astroblis

[astroblis]

⋮ 𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ⠀࣪⠀ ﹙@𝓛 ucky 𝓖irl 𝓢 yndrome﹚ .ᐟ

[astroblis]

I have discovered I'm a sucker for vampire intimacy

Can I req gn vampire reader x diego where they end up stuck in an inn due to a really bad storm for a few days so reader ends up needing to drink blood from diego >.< also can I be 🦇 anon :333

Hi! Of course you can be 🦇 anon, lovely to hear from you :3 I had a lot of fun with this one, so I hope you enjoy! Please let me know what you think :)

Bite Me - Diego Brando x Vampire! Reader

The storm rolled in fast. The horses twitched, the air went metallic, and Diego Brando’s scowl deepened. 

You’d been riding behind him for half the day, keeping pace with that tight-lipped tension that passed for cooperation between the two of you. He didn’t ask questions, and you didn’t offer any answers. That was the agreement, mutual benefit, temporary truce, no digging.

The sky cracked open above you, the kind of storm that felt like it was ripping through the clouds. You were already soaked and the trail ahead was vanishing under mud.

You saw it first, a sliver of light through the trees. Faint, flickering. An inn, small and dark beneath the downpour.

“Brando,” you called, voice flat. “There.”

He followed your gaze, clicked his tongue, and turned his horse without a word.

The inn looked half-abandoned, lanterns shuddering in the wind. The sign was half-missing its letters. But it was shelter. Even your skin, ever cold, felt colder still.

Inside, the air was stale with dust and mould. The innkeeper barely looked at either of you. He simply handed over two iron keys with a grunt and vanished into the back room without speaking. You took the left room and Diego took the right.

But only one of them had a working hearth.

You didn’t talk about it, but when the fire was lit, and the rain started battering the windows harder, you both ended up in the same room.

Diego sat on the edge of the bed like a coiled animal, dripping onto the floor, one boot still half-on. 

He looked at you. Really looked. Judged. Narrowed those sharp, predator’s eyes.

“You haven’t eaten,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

You leaned against the wall, letting the shadows dissolve the sharp lines of your face. “Neither have you.”

“Difference is, I don’t look like I’m about to keel over.” He leaned forward slightly, loose and dangerous. “Or tear someone’s throat out.”

Your stomach twisted, whether from hunger or the way he said it, you weren’t sure.

The fire burned low that night, and neither of you spoke again.

Morning came grey and sodden. The rain didn’t let up.

Not the next day. Not the day after.

The roads were sludge and the mountains impassable. You were trapped. The horses stayed stabled, restless. The innkeeper kept to himself, barely seen, barely heard, as if even he didn’t want to be there.

You tossed and turned restlessly. Ate nothing. Drank water that tasted like rust and iron. Diego had his own rations, dried meat, hard bread. He offered once, half-mocking. But you declined.

By the third day, you were stretched far too thin. A headache had bloomed behind your eyes into something sharp and constant. Everything sounded much too loud: the raindrops, the creaking floorboards, the crack of Diego’s knife as he sharpened it for the second time that night.

“I don’t know what you are.” He said, not looking up. “I don’t know if it’s a Stand, or something worse, but you’re going to snap soon,”

You didn’t answer. You were sitting on the floor by the window, flush against the wall, cradling your knees. Cold, always cold.

He tilted his head toward you, that sharp, irritating smirk just barely tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Is this where you finally confess?” he asked. “What kind of monster you are?”

You stared at him. He met your gaze without flinching. You could hear the pulse in his throat, steady and alive.

Your voice came out low, hoarse. “If I told you, you’d kill me.”

He shrugged. “Depends what kind. There are useful monsters out there. But there’s the kind that get sloppy - why do you think Zeppeli’s still kicking even with half the racers out for his head? He hasn’t slipped yet, but everyone else did, no matter how scary a monster they were.”

You stood. The room shifted with you, tight walls, dim light and too much heat for your cold skin. You felt exposed under his gaze.

“I’m not sloppy,” you said.

“Then you’re starving.”

You looked away. The fire cracked. The silence in the room felt heavier than the rain outside, and finally, you said it:

“I haven’t fed since Kansas.”

The admission made your stomach clench with shame.

Diego blinked. A beat passed. Then:

“…That was over a week ago.”

You nodded, slowly. “I can hold out. A little longer.”

He was silent again. Eyeing you like a hawk. Curious.

Then he stood and crossed the room. Not rushed. Not cautious. Just close enough for his body heat to reach you, like the flicker of a flame which you dared to get too close. He didn’t smell like fear. He never had.

“Tell me what you need,” he said, voice low, controlled.

You met his eyes. The hunger flared up so fast it made your jaw ache.

“…Blood,” you said.

Diego scoffed under his breath, like he’d just been handed proof of something he already suspected.

“Of course it’s blood,” he muttered. “Always something inconvenient with you.”

He didn’t move to help. Didn’t offer. Just stood there waiting - to be proven right or to be proven wrong, it didn’t matter.

“Go on, then,” he said, voice flat. “I’m not going to babysit you through it.”

You didn’t move at first. Just stood there, frozen, the words hanging in the air like a blade.

Diego didn’t back away. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t flinch.

“I’m not offering twice,” he said, low. “If you’re going to do it, do it. If not,” he turned slightly, as if to walk away “don’t waste my time.”

Your hand shot out before you could stop yourself, fingers wrapping around his wrist.

He stopped. Looked at you.

You could feel the heat of his blood through the thin riding gloves. It thrummed under his skin, and it made something deep inside you snarl with need.

Diego raised a brow, but his voice was quiet now. “How does it work?”

Your throat was dry. “Fastest near the neck. Cleanest at the wrist. But I can take less if it’s the shoulder or -”

“You said fastest.” He tilted his head, baring his throat to you, just slightly. Not enough to seem submissive - just enough to make your heart kick.

“Don’t make a mess,” he said.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

The moment you stepped close enough to feel his breath, something in you broke. Instinct surged up, dangerous and beautiful. You pressed one hand to his shoulder, fingers trembling, and the other against the back of his neck.

“Tell me to stop,” you whispered. You needed him to say it. Needed the excuse.

But he didn’t.

So you bit.

His blood hit your tongue like fire, ash and something wild. It was hot and intoxicating, alive in a way that made the rest of the world die quietly. You drank like you were dying along with it, and maybe you were.

Diego didn’t move. Didn’t jerk or push you off. His breath caught once, just once, but his body remained still under your hands.

The sound of the storm outside faded beneath the pounding in your ears. You only meant to take a little bit. Just enough to steady yourself.

But it tasted like strength. And you were so tired of being weak.

Then his fingers curled into your coat, not to pull you away, just to anchor you.

A warning and a promise.

You stopped before he had to ask.

You pulled back, trembling, mouth wet with blood, shame and something else - wanting. The hunger quieted, but something stirred. Something quieter. Meaner.

Diego looked at you. Not angry. Not afraid.

Just watching.

“You’re a messy eater,” he said.

You let out a shaky breath. “You didn’t tell me to stop.”

He licked his lips once, casually. “I told you to keep it clean.”

You stared at him. Your heart felt like it didn’t know what rhythm to keep anymore.

“Why did you do it?” you asked.  

“I’ve been hungry before too... I buried what it took from me, and I don’t fancy having to bury you too tonight.”

The storm hadn’t stopped, but it had calmed, no more thunder, no more crashing wind. Just the quiet hum of rain against the window.

You rinsed your mouth in the basin. The water turned faintly pink before it cleared.

Diego sat near the fireplace, boots off, coat slung over the chair beside him. He hadn’t spoken