

The evening passes by, uneventfully so. You have spent it spoiling yourself and replying with fabricated enthusiasm to incoming text messages from study mates, who wish you well on this happy day – as if you have a reason to remember your twenty-first beyond the accomplishment of finishing the entire tub of would-be-frozen lemon curd without incurring a single regret or twinge a of brain-freeze. You have gotten rather good at knocking back shots without needing to stop for breaths, too.

At the ringing of the doorbell, you are torn from the real estate program that you have invested so much time these past few hours. Mista, no doubt – come to deliver a gift and takeout because he knows you have not eaten properly tonight. You have no room left in your belly, but whatever he brings will make for a decent meal tomorrow.

You do not bother to tidy up, and when you open the door, you wish you had. Illuminated only by the balcony light stands Fugo with a bouquet of daffodils, a bottle of sauvignon blanc, and a remorseful, sheepish smile upon his handsome face.

Get out of my life – get out of my dreams – and leave me alone.

“Uh . . . “ He trails off before he has even begun, perhaps taken aback by the widening of your eyes and the disheveled appearance that, despite your own judgement, he thinks to be the most beautiful vulnerability in life. He speaks your name with the kind of tenderness that you have not felt since you were teenagers. “Buon compleanno.”

You need not ask how he found you, because you know without question that either Mista or Giorno had told him. “Why are you here?” you ask.

He clutches the flowers a bit tighter. You do not move to take them; however, you have already decided on which vase you will place them in. “I wanted to wish you a happy birthday. And give you these.”

The bottle of wine feels far too heavy in your arms – and the daffodils, as if they might float off in an unforeseen gust of wind. “And, to apologize. For too many things that I can’t ever make right; although, if you’ll let me, I’d like to try.”

“Fugo, I . . . I don’t know.”

“Please, [Y/N]. That day in the library, all those years ago . . . I never stop thinking about the horrible things I said to you. It killed me – it ate me alive; I thought for all this time and before that you hated me, because of what happened to Narancia. Because I wasn’t there to save him.”

“It hurt when you told me to get out of your life, but I listened, and I did it.”

He brings the heel of his hand to swipe at the tears in his eyes. The curling of his other fist is a gesture that terrifies you – although, not for your own sake. “I couldn’t face you. I was scared to look you in the eye, because I thought you hated me,” he mutters like a broken record as his voice cracks with agony. “I thought you hated me, because of him.”

He stops, throwing his head back with a groan. The apple of his throat bobs up and down as he chokes down a sob. He refuses to look at you when he speaks again – too afraid to come undone before he has made his peace with you, his greatest loss. “We were young. Probably too young to even understand what love really meant. But, dio dannazione, you were the most important thing to me, and I understood that more than love.”

His words have always held the capacity for swaying you, as if they replenish the empty spaces within. It is why, as you open the door wider, you let him fill you once again. Fugo contemplates the crannies of your living room, hovering above the couch that you insisted he take a seat upon – he remembers when you bought it, because you had dragged him to the furniture outlet that day. He pretended to be annoyed, though in truth, he was beyond elated that you had chosen him over Mista, or even your brother.

“I guess I should put these in a vase,” you say about the bouquet of flowers. “They’re beautiful, Fugo. Thank you.”

He nods, suddenly entranced by a photograph of Narancia that sits atop the fireplace mantel. You do not notice his unease.

“I’ll grab us some glasses, too.”

You find your vase in the kitchen cabinet niched into the alcove above the refrigerator. Its emerald swirls glisten under the twine of the recessed lights that add no character to the room. So much for a birthday spent in reclusion, you chide alone. Deep within you sits a fire that longs to ignite – to send Fugo away in some thwarted act of retribution for the very loneliness he inflicted upon you years ago; as if to say that the rejection suits you well.

Of course, you cannot deny that your heart leapt into your throat when you saw him standing before the front door, a vision of a man who still held those inklings of boyish charm that you fell for in your adolescence. They say you should not dote over the first person beyond your mother and father to call you pretty; it is weakness to complacency. Your life has never been one of convention – and so by that right, who there is to insist that you must abide?

Bearing a content grin, you trim the stems one-by-one to better fit the vase. In synchronous rhythm to the next, the green stalks bounce from the cluttered countertop to the floor. You have only just stuffed the flowers back into the vase when the shattering of glass resonates its way into the kitchen.

The photograph of Narancia lies amongst bits of broken frame and wreckage. Face buried in his palms, Fugo crumples until his knees meet the ground; he shakes, as if smothered by a chill. When his hands fall to smack the coffee table – baring his grief, in all its pandemonium – you catch them and force his arms around your waist instead; his fingers lock together, holding you in place. He whimpers against your stomach. Already, you can feel the wetness of tears through the fabric of your overstretched shirt.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry, [Y/N]. I’m sorry.”

Your own fingers curl through his strawberry blonde hair – a means of stability as you too have begun to cry. “It’s just a picture frame,” you promise, and it is the grandest thing he has ever heard. But it is more than a box made of wood and glass – it is an impossible longing. “I’m not upset at you.”

“I . . . Okay.”

Mindful of the mess, you rock him backwards until he is lying down. You join at his side, take his hand into your own, and wait in silence for the moment when his misery will dissipate for clarity. Regardless of the circumstances that have brought him here tonight, you are grateful for it – even if your birthday is spent wallowing in irrevocable regret.

Above all else, you know that he has always adored you, like the sun and moon and more – but he had a brilliant way of convincing you otherwise.

Your thumb coaxes over the back of his knuckles. “There’s a crack in your ceiling,” Fugo announces, nonchalant and monotone.

“Where? I don’t see one.”

He raises an unoccupied finger, and you follow its gesture to the corner of the ceiling, just above where the moulding meets. It is no longer than the length of hair from his head, and quite honestly, not an underlying issue of foundational complications. Still, you indulge him. “Oh, wow. I never noticed.”

In this hasty repertoire of patterns, you fall into stillness again. “Panni,” you whisper with the utterance of his endearing name. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He squeezes your hand.

“But it’s getting late. Why don’t you stay the night?”

Truthfully so, you cannot send him on his way in such a state of disarray.

“I can make up the couch for you, if you’d like.”

“Yes, please,” he murmurs.

However, you do not make it far because he has – inspired by a need to express his devotion and apologia – pulled you atop himself, hands braced on your hips as you balance on bent knees and grasp his shoulders. Tenderness is becoming of the boy – no, the man – who looks up at you as if you are the embodiment of everything good that exists in one life to the next. It is a side that he has never shown to anyone other than you.

You covet it like a piece of cherry-flavored candy, even when you lean down to capture his lips and nip at his tongue that likewise explores the long-forgotten caverns of your mouth. It is a distraction of meaning and not; from the broken frame, loss, and perhaps everything in between. Every attempt to catch a breath of air is met with resilient protests of needier touches and not before long, you lie on the couch – shedding your clothing like the skin of the woman you no longer wish to be – and let him in.

Bare chest to bare chest, you cup his hardness as he places his fingers to your untouched folds. You mean to tell him that you love him, but the penetration of unpracticed digits to your core stifles the very thought from your scattering mind. In dark closets and empty rooms, you two have had your share of imprudent experimentation with one another’s bodies in the past – and nothing more than warm, tentative touches that lead to girlish giggles and boyish huffs.

Fugo pinches your nipple, drawing a plush gasp from you; it urges him to do it again until at last you are throbbing with need from your lower half, your pelvis jerking upwards to meet his for the stimulation of wanting. His breath ghosts your face, and you think you smell wine – a drink for good luck, you think, because despite the distress manifesting in his soul, his mannerisms are otherwise as habitual as you might recall from moments of normalcy.

It feels wrong – to be filled with such wanton, salacious desire within the very hour that you have both spent in mourning of your brother and everything else that has been discarded to the wind, to be picked up by someone else. Yet tonight, you will not sleep with Fugo to forget your blue heart, nor for celebration’s sake as you embark upon another year of being – you will sleep with him, because you have grown tired of learning how to end your days without him.

“I haven’t . . .” You trail off, mesmerized by the way his violet eyes look at you; though puffy and stained red from crying, you take them in as he cocks a brow, imploring you to finish your thought. “I haven’t been with anyone else since you.”

“Good,” he sighs, and you think he is trying to hide a smile. “Me neither.”

Braced by his arms, you are flipped onto your stomach. The tweed upholstery bites into the soft flesh of your breasts with each jostle elicited by the curling of a finger within you. You push backwards until you swear you can feel his fingers against your cervix.

“Oh my god,” he groans, flexing out as if to move deeper. “Ti senti così bene.”

“If it feels good, then do something,” you whine, hands dug between the cushions for support.

But, to your chagrin, he takes his time to admire the way your folds pulsate around just two fingers. You glisten like a gem – his gem. Indignant with petty annoyance, you pull away and straddle the lithe, albeit toned, legs that dangle off the edge of the couch. Arms thrown around his neck, you sink down until you have reached your fill of his manhood.

“I did tell you to do something,” you sigh at Fugo’s displeasure, biting your lip as you adjust to the size of his shaft. “Didn’t I?”

He kisses you once and moves grasp your backend. You savor the feeling of him ingulfing you. “I was distracted.”

You would laugh if not for the anticipated bulging inside you as Fugo buckles into your heat. The sight of your jostling breasts with each bounce of you on his cock is a page of some heavenly doctrine – one that he should study and commit to forever. He moves with strength that he reserves for moments of rage, and even his fingers dig into your skin hard enough to leave bruises for the days to come. You do not mind; they will help you to remember the best night you have had in years.

With a cry that blossoms into a moan that tells him that he has treated you well, you ride out your orgasm and slump against his chest in your own exhaustion. When he reaches his peak, he slides out; you reach for him – dampened with your slick – and finish him until white pearls bead at the tip and trickle over your working fingers.

Foreheads pressed together, you flash tired grins before settling against the cushions, your head pressed to his chest and his arm braced around the small of your back while his fingers trace shapes against your perspired skin.

Panting, his heart skips every few beats – like a song, sung only for you. Content with that which has returned itself to you, you fall asleep to the sound of this lovely little love affair.

| 4966 Words |

i only chose this because of you

jimmy novak character study for father’s day, 1.3k. read on ao3 here.

Everybody wants to be a father.

Oh, you don’t need children to be a father--you can parent a dream, you can foster hope, you can say a kind word to a lonely person.

There, you’re a father.

But Jimmy doesn’t believe this.

He’s unable to understand what his friends feel when they speak of marriage, of fatherhood, of new life in this world. He feels like something’s missing; is there something wrong with him, that prevents him from feeling this way, like he’s supposed to want all of these things?

When Jimmy meets Amelia, he doesn't love her immediately.

He likes her. A lot. But like is not love and so at first they are study partners, friends, each other’s ride homes. Then there are first kisses, first dates, and first fights. A first time, that they are both sure God will condemn.

But fire does not rain down upon them, and they live. Graduate. Marry. Buy a house.

He is not sure who he would have married if not her.

Because the others--no.

He has heard it enough at church, shouted from the pulpit. People like that will burn in the fire of hell.

Jimmy is safe with Amelia, and he is happy with Amelia.

But something is still missing.

------------------------------------

Two years later, Amelia gets pregnant.

For their families, it’s a great source of joy. A grandchild, a niece or nephew, someone to coddle and pin the Novak hopes and dreams onto.

It’s more complicated for them.

What their families do not know is the woe of many doctors appointments, of nurses’ worried expressions during sonograms, of medicine and praying and laying on of hands.

This child could die before they even get to meet her.

Jimmy’s relationship with God is tenuous--they used to be friends, Jimmy thinks, before people started telling him he was going to die in God’s name.

(If they did not know they were speaking to Jimmy--does that make it okay? No, he decides.)

But he needs something to believe in, so he prays anyways, and maybe God is listening at the time, because when their daughter is finally born, she is healthy. More importantly, she is alive, and that was all Jimmy had let himself hope for.

They name her Claire. It means bright and clear, and she is certainly a light in Jimmy’s life. He is beginning to understand those who want to be fathers--because there is no one more precious than Claire. The silence, the cavern inside of him, is deafening, but when he is with his daughter, in the late night hours in her nursery with a bottle, it feels a little bit fuller.

And Amelia is happy, with a child around.

So he has no choice but to smile.

------------------------------------

Amelia gets a job.

It’s at the library, and she loves it, wears cardigans and floral dresses and runs out the door, off to do something very important.

Jimmy sells ad time and he doesn’t love it at all. He feels lonely and like he’s not doing any good in the world by trying to get people to buy things. His God warns of overabundance, but Jimmy is empty most of the time. He lies awake at night, his wife asleep, Claire in the next room murmuring to her stuffed animals as she drifts into slumber.

Amelia’s job is less flexible than Jimmy’s, and so he begins to be the person who takes Claire everywhere. Dance recitals, soccer practice, school, friends’ houses...her car seat takes up permanent residence in the back of his car, the pockets of his trenchcoat filled with candy wrappers, tissues, rocks she found on the playground.

He learns how to dress her, and then how to argue with her about how he’s dressed her, how to plait her long, blonde curls. Claire is developing a personality--stubborn, funny, clever, curious.

Full of heart.

He loves her more each day, even as he slips away from this world, anchored only by her drawings from class on the fridge and her sparkly, light-up sneakers left right in front of the door.

Then the voice comes.

------------------------------------

The voice’s name is Castiel, and Castiel is an angel.

Jimmy hears Castiel only when he is alone--on the radio, in pictures on the television, or just in his head. Castiel tells him to do many things--prove your faith. Prove your strength. And Jimmy does them.

The things his pastors and fellow churchgoers have said must be done to prove one’s faith are far less painful than what Castiel asks of him. Castiel says there’s a task for Jimmy--that Jimmy is the only one who can do it. The hole inside him is starting to fill with echoes of the angel’s voice, night and day.

Claire notices nothing different--she still pulls him to her room to play with dolls, still shows him all her assignments from school. He puts her 100 on a math test on the fridge, stacks up her books for reading class. Bridge to Terabithia. Charlotte’s Web. The Westing Game. Kids sure talk a lot about death.

But Amelia notices, and she tells Jimmy’s doctor, but he doesn’t take the medicine.

Amelia thinks he’s slipping.

Jimmy thinks he’s better than ever.

When Castiel finally asks him if he can borrow Jimmy’s body and use it as a vessel, Jimmy only asks one question.

“Will my family be okay?”

Castiel promises yes.

So Jimmy replies in kind.

------------------------------------

For almost a year, Jimmy watches the world through the angel’s eyes. He hates and loves Castiel at the same time--for wearing his face, for wanting the Righteous Man, for saying to his daughter I am not your father.

He just hopes Claire is safe, like Castiel promised.

From inside his own skin he watches his hands smite and heal and hold and when he finally gets out and as himself meets the Winchesters, those for whom all this trouble was apparently worth, he vows never to go back.

It’s like being strapped to a comet, he tells them.

He gets to have dinner with Claire again.

Amelia is wary, and Jimmy understands. The angel has burned him, carved the hole wider instead of truly filling it, and Jimmy wonders: if this is an angel, what is God like? Where is He, if this is what is happening on His earth? Monsters and Lucifer and the apocalypse impending?

Jimmy cries over dinner, cannot pray. Not to God. Not to anyone. He is ready to return home, to hang up that trenchcoat--he is done traveling--and leave this behind. Leave saving the world to the Winchesters and their friends.

But instead a demon comes.

There is a scuffle, ropes and burning and Jimmy is nearly dead by the end of it all, delirious as his hair is smoothed back by his daughter, but it’s not his daughter.

“Your time is done,” the angel says.

Jimmy shakes his head. This can’t be how it ends--Claire doesn’t deserve to get her soul carved out, but Jimmy does, he’s already halfway there.

“Take me instead,” is what he says to the angel wearing his daughter’s face, but what he means is, let this not all be in vain. Let my last act be saving her. Let her live.

Castiel says Jimmy will die.

Jimmy says he knows this. He knows, deep inside, he was dead from the beginning. It just took some time to accept it.

The angel agrees to the deal, and Jimmy Novak is burned out from the inside, and is no more.

------------------------------------

Years later, in Heaven, a guest arrives, a woman who looks familiar, who has tears in her eyes, who rushes into his arms. His wife. Amelia. All he can ask is how is she? And Amelia tells him, she is beautiful. You would love her.

Jimmy does love her. That is why he did not watch her grow up.

under the same roof part three: all the time you need

a harry styles rpf part three of six written by annie and aj (marlahey and formerly harryonstage) ratings/warnings: disaster gays, endangered ovaries from dad!harry, women aggressively supporting women notes: enter the rest of harry’s family unit! in case anyone’s curious, annie tells sylvia to give her dad a kiss in vietnamese, to which he responds, good girl. before anyone comes for me, there will be plenty more opportunities for bed-sharing to come. side note: aj always pictured olivia coleman as officer warren.  masterlist | part one | part two | part four (21.12.20)

............................................... • saturday, 5th january 9:18 am • The second time you’re roused from sleep, sunlight illuminates Harry’s room. You lift your head, squinting, but more quickly you recognize where you are.

Harry is nowhere in sight, but a fresh glass of water is within reach on the nightstand, and a cardigan knitted with primary-colored patches lies folded at the foot of the bed. After slipping your arms through the loose sleeves, you take a few gulps of water and make sure to shut his bedroom door quietly on your way out. You hadn’t spent much time in the living room as per Officer Warren’s instructions to avoid the windows, but you can see into it from the hall. And since there’s still no sign of Harry, you take a minute to discreetly look around at the place he and his daughter call home. His flat is obviously larger than yours—he has two bedrooms versus one—but the morning light seems to stretch the space even further, like an open armed welcome. The atmosphere bustles with a little dose of chaos. Two brimming bookshelves span one wall of the living room, and plants line the windowsills. A half-sized Christmas tree stands off in the corner, wrapped in twinkly lights and strings of popcorn. A white fender guitar decorated with various stickers stands with a speaker beside the couch, and records tile the wall behind it: Pink Floyd, Fleetwood Mac, The Stones, The Cars, Hello I’m Dolly.  There is ample evidence that a child lives here, too. The walls are dotted with drawings in watercolor, crayon, and sparkles. You can see pieces of Lego strewn out on the carpet; they must be from that towering box Harry had towed into the lift a week before Christmas. A small smile tugs at your lips as you follow the smell of espresso into the kitchen. You find Harry leaning against the counter looking contemplative, holding aloft a cup of coffee that he seems to have forgotten about. He’s wearing the same shirt he’d slept in, but thrown on a pair of joggers. You bid a quiet, “Good morning.” He inhales sharply as his head whips toward you, his drink sloshing over the edge of his mug slightly. “Jesus, sorry,” he laughs softly, shaking his head at himself. You watch as he wets a dishrag and cleans the small mess. “Not really used to company my age.” “Oh… Sorry.” “S’alright.” His voice is covered in sleep; it almost sounds like he has a cold. “Coffee?” You hum appreciatively. “Love some.” “Were you able to get some sleep?” he asks, pulling a mug from the cabinet. “Enough, yeah.” All you can think about is waking up locked in his embrace, on the still-dark cusp of sunrise. “Thank you for letting me, um…” “Course. Cream?” “That’s great, thanks.” Harry nods over his shoulder towards the bedroom. “It help at all?” How are you supposed to answer that? “The real bed?” he clarifies, like it is at all necessary.  You listen to the spoon clink rhythmically against the ceramic, and settle on “I think so,” as noncommittally as possible. “How did you sleep?” “Very well.” In passing you your mug, Harry catches your eyes for the first time today in a way that feels like not an accident. “More importantly, how are you feeling about everything else?” You shrug, eyes glued to the cream swirling in your coffee. “Better, a little.” “That’s good.” “What about you?” you ask. “You’ve kinda been through the wringer, yourself.” “I’m good, yeah.” Harry pushes up his glasses. “I was thinking—if you don’t mind—I’d like to come with you to the police department this morning.”  “No, no, Harry.” You wave away the offer. “Don’t worry about that.” “No, really. It might make more sense. I saw him in the hall last night, and I was with you in the lift. They might need to ask some questions of both of us.” You consider this a moment. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to.” “I don’t have to,” Harry counters. “I want to. I want you to, y’know… ” he trails off. “I want them to get this guy.” You blink at him. There’s a strange feeling in knowing that Harry has clearly thought about your wellbeing beyond the night that you’ve effectively been trapped in his flat. Regardless, it’s too early for a battle of wills, and he has a point. You slouch against the fridge. “Alright. Well… I still have India’s car so I can drive us,” you concede. A smile lights Harry’s face. Suddenly your stomach rumbles so powerfully and for so long that it interrupts the conversation. You cover a small, mortified laugh with both hands as Harry’s eyebrows raise. “Well,” he begins, exaggerated. “Let’s take care of that… You take the first turn in the bathroom, I’ll fix us some breakfast.” “You sure?” “Go ahead.” He grabs a skillet from the drying rack, turning on one of the burners. “Thank you, Harry.” “It’s no problem.” You wash your face with something you find above the sink and brush your teeth on auto-pilot before considering your bundle of clothes from the night before. Your cardigan lays at the top of the stack. Four of your fingers fit through the gaping hole in its collar, and dirt covers one of the sleeves. You hadn’t forgotten about the shape it was in last night, but you didn’t consider it a problem until now, as you hold it up in front of you by the shoulders, frowning. You try to tame your hair with a purple, sparkly brush to no avail, so you take a quick look around to see if Sylvia has any spare barrettes or pins. Thankfully there’s a single hair tie floating in the bottom of your purse. You shrug back into Harry’s patchwork sweater—oddly comforting in how fully it swallows your shoulders and hands—and slip back out to the kitchen, where Harry plates grilled tomatoes and bacon. “We’re about ready to eat.” Harry turns the stovetop down to a simmer as the toaster pops. “How do you take your eggs?” “Sunny side up, please.”  He salutes you with his spatula, attention already returned to the pan.  “Can I help with anything?” Harry nods to a drawer. “Yeah can you pass us a couple napkins from just there? I’ll be right back,” he rushes, already halfway out of the kitchen. You pull a few paper napkins from their packet as he returns with two chairs that you recognize from his small wicker table. “Blinds are open in the other room, thought it might be best if we just eat in here.” He sets the chairs apart, facing one another. “Now this is living,” you deadpan. Harry laughs lightly as he gestures for you to sit. The two of you get adjusted with your plates on your lap, and your knees almost bump in the small space. “This is great, Harry. Thank you.”  “I’d make you bubble and squeak, too, but we’re fresh out and Sylvia hates beans so we don’t keep them on hand. So technically...” Harry lowers his voice to a whisper. “S’not a full English fry up.” You can only smile around your mouthful, unexpectedly endeared. The rest of breakfast passes in silence. You shouldn’t have slept on an empty stomach; you’re ravenous from skipping a meal last night.  He looks up at you eventually, a touch more serious than before. “Shall we think about heading to the police station soon?”  You dab your mouth with your napkin and nod. Harry stands from his chair and reaches an open hand down to you for your plate. “No, no,” you nudge him away with your elbow. “You cooked, I’ll clean.”  “Let me deal with these. You’re a guest.” “I’m a captive.” “No you’re not! You’re—” He breaks off, hesitating a moment before plunging on with an amused slant to his lips. “You’re my sort-of friend.” Your assumption he hadn’t overheard that comment to your mother last night on the phone was clearly in vain. You press your lips together against any inadvertent reaction. Your head swivels toward him, eyes full of lighthearted reproach. “Look, just let me do the dishes to give myself the illusion that I’m not just a freeloader here. Besides, I’m already ready to go.” "Fine,” he caves disapprovingly. “I’ll get myself sorted and be out in a minute.” “Take your time.” While Harry is preoccupied, you finish slotting the clean plates from breakfast carefully into the drying rack and pull out your phone to message India. Hey, I have a lot to update you on but it’ll be much easier to explain in person. I still have your car and I need it for one thing this morning but I promise I’ll fill the tank ASAP. It’s about the guy that’s been following me. Just know that I’m safe and everything’s okay. I’ll call you when I can. Love you. Send. That’ll have to do for now. Harry returns in jeans and a sweater. It’s still strange to see him so dressed down. “Ready?” he asks. “Yeah. You mind if I wear this to the police station?” you ask, pinching the fabric of his cardigan. You feel the urge to explain yourself—the hole in your sweater, the grime—but Harry’s already shaking his head. “Not at all. Do you maybe want something a little less… loud? I don’t even wear that one out, myself, really.”  You consider the bright cacophony of color like it’s brand new to your eyes. Loud is right. “Yeah, that’s not a terrible idea.”  Harry’s lips twitch. “C’mon then. You’re welcome to pick anything you’d like.” Pick? You nod because you’re worried the surprise is painted on your face. “Okay.” Harry leads you to his bedroom again, and over to the large wooden wardrobe.  He pulls the double doors open and you cannot help yourself from gawking a little. You’re taken by all the exquisite patterns and intricate textures of the suits, but it’s oddly wistful to run your fingertips along all of them hung in a row. You smile privately, a bit removed. “What?” Harry laughs from behind you. “Nothing!” you reply, glancing over your shoulder before saying more softly, “I just recognize some of these.” “Oh, thought you were sizing them up. My mates all take the piss… They say my suits are eccentric.” He rolls his eyes, reciting the insult like he’s quoting their words verbatim. You turn back around to his closet. “I think they look nice—I think you look nice in them.” You take a step back and crane your neck to the shelf of folded sweaters above the hanging rod. The extensive array of muted wool and cotton is a bit overwhelming. You spot the planet sweater he’d worn the first time you saw Sylvia, the oversized yellow one that reminded you of Charlie Brown, the black one with half a red heart and the letters, NY in bold white text… It takes a minute of jogging your memory before you can recall him wearing something more plain. Harry doesn’t own a lot of plain. You still can’t quite reach the shelf up on your tiptoes, but Harry is at your side immediately. “The brown?” He tugs it from the stacks and passes it down. “Yeah, thanks.” You examine the camel colored fabric with tiny flecks of black thread, and run your hand along the smooth purl. “This should do.” You tug the sweater over your head; it’s boxy, your arms aren’t long enough to fit, and it isn’t doing any favors for your shoulders. You have to roll the sleeves up past your wrists before the outfit can half pass as something you purposely wore out of the house. You spin around to face him. “Does it look normal?” Harry’s jaw flexes as he gives you the up-down. You fiddle with one of the sleeves. “Yeah,” Harry says stiffly. “Looks normal.” It’s bizarre walking through the level six hallway; it’s identical to your own, but the last time you’d been here, everything down to the carpet and light fixtures had been tainted by your deafening fear. What’s more is that riding down in the lift with Harry feels entirely different now. You see it all from his perspective, and try to visualize what you look like to him most mornings, standing in the corner with your school bag and a book tucked beneath your arm. The lift picks up a few people on its way down, but by the time it reaches the garage, you and Harry are alone. You catch his eyes in the reflection of the doors a second before they open. He clears his throat. “I know it’s probably… we’ll be fine, but stay close, yeah?” You look up at him and nod. It’s easy to keep to your word. Harry guides you to walk in front of him the entire way as your eyes scan the shadows in between the rows of cars. You’re sure you will never be able to see this garage quite the same way. “It’s the old Volkswagen.” “I see it.” You’re so out of it that you almost try to get in on the passenger side. It’s the kind of slip up that Harry might have teased you about, but he’s quiet and looking around, too. You pull the jacket you’d left on the seat last night into your lap, the two of you strap in, and you cannot pull out into the street fast enough. The mustard yellow envelope in the back seat is an unwelcome passenger, visible in your rearview mirror.  Who else knew about these photos? How many are there that weren’t in your envelope? Are they online somewhere? Would they follow you to law school? Your grip tightens on the steering wheel as you grind your teeth. “Alright?” Harry asks. His voice brings you back down to earth. He’d asked you that question when you pricked your finger on the poppy in your jacket pocket. He’d asked you in his bed on the most terrifying night of your life. And he’s asking you now. You nod. “I will be.” • saturday, 5th january 10:42 am • In the parking lot behind Lavender Hill Police Station, you’ve killed the engine but remain in your seat. Part of you is still reluctant to have Harry come along; keeping your composure in front of the police feels hard enough without the prospect of him being there, too, but maybe that’s the one thing that will get you through this. “Sorry.” You shake your head, suddenly aware of how long you’ve been sitting motionless at the wheel. Harry’s gaze is unperturbed. He watches you push anxiously at the sleeves of his sweater. “Take all the time you need.” It’s the same phrase the initial officer who’d taken your statement all those weeks ago had used. It’s what Officer Warren had said to you on the phone last night, and you’re so tired of hearing it. You don’t want to have as much time as you need to feel calm or steady or normal again. You want your time back. You want to reclaim all those extra seconds spent checking over your shoulder, the minutes lost to changing your routes, and the hours spent staring up at the ceiling when you should have been asleep. Rationally, you know that there will be time to relearn how to walk down the street and feel at ease, and plan that trip to Brighton you and India have been talking about for months. There will be time with Harry that isn’t this… stuck in a cramped space, crushed by the weight of your own fear. You hate the way you felt with him in the lift this morning; you want that back most of all. “Faster we get in there,” you say—half to Harry, half to yourself, “the faster we’ll get to leave.” Harry nods. “C’mon then.” The heather grey of the building is no less intimidating than it was in October, but at least this time you don’t have to pull the heavy glass doors open on your own. Inside, you speak with the woman at reception, who gestures for you to sit in a small waiting area just beyond the desk. People in uniform bustle back and forth. Harry’s leg brushes against yours as you sit. He doesn’t move. Neither do you. You have no sense of how long you sit waiting—this doesn’t feel like a place where it’s appropriate to play Solitaire on your phone. You can feel Harry looking at you periodically, but you don’t glance back until a woman with a familiar voice appears before you. She ushers you to follow with a quick, professional smile. Harry doesn’t quite offer the same, but you’re reassured anyway. “I’m Officer Warren.” She stops at a desk with an empty chair beside it. You take care to shake her hand firmly, introducing yourself with all the confidence you can scrap together. “Are you comfortable sitting here?” “Yes, this is fine.” If either Harry or Officer Warren notice your voice is an octave higher, neither of them make any sign. “Good.” She reaches past you to shake Harry’s hand too. “Harry.” “Nice to meet you both. We can also find a conference room, if you’d like somewhere more private, or if you’d both like to sit.” Harry speaks up when you don’t right away. “I’m fine standing.” He looks exactly as he had in the car—calm and willing to take your lead, so you sit before you can change your mind. Officer Warren smiles again, clearly trying to put you at ease. You wish it was more effective. “Right, well I won’t take up too much of your time. Since I took your statement last night, I’ve already got a copy of the transcript from our conversation over the phone, and you won’t need to go over all of that again.” Your shoulders cave a little in relief. Harry’s fingers hook gently over the top of your chair. “Okay.” “But,” she continues, “there is the matter of how to proceed. What we talked about regarding your flat still stands… it really isn’t safe for you to remain there, especially since the suspect seems to know which one is yours, and we still don’t have a clear idea of where he is now, or how he was able to access the car park in your building in the first place.” “So…” You shake your head, in either confusion or denial. “I can’t even go home?” “I’m afraid not, for the time being.” Her eyes are soft, regretful. “Not if he knows where you live. Not if there’s a chance he could get more photographs, or try to break in again.” Your stomach twists. “Were you able to figure out who he is?” You’re not even sure you want to know. Officer Warren’s mouth pinches apologetically. “Not yet. We have a couple technicians working on the security footage and the photos you’ve turned in, so hopefully we’ll be able to get something from them. The car he was driving had no plates. You haven’t seen any sign of him since we spoke last?” You shake your head, and she glances up at Harry as if to confirm. “Alright, that’s a good sign at least. He knows we’re watching, now. On the other hand, there’s a chance he’ll carry on, but be stealthier about it. Is it possible for you to physically stay inside, completely out of sight for let’s say, a week?” “I mean… where?” “Do you have somewhere else you can stay for the time being? With a friend?” You open your mouth, but the “Yes,” is not your own. You force yourself not to turn back to look at him; Harry’s fingers touch your shoulder again. “Yes, she does. She can stay with me. We live in the same building after all, so it’ll hardly be disruptive.” Officer Warren gives him a long look. You can’t tell if she approves or is displeased with him for speaking for you, but now that the initial shock has worn off, gratitude washes over you. Asking India to stay with her indefinitely would have been out of the question; there’s no way you’re endangering your best friend any more than you already have. You’d be putting her in a position where she couldn’t say no. She has four roommates. She doesn’t even know about the photos yet.  “That works,” you hear yourself say. This will only be for a few days, you reason—it’ll buy you just enough time to find your feet. By then, you can sort out a longer-term place to stay if the police still haven’t found the man. Officer Warren is speaking again, and it takes effort to actively refocus on the conversation. “The objective here is to make it seem as though you’re gone. On holiday. He’ll be keeping an eye on the building, no doubt, so he’ll notice if the car is gone, or your flat is empty. Is there any way you can take your classes remotely?” You find you can barely speak, so you just nod instead.  She leans in a little, her eyes finding yours more carefully. “I know it’s frightening, but you’ve been incredibly strong. This won’t be forever. In the meantime, we can send an officer back with you this afternoon so you can gather a few of your things.” You nod again. “Do you have any questions for me?” You force yourself to say, “No, thank you,” which Harry echoes. Officer Warren nods, almost perfunctorily, and stands. “If you wait here just a minute, I’ll introduce you to the officer who’ll take you back to your flat. You’ll be in an unmarked car, and we can arrange for yours to be retrieved.” “Thank you. I’ll call my friend now,” you say. “Maybe she can… I'll have to ask her to look after my cat. And it’s her car, anyway.” Officer Warren nods, apparently satisfied.  You shake her hand again, though your mind is stuck on this won’t be forever. As you rise from the chair, you feel the gentle pressure of Harry’s hand on the small of your back. When Officer Warren returns with another uniformed policeman, you don’t want to move, but your legs carry you anyway. Harry’s gaze finds the side of your face periodically like a lighthouse beam while you call India from the backseat of the police car. After reassuring her again that you’re fine, you gloss over the details of staying in Harry’s flat. You can tell even in her silence that she’s not going to let you off the hook that easily, so you start rambling about what to do with Chowder before she gets the chance to say something embarrassing while Harry is sitting right there. “Of course I’m taking Chowder,” she says before you get the chance to phrase the question. “Don’t even worry about it. I’ll get in a cab right now. Do you need help packing up?” “Yeah sure, thank you. But what about your car?” “I’ll take the keys from you and get it after. Honestly, it’s fine. It’s not like it’s gonna get stolen from the bloody police station.” It’s a stupid joke but you’re comforted a little anyway. “Okay.” “Be there soon. I love you.” “Love you too.” Harry glances over at you. “Everything okay?” “Yeah.” You smile a little and for the first time in ages, it doesn’t feel forced. “She’s gonna meet us at home and take Chowder for me.” “That’s great.” “I know,” you reply, a little distant. “Harry, thank you for coming with me… It was nice not to have to, y’know, do that alone.” “That’s alright.” His voice is equally gentle. “We’re gonna… They’re gonna find him. And they’re gonna fix this, and then everything’s gonna go back to normal.” You aren’t sure which of you he’s trying to reassure, but Harry meets your eyes and you nod. Back at your building, you meet up with India. “Think I might just pop home, if that’s alright,” Harry says, going in for the sixth-floor button on the keypad. “I told Annie a bit about what’s going on, but I owe her an update.” “Of course.” You look up at him in the reflection of the doors. “We’ll see you down there.” It’s your first time seeing the dent and scratches on the door to your flat in person. You shiver, turn the key, and push the door open.  “Chowder!” you shout as a flash of orange darts through your legs, meowing down the hall. The officer’s hand lands reflexively on his baton as your cat scares all three of you half to death. Once you manage to corral your cat back to your corner of the hallway, you struggle to keep him still in your arms. “Indy, his crate is under my bed—” “Hold off a minute, I’m going to do a quick walkthrough. I’m sure everything’s fine, but wait out here.” The officer leaves the door cracked open behind him. India offers a small, encouraging smile when you flinch at the sound of him announcing himself in your apartment. You stroke between Chowder’s ears; he is heavy and warm in your arms, and his fur sticks uncomfortably to the sweat on your palms. “All clear.” The officer reappears. “Let’s try to be quick about this.” India immediately ducks through the door following him, but you have to take a deep breath before stepping through the threshold. The place looks completely untouched. Had you been expecting company, perhaps you would have thought to clear the dishes from the sink or remove your laundry from the drying rack. After coercing an unusually talkative Chowder into his travel crate, you and India work as a team to stuff as much into your duffel bag as will fit. Shirts, bras, and pants hurtle past your head. “Indy, I’m staying at a neighbor’s for a few days—what on earth am I going to need this for?” You hold up the silk, strappy dress that just landed on your neatly-folded stacks, shooting her a disapproving look. “I’m just grabbing and throwing!” “Well just, y’know… let’s make sure we’re not speeding through this at the expense of packing with a little common sense.” “I’ve got this,” India says, waving down at the open duffel. “Go sort whatever toiletries you need, yeah?” Thankfully you’ve stayed overnight at her place enough times to warrant a travel case of essentials that lives under your bathroom sink. There’s makeup cluttered all over the counter. You stare at it a moment before rolling your eyes at yourself. “We should probably get going.” The officer’s voice from the other room startles you both as India zips up your duffel. “Are you two about ready?”  As you stick your head out of your bedroom, the officer is peeking through the blinds across the street. “Yes,” you reply. “We are.” Overnight bag and Chowder in tow, you clamber back onto the lift. “Did you get your toothbrush?” “Yes.” “Face wash?” “Yes.” “Pillow?” “Indy, you saw me putting it in—” “Towel?” “Yes.” “Phone charger?” “… Shit.” Ding. The officer steps out with you on the sixth floor as you thank him, and bid a quick goodbye once he reassures you to call if you need anything or, of course, if anything happens. India turns to face you next. “He’s this way.” You nod down the hall, and she leads. “It’s right at the end. The one with the wreath.” The doors of the lift close. You don’t want to think about the last time you’d been walking down this corridor and heard that sound from behind you. India moves aside holding Chowder’s crate by the handle, and the shopping bag full of his supplies as you step up to the welcome mat with your things. Harry swings open the door to his apartment after the second knock, immediately taking the duffel bag from off of your shoulder. “Oh, Harry, you don’t have to—” “I got it.” India elbows you in the ribs. Harry turns to carry your bag to Sylvia's room, and when you look behind at her, her eyebrows are raised above an animated smirk. “Don’t,” you whisper through gritted teeth. She raises a hand in defense as Harry returns before reaching out to accept his offered hand. “Hello, I’m India.” “Harry.”  “Pleasure.” He flashes her a warm smile. She nods appreciatively as they shake hands—at you, however, instead of Harry and your cheeks ignite. “Okay great. That’s settled then. Shall we—um… Indy?” You cut in, then turn to her, nodding to the door with I’m going to kill you in your eyes. “Lovely to meet you, Harry!” “Cheers, dear. You as well.” Harry’s attention returns to you for a moment. “I’ll just be…” He gestures vaguely to the kitchen. You step out into the hall with India. Chowder meows from the crate in her arms and she almost drops him. “What,” you hiss, “was that?”  She ignores your tone, then says your name like it’s a plea. “Call me if you need absolutely anything, or text me—no matter what time it is. I’ll drop everything and come straight to you.” “I’m sleeping two floors below where I usually do, Indy, I’m not dying.” “I know, I know… How’s a Skype dinner tomorrow night? I’ll order us a take away.” “Definitely.” You wish you could squeeze her in another tight hug, but Chowder’s crate impedes you. “Thank you.” “Love you, babe.” “Love you too.” She looks unsatisfied. “It’s going to be fine, I promise. Text me when we’re eating, okay?” You begin to walk backward into Harry’s apartment and blow her a kiss. “I will… Bye!” “Please don’t kill my cat!” You lean on the door frame, watching India’s silhouette shrink as she heads back down the hall to the lift with Chowder. You sigh and close the door, but as you turn around, your hand rushes to your chest in a gasp; Harry is standing just behind you, rubbing his face. “So I’ve just rung Annie while you were upstairs… ” He steps aside to give you a clear path through the hallway. “Oh?” “I’m sorry—they’re just coming,” he rushes, sounding a little panicked as you step into Sylvia's room. You set your phone and laptop down with the rest of your things. “They insisted ‘cause they’ve got a spare mattress, and I told them you needed a place to crash for a bit and also that you stayed here last night so… yeah. You don’t have to be here for that. When they come—oh, and they probably have Sylvia, too, if that’s… ” Harry trails off.” “Wait, I’m sorry.” You close your eyes and shake your head. “Annie? You mean—” “Sylvia’s mum, yeah, and um… her fiancé, AJ.” Harry tilts his head down, as if to gauge your reaction. “And they want to give… they have a spare mattress? But you already have a mattress.” “That’s what I said!” Harry gestures wildly. It must have been a lively phone call. “Oh, well that’s… awfully kind of them,” you begin, trying to keep up. “Would it be easier if I wasn’t—” “No.” He’s clearly surprised at his own volume as he cuts you off. Harry literally leans back, hesitating. “I mean… stay. They’d love to meet you. They’re my family and you’re…” His eyes flit back to yours and hang on. “You’re obviously gonna to be staying here a bit, and they drop by all the time so I jus’ don’t wanna overwhelm you, is all.” Suddenly, it’s your turn struggling to look at him. “Well, I—” “H, open the door! This is heavy!” a voice bellows from beyond the front door. Harry’s eyes shut momentarily. “Coming!” he calls. You stand there, in the doorway to Sylvia’s room, stunned at the pace with which this is all unfolding. Harry jogs to the door. You poke your head out as an explosion of noise disrupts what had before been so peaceful. A child’s high-pitched shriek rips through the flat, followed by a long, labored groan from Harry as Sylvia barrels into his arms and he crouches down to lift her. “How’s Daddy’s girl?” he greets. Sylvia simply continues screaming and tries to bend over backward out of his arms. “Hi, Harry.” A striking woman with jet-black hair waltzes in, carrying a large dish of food wrapped in tin foil, seemingly unphased. Harry shifts Sylvia to one arm, bending over to greet her in a side hug and quick kiss to the cheek. “Hi, love.” What appears to be a twin sized mattress with twig legs follows in suit, grunting softly. “Still heavy.” “Right, sorry.” Harry hands Sylvia off to who you assume is Annie as he hurries to take the mattress, revealing a second, much taller woman with sunglasses atop her blonde head of hair. She’s wearing red lipstick and bright suede pumps. “There we go,” she sighs. “I need a fag.” Harry almost takes out a light fixture as he hauls the bed. You press yourself up against the wall as he offers a quick, “S’cuse me,” and passes you to Sylvia's room. The two women look at you as simultaneous smiles light their faces. “Hi!” “Hello!” Sylvia waves at you, too. “Guess this one doesn’t need an introduction,” the dark-haired woman laughs, approaching with a hand extended. You notice that she’s the one wearing the ring. “I’m Annie.” “It’s great to meet you, Harry has spoken so highly of both of you.” You turn to the other woman after introducing yourself. “AJ.” One corner of her mouth quirks up. “It’s a pleasure.” “Thank you so much for the mattress, ” you begin, wringing your hands. “It seems like everyone’s done so much to help me in the past few days… It’s really meant a lot.” AJ tilts her head to look at you with a more meaningful gaze, and Annie steps forward to rest a hand on your forearm. “Harry hasn’t gone into a terrible amount of detail but… we’re so, awfully sorry for what’s happened to you.” She squeezes gently, her fingers in the crook of your elbow. The strange familiarity of the gesture disarms you. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through, and with your family so far away—I just… we heard about what was going on, and that was it. We had to help.” You nod and suddenly have trouble swallowing. There’s just something different about discussing this with women. “Harry’s air mattress,” AJ chips in, sardonic, “belongs in an incinerator.” “Hey!” His voice comes muted from the open door of Sylvia’s bedroom. Now that you’ve seen the both of them together up close, you realize how wrong you were in thinking that Sylvia only took after her father. Annie’s features are evident in her daughter’s deep, brown eyes, her nose, and the high angles of her cheeks.  “Well,” Annie starts, raising her eyebrows at everyone, “we’re obviously feeding you.” You laugh in disbelief. “No you’re not!” “We are!” She smiles as she sets Sylvia down, who weaves through everyone’s legs to her bedroom. “And relax, it’s already cooked so there’s no use in turning it down.” AJ pulls you in for a side hug, which you were grossly unprepared for. “Thank… you.” In your bewilderment, it’s all you can manage to say as Annie removes the tin foil from a full pan’s helping of chicken and vegetables. “Isn’t this supposed to be tomorrow’s roast? The Sunday roast?” Harry appears in the kitchen with Sylvia on his hip. He frowns, poking his head over Annie’s shoulder as she preheats the oven. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she replies. They lock eyes. Something tender passes between them; part of you feels like you should look away. “Annie… ” Harry says, softer now. “You didn’t have to do all this.” She ignores him, setting the timer on the oven as AJ slides a small mountain of tupperware into the fridge. The kettle starts to scream. You hadn’t realized someone started tea. You’re not sure what to do besides stand by the sink and stare. AJ rushes over to fill four steaming mugs, portioning different amounts of cream and honey into each. She turns to the few stray dishes in the sink, beginning to wash. “AJ, stop tha—” “Harry, relax would you?” She whips his leg with a dish towel and he relents. “Why is she staying in my room?” Sylvia pipes up from Harry’s arms. He looks across the kitchen at you, and then down to her. “Well see, bug, Daddy’s got a friend who’s gonna stay here for a little while.” Harry points at you and twists so she has a better view. You wave your fingers at her, and Harry asks Sylvia if she can say your name, but she simply buries her face into his sweater. “Like a slumber party?” “Um—” Harry falters. “Sort of, but not quite.” “It’s a grown-up slumber party?” AJ chokes on her tea. The tips of Harry’s ears go crimson.  “Honey, it’s like when Auntie Kristen comes over to Mummy and Mum’s to stay on holiday,” Annie salvages. Harry’s shoulders visibly relax.  Sylvia tugs at the collar of Harry’s sweater. “How long?” she begs. Your heart falls. “‘M not sure, Vi.” Harry moves some hair from her face as she pouts, then kisses her forehead. “Not forever.” “This’ll be good for you, Harry. You need more friends.” Annie pinches Harry’s side before turning to you with a smirk. “Maybe you can finally start hanging out with people your own age.” You shrug to play along, pursing your lips against a smile. “I mean… ” “Harry doesn’t go out much.” Annie’s comedic whisper fills the room as she carries your tea over to you. “Neither do you!” Harry retorts, frowning playfully over his shoulder, attempting to smack her; she narrowly dodges. “Yeah, just the one time,” AJ deadpans, pointing between them and then nodding to Sylvia. “Jesus Christ,” Harry breathes before they break into laughter. You can’t help but join in. Sylvia’s head swings from parent to parent, smiling in oblivious delight. “Alright, alright,” Annie wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “Just leave the roast in there until you’re ready to eat. We should get going soon.” “Have you got sheets that fit the bed?” Harry asks, bouncing Sylvia on his hip. “Right!” Annie’s eyes go wide. She turns to AJ, “Darling, you mind popping down to the car to get those?” “Since I already hauled up the mattress, am I allowed to play the gender card?” AJ throws eyes at Harry. “Hands are full,” he replies cheerfully. He holds one of Sylvia’s arms up to wave. “Fine,” she relents, plucking the keys from Annie’s back pocket. “Thank you!” Annie calls after her. AJ simply waves a hand behind her head. “Promise I’ll make it worth your while later!” AJ begins to walk faster. Harry shoots Annie a jokingly scandalized look with a hand covering his gaping mouth. She squints at him and rolls her eyes. He puts Sylvia down, whispering in her ear as he points to the miniature arts and crafts table in the living room.  Sylvia takes a seat on the colorful stool, her tiny features already pinched in concentration as she finds a crayon and begins to draw. Harry crouches at her side, watching her for a moment before kissing the top of her head. He breezes past you before you hear the bathroom door lock shut and now it’s just you and Annie alone together. “I love Harry, but he’s a man and he doesn’t know anything.” You shouldn’t laugh, but you do. “We live ten minutes away. If you need anything at all—anything, I mean it, please call us. Mine and AJ’s mobile numbers are both on the fridge.” “Thank you, Annie.” She hesitates, playing absently with the tag of her tea bag before nodding to the living room. “Let’s sit.” You have a seat on the couch; Annie takes the small leather armchair on the other side of the coffee table. Her eyes are warm. You see a flash of that expression that had passed between her and Harry. “He is a good man.” Annie’s voice is so low, it’s almost a whisper. “One of the best I’ve ever met… You’re in good hands, I promise.” There isn’t a chance for you to respond as the sound of the faucet running in the bathroom interrupts. Harry re-enters the living room, his eyes flitting between yours and Annie’s with a curious look on his face. “Am I interrupting something?” “Course not, lovely. We’re just waiting for AJ with the sheets,” Annie replies. She must be killer at poker. AJ slips through the door with a folded bundle of checkered sheets nearly covering her face. “Miss me?” She perches on the armrest of Annie’s chair upon returning from Syvia’s room, an arm wrapped around her shoulders. You are acutely aware of the warmth of Harry’s leg against yours, suddenly too nervous to shift and potentially draw attention to it. Though you try hard not to, you can practically see the silent conversation happening between the three other adults in the room; if you had to guess, it’s probably about you. You categorically refuse to look at Harry, so you’re left with AJ’s nearly imperceptible eyebrow-raising, and a curl of Annie’s lip that seems to be a question and a confirmation all at once. The three of them are a little… too quiet. “Well we should be off then,” she says, drawing her hands together in a clap. “Someone needs a bath tonight.”  Sylvia hurries over and locks her arms around Harry’s legs. He scoops her up like she weighs absolutely nothing. “C’mon now, angel,” he murmurs, glancing over his daughter’s head to look at you with a vaguely resigned expression. “Gonna see you tomorrow, aren’t I? Gotta be good for your mums.” Harry fixes Sylvia’s wobbling lower lip with a stern look. “Hey, now. What’s this about? S’not any different from Mummy’s normal turn with you, right? You know you’ve got too much love pumpkin, we gotta share ya.” Sylvia mumbles something too soft to make out; Harry ducks his head close. “Tell me?” You don’t catch all the words, except, “stars.” His face crumples a bit. “Oh honey, of course you’ll still have your bedtime stars. They’re not going anywhere. Nobody’s gonna take your stars.” “And that sounds like the beginning of a meltdown,” Annie says, standing quickly and pulling Sylvia from Harry’s arms. “Best be on our way before she tests all our eardrums.” Sylvia momentarily seems like she might reach back for him, but then she looks at you as though by accident, and shrinks back into her mother’s arms. Shame knots in your stomach as the two women head for the door. Sylvia peeks over Annie’s shoulder as AJ slings her purse over her arm with the car keys in hand. You busy yourself clearing the empty mugs of tea in some small attempt to give them privacy. “Come ‘round about six, yeah?” Annie says as AJ waves at you and disappears first out the door. Harry is sliding Sylvia’s arm through the second sleeve of her coat. His and Annie’s teamwork seems fluid and practiced. “Sounds good.” He tugs her tiny knit hat more securely over her curls. “Love you, bug.” “Hôn ba đi, Vi.”  You have no idea what Annie’s just said to Sylvia but Harry leans forward to receive his daughter’s kiss, placing an audible one on her forehead in return.  He says something else to Sylvia that’s not English. That deeply tender look in Annie’s face returns. Harry’s hand falls to her waist and she touches his jaw to place a quick peck at the corner of his mouth. “Call us if you need anything.” She turns back to you. “You too. Our numbers are—” “On the fridge,” you finish with a smile, waving. “Thank you, Annie.” Harry shuts the door behind them and the flat falls silent for the first time in what feels like ages. You hear him laugh once before he turns to you. “Sorry about that.” “No. Harry, I should be the one apologizing. Sylvia’s so upset, I feel awful.” Harry looks from you to the door and back again, shaking his head as he moves towards the kitchen. “Oh no, don’t worry about that. She was mostly tired, is all. Happens all the time.” He pauses before joking, “Sorry you had to hear my really terrible Vietnamese.” You watch as he begins to rifle through the cabinets. “What are you doing?” “I’m sure I left it in here somewhere—aha!” He holds an empty mason jar aloft before grabbing a sharpie and the magnetic pad of Hello Kitty sticky notes from the fridge door. Harry scrawls quickly, the cap of the pen between his teeth, before sticking a note on the glass and holding it up for you to read the big, block letters. APOLOGIES.

Till The Sun Is in the Sky Fanfic

Title: Till The Sun is in the Sky Fanfic

Summary: Roman is a genie who has granted wishes for over a millennia. The only reason he’d be eager to serve his next master is for a chance to briefly escape the lamp’s darkness. Not for a chance at freedom--for that’s just wishful thinking and he knows what that all entails.

Or at least that’s his assumption until he meets Patton, the newest master of his lamp.

Pairing: platonic royality

Word-Count: 3.9k

Warnings: Crying, Fear, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending

This set in the same ‘verse as When the Blazing Sun Is Gone but you don’t need to read that fic to understand this one. @delimeful requested seeing Roman’s/Logan’s role in the AU as part of my follower milestone celebration and so I went with Roman. Also huge thanks to @stillebesat who beta-read two different drafts of this fic and offered valuable input, I appreciate it! <3

-

He didn't know how long it had been since his last Master had thrown the lamp into the sea. It didn't matter really. Minutes, years, centuries...it didn't. Because he knew his next master would be the same as the last six hundred. Selfish, full of empty promises of freedom that never came to pass. 

No, the only reason why he would ever be eager to come out of the lamp to serve his six hundredth and one master would be for those precious moments to get out of the darkness.

Some of his more inquisitive masters would ask him what it felt like to have one’s soul crammed into a lamp.

He always laughed it off and made a joke about how it made for a great napping place.

But the truth was far from it. He knew it was silly, but he feared the darkness. He feared its loneliness, feared no one would ever find his lamp again and he’d be stuck there forever. 

He never told them how many times he uselessly fought against the magic barriers, hoping beyond hope to find a defect in the spell that bound him there. He didn’t tell them how much he feared them being the last master he ever had—not because they freed him but because his lamp never found another master to serve. Worse yet, his lamp shattering.

His soul was bound to the lamp and if it broke--then his soul would split into a thousand pieces along with it. Suffice to say, it was not a happy fate and not something happy to dwell on.

So he sang instead. His voice filling up the lamp, bouncing all around him. He could pretend someone was with him, that way, singing alongside him. He sang the few songs he knew and then some. He made up songs, even, about anything his mind could dwell on. He was halfway through singing about a gallant knight when a pair of hands made contact with the lamp.

 A new master; both relief and trepidation hit him at once. Relief that he’d be free from the darkness once more. Trepidation in knowing that it was only a fleeting temporary respite from it.

That was quite alright. After all, his new master was probably someone in great need of his assistance—they always were. The lamp magic sought out those who were plagued by horrible life circumstances. He would be the knight in shining armor to them, like he’d been to many others before.

For that was his true purpose in life and not freedom. That was just wishful thinking—and he knew all of what that entailed.

With a shroud of red mist, he rose up in front of his new master. All of which was entirely for the sheer dramatics of it. He enjoyed putting on a good show and the adrenaline that came along with it.

“Greetings!” He boomed, waving his arms around in a grand gesture, “I am a great and powerful genie—and I am here to make all your dreams come true!”

The human gawked at him, slack-jawed. His brown eyes bulged from behind his glasses, much like a cartoon character. There was a crack in one of the glasses’ lenses and upon closer look, the glasses appeared to be practically held together by tape. 

The man’s clothing appeared to be in a similar disheveled state—unraveling hems, holes in his shoes, scuff marks. The cardigan tied around his neck looked hardly wearable. Lying at the man’s feet was a blue backpack that the genie wouldn’t doubt contained all of his worldly belongings.

The lamp sought out the unfortunate and if there was one constant in any century, it was poverty.

“You’re…really a genie?” The human asked, pressing his eyebrows together.

“In the flesh.” The Genie winked.

He was well aware of what a fine specimen he was to behold. Flowing locks of russet hair, eyes that glimmered like emeralds, a voluptuous figure. Clothed in only the finest cloth that the eleventh century had to offer. Centuries of existence in the lamp had not diminished his beauty in the slightest.

If there was one thing he could take pleasure in, it was the awe humans gave him before they decided demanding for wishes. It usually lasted for only about five seconds. But during those five seconds, he could pretend that they were actually ecstatic to see him.

“What’s your name?”

He startled at those words.

“Pardon?” He asked, tilting his head backwards.

The last thing the Genie had been expecting, was those words to come out of his mouth. No one ever bothered to ask for his name. It was as though they assumed their wish-granting cosmic vending machine had no name. Or was indeed a living being with thoughts and feelings for that matter. They always started demanding rules and stipulations for their wishes as fast as they could.

“I’m sorry!” The human cried, wringing his hands together, “that was rude of me to ask without introducing myself first.”

He held out a hand, beaming, “I’m Patton! What’s your name?”

“I…” He stared down at the man’s hand, “My name?”

“Oh,” Patton’s eyes widened, “do you not have a name?”

The Genie looked away. He did once have a name, long ago before he inhabited the lamp. He couldn’t remember it. A strained, lilted laugh broke from his lips, not assuaging Patton’s concerns in the slightest.

How could he forget his own name? Names were important—special. Names had power. Names were a person’s identity. How could he let that damn lamp take something so precious away from him? It’d already taken everything else away—what more could it take? 

“I can’t seem to recall it,” He shook his head, before desperately trying to change the subject, “But enough about my fabulous self! I’m here to grant you not one, not two, but three! Three wishes of immeasurable power! Say the magic word, and I’ll spin your dreams into reality.”

He expected Patton to forget the name nonsense entirely at the mention of wishes. Surely, the man had unfulfilled desires—everyone always possessed those. Instead, the man slowly shook his head.

“I can help you find a new name, if you’d like.” He offered, a smile softly framing his face.

The Genie blinked, “You wish to give me a new name?”

He could not make heads nor tails of this strange human. He scarcely knew Patton for a single minute, but his aura oozed nothing but positivity. Still, it was an odd waste of a wish, if you asked him. He’d hate to see someone so good and in need of his cosmic help squander a wish like that.

“No,” Patton said, laughing, “I want to help you find a new name.”

Patton sat down on the beach, the lamp by his side. The human looked up at him and patted the space next to him. Reluctantly, the Genie joined him.

“How does the name Daniel sound to you?” Patton asked.

Daniel. One of his more unpleasant masters went by that name. The genie made a face before shaking his head.

“That’s okay! What about Philip then?”

“Phiiiilip…” He drew out the consonants, testing how they felt against the roof of his mouth, “What do you think, dear Patton? Do I look like a Philip to you?”

“Well, you’re very princely-looking, and I’d say Philip is a very princely name!” The man giggled, “but as long as you love it—I’ll love it as well!”

The Genie hesitated. As much as he liked the name—it didn’t quite scream him. It didn’t encompass his whole being. Philip felt as tight and constraining as his lamp. The genie could lie and tell Patton he liked it just to move on from this whole naming business. His purpose here was supposed to be focused on the wish-bearer and not him, the wish-granter.

However, as he looked upon Patton’s earnest gaze he found himself unable to lie to him.

“I am afraid that I’m not entirely in love with the idea of Philip.” He admittedly with a great sigh.

“That’s alright! We just gotta keep trying then!” Patton declared, undeterred.

He continued listing off names, but none of them seemed to satisfy the Genie. The latter of whom grew despondent that they’d never find the perfect name. There were millions of names in the world, yet none of them appealed to him. He voiced this to Patton, who refused to give up hope that easily and urged him to keep trying.

“Hmm…oh! What about Roman?” Patton asked, “I knew a guy back in high school named Roman. He did theatre.”

Something sparked within the hollow cavity of the Genie’s chest.

“Theatre? As in acting out a story in front of an audience?” The Genie asked, his eyes lit bright with wonder.

He’d never seen a play before. His masters never bothered taking him to events like that. Instead he’d remain in their household, his lamp sitting on a shelf or hidden in a cabinet. Like a jar of quarters to use on a rainy day. He could only manifest within twenty-five yards around his lamp, leaving him unable to sneak off and enjoy something like a theatre show.

But what little he heard of them reminded him greatly of the bards of his time. They used to travel all over, singing sweetly in poetic verse of great heroes and terrifying monsters. He’d always loved watching a bard perform. He almost ran off and became a bard himself before he ended up stuck inside the lamp.

“Yup! He played Lumiere in our production of Beauty and the Beast.”

The names of the character and story were unfamiliar to him. But the Genie could tell by Patton’s phrasing that it had been an important role.

“Roo-man,” He tried, liking how it sounded on his lips, “Roman, Roman, Romaaaaaaaaaaan!”

Patton giggled as the Genie held out the name for as long as he could.

Roman. It was bold, it was brash, it was perfect. Not too snug, not too loose—it fit him just right.

“Well then,” He said, clearing his throat, “I’d be honored to go by the name of such a great bard!”

“I’m happy to hear that!” Patton beamed, “We should go celebrate!”

The human stood up, stuffing the lamp into his backpack in the process. He offered a hand towards the Genie—or rather Roman.

“Celebrate?” Roman questioned, as he accepted Patton’s hand, “Don’t you want your three wishes—"

“That can wait for later,” Patton said as he pulled Roman onto his feet with ease, “what’s important right now is celebrating your new name—with ice cream! I know just the place!”

“Forgive me for asking, but what is ice cream?”

“You don’t know what ice cream is?” Patton gasped, a determined look settling onto his features, “we’ll definitely have to fix that!”

He took hold of Roman’s hand—and marched towards the direction of the ice cream stand. Roman, bemused by the human, laughed as he allowed himself to be tugged along by Patton. He didn’t know why Patton was so concerned about his wellbeing but he found it a nice change from the norm.

Patton chattered along the way, mainly about ice cream and puns relating to the icy dessert and to other things.

“What did the popsicle say to his sonsicle in a crowd?” Patton asked, already snickering at his own joke.

“What?”

“He said, stick with me kid!” Patton burst into a fit of giggles, and Roman followed suit. Admittedly a lot of the contextual humor of Patton’s puns were lost on him but there was something contagious about Patton’s cheery disposition. You couldn’t help but want to laugh along and feel about a bit of that happiness glow in your lungs. 

For those brief seconds of laughter, Roman felt human again. He’d have to treasure this feeling--coveting it once he inevitably ended up in the darkness of the lamp once more.

The sun set in the horizon as they reached their destination; a brilliant splash of crimson red with streaks of golden orange and lilac purple. There were a few customers already in line at the ice cream stand. Cheery music blared. Where, Roman had no clue. He could not see a band nearby. Perhaps it was magic?

“Hey um,” Patton said, ducking his head a bit, “mind if we split a bowl? I’ll let you pick out the flavor. You should go with vanilla—it’s a classic! But, uh you can get whatever you’d like!”

“Patton…” Roman frowned, “I could wish into existence a whole ice cream shop of your own if you truly wanted it. You don’t have to waste money on me.”

“No, I don’t have to,” Patton said with a determined glint in his eyes, “But I want to.”

Roman gawked at him, stunned. What was this human? People normally expected genies to do things for them, not the other way around! When it came time to order, Roman merely pointed to the vanilla as Patton had suggested.

There were tables set up next to the ice cream stand where customers could consume their ice cream. But Patton shook his head, telling Roman he knew a much better place.

“It’s a place my friend Virgil and I like to visit,” Patton said, “It’s nice and quiet, unlike most of the city. The noise can be too much sometimes, y’know?”

This peaceful location happened to be a bench in the middle of a park. Trees gracefully arched over it, dressed in the beginnings of autumn colors. Orange, yellow, red. A warm glowing yellow light emanated from the lamppost beside the bench. 

“You can have the first taste of the ice cream,” Patton told him as they settled onto the bench. Roman obliged him, dipping his spoon a little in the white substance and bringing it to his mouth. He blinked. It was colder than he expected. But not unpleasantly so. It was a smooth, sweet texture.

“What do you think?” Patton asked, practically bouncing in his seat.

“It’s--it’s absolutely divine!” Roman exclaimed, his eyes flickered down to the ice cream, “May I…?”

“Of course!” Patton grinned. Roman took another spoonful, savoring the taste longer this time. They took turns finishing it off as they continued to converse.

Roman wasn’t used to talking. Sure, he talked plenty over the centuries, but his conversations with his masters revolved strictly around wish-granting. Mundane conversations about the weather were anything but mundane to the genie. 

“What’s your favorite animal?” Patton asked, swinging his legs back and forth in a careless manner.

“Dogs—they are lovable, loyal creatures and mankind is undeserving of their affections.” Roman declared.

“Dogs are my favorite too!” Patton giggled, “Oh! And so are cats, horses, lizards, lions and tigers and bears—oh my! Elephants, giraffes, hippos—”

“So all of them are your favorite, I take it?”

“I guess you could say that,” Patton sheepishly grinned, “I wanted to be a veterinarian be—before—”

The human inhaled shakily, the smile slipping off his face. Instead of continuing, he stared down into the mostly empty plastic ice cream bowl. Something obviously happened in Patton’s past that upset him. It wasn’t Roman’s place to pry—but it didn’t mean he couldn’t help in the only way he knew best; magic. In all his centuries as a genie, he’s never met anyone deserving of it than Patton.

The man had been the first in a long while to treat Roman like his thoughts and feelings actually mattered. Like the genie was actually...human. 

“You could still be a veterinarian, if you so badly wished,” Roman spoke softly, “Your every wish is my command.”

Patton flinched, looking more distressed than comforted by Roman’s words.

“Roman please, I can’t do that—”

“Why not?” Roman said, “you are my master—you can make any wish you’ve ever desired.”

“Roman, I’m not your master.” Patton choked.

“Of course you are,” Roman tilted his head, “you are the keeper of my lamp. What else would you be?”

“A friend?” Patton suggested, “Roman, please I don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“This is different,” Roman said fervently, grasping hold of Patton’s hands, “this I offer to you freely for you are the most worthy keeper of my lamp. You must have unfulfilled desires, something, anything I can grant.”

Patton stared at Roman, his face void of expression. Several times he opened his mouth before abruptly closing it. As if thinking better of what he was about to say. 

“Please.” Roman pressed further.

His heart rattled against his chest, wanting badly to escape its cage as he did with his lamp. Like the latter, it was a pointless venture. As long as his lamp remained intact so would his soul. Unless of course it shattered, and with it his soul into a thousand pieces. His psyche splintered and fractured, too broken to put back together again. Like Humpty Dumpty except worse for it was a living death, one inescapable. Yet it was a fate that was inevitable and also something he shouldn’t be dwelling on at the moment.

“There is…” Patton hesitated, “one desire I have.” 

“Say it,” Roman said as he bowed his head, not daring to look at the human, “Speak it into existence and it shall be yours.”

It was going to hurt, he knew this. The genie wasn’t the true wish-granter, all the magic they possessed came from the lamp itself. The magic only used his form as a mere conduit. Because that was all a genie was—a damn puppet to his masters’ wills.

Roman brought this curse upon himself—he wanted immeasurable power and he attained it. Except, it was never his will to wield such power. Nay, only his masters possessed it. Only their wishes and not his would be granted. It’d be this way forever and ever, because everyone always cared about their happy endings and not his own.

Even Patton, once he saw the immeasurable power that surged forth from even the simplest of wishes. Roman wouldn’t blame him for it. The human has already given him more than what he’s ever deserved. 

Patton squeezed Roman’s hands. It took every ounce of Roman’s willpower not to sneak a glance up at him. He had to remain strong for whatever wish Patton threw at him. In the short time he’d spent with Patton, he didn’t get off the vibe of a frivolous wisher. He dealt with plenty of those over the years. Ones who used the wishes in willy-nilly ways, without any forethought behind them. 

No, he’d probably be practical. He’d wish for money, or perhaps a mistake in the past to be reversed. Those were always tricky ones. They didn’t always end in the way humans believed they would.

“Roman,” Patton began, “I wish to free you, the genie, from your lamp.”

The genie leapt off the bench as if electrocuted, hands clumsily detangling themselves from Patton’s own. The lamp’s magic roared in his ears, swelling inside him like a great storm. He gaped at the human, his heart bursting out of his chest and into his throat.

“P-patton, mind repeating that?” He gasped.

“I wish to free you the genie from your lamp.” Patton said once more, his voice firm and unbreaking.

This time he couldn’t hold off the wish. A bright red light enveloped him like a supernova explosion. Magic consumed him, rippling through every fiber of his being. A warmth fell across him, one that he hadn’t felt in a long, long while. A great shattering noise occurred. The light died down as he looked to see the lamp had spilled out of Patton’s pack, glittering underneath the lamppost, in pieces. 

Breath heaving, he fell to his knees, touching the pieces. The lamp had broken and he was still here, whole and complete and free.

“Why?” He stared down at the broken lamp, quivering, “I--I don’t understand. You had three wishes. You could’ve had so much—all the wealth and fame you could ever desire!”

“But I didn’t want that,” Patton protested, resting a hand on Roman’s shoulder, “not if it came from a wish you were involuntarily bound to serve no matter what. That isn’t fair. Everyone deserves the freedom of choice. Including you.”

Roman laughed. Except it wasn’t quite a laugh. More of a strangled, gargled croak than anything else. He pressed his hands into his face, shutting his eyes as he tried to block out the dizzying nausea sweeping through him.

After six-hundred masters and a millennia inside the lamp, Roman knew a lot about the freedom of choice. His masters employed it with how they chose to use his wishes. Flaunting it so arrogantly in his face. The wishes were self-serving for most. Sometimes they used it to better others’ situations. But never his own, despite many promising to free him. Because at the end of that third wish, they’d walk away while he’d once more get trapped inside the lamp.

Over and over again, they chose to not free him. Except Patton. He chose to free Roman on his very first wish. For as long as he’d dreamt of this moment, of being free from the lamp, he never expected it to actually happen. It was just a foolish fantasy, too abstract to become reality. Not to mention in this manner. He had imagined a master would free him after he’d proven himself worthy with a great feat of magic. How could Patton think he was deserving of this gift?

He laughed weirdly again. This time it hurt his vocal chords.

“Roman?” Patton asked.

He responded with a noise, halfway resembling a hiccup and a shriek. A gentle set of arms enveloped him, pulling him closer until his forehead rested against a warm chest. A hug? Was Patton hugging him? 

“It’s okay, kiddo,” Patton murmured, ruffling a hand through his hair, “let it all out.”

Kiddo. Roman wanted to snort. He was a millennia older than Patton, he wasn’t exactly a child. Except at those words, he bawled like one as he realized that those were sobs from before. Not laughter. Roman couldn’t remember the last time he cried. Just like he couldn’t remember a time before being a genie.

Who was he, without the lamp? For as much as he hated it, it’d been a part of him. It defined him and the purpose of his existence. Now he was free of it, free to be his own person, with his own wishes and desires. But he didn’t know the first step of what that looked like.

 It was like he was thrown into a raging ocean of confusion and turmoil. Treading aimlessly, desperately hoping for a piece of driftwood to grab a hold on. Something that could anchor him, keep him afloat. 

“P-patton--” He whispers, voice hoarse from crying, “can I--can I choose to be your friend?”

The human had suggested it earlier. Surely, he meant it still? It was quiet for a few seconds. Enough to cause Roman to doubt himself. But then the man who unbelievably granted him his freedom hugged him tighter.

“Of course, Roman,” Patton told him, “I’d be honored.”

With a sniffle, Roman’s hands fell from his face as he threw his arms around Patton to fiercely return the embrace. A few more ugly sobs wracked his throat. How was it that Patton was the one honored to be his friend when it was the opposite? 

Roman hardly knew what being free looked like. But he did know he’d do anything to protect Patton, to preserve this kind, selfless spark that rested in the human’s soul.

As he dwelt encircled by Patton’s loving arms, the last slivers of the sun’s glow faded at last, dousing them in darkness. But for once, he didn’t find himself afraid of it.

☆ flanked ☆ ch2 | knj

(verb) flank -

guard or strengthen (a military force or position) from the side.

attack down or from the sides, or rake with gunfire from the sides.

☆ pairing: soldier!namjoon x widow!reader; namjoon x fem!reader ☆ word count: 3.1K ☆ summary: you’re a recently widowed military spouse who is stationed at camp walker, south korea. you’re dealing with the tragedy of your husband’s recent death, and in the process, you accidentally meet a k-pop idol you’ve had a crush on for years. who knew you’d both be at the same post while he’s doing his compulsory service? who knew he’d be so damn nice? who knew it would be impossible to get him out of your head? ☆ warnings: angst, mentions of death, grieving, lots of fluff in this chapter tbh and you might die because dork namjoon has come to the party ☆ a/n: hey everyone c: sorry this repost is a little late; i've been sick the past two days and holed up in bed for the last one. i'm so excited to release this for you and start on the next chapter.

It is 6:05 in the morning, and you are awake. Not wide awake, but awake. You can’t believe you let Namjoon convince you to get up this early, because frankly, nobody has ever convinced you to get up this early. When he said that you’d have to get there first thing in the morning so you can see everything, you really didn’t think he would mean you’d have to get there at 7 AM. It’s always been your philosophy that it’s wrong to wake up before the sun, and you’re finding that getting out of bed in your pitch black room isn’t easy. You’re gonna have to make sure to clarify everything that man says in the future. Ugh, military men, you think.

You groan, muscles stiff as you finally manage to get yourself out of bed.

Bananas is obviously not getting the memo, the only sign of him being his fluffy tail poking out from under the covers. He’s never been into early mornings either.

Namjoon sent you a text yesterday and told you that the exhibit that he really wants to show you requires tickets. He then told you that because they only sell 100 tickets per day on a first come first serve basis; getting in line any later than 7 AM would surely be entirely too late, apparently. The Daegu Art Museum opens at 10, tickets go on sale at 9:30, yet you need to be in line no later than 7? Sure.

He seemed really excited about the exhibit, though, saying that Yayoi Kusama, whoever that person was, was a genius. So… you couldn’t exactly turn him down. Her works were deep and breathtaking and spoke so much about life, according to Namjoon. He had promised it would be worth it, and you thought about that promise as you groggily did your morning routine. Yeah, you thought, it had better be. If only he hadn’t sent too many pleading-eye emojis.

You grabbed your over the shoulder bag and gave Bananas a good belly rub before heading outside.

Despite being almost non-functional this early in the morning, you beat Namjoon to the museum. Gawking at the massive modern building, you walk up to the front doors, where a decent line has already formed. Okay, maybe he was right.

You find yourself a place at the back of the line and just as you reach in your bag to grab your phone to text him, you see Namjoon walking in your direction, long legs making short work of catching up to you. You catch his eyes lingering on your bare legs as he approaches, and for just a moment, you’re glad you chose to wear this skirt.

“Morning, Namjoon,” you groan, leaning up against the museum’s outer wall. More people start filing in line after you, and you’re thankful Namjoon wasn’t too late. “I guess you were right. Look at all these people.”

“Morning, peach,” he says with another one of his dimpled grins, “Glad it’s warming up out? It’s supposed to hit 20 degrees today.”

“Okay, it is entirely too early for you to be this happy,” you say, voice groggy. Namjoon just shrugs.

“Guess I’m just excited.”

You look around the small crowd that has formed and notice that a lot of the people are sitting up against the wall while they wait. You decide to do the same.

“I am too, trust me,” you say, back resting against the cool stone, “I’m just not usually up this early.”

“I see. Maybe conversation can keep you awake. Are there any other places in Daegu you want to see?” Namjoon inquires.

“Well, there is that aquarium I keep hearing about. One of my coworkers on post says that there are mermaids that do a little performance with the fish.”

“Oh! I know which one you’re talking about! I’ve actually been there a few times. I love it there! Fish are so cool.”

“Before I went into veterinary science,” you say, “I was originally planning on being a marine biologist.”

“You’re a vet? I didn’t know that! No wonder Bananas looks like such a happy pup!”

“Yeah,” you say, letting your head fall back, “he really is. But, I really want to go check it out. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to an aquarium.”

“The mermaid performers swim around with a bunch of stingrays. Stingrays are actually not that dangerous, especially if they have the barbs removed from their tails.”

You feel your eyes growing heavy.

“Wow, I didn’t know that.”

“A lot of people think they’re really dangerous because Steve Irwin died from a sting from a stingray, but his injury was a result of the barb piercing his thoracic wall. Most stingray injuries are actually very mild.”

“That’s interesting,” you say quietly, eyes fluttering closed.

“Some people think that cutting down their barbs is abuse, but it’s like cutting off a fingernail to humans. They don’t feel it at all and it grows back over time.”

“Mhmmmmm,” you say as you feel yourself slipping back into sleep.

“It’s the touch tanks that can be a little problematic,” Namjoon continues, oblivious, “Stingrays have a type of mucus that covers their body that protects them from bacteria. If that gets rubbed off, they become vulnerable. A lot of zoos and aquariums are taking plenty of precautionary measures though, like making sure the guests wash their hands before and after they experience the touch tank. In fact, I think that given the proper precautions, touch tanks…”

______________

The warmth next to you feels like home, and threatens to pull you back to sleep. You feel yourself holding onto something... firm and yet so soft, but it’s comforting, so you tighten your grip and nuzzle further in. You then feel a gentle breeze run across your legs and wonder where your blankets have gone. Bananas has probably hogged them all. You breathe in and smell laundry detergent, a little musk and… men’s deodorant? There’s the quiet chatter of birdsong, and an unmistakable trickle of water, and you instantly remember where you are.

Your eyes snap open to find yourself snuggled up to Namjoon, arms hooked around his bicep and cheek against his shoulder. He seems un-bothered by your lack of respect for his personal space; he doesn’t even look up from his book. Like it’s the most natural thing for you to be attached to him like this. Embarrassed, you quickly distance yourself from him and apologize profusely while he just chuckles a bit. He puts his bookmark in to keep his place and turns towards you as you blink yourself awake, tasting the dryness in your mouth. Oh god, you must have had your mouth open.

“It’s fine, peach. I didn’t even realize you were asleep until you started snoring.”

You gasp. “I did not!”

“Oh, you did,” he says, eyeing you playfully, “It was only a little though. And it was really quiet. Kind of cute, actually.” You play hit him in the arm that you had just been latched on to.

“Hey, don’t be mad at me. I bought your ticket!”

“You what?! What time is it?” you ask, scrambling to look at your phone. It was 5 minutes until open. “Namjoon, why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I was going to, but you were sleeping so hard...”

“Well, at least that means I wasn’t all over you this entire time.”

“Oh, no," he says, "you were.”

You groan. “How did you get up and buy the tickets then without me knowing?”

“A man has to have some secrets, you know. Come on, let’s go look at some art.”

The inside of the Daegu Art Museum is stunning. The lobby is bright and open; the sunlight pours into that first room through the large windows, casting a lovely morning light on all of the bright and cheery visitors. Some of the larger pieces are displayed in this grand lobby, some towering ten of feet above you.

“Namjoon, this is beautiful.”

“Just you wait, Come on, first we’ll do classical, then lunch, then modern art. The best one we’ll save for last.”

Classical art wasn’t your favorite, but Namjoon got absorbed in just about every piece. When he saw one that really grabbed his attention, he would sit there gawking at it, mouth open as he read from the little plaque next to it. The way his eyes filled with wonder and widened with discovery at the newly rotated paintings was absolutely adorable. He almost had this child-like wonder about him, eagerly looking back and forth from the plaque to the painting and back again. You almost enjoyed studying Namjoon instead of the art.

You let him take the lead, showing you some of his favorite pieces as you navigate through the galleries. He is definitely in his element here. After he finishes his embellished tour of the classical works, you both decide it would be a good time to break for lunch. The museum has a little cafe, so Namjoon takes care of waiting for your orders while you are tasked with finding a nice spot to spread your blanket outside on the grounds. You see a spot beneath a tree offering up a little shade, so you spread the blanket over the soft grass and take your place, closing your eyes and breathing in the fresh air. Namjoon soon arrives with your food, and settles down next to you.

Before you start to eat, you remove your cardigan, exposing your chest and arms to the air, hoping to enjoy some of the new warmth in Daegu. You hear Namjoon take a sharp inhale, and thinking something’s wrong, you quickly look over at him. He’s got his eyes trained on you, and he swallows hard before he realizes you’re looking at him. He jerks his gaze away, finds something else to look at and shakes his head, as if to clear it. Was he… checking you out?

“Sorry, I thought I uh…” he trails off, “thought I saw a bug. It was, uh, just a shadow.”

“Uh, thanks for uh, looking out,” you say, before a thought strikes you, “Hey, Namjoon. I brought my painting stuff with me today. I was hoping to paint a little while we eat, is that okay? I don’t want to be bad company.”

He perks up, “Oh, yeah, sure. I can just keep reading my book. Hypervelocity stars aren’t going to learn about themselves!”

You set about getting out your watercolor palette, planning on using some of your bottled water to wet your paints. For some reason, you glance back over at Namjoon. He’s sitting with his back against the tree, legs crossed at the ankles, book in one hand, and bao in the other. His eyebrows are slightly furrowed together in concentration, and he lazily takes a bite, not even looking at the bao bun. You hold back a giggle when you see he got some sauce on his mouth. You can’t help but point it out by getting his attention and tapping your own bottom lip. Namjoon studies you for a minute, and slowly licks his bottom lip, almost too slowly. Before you can register what he had just done, he just smiles at you innocently and goes back to reading his book.

This man is going to kill you, so he might as well be the subject for your art. The way he’s positioned himself is just too adorable to ignore.

After getting the basic shape of his outline done and halfway through the details in his face, he stirs from his place under the tree. You watch him as he places his book down carefully on the blanket and walks toward your back, steps ever so gentle. You turn your head and see a little bird hopping around on the grass, and Namjoon is after it. He breaks off a piece of bread from his second bao and extends it towards the bird, who eyes him suspiciously. To your surprise though, it hops forward and takes the bread, chirping up at Namjoon. He goes to sit cross legged on the ground, but doing so ends up startling the bird, who then flies a short distance away on the lawn. Namjoon sulks and pouts a little before getting up and walking after the bird. This is the craziest thing you have ever seen. You love animals so much that you’ve dedicated your career to helping them stay healthy, but this is on a whole other level.

You go back to refining your art, throwing some color into the sky and on the tree, seeing as your main subject has wandered off.

You’re startled when he comes back from behind you.

“How’s the art coming?” he asks, looking over your shoulder at your book, “Hey! Is that me?!”

“Well, it was going to be until you started playing Snow White.”

“Yeah…” he says, looking down at what’s left of his sandwich, “the little guy ate all my bread.”

You laugh a little at him as he frowns at the char siu pork filling barely being contained by the thinnest bun dough you’ve ever seen. Widening his eyes, he downs the rest of the bao bun in one bite.

“Dind youh whanna fhinish youhr phaintingh?” he says, covering his full mouth as he speaks.

“I can finish it some other time. Let’s go see the modern stuff before I want another nap.”

Stepping into the large room that houses the modern art, you take in a sharp breath with how absolutely full it is. Sculptures, paintings, installations; and in the back of the room is a line leading to a small door. You don’t know where to look first, so thankfully your personal tour guide is there to show you the way.

You’re reading the plaque on a minimalistic piece when Namjoon comes and grabs your wrist, excitedly ushering you to follow him. He leads you to the other side of the room where he stops in front of a section of blank wall, gesturing for you to look at it. You sit there and wonder what in the world he could be talking about when you see it. A piece of bright pink gum is stuck to the pristine white wall.

“This wasn't here last time!” he exclaims in a whisper. “I can’t believe this.”

“Yeah, kinda sucks that someone did that.”

“No, you don’t get it. This is an installation.”

“... are you sure about that?”

“Yeah! Look, it's about how such a simple thing can ruin something so large. Like finding a fly in your chardonnay, or there being a hair in your food, or one small imperfection in a person ruining your whole view of them.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s actual trash, Namjoon.”

“Of course it’s actual trash. I don’t think the artist could have gotten the point across without using actual chewing gum. It says so much. It might also be depicting the actual process of tainting something too! Like, how long did the artist chew the gum before they stuck it there? How much time and effort did it take them to ruin this whole wall with their gum? Where’s the plaque?”

As Namjoon searches the nearby walls for a plaque, a janitor comes by and scrapes off the gum, smiling gently at the both of you. You send Namjoon a pointed look, one that’s screaming “I told you so,” and then you both start laughing, having to hold back most of the sound in the quiet of the viewing space.

“Okay, last but not least. You ready?” The two of you were next in line to enter that small door you had seen at the back of the room when you first entered. The lady taking the tickets had already informed you that you would have five minutes once the door shut. You still had no idea what to expect.

“Yeah, I guess I had better be.” The door opened, letting out the museum goer who had just been in there.

Namjoon leaned up to your ear from behind and gently said, “Close your eyes.”

You were about to protest when he continued speaking, placing his hands on your shoulders, “I’ll walk you in there and tell you when to open. Trust me?”

You answered him by letting your lids drop. You felt him guide you by your shoulders as you walked gently forward and then to the right. You could tell that the floor texture had changed from the concrete you’d been walking on all day to something more plastic. You heard the door softly click shut behind you.

“Open,” he commanded softly, and you complied.

You could not make sense out of what you were seeing. The view went on forever, but you could tell that the actual room was so very small. Directly in front of you and on all sides were mirrors, infinitely reflecting off of themselves into the horizon. You were both completely surrounded by them. Scattered around the part of the room that wasn’t the black platform that you were standing on were delicate fairy lights in a cool white tone. It felt like you were floating in a void, so endless and empty. There were specks of brightness, but they did nothing to change the darkness enveloping you. Though it felt infinite, there was a nagging sense of being trapped. Surrounded on all sides. It was beautiful and terrifying to look at. Consumed by everything and nothing. You forgot Namjoon was there until he spoke quietly against your ear.

“This is what I think grief looks like. If it could take a physical form, this would be it.”

He’s right. He’s so right. You’re being swallowed by emptiness. You both are.

You both stand there in silence for the next few minutes, Namjoon’s warmth radiating onto your back, his hands still on your shoulders. Occasionally, his breath would brush against the nape of your neck.

“You really get it, don’t you?” you ask quietly.

“I can’t say I understand what it’s like to lose a spouse, peach. But I understand grief in my own way. I know this sounds crazy, because I don’t believe in any higher power, but I think we were supposed to meet each other.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean... “ he starts, “I just feel better when I’m around you. I feel like a… better person. You don’t treat me like... “ he stops himself.

“Like what, Namjoon?”

“You don’t treat me like other people do. In a lot of ways. That’s... the easiest way to say it.”

You just nod, wanting to soak up these last few moments in this room with him. In this dark space, it’s not so scary to get close. You allow yourself to lean back into him, and he stiffens up for a moment before circling his arms around you.

“We’re gonna get through all of this together,” he says against your ear, “I promise. Together.”

Reaction to people talking bad about y/n: (Jin) mafia!au

Jin X female reader

Word count: 501

Warning: Jin is soft at the end but only for y/n, no real warnings I think 

Jin is sitting in his bar at his reserved booth in the back with some of his members.  You were supposed to meet him there right after work so you didn't get time to change meaning you were in a blouse, cardigan, and nice jeans.  The bar was a little quieter than usual as it was kind of early meaning you stuck out like a sore thumb. You smiled as you made eye contact with Jin in the back and he smirked. As you approached the booth you noticed a few new faces, Jin must be testing out some new recruits. When you came up to the table one of the new guys looked you up and down making you uncomfortable. as you opened your mouth to ask Jin if he wanted you to wait in his office you were interrupted by a man walking up behind you sitting in the open chair next to you.

“Hey bitch, can you get me another drink,” he said as he tapped your ass. you froze staring down at Jin with your mouth still hung open. Jin seemed calm but the look in his eyes was one you have never seen before. if you had looked at his other members you would have seen that they recognized the look and were horrified. 

“Excuse me?” Jin asked staring holes into the side of the man's head. “what did you just ask my girl?”

“oh I’m sorry, is she your broad?” he laughed. 

That's when Jin lost it. He stood up pulling the man up by his collar and pinning him to the closest wall. “It seems you didn’t hear. What did you say to My Girl?” 

As much as you hated what that man had said and did to you, you didn’t want him to die and definitely not in front of you. “Jin,” you spoke softly and shaking, “please don’t.” 

“Hope can you take y/n home.”

You placed your hand on Jin’s back, “Jin please, it’s ok. Will you just take me home?”

He was still fuming but dropped the man at your request. He fell to the floor holding his neck and didn’t dare to look up at jin. “I’ll be in my office,” he spoke roughly and taking your hand in his, “Don’t think about bothering me.”

In his office, he apologized to you while sitting down on his couch pulling you down onto his lap. “Why are you apologizing Jinie? You did nothing wrong.”

“I know but I scared you and he,” he paused balling his hands to fists. 

“Babe I promise it’s ok I’m fine,” you placed your hand on his cheek and he relaxed almost immediately. “Thank you for standing up for me, baby.”

“I love you.” 

“I love you too Jin.”

You spent the rest of that night home with Jin cuddling and spending some long overdue domestic time together. Later that week in the bar the man that had insulted you apologized, sporting a fading black eye.

I wonder why teenage boys these days are getting annoyed or upset about radical feminism’s constant devaluing of their existence as anything more than as individual cells for a composite monsterous demon that is ‘The Patriarchy.’

I mean, why would a young man who just grew out of the neotony of pre-adolescence take offense at being lumped in with rapists, misogynists and woman haters because of their sex, and that they reject an organized, premeditated culture which states not only are women absolutely amazing, great and victims of oppression just by the existence of men, while repeatedly reminding boys that they’re superfluous and redundant for the species and ultimately just serve as a great big risk to women?

Why would a boy be upset and annoyed that women and supposed “educators” get to call them “toxic” for not being the model of boy they expect and attributing all those failures to a security risk? Why would a teenaged cis white male be intimidated by a society that promises to try to have these “hard conversations” about what a disgusting and cruel bastard he undoubtedly is for being a straight man every time some crazy monster appears on the evening news? Why would any man be so “insecure” about it being socially acceptable to assume the worst of them due to their sex in a time when we’re supposedly working towards tolerance, understanding and acceptance of everybody?

Why would young boys lose faith in an institution that clunkily wears sweaters, cardigans and embraces “high voiced nasally clone of Mr. Rogers” voice to try and get them to “open up” and “share their feelings” before liberally interpreting them as wrong, their experiences invalid, their feelings symptomatic of being a spoiled and ignorant brat that is unaware of the threat he poses as a man to vulnerable “minorities” (by which they mean women and trans people.)

Why would they be so upset at this institutionally sanctioned vilification of almost half the human population while it claims to be trying to raise tolerance and acceptance? Why are they upset that in order to “empower women,” we make a big concerted effort to put them on a pedestal while in doing so, deny boys access to it, or worse, make them sit in a lowered position and apologize to the women so raised up?

It is a real mystery!

But teenage boys are nothing if not perceptive and adaptive, once they watch the inevitable slow ones get picked off and examples be made of them to the rest. Hold your tongue, don’t show the clunky, inaccurate, imperfect examples of the pretenses they consider to be, “warning signs” (justification to get up in your face and make an example of you), perform ‘wokeness’ so as not to get nosy women testing your commitment and legitimacy every so often just to ferret out “potential school shooter incel neckbeards,” and avoid those absolutely manufactured stereotypes of what dissent to the establishment’s narrative looks like, and you won’t be forcefully committed, medicated up and forced under threat of being institutionalized that men are just violent woman-hating garbage. The power to change these things lays in women themselves, because men are punished as part of the problem for speaking up in their own defense as proof of everything being said about them.

Girl

A/N: A lovely commission for @patton-gone-thirsty​! I hope you like it, it was very fun to write! (Side note: if you ever want to commission me, feel free to send me a DM!)

Patton was reading on his laptop when he heard a knock on his door and Remus poked his head in. “Permission to enter nostalgia city?” Remus asked.

“Granted! What’s up, baby?” Patton chirped.

“You know that thing we were talking about last week?” Remus asked.

Patton’s heart involuntarily leapt into his throat. “Yeah?” he asked, forcing himself to remain casual for just a little while longer. Just until he knew what Remus was after. Then he could freak out and possibly be a horny mess. “What about it?”

“You want to try it?” Remus asked, coming in the room with a huge grin and closing the door.

Patton gulped, putting his laptop away. “Do…you? Want to?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t up for it, Patty-cake!” Remus grinned. “Come on! I wanna know how you feel about it!”

“I…I mean…” Patton swallowed. “I’d love to give it a shot!”

“You sure?” Remus asked. “You seem a little anxious.”

“Not anxious,” Patton said, clearing his throat. “Horny.”

“Oh. Oh! That’s good, then!” Remus said, clapping his hands. “We could get started right away!”

“If you want that, sir,” Patton said, voice going just a little shy.

“I,” Remus said, using one long stride to walk over to Patton and sensually undo Patton’s cardigan, running his hands down Patton’s chest, “Would love that.”

Patton gulped again as Remus undid the buttons on Patton’s polo shirt and ripped it off his body, before nimbly undoing Patton’s belt and pants in two swift movements. Remus never paused when he wanted something this bad, and Patton, while admittedly a little shocked, was also incredibly excited by this prospect…in more ways than one. They had talked about the possibility of feminization off and on, but had only had a really serious discussion about the in’s and out’s last week. Patton had gotten very flustered over it, and obviously, Remus had noticed.

Remus took off all of Patton’s clothes and took a step back, just taking in the view, and Patton resisted the urge to squirm, or cover up. Remus liked it when Patton kept everything out in the open, rather than being self-conscious. If Patton had it, he should flaunt it, is what Remus always said. And Patton aimed to please.

“Let’s get you dressed, pretty girl,” Remus said, kissing Patton’s cheek and dragging him by one hand over to the closet.

Patton was blushing when Remus opened the closet and summed all sorts of outfits, each more girly and frilly than the last. “Well, first things first,” Remus said, taking a glance at Patton’s lower half. He summoned a hot pink cock cage with a heart-shaped lock, and forced Patton’s cock into it, strapping it around Patton’s waist. “We can’t have pretty Patton coming or touching something that he shouldn’t.”

And already, Patton’s cheeks were redder than a fire engine. Remus was going to be the death of him, there was no doubt in Patton’s mind about that.

Still, Patton wouldn’t have it any other way.

Remus was rummaging through the closet, humming and tutting and muttering to himself, before he came out with a large breast plate, with heart-shaped pasties on it. He turned to Patton and said, “No squirming, dame, all right?”

Patton nodded and Remus maneuvered the breastplate over Patton’s head and got his arms in the proper holes. Remus gave one of the breasts a light slap and laughed delightedly when it jiggled. “We might just turn you into a girl yet, my darling dame!”

“We might,” Patton parroted. The cock cage was already unbearably tight.

Remus poked at it with a wicked grin. “Do you like this, sweetheart? Do you like playing dress-up?”

“Yes, sir,” Patton said softly. He shifted on his feet. He hoped that today would be a day that Remus allowed him to come at the end of their scene.

When Remus finally decided what to put Patton in next, Patton was left feeling decidedly squirmy. Remus had chosen a pastel blue corset, with slightly darker blue pinstripes running down the material. He pulled it around Patton’s body, using a feathery-light touch, before sharply pulling it shut when it fell just under the top of the cock cage. Remus’ nimble fingers had the ribbon tightening in seconds, and Patton gasped sharply as a tug just this side of too-tight pulled the top of the corset, closed, cradling the underside of Patton’s breasts.

From there, Remus pulled out pink fishnet stockings and arm tights, carefully pulling them up Patton’s arms and legs and doing the little bows at the top of each to make sure they were secure. It felt constricting and soothing at once, and Patton loved looking down at his body and seeing all these girly things on him.

“Two more things,” Remus promised. He pulled out light blue heels from the closet, slipping them on Patton’s feet perfectly, and then…Patton gasped. A light blue collar with pink hearts decorating the fabric. “Is this okay?” Remus asked.

Wordlessly, Patton nodded. Remus had never wanted to collar him before, this was an entirely new experience, and Patton was touched that Remus wanted to go through it with him.

Remus reverently pulled the collar around Patton’s neck, before taking a leash, hooking it to the front loop and attaching it to a hook on the wall. “Now, then, dame, let’s do your makeup and hair.”

“Okay, sir,” Patton said, sitting down at the vanity Remus summoned.

The first thing Remus did was to pull out magnetic heart-shaped earrings, the same shade as Patton’s cock cage and attached them to Patton’s lobes. After that, he pulled out eyeliner, eye shadow, blush, and lipstick. “I can’t wait to kiss this off you,” Remus murmured lovingly, as he uncapped the lipstick. “Pucker up, buttercup.”

Patton did so and Remus put the lipstick on with expert efficiency. Next, came the blush. “Do you think I should fuck that pretty little cunt of yours when I’m done with your makeup?” Remus asked.

It wasn’t until Patton made eye contact with Remus that he realized he was supposed to answer. “That would be nice, sir,” he said.

“Yes, I think so too,” Remus mused. “Close your eyes.”

The eye shadow and eye liner took seconds to apply, a light touch on his eyes before Remus said he could open them and Patton looked into the mirror. A still stocking-clad hand flew to his mouth at what he saw. He hardly recognized himself as he inspected himself in the mirror. The corset a stark contrast to the fishnets, the makeup making him look oh-so-feminine, and fuckable. He adjusted his glasses, before grinning. “I love it, sir!” He exclaimed.

“I’m glad darling. Now,” Remus waved away the vanity and his voice hardened into a decidedly dom-range as he said, “On your knees.”

Patton was quick to obey, tucking his legs underneath himself as he put his hands on his knees and kept his eyes attentively on Remus. Remus put a thumb on Patton’s chin and kissed him, slow and sweet, but Patton could feel the impatient hunger underneath.

Remus pushed Patton down until his ass was high in the air and his hands were spread on the floor. “I don’t want your hands leaving the floor, sweetheart, is that clear?” he asked.

“Yes, sir!” Patton said.

“Good,” Remus said, walking behind Patton.

There was the sound of a zipper, the pop of a lube cap, and then Patton could feel Remus entering him. “Oh, good job, sweetheart, you’re learning to relax around me,” Remus praised.

Patton smiled proudly, chirping, “Thank you sir!” as he kept his hands glued to the floor.

Remus’ hands roamed Patton’s body, massaging his shoulders, trailing down his sides to his hips, where they gripped tight as Remus shoved himself further into Patton and Patton gasped.

In and out, in and out, never at quite the same rhythm, but that in and of itself was predictable to Patton. Remus did so love to keep him on his toes. At a particularly hard thrust where Remus found Patton’s prostate, Patton wailed and his hands instinctively rose to touch his cock before he froze, slamming them on the floor again.

Remus didn’t move, and Patton didn’t dare breathe. “Dirty whore,” Remus growled, dangerously low. “What did I tell you to do?”

“Keep my hands on the floor, sir,” Patton said.

“And did you do that?” Remus asked.

Patton gulped. “…No, sir. It won’t happen again, sir!”

“It had better not,” Remus warned. “Or else I might just have to spank you. As it is, I’m a bit busy fucking you senseless. Be glad that I’m simply warning you this time.”

Patton’s head bobbed up and down. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Of course. I’m nothing if not generous,” Remus purred, pulling out a little before sinking himself back into Patton.

Patton hummed at the sensation of feeling full. The cock cage was starting to hurt, just a little bit, but Remus seemed in a good mood, so Patton was hopeful.

Remus leaned down onto Patton, whispering sweet nothings into his ear as he continued to fuck Patton’s ass senseless. Remus’ breathing was heavy, and Patton was mewling like he was in heat, and the contact was so close and so intimate, and it was only a matter of time before—

Remus came hard inside Patton, spilling it all over his insides as he rode the shock wave, before finally pulling out. “Your turn, sweetheart,” Remus said.

He unlocked the cock cage and Patton was immediately at attention. Remus’ fingers danced around Patton’s cock, twisting and teasing as Remus pulled Patton back into sitting on his knees and kissing him everywhere. On his lips, up his jaw, to nibble around his earlobe just a bit and trail kisses down the side of his neck, sucking hickeys there. Patton loved the hickeys. They were Remus’ way of saying, “This one is mine. He is mine and you’d better stay away from him if you know what’s good for you.”

Patton whimpered, a high, keening noise at the back of his throat as Remus found a particularly good twisting motion that had Patton uncontrollably bucking his hips into Remus’ hand. “Such a good girl,” Remus crooned. “All dressed up and pretty, just for me. Just for me to ravage you and show you what a good fucking you can get with the right guy. You love this, don’t you? You love being my good girl.”

“Y-yes sir,” Patton stammered out in a gasp. He was close, he was so close, he just knew he needed a little more… “Sir, please, just a little more, I’m so close!”

Remus chuckled, teasing Patton’s cock more before he whispered in Patton’s ear, “Come for me, darling.”

And with one final twist in just the right direction, Patton cried out, only to have his noises swallowed by Remus kissing him and gently stroking him to completion as come spilled everywhere on both of them. When Remus pulled away from Patton, he was beaming. “You did so well, Patty-cake, I’m so proud of you!”

He undid the collar around Patton’s neck and summoned some water, gently holding the bottle to Patton’s lips, letting him sip as much as he needed before gently pulling it away and placing it on the floor.

“That was good,” Patton said, dazedly smiling at Remus. “I would love to do that again.”

“I’ll bet,” Remus said, standing and picking up Patton, putting him on the bed and cuddling him close. “Is there anything you need? More water? A snack? Anything you want, I’ll get it.”

“Mm,” Patton hummed in thought. “I think I just want my amazing boyfriend to cuddle me for a few minutes as we talk about nothing. Or, maybe, plan for our next scene like that. Because I have a couple of ideas…”

Remus’ eyes lit up as he proceeded to drag every dirty little detail of those ideas from Patton’s mouth. In a while, Remus would help Patton clean up and take off the makeup and the clothes. In a while, Patton would help Remus with their weekly dinner. But for now, they were content to just cuddle up close to each other, and rest.

Can I request a Moceit fic where Janus is trying to impress Patton, it fails each time, but they get together anyway?

Here ya go! This was a fun one to write, I absolutely adore these two! Feedback and reblogs are really appreciated, have a nice day/night! 

a03 link

My writing masterpost

word count: 2,196

To Woo Morality [Moceit]

It was stupid, really, to think that winning Patton’s heart would be an easy endeavor. It’s not as though they’ve been on the best of terms for most of their existence, indeed they’d been considered enemies for some time. Just because Janus was now accepted by Patton and he’d received an apology card from Patton for everything that had been between them – it really was a nice card – didn’t mean that they were immediately on the best of terms.

Janus didn’t mean to fall for Patton. Any positive feelings he’d felt for the moral side in the past had quickly been pushed to the back of his mind; Jesus, Janus should’ve known better than to think repression would work. But now that they’ve been spending a lot more time with one another, Janus can no longer ignore the affection that blooms in his chest when he’s in Patton’s presence.

At first, he’d been under the impression that even if they were becoming friends, Patton would want nothing to do with him in a romantic-sense. They’d just be pals, and Janus’s heart would just have to burn a little more with each passing minute together. Except…recently, Janus has noticed a shift between them. It could be in his head, though he highly doubts that, but it seems as though Patton has seemed somewhat more nervous in his presence. It’s little things, hands accidentally making contact earning a blush, lingering hugs that the moral side just seems to melt into, passing glances that clutch at Janus’s heart and a look in Patton’s eyes that he prays is admiration.

For some time, Janus has been telling himself that perusing Patton is a horrifically bad idea. He and the others are by no means on good terms. Logan tolerates him as far as he’s aware, but he has impersonated him a few times now. Things are decidedly very shitty between him and Roman, and conversations between him and Virgil usually end in hissy-fits. Remus has been a friend to Janus for some time now, someone who while strange and quite a bit to deal with also knows him better than most, so having his company is somewhat of a relief. He’d like to tell Remus of his feelings for Patton, but if he knows his friend, and he does, it will only end in an onslaught of teasing and Remus running to Patton blabbering. That just won’t do.

The idea of the others knowing of his feelings for Patton was something that, truthfully, concerned Janus. They're fiercely protective of their fatherly figment; who wouldn’t be? It had held him back, thinking of how they’d react. But it’s those moments of hesitation, lingering hands, lingering eyes that push Janus over the deep end. He’ll seduce Patton or die trying. The only question is how.

Janus’s first attempt is a gift. Nothing fancy, but rather innocuous and simple in case things go belly-up. Unfortunately, they do.

“Aw, Jan, you’re too sweet,” Patton coos, holding up the frog stuffed animal with a gleam in his eyes that Janus foolishly sees as promising. Patton sets the plushie down and wraps him in a tight hug.

“I’m so lucky to have such a good friend!” Yikes. That’s not quite what Janus was hoping for.

“Likewise, I’m pleased to call you my friend as well,” Janus says as he pulls away, far smoother than he assumed the words would come out. “I’m glad you like it.”

And then, Janus is back to scheming. The only problem is, he's never been very good at scheming. Sure, he might seem like the type to pull together an elaborate plot, but most of his best work is done on the fly. But impressing Patton can’t be improvised, he tells himself angrily, passing the length of his bedroom, it has to be perfect. So he thinks. And he plans. And he overthinks.

“A picnic?” Patton asks, excitedly. Janus grins, already proud of this plan.

“Yes, if you’d like to join me,” Janus offers, suave. Yes, this will be fine.

“Well, I’d love to, kiddo,” Patton says energetically, and Janus tries his best not to wince at the “kiddo”, “Only…you’re talking about picnicking in the imagination, right?”

“Yes, of course,” Janus replies.

Roman and Remus’s realm is the perfect place for a romantic picnic. With lush, rolling hills of green and skies as blue and beautiful as baroque paintings, it’s the best place Janus can think to woo the moral side. There are fantastical beasts, most of which harmless, at least on Roman’s side of the imagination (save for the dragon witch, but she hasn’t been seen for some time). They’d be sure to steer clear of Remus’s more unruly section of the realm. But then he catches the look on Patton's face.

“Is there a problem?” Patton huffs, fiddling with the end of his shirt. Goodness, that’s not a good sign.

“Oh, I’m just worried it might upset Roman,” Patton explains, “I know you two still have a lot to work out. And Remus’s side…well, I’m not too sure if I want to encounter anymore of the horrific monsters that live there. Once is enough for me.” Damn it, why did Remus ever have to drag Patton on a quest, and why in the world had Patton agreed?!

“Ah, that’s…understandable.” Janus set the picnic basket down, trying to hide the hurt that was surely showing on his face. For a liar, he sure was getting bad at masking his emotions.

“Oh, Jan, I didn’t mean to make you sad! I’d love to still have the picnic, if you still want to. Just somewhere else, maybe?” Janus does what he can to hide how deflated he feels, nodding and forcing on a smile.

“Sure, Patton. The common room, or one of our rooms, perhaps?” Janus flinches as Patton grips onto his wrist. His grasp isn’t hard or painful, just startling.

“C’mon, let’s go to the common room. Maybe someone else will want to join us too.” Janus couldn’t shake the hurt that sentence provoked if he wanted to. Even so, he picks up the picnic basket again and allows Patton to lead him away.

Later Janus sits at his desk, his head in his hands. Why does it have to be so hard? Why can’t his efforts be enough? He’s seen it, surely, he’s seen a twinkle in Patton’s eyes that has to mean something. Or maybe he’s just been far too optimistic. Perhaps the idea of Patton having any interest in him is absolutely preposterous.

Plans flutter through Janus’s mind, gifts he could give, attention he could provide him, but none of it matters in the end. It’s all sure to fail – god, when did he get so depressing?

Janus sighs looking at the clock: nearly 12 am now. He’s been holing himself up in his room since the picnic. At least Patton seemed to be having fun, and Logan even joined them for a bit. That certainly didn’t thrill Janus, but the smile it brought to Patton was something he couldn’t discredit.

Reasonably, it’s too late for a snack. But he’s also imaginary, and moreover, doesn’t really give a shit.

He doesn’t expect to find Patton in the kitchen and considers turning on his heel before the moral side catches sight of him.

“Oh, hiya, Janus,” he greets, friendly as ever, “What are you doing up so late?” Janus bites back a sigh, walking into the kitchen and eyeing Patton.

“I could ask you the very same question.” Patton giggled sheepishly.

"I suppose you could. I couldn’t manage to fall asleep, and I’ve always heard warm milk might do the trick,” Patton explains, holding up a mug, “But boy, this stuff’s nasty. It’s no cowincidence I’ve never been much of a fan.” Janus chuckles lightly, leaning against the kitchen counter. “So, what about you? What brings you to the kitchen this time of night?” “Same as you, I suppose,” Janus says, hoping Patton won’t challenge his vagueness, “I found difficulty sleeping.” That isn’t entirely untrue. Perhaps it was because he was getting lost in his failed plans, but Janus still hadn’t been able to sleep. It seems that Janus has lost his desire for a snack, as seeing Patton is only upsetting him more. He doesn’t want to be like this, so at the mercy of his emotions, and it’s driving him near-insane.

“I think maybe I’ll try again, though. Goodnight, Patton.” “Wait.” Janus pauses in the doorway, turning back to see Patton worrying his bottom lip.

“Is something the matter?”

“No, no. Nothing like that,” Patton sounds uncharacteristically anxious, something that strikes Janus as odd, “I just wanted to…thank you, I guess.” Janus quirks an eyebrow.

“Thank me?” “For being so sweet lately,” Patton clarifies with a flickering smile, “I mean, you’ve been so nice, getting me things, and having a picnic, and just sitting and talking with me as much as you do. Things were so bad between us for so long, I know I’m a lot of the reason why –.”

“We’ve already had this conversation before, Patton. It’s okay,” Janus interjects.

“I know we have, but it doesn’t make me any less sorry. But I feel really lucky that we get to hang out as much as we do now. It’s really nice, you make excellent company.”

Janus half expects himself to fall into a love declaration right then and there. Patton, always so kind and well-meaning, is thanking him for all the extra work he’s been putting in trying to get Patton to notice him. Evidently, he has noticed him, just maybe not as much as Janus wants. It’s selfish, he realizes, to desire so much, so soon. He needs to stop his futile attempts to win Patton’s heart and simply enjoy what he can get.

“It’s not nearly the same as everything you’ve done for me,” Patton splutters, pulling something out of his pocket and pressing it into Janus’s gloved-hand, “But I made you this.”

Janus looks down at the blue and yellow bracelet, the two colors woven tightly together. Janus half expects to start weeping because, yes, this is a friendship bracelet, but it’s also something that Patton has made for the others, but never him.

“I hope you like it,” Patton says nervously, messing with the sleeves of the cardigan tied over his shoulders. Janus slips the bracelet onto his wrist and, in a very un-Janus-like fashion, engulfs Patton in a tight embrace. Patton lets out a sound of surprise before sinking into the hug, pressing his face into the crook of Janus’s neck.

“I love it,” Janus breaths out, feeling like the luckiest side in the world just to be holding Patton, “Thank you.”

“Of course, I-I’m glad you like it,” Patton manages to sputter out. The hug drags on far too long to be considered platonic. Neither men let go.

“Janus…” Patton trails off, letting go of Janus’s back and instead cupping his face in his hands. Janus could feel the moral side’s hands beginning to tremble. He waits a moment, wondering if Patton has more to say, feeling as though his heart might just beat out of his chest before it's unanimously decided action will speak much louder than words.

The kiss begins feather light, just the slightest brush of the lips before Janus’s fingers dig into Patton’s curls, pulling him as close as possible. There they stand in the low-light of the kitchen, kissing and holding onto one another as if the other might disappear if they let go. Unfortunately, the need for oxygen eventually arises and the two part briefly, smiling wide. Patton ducks his head against Janus’s chest, still holding close to him.

“Wow…” is all that Janus can think to say. Patton giggles.

“Wow is right. I was so worried that you didn’t feel the way I did.” Janus chuckles lightly at that, carding a hand through Patton’s hair.

“That's funny, considering it’s not like I’ve been trying to get your attention for some time.” Patton let out a noise of confusion before catching on.

“Oh, Jan, honey. You could’ve just told me.” Oh, he already likes the sound of Patton calling him “honey.”

“In all fairness, you could’ve told me yourself.” Patton laughs again, pressing his lips to Janus’s again, lighter but much of the heat is still there.

“I guess you’re right. We were being silly, dancing around each other, huh?” Janus hums in response, a content, relaxed sound. “Why don’t you try and get some rest now? You sound tired.”

“Come with me,” Janus requests. It’s suddenly so easy to ask, so easy to show Patton how much he cares for him and desires to be in his company. “You look quite tired yourself.”

“Okay, Jan,” Patton says, releasing him from his grasp before lacing their fingers together. The pair walk hand-in-hand to Janus’s room, both smiling wider than they have in quite some time.

As it turns out, Janus’s plans were not a complete waste of his time. He’s relived there’s no need for anymore scheming, though. He’s got everything he’d ever been searching for.

=+=

Right Where You Left Me

Chapter 5 - Cardigan

A friend to all is a friend to none

Chase two girls, lose the one

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” she screams at him. 

She was furious. From the moment she spotted him walk into her yard, without Chrissy, she’d been looking for an excuse to take her anger out on him. Now that she had found one, she wasn’t going to let him walk away without explaining himself. 

.

.

The only reason she let Josie convince her to have this damn party was so that she could forget about her latest argument with Hopper. Her parents never went away, not together, so when they told Joyce they’d be out of town for the funeral of a distant relative, she was ecstatic to have the house to herself for the entire weekend. 

When she bragged about having the place to herself to Josie, Josie suggested she have a party for their classmates. Initially, Joyce was unsure. If her parents ended up returning early, things wouldn’t end well for her. Josie won her over by promising it would be fun and a perfect distraction from her fallout with Hopper. After they returned home from the party at the lake, she had explained what happened with Hopper to her friend, who lent a sympathetic ear and told her that Hopper didn’t deserve her. 

It was designed to be the perfect distraction. Plus, she figured it might get Hopper’s attention. She realized the irony of wanting both things, distracting herself while hoping her rash decision would catch his attention, but she wanted him to hear about the party and think she’d moved past their argument. She wanted him to believe that she was living her best life without him, even if the truth was that she was miserable without him around. What she didn’t expect was for him to show up at the party, solo.

The moment she spotted him, she could feel the tension building in her body. She told herself not to let it bother her because the less she showed him it bothered her, the more bothered she knew he would be. Hopper had always been funny like that; he would be more inclined to pay attention to her if she paid no attention to him. 

But he was staring at her. She was certain his eyes had been glued to her all evening and it made her angrier. He didn’t get to look at her that way, not when the entire purpose of this party was to distract herself from the pain he caused her. He didn’t get to show up alone and stare at her like that. She was going to make sure he knew it wasn’t alright with her. 

Joyce considers lecturing him sooner than she does, but gets distracted by Josie introducing her to a few of her friends. She notices him laughing across the party and her stomach flutters. Goosebumps scatter across her freckled arms and she blushes, embarrassed that the sound of his laugh could impact her in such a way.

She reminds herself he chose Chrissy over her. She replays their last conversation and tries to recall the pitying look in his eye when he weakly attempted to apologize for leaving her in the lurch, but none of it is of any use. She’s falling down the rabbit hole of what-if scenarios when Josie asks if she needs another drink and she nods. 

Why did he come here? It was possible it was because he wasn’t one to pass up a party, but him showing up alone yet again struck her as odd and she couldn’t help but wonder, was there a reason he came here alone tonight? 

.

.

Not long after Hopper shows up at the party, Joyce finds herself alone with Josie near the table holding the drinks.

“He came?!” Josie asks, eyes growing wide. 

“I’m trying not to focus on that. There’s a party going on,” Joyce replies. 

“That’s the spirit! You know who I saw come in a little while ago?”

“Who?”

“Lonnie,” Josie winks.

“Josie, I told you I’m not super interested in Lonnie.”

“But he’s super interested in you.”

“He’s nice. I just don’t think there’s a spark there.”

“You’ve never even kissed him, what if there is?”

“You’re a horrible influence,” Joyce laughs.

“I’m just saying, if you never try you’ll never know. Besides,” she smirks, “the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.”

“Oh god,” Joyce rolls her eyes. 

Josie waves and flits off across the lawn towards a group of her friends and Joyce decides to grab another drink before joining her. 

She fetches a can of beer and pops it open when she spots Benny, one of Hopper’s best friends, flirting with a girl named Helen. Ducking to avoid making eye contact, Joyce turns her back to the pair. She’s prepared to rejoin her friends when she overhears Benny say something interesting.

Curious, she leans in so she can listen to the conversation, careful to not draw attention to herself from where she is standing on the opposite side of the table. 

“Maybe we should introduce my friend to yours,” Joyce hears Helen tell Benny.

“He’s seeing someone.”

“Then why is he here alone?”

“Can you keep a secret?” 

“Try me.”

“It’s Joyce’s party,” Benny explains.

“Am I supposed to know what that means?” Helen asks.

“As far as I know, Hopper didn’t even ask Chrissy to come with him.”

“I still don’t get it,” the girl admits.

“He would kill me if he knew I was saying this, because he would never admit it but it’s pretty obvious that he has feelings for Joyce.”

“You think he’s interested in Joyce?!” Helen says loud enough that Joyce would have heard without trying to listen in. 

“Shh,” Benny hushes her. 

“But he’s still dating Chrissy?”

“Well I didn’t say he was going to date Joyce. You’ve seen the two of them, they're usually thick as thieves.”

“Then why do you think he’s interested in Joyce?”

“Isn’t it obvious? He always has been.”

Joyce pales and forces herself to walk away, not wanting to hear any more. Benny had known Hopper almost as long as she had, and she trusted that he knew him in ways she didn’t (it was a guy bond type thing), which meant she trusted what he had to say about Hopper.

Feeling nauseous and unsteady, she stumbles into the bathroom on the first floor of the house and splashes her face with cold water. 

She and Hopper had been best friends for years. For years she wondered if there could be something more between them, but she always drew the same conclusion, they were meant to be friends. Hopper never showed any signs that he was interested in something more, and while she decided years ago that she might want something more, she wasn’t willing to risk their friendship to pursue a possibility. 

But what if she was wrong? What if after all this time, he wanted the same thing she did? It’s irrational, but a small part of her hopes that she’s right about why he showed up here alone. A larger part of her is angry with him for continuing to ruin her evening, even without having spoken a word to her. She loathed him for putting a damper this evening; her night of fun that was designed to allow her to forget about him. She wishes he would be upfront about the way he felt so that she could follow his lead.

The more she thinks about it, the more upset she gets. Hopper was supposed to be the one person who soothed her anxiety, not ramped it up. 

She downs her beer, dries off her face and returns to her party on a mission to rip into Hopper for raining on her party parade. Joyce is intercepted by a group of girls she’d recently met and joins in on their conversation. She forces herself to laugh at the jokes made, and while she really likes the ladies, her mind is preoccupied and she fiddles with the hem of her shirt, anxiously waiting to excuse herself and find Hopper.

He’s talking to Allen, a student in their class on the far side of the lawn and she wastes no time in approaching him. She storms up to him and shoves him away from Allen and yells at him. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” 

“What’s wrong with me?! You’re the one who came over here swinging.”

She notices a few people turn to observe the argument and steps closer to him so she can whisper her next question. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” she demands to know.

“I’m at the party?” 

“You know what I mean!” she exclaims, allowing the frustration to slip into her voice.

“Just trying to enjoy the party.”

“Alone?”

“I don’t know if you noticed, but I was talking to Allen before you rudely interrupted us.”

Joyce turns to look at Allen and uses that as an excuse to put some distance between them. 

“Where’s your girlfriend tonight?” she says. Her voice catches when she uses the term girlfriend to describe Chrissy. It causes her to cringe. 

“Not here.” He says. Looking down at her, he pauses before speaking again, “look Joyce. I need to talk to you.” 

“Because our last conversation went so well,” she laughs to herself. She’d gone over their last conversation countless times, each time only fuelling her anger and desire to lash out at him. 

“Joyce, I care about you and I’m worried. Throwing parties because your parents are away, talking to all these people when we both know you can’t stand most of them, ignoring me…”

“Ignoring you? I’m ignoring you?! That’s rich, Hop.” She feels her cheeks flush and her arms angrily flop at her sides. 

“Is this because of Chrissy? Is that why you won’t listen to my apology?”

“Please, I don’t give a shit about Chrissy,” Joyce says in her most convincing tone. At least, she hopes it sounds convincing. 

“Then would you care to fill me in on what the hell is going on here? Because one second everything is fine and the next you can hardly look at me. I know I screwed up by bailing on you but I’ve been trying to tell you that I’m sorry.”

She paces away from him, folds her arms and then paces back. Did he really think she was upset about that? Was he so clueless that he didn’t realize why she was actually upset? She always thought that Hopper knew her better than anyone, now she was wondering if he knew her at all. 

“Do you have some type of alarm that goes off in your head when I’m happy?” 

It’s a rhetorical question, but something she’s been wondering since he stepped foot in her yard that evening. 

“What?”

“You show up here, at MY party and insist that you care about me when really all you want to do is apologize so that you'll feel better about yourself. You know what, go fuck yourself!!”

She moves to turn and storm away but he catches her wrist before she can and her eyes meet his pleading ones.  He tugs on her arm gently, and she gives into his pull, hoping that maybe he’s going to tell her the real reason he showed up at her party without Chrissy. She follows as he leads them away from the party and towards the dead rose garden along the side of the house, digging in her heels to show him she was still in a feisty mood and wasn’t planning on giving in without giving him an earful. 

“Hopper what the hell!” she protests, looking back in the direction of the party. “You can’t just drag me off and…”

She doesn’t get a chance to finish her thought because she’s being pressed against the wall and her mind is consumed by the taste of him. She stills at first, the force at which he pins her to the wall shocking her. It takes a moment for her mind to register what’s happening. Hopper is kissing her. And before she can consciously decide what she wants to do, she’s moving her lips against his. 

His lips are on hers hot and fast while he grinds down into her hips. His hands are framing her face, large-open palms planted on the brick of the house. She almost gasps when the bulge in his jeans brushes against her inner thigh, but prevents the sound from escaping her throat by leaning into the kiss. He tilts his head to deepen the kiss and brings his hand down to caress her cheek. The moment she feels his thumb brush against her cheek, she realizes what’s happening - what they’re doing, and she panics. 

She pulls back and slaps him across the face with her left hand. He reaches for his swollen cheek and Joyce shoves him away from her with both of her hands. 

“What the hell are you doing?!” 

“Joyce, I-”

She waits for him to continue, but Hopper stands there staring at her with his mouth hung open. 

“You what?!” She says on his behalf, “saw me having a good time and decided it would be fun to ruin it?”

“No, that’s not…”

“Not it? Hmm, let me see, got bored of Chrissy and thought why not drag me into the mess that is your love life?” 

She doesn’t mean to sound so cruel, but she’s livid with him for dragging her into his mess. Based on what she just learned from Benny, Hopper was dealing with some internal debate that involved him having feelings for both her and Chrissy, and she didn’t care to be caught in a love triangle. Especially not when the third member was one of the most popular seniors in school. 

If he had something to say to her, he could tell her with his words, rather than press his tongue into her mouth and hope that conveyed his message. 

“I thought that maybe you wanted me to…”

“Why the hell would I want that?” she spits. 

She did. But not like this. 

“Don’t you…” 

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence! You didn’t do that because you thought I wanted you too, and I think we both know that.” She needs him to say it, to tell her that he felt it too; the connection between them. Their kiss proved that what she thought might be there between them, was, and now Joyce was holding out hope that he would confess the real reason he showed up at the party alone. For the briefest instant, she lets herself believe that the reason is because he wanted to be alone with her.

She pulls her shoulders back, trying to make herself taller while she squares up to him and asks “why did you do that?”

Hopper stares across the yard at her and sighs. She can see the resignation in his eyes and she knows he either isn’t ready to admit what she wants him to say, or he doesn’t feel the way she hoped he might. 

“Can’t say it? Figures,” she scoffs. “Get the hell off my property.” 

She storms off in the direction of the party, looking to lose herself in a sea of unfamiliar faces and a few cans of beer.

.

.

Joyce works her way through the crowd and towards the table of drinks with a purpose. Determined not to let herself cry, she pops open a can of beer and immediately downs half of the contents. She wasn’t surprised that he couldn’t tell her how he felt. Hopper had never been extremely in touch with his feelings, and she knew that he was infatuated with Chrissy. Even if he did have feelings for her, he had Chrissy and no reason to choose her over the perfect blonde. Sure, they had a history but she wasn’t tall and beautiful like the cheerleader was and she knows that she’ll never measure up. 

Telling herself to forget about it, Joyce looks around for someone to talk to. She spots Josie standing with a few of their peers across the yard and waves. Before going over to them, she finishes her drink and crinkles the can in her hand. She tries to forget about everything that happened in the garden, but the taste of him is still heavy on her lips and she’s certain she smells like him. 

The worst part of this entire situation was that while Hopper was popular with the girls in their class, he’d never had a serious girlfriend before Chrissy. Girls would catch his attention for a few weeks at a time, but then they would be phased out and Joyce never had to think about how she would feel if he started spending more time with one of them instead of with her. She never believed he would find someone to get serious with in high school; he was always going on about how the girls at their school we’re too immature. 

She smiles to herself, thinking about the time they lay in the field behind her house looking at the stars when he told her he hated all girls and that she was the exception. 

Laying in the field behind Joyce’s house, Hopper points up at one of the constellations and smiles. 

“That’s Ursa Major.”

Joyce rolls onto her side and meets his gaze with a pointed look. “You’re making that up.” She rolls her eyes. 

“I am not! That’s what it’s called.”

“You have no idea what stars make up the constellations,” she snorts. 

“Come here, I’ll show you,” he says. She sits up and slides closer to him, stopping when she’s within his reach, she lays on her back and stares up at the star filled sky. It was a cool summer evening, the only sounds aside from their voices the chirping of crickets in the nearby weeds. Joyce loved the summer. Everything about it made her feel a steading calmness and she yearned for the orange-hued skies and the late night adventures that accompanied it. 

“It starts here,” Hopper says, raising his hand and pointing towards a star on the left of Joyce. When he notices she’s struggling to identify the one he’s referring to, he takes her hand and guides it until she’s pointing at the glowing orb. “There.”

“Then, here,” he explains, guiding her hand to the next star in the constellation. 

It wasn’t uncommon for the pair to spend time in the field behind Joyce’s house. It was where they spent most of their childhood summers, and growing up saw a shift from playing tag to talking and lounging around, but the location remained a favourite for both of them. It was silent and secluded and neither of them felt any pressure to be anyone besides themselves when spending time amongst the grass. 

“How did you know what that constellation was?” she asks after he releases her hand and they go back to staring up at the sky in silence. 

“I looked it up once to impress Laura on a date.”

“A waste of energy,” Joyce giggles. Laura was a girl that Hopper was crazy about at the beginning of the summer. He spent weeks trying to convince her to go out with him only to have her break things off with him after the first date and he was devastated. 

“Girls suck,” he remarks. 

“Hey!” she smacks him playfully. “I’m a girl.”

“You don’t count.”

“Why don’t I count?” she whines.

“Because you’re my favourite girl.”

Unsure of how to respond to his compliment, Joyce grins and stares up at the night sky. They lay side-by-side in silence, hands resting inches apart, enjoying the company of one another for the rest of the evening. 

Joyce can’t help but laugh at the irony that plagued her life. Hopper was with Chrissy and now was when she decided she had feelings for him. Now was when he decided to finally make a move and kiss her. 

Jim Hopper kissed her; her mind is trapped in the memory. Her hand comes up and runs along the edge of her lower lip and she shutters. 

There was a time when Joyce could confidently say that she knew Hopper. He was the guy that wore a flannel and Levi’s every day because he didn’t care to be “fashionable.” He never bothered to comb his hair and he secretly had a huge heart. But he had become a different person when he began dating Chrissy. The boy she knew would never have done something as rash as kissing her, especially not while he was dating someone else. In touch with his feelings or not, she was beginning to notice that he was different around their peers. 

With their classmates at school, he was the popular jock who got girls and good grades. With her, he was an insecure kid who had no clue what he wanted to do with his life after graduation. He was a kind ear and a passionate storyteller; he was always the first person to comfort her. He drew stars around her scars and reminded her that she was stronger than she knew and she always found solace in his arms.

He wasn’t that person tonight. He hadn’t been in weeks. He chose the life that came with dating Chrissy and she was left lusting after a version of him that ceased to exist. 

Part of her wonders if he’ll ever be ready to admit that there may be something more between them. She knew he’d miss her once the thrill of being with Chrissy expired, but would he ever admit that he missed her in a way that extended beyond their decade long friendship? Or, was Hopper destined to always be with someone like Chrissy; the type of girl she would never be. 

An absolute mess of emotions, Joyce rejoins Josie and a few of their classmates and does her best to distract herself from her inner demons. Hopper wasn’t going to ruin this evening for her. He could be as reckless as he wanted, he wasn’t going to drag her into his mess. The kiss didn’t change anything. If anything, she was angrier than she was before she approached him tonight. He couldn’t just choose to want her when it was convenient for him. She was no one's second choice. 

Lonnie Byers joins their circle not long after Joyce does. Standing next to her, he compliments her on her outfit and tells her the party is incredible. She lets him flirt with her because it’s easy, he’s nice enough and part of her wants Hopper to see when she places her hand on Lonnie’s shoulder and laughs. As wrong as it is, she wants him to hurt the way she does. 

Lonnie asks if she wants to join him and talk away from the group. She nods and follows, catching the unsubtle wink Josie tosses in their direction as they head off to be alone. They talk about school and make pleasant small talk about the people they know at the party. It’s not exactly awkward, but the conversation is a tad forced and Joyce finds herself bored. 

He steps closer to her and though she knows what’s happening, she doesn’t react. When he kisses her, she feels nothing. Instead, she’s back in the garden pressed between Hopper’s muscular body and the wall, unable to catch her breath. But, Hopper isn’t here, he’s probably gone home to Chrissy and she’s Lonnie’s first choice, so she numbs her pain by kissing him back. 

You drew stars around my scars

But now I'm bleedin'

Fear of the Fae

Summary: Patton has a healthy fear of what awaits him in the night, the creatures that lurk in the forest and trick mortals into selling their lives away. But despite his fear, Patton goes searching for one in his grief, knowing that nothing short of magic could save his broken heart now. Fae Prince Roman is all too happy to oblige him.

Day 1: Fear. Part of the October Prompt List.

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The forest was dark this time of night. Even the wildlife seemed to know better than to come this deep, and Patton found the lack of cricket chirps only confirmed his fears.

He was getting close.

Patton was a fool, he knew that now. Everyone in town knew the legends of fae and the terrible tricks they liked to play on mortals. In some, the pranks were fairly harmless, in others quite painful, and in a majority…deadly.

So Patton truly was a fool for searching out a fae himself. Everyone who ever made a deal had come to regret it, if they even lived to tell the tale. Only the desperate fool would wander into the woods, seeking out a ring of mushrooms that would act as a fairy circle- a link between realms.

There, in a moonlit grove, Patton finally spotted one. It was a rather large ring with spotted red caps circling the barrier. It was inviting, in an eerie fashion. Come closer, they seemed to sing, we won’t bite. Well, Patton supposed that wasn’t a lie; it wasn’t the mushrooms themselves that scared him, but what waited on the other side.

He had come this far. Not giving himself a chance to second guess, Patton leapt into the circle and squeezed his eyes shut.

The human wasn’t sure what he was expecting. A tugging sensation? A whoosh? Whatever the case, Patton felt none of that. No sensation overcame him, and when Patton opened his eyes the woods looked the same as before.

“You’re quite brave, jumping into my circle, little gardenia.”

Patton jumped, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to turn around. He squeaked, trying to hide his fear when he realized there was a strange being right in front of him. It was clear this was a fae, his beauty too ethereal and his ears too pointed.

“Aww, have I startled you, sweet pea?” The fae took a step closer, not looking sorry in the least. In fact, he looked rather amused. Patton flushed, standing his ground even as the monster got closer and his heart began to pound.

“Y-yes.” Patton stammered, realizing the fae was waiting for an answer. “I did not expect you.”

“You did not expect me in my own realm?” The fae teased.

“No, ah, well…” Now Patton felt a bit silly. “I just meant- I didn’t expect you to be so close.”

“I can be closer, if you like.” The fae’s smile turned mischievous, leaving very little room between them and now Patton’s heart was pounding for an entirely different reason. It seemed cruel how the fae could use his beauty as just another trick to warp Patton’s mind.

“No, I don’t want that.” Patton shifted, trying to find somewhere to look that would help him calm his nerves, but now the forest was beginning to look hazy, almost as if he were looking through a fog. He felt the world becoming confined to just this circle, where both of them stood as if they were the center of the universe.

“Oh?” The fae tilted his head, curious. “And what is it you want, darling crocus?”

Patton paused. He should have an answer for that. After all, he was the one who had sought out the fae tonight, against his common sense and better judgement. He was here, against everything that was screaming at him that he was in danger, danger, danger-! But now, looking up at the fae, Patton couldn’t seem to sort out what could have driven him into this fairy circle.

“I… I don’t know what I want.” Patton admitted.

The fae looked at him for a moment before throwing his head back in laughter. Patton felt the tips of his ears turning pink in embarrassment.

“Oh, you sweet spring lily, you’re embarrassed!” The fae hummed happily, his fingers tilting Patton’s chin up so he was forced to look into those enchanting golden eyes. They looked amused, but not condescending. Patton shuddered, not sure if he liked just how quickly he was drowning in their gaze. He couldn’t be comforted by their warmth until he knew for certain that those eyes held no malice.

“Will you hurt me?” Patton suddenly blurted, knowing he needed answers.

This seemed to come as a surprise. The fae blinked, momentarily at a loss for words before that gorgeous, unsettling smile was back. “Why, you beautiful sunflower, who would ever think of harming such a delicate blossom as yourself?”

“That- “ Patton took a deep breath, trying not to get lost in the flattery. Fae were known to be tricky with their words. “that didn’t answer my question.”

“Oh, darling Lily of the Valley, how you wound me with your remarks!” The fae let out a groan, nuzzling his face into Patton’s curls and inhaling his scent. “How can you ask such things of me when you see how I yearn to be in your presence? Is my affection not enough?”

Patton shuddered, taking a small step back. He couldn’t leave the circle, but it did give him some space from the handsome intruder.

“No.” Patton said firmly. “It’s not. I’m sorry, but… before we make any sort of deal, I just, I need to know I’ll be safe.”

The fae cocked his head, watching with an expression between amusement and pity as Patton nervously fiddled with the sleeves of his cardigan.

“Are you afraid, Tulip?” The fae asked, closing the distance between them once more. His arms wrapped around Patton’s waist, and Patton fought off the need to squirm.

“Of course I’m afraid.” Patton’s voice was hardly above a whisper.

“Afraid of what?” The fae pressed. “Afraid of me, surely, but if you were afraid then what drove you to run so willingly into my circle?” The fae brushed Patton’s locks out of his eyes. “What has made this Daffodil so frightened that he seeks comfort in my arms, even after admitting how I frighten him?”

Patton tensed, his heart beginning to beat rapidly. The fae had a point. Patton knew the risks, as every child of their village had been taught of the mischievous intentions of fae from birth. Tales spoke of humans being cursed with all variety of hexes, or children stolen off into the night, or giving away something so precious as a name and having it turned against you so you danced until your dying breath. It was a terrible, horrifying fate, and yet Patton had come despite the stories.

“I’m alone.” Patton said quietly. “I don’t- I’m not used to it. I was surrounded by loved ones for so long, but now my family has been torn from me. I can’t go on, living in a world of strangers. Every face I see I’m frightened to let any closer, because I know when they leave me too, I will not be able to repair the hole in my chest one more time.”

The fae was unusually quiet, no longer advancing. Instead, the fae looked content to continue listening to Patton’s woes, and even pouring his heart out to a monster that might use all this against him felt so good that when he received an encouraging nod Patton couldn’t help but continue.

“I just feel as though there’s nothing left for me here.” Patton gave a shrug that must have looked as helpless as he felt. “I doubt anyone would miss me, and it sounds wonderful, the idea of being wanted, especially by a being so wondrous as yourself, but even now I’m still afraid of being hurt. It’s selfish of me, fearing pain when I’m willingly submitting to it and others have worse fates thrust upon them-“

“Hush.” The fae’s voice was different this time, softer and more genuine. It reminded Patton of a gentle spring breeze. The fae’s hand drifted across his cheek, leaving a delightful tingling in its wake.

“Humans are selfish for many reasons, but this is not one of them.” The sincerity in the fae’s voice made Patton inclined to believe him- well, that and the knowledge that fae cannot lie. “The ability to feel so strongly, so passionately, is what makes your race so unique. Darling Cherry Blossom, you are right to be afraid, and you should never be ashamed of your emotions.”

Patton felt his throat tighten, a strange emotion welling in his chest. Not fear, but perhaps… acceptance? He felt overwhelmed by the fact that a magic being of the forest not only listened to his pitiful cries, but even indulged them.

Patton reached up, hesitantly gripping a hand in the fabric of the Fae’s outfit. The red sash felt unnaturally soft beneath his grasp, and distantly Patton wondered what material could create such a texture. The Fae made a small giddy noise, clearly pleased by Patton’s forward gesture.

“Will you…” Patton trailed off, his thumb rubbing the fabric to reassure himself as he tried to force himself to get the words out. “Will you hurt me?”

The Fae hummed, his own fingers now traveling along Patton’s shirt to rest atop where his heart was still pounding away.  “Humans are so ... fragile. The barest twitch of my fingers could bruise your tender skin if I do not show significant restraint. And how, Primrose, could I possibly restrain myself around your elegance? I will not bind myself with promises I do not intend to keep.”

Then Patton took a shaky breath, now frightened by his lack of fear. Despite the fact the fae had very nearly threatened him, Patton did not feel threatened. Besides…maybe it was a fair point? Perhaps Patton was being silly. It could just be an accident if he was harmed, after all.

“Then perhaps you can promise me this.” Patton slowly released the red fabric, instead placing his palm over the fae’s chest to mirror the other’s actions. He tilted his head back, searching for comfort in those unnatural golden eyes. “Will you promise I will be cherished? Will you take care of me until my dying breath? If you do intend me harm, can you promise a painless ending? Will you promise me peace at the end of all my strife?”

“You certainly seek a lot of promises.” The fae’s laughter sounded like little bells. “And what, illustrious orchid, could you possibly give me in return? If we are onto the subject of deals, I’m afraid the laws of my people insist we be quite straightforward in our intentions.”

Patton straightened his posture, determined to meet his end with dignity. “I come to you seeking solace.”

The fae made a pleased noise, running his fingers softly through Patton’s hair. “And in exchange?”

“In exchange… I can offer only myself.” Patton said, feeling strangely vulnerable.

“Only yourself? Dear rose blossom, you sell yourself too short.” This time the fae’s smile was almost genuine.

Almost.

“You’re still afraid.” The fae noted, leaning closer. His breath danced across Patton’s nose, causing the human to shiver. 

“Not afraid.” Patton murmured, trying to believe it himself. He received a dazzling grin in response, the fae clearly pleased with his bravery.

“An exchange it is, then.” The fae declared. “We must seal our pact. Are you aware of our customs?”

“I am-mpfh!” The words had barely left Patton’s lips before the fae pressed his own upon them, catching Patton off-guard with a kiss. Fae deals were always sealed with a kiss, and this fae seemed particularly happy with this custom. Patton could feel him smiling, a powerful yet gentle surge of magic passing between them. Patton wasn’t certain if that was due to the seal or the fae’s natural charm.

When the fae started pulling away, Patton found himself leaning to follow, his entranced body betraying him. The fae chuckled, gently easing Patton back as the human flushed in his bashfulness.

“My little delphinium is so eager.” The fae purred, pressing his lips to the back of Patton’s hand. He wasn’t certain when exactly the creature had taken his hand to hold in the first place. “Share your name with me, my azalea?”

“My name?” Patton repeated, almost in a trance. He knew, logically, that one should not give their name to fae, but considering he had just sold his being away it did not matter now. Names had power, and Patton realized with a slight tremble that he had already given his power away. “My name is Patton.”

“Oh, my precious Patton~” The fae crooned, wrapping his hand around Patton’s back and dipping the human so suddenly he let out a yelp. “Won’t you share the rest of your name with me?”

“I-“ Patton swallowed, remembering his statement before. I don’t want to be afraid. Patton refused to be afraid. “Can I at least know what to call you, first?”

The fae gave a pleased tilt of his head, and Patton was glad he hadn’t offended the powerful being with his query. “These lands know me as Prince Roman, guardian of the Kingdom of Spring.”

Patton’s eyebrows shot up. Prince! What on earth could fairy royalty possibly want with the likes of him? Surely the fae could have his pick of mortals, and yet here he was with his overly bright smile looming over Patton like the embodiment of the sun. Looking up at Roman, Patton found himself in awe of his savior, even if he knew this was likely to end poorly for him.

“That’s a pretty name.” Patton finally spoke, his voice a bit breathless.

“You have a pretty face.” Roman replied, causing the blush to climb further up Patton’s face. The prince giggled, rubbing his nose against Patton’s in a nuzzling gesture. “Come now,  my Sun Drop, share that pretty name to match.”

Patton leaned upwards, pressing his lips against the fae’s ear and whispering his life away. 

@maddarc you inspired me with this headcanon idea!! I wasn’t sure how to write something like this using regular scenes, so I tried something a little different to help span the time gaps. It’s not the best thing I’ve ever written lol but I just kinda threw it together so it’s whatever, here's a thing ✌ (@nancydrew-onthecase)

Dear Diary,

Tomorrow is my 14th birthday. Since mom is getting me the new Playstation system that I asked for, she made me agree to keep a diary. She thinks it’ll be good for me to write stuff down. But honestly, I don’t even know what to write about. This is gonna be awkward.

Joe

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Dear Diary,

Okay... I did a terrible job at keeping a diary. Whenever mom asked if I was using it I told her yes, but I think she could tell that I wasn’t - she didn’t give me crap about it, though. I’m 15 now, and Frank & I are deep in training to become ATAC agents. That’s the company our dad owns - American Teens Against Crime. We’ve been solving petty mysteries since we were kids, so I guess this is a natural progression for us. An awesome one, too! We get to use so many cool gadgets and go on the best adventures! The secrecy is exciting, but according to Frank, I’ve never been the best at keeping my mouth shut. I guess we’ll see how it goes.

Joe

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Dear Diary,

Frank and I finished off the BIGGEST case of our careers last week! We’d been called out to this small town called River Heights because there was a serial bank robber who’d been evading police for a couple of months - but the best part is we didn’t have to solve the case alone! We met this girl named Nancy; her dad is a business contact of our dad’s. She’s super smart. She figured stuff out even faster than Frank! And when I suggested we go to the ice cream shop to talk over the case - much to Frank’s dismay - she just laughed and said “sure!”. Take that, Frank. It was a lot of fun... she’s a lot of fun. And she’s pretty. ... Stop looking at me like that. Not that you’re looking, because you are a book. But you know what I mean. Or I guess you don’t, because you are a book. But anyway... I hope we get to work with her again, that’s all.

Joe

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Dear Diary,

We’ve gotten to work with Nancy a lot more than I thought, considering how far away we live. She’s cool because she never complains when I want to do something fun, unlike Frank. And I know I said this last time, but she’s reeeally smart. It’s honestly kind of amazing. For one case, we had to break into this abandoned house because Nancy had a hunch - as soon as Frank saw the “no trespassing” signs he was totally going to be a baby about it, but Nancy got him in line real quick. She took a pair of wire cutters and made a hole in the fence for us to crawl through, JUST LIKE IN THE MOVIES! And then she picked the lock of the back door with a bobby pin in like 5 seconds flat! My jaw was literally on the floor. They teach us how to lockpick in ATAC training, but we always have actual lockpicks to do it. I’m hoping Nancy can teach me her method one day.

And... okay, yeah, I guess you can look at me like that. Fine. You win this time, diary.

Joe

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Dear Diary,

It’s been almost 6 months since we first met Nancy and a lot has changed since then. For one, I recently learned that she’s been dating this guy named Ned for like a year & a half now, or something like that. Who’s keeping track? Two, Frank basically bullied me into admitting to him that I.. have a crush on Nancy. He’s not going to tell her though, not that I think he would anyway. He gets all weird and dorky when he tries to talk about feelings. It’s not a good look. Either way, there’s no chance in H-E-double hockey sticks that Nancy and Ned will ever break up, and I’m happy for them! He’s such a good guy it’s insane. Probably better than me, and that’s saying a lot.

Joking aside... I’m going to try to get over Nance. There’s no point in feeling this way about her if it’s never gonna happen!

Joe

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Dear Diary,

I swear to God Frank is acting weirder every time we see Nancy. He KNOWS that I had a crush on her but he KNOWS that I don’t anymore... or does he? I think he thinks that I still do, but I’ve done a good job at blocking it out. We’re 18 now, so it’s been a while. I normally don’t even think about it until Frank starts acting like a total loser around her and then I’m like...??? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?? Anytime Nancy mentions Ned or their relationship or anything to do with love, he starts stuttering and blushing and acting all goofy. I’ve started having to fake-tease HIM about having a crush on her just to make it less awkward! I didn’t realize he was sooooo dense when it comes to romance. When I asked him about it, he said my former crush on Nancy was useless information that he wishes I hadn’t told him (NEWSFLASH: he made me tell him) and now he just doesn’t know what to do with it. Nancy seems to think it’s totally normal, but he looks like an idiot.

Joe

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Dear Diary,

It’s been a long time. I’m 24, Frank is 25. I think it’s funny how the only thing I ever really wrote about in here was Nancy Drew. It’s ironic, too, because that’s exactly who I’ve come to write about again.

She’s going through a lot right now and I wish I could be there for her more than I am. I do what I can, but it’s not easy when you live 4 hours away and are constantly being called away on cases. I also don’t want to overwhelm her, considering how long she and Ned were together. It feels... wrong, somehow, that they aren’t anymore. Frank of course has been telling me that I “finally have a shot” or whatever, but I’m not convinced. First of all, she’s only been single for 2 months. Second, she probably thinks Frank is the one with feelings for her, not me; especially with the way the media likes to focus on their relationship. But, as I always joke with Frank, it’s his own fault for making it weird!

Anyway. I feel like kind of a jerk for thinking about my feelings for Nancy when she’s literally going through the worst break-up of her life right now... but it’s weird how thing can pop back up again so suddenly, huh?

And as always, it’s not like I’m gonna do anything about it.

Joe

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Nancy Drew sits on the edge of her chair, sweeping her ponytail so that it drapes delicately across her shoulder. She sucks in a deep breath, fixing her anxious gaze on a random spot in the hardwood of Frank & Joe’s family home. It’s a conversation she’s been avoiding ever since her break-up with Ned 10 months ago. Crazy how time flies. “Frank...” she begins, noticing a distinct discomfort in the detective’s body language as she does so, “I - we’ve all seen the stories. The ones on the news, the speculation... about...?” Frank only stares at her, blankly, with eyes resembling those of a terrified deer. “About the two of us. Being together.” “Uhh, yeah,” Frank scratches at the back of his neck. “I’ve seen them. What about them?” Nancy sighs and allows her shoulders to make contact with the Hardys’ side chair. She crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m a detective, Frank. And I’ve known you & Joe since we were 15. I just want to clear the air about whatever is or is not going on. I guess, to be blunt, what I’m asking you is if there’s any truth to all those rumors.” “You did always have a way of being blunt when you need to be.” Nancy lifts an eyebrow at him, otherwise unmoving in her position. “I... ah, no, Nancy, there -” “It’s okay, Frank, really, if there is. You can tell me.” “It’s not that, Nancy. It isn’t me.” Ding-ding. Nancy hones in on his peculiar choice of words. “What do you mean, it isn’t you?” “I - listen. It doesn’t matter. I told you honestly. Are the rumors true for you?” His attempt to distract her is futile. “What did you mean by it isn’t you?” “Nancy, look. I made a promise that I wouldn’t talk about it.” “Talk about what?” Both Nancy and Frank turn their heads to see Joe Hardy drop his motorcycle keys onto the shelf next to the front door. What serendipitous timing, Frank thinks with a roll of his eyes.  “Nothing,” he says quickly, darting across the living room to the staircase with his hands out in front of him, “I’m letting the two of you talk this one out.” Joe glares after his brother, because despite not knowing what this was about, there’s no way he was going to like it. Nancy approaches him from behind. “All I did was ask Frank if he had feelings for me, like in all the media reports. Then he said it ‘wasn’t him’ and insisted that he wasn’t supposed to tell me about it. Do you know anything about that?” Joe swallows the lump in his throat as his heart rate picks up to about 580bpm. ...At least, that’s what it feels like. Joe’s first instinct is to stop & consider if there’s any way he can worm his way out of telling her at this moment; but at the same time, he thinks it may be better to just let things flow. “Uhh.” ...Okay never mind, decision has to be made. NOW. “Is it... you?” ...Oh, that’s right. She’s super smart. When Joe slowly turns around to face her, he can tell from the glassy look in her eyes that she’s already pieced together the whole thing. And for once, he doesn’t know what to say. So he doesn’t. Her breathing is heavy and uneven, to say nothing of his own. The only sound is the steady ticking of the mantle clock. Joe has no idea why but he has an irrepressible urge to apologize. He just wishes his voice doesn’t crack when he does. “Sorry, Nance.” Her immediate response is to tearfully shake her head and wrap her arms tightly around his waist. “Why are you apologizing?” Joe swallows again, hesitantly allowing his hands to fall onto her cardigan-clad back. “I- I don’t know.” and then after a beat, “Should I?” Nancy chuckles a bit as she pulls back, wiping at her eyes. “You should never have to apologize for how you feel, Joe.” That makes him feel a little better. But then, after an agonizing silence during which they have refused to make eye contact, he feels like sickening nerves start to take up residence in his stomach once again. “How do you feel?” Joe forces himself to ask, bracing for impact. Nancy exhales, placing a hand on her cheek. She has an odd sort of smile on her face that Joe doesn’t think he’s seen in the 9 years he’s known her. “I’ll be honest with you, Joe.” Oh, God. “It’s never occurred to me.” He swallows for the 758th time. Why didn’t he grab some water first? But then, to his surprise, Nancy giggles - like, she actually giggles. He’s never heard her giggle before. “But I think I like the idea.” “Wait what?” She gives him a meltingly genuine smile and steps a little closer. “You’ve always been there for me, Joe. You’ve made me laugh, brought soup when I was sick, gave me a call because I said I was lonely. And you’re always up for an adventure,” she causes his heart to go ballistic once again when she places her palms against either side of his waist, “And you know how much I love new adventures.” Now, at last, a smile cracks on Joe’s face - that goofy, wisecracker smile of his that somehow matches this moment entirely. He nods at her as elation finally makes its way in, and elation is the driving force behind their first kiss. There is a remarkable lack of uncertainty between Joe’s enthusiasm and Nancy’s natural reactions - it’s been a long time coming for one, and for the other, it’s an entirely new adventure.

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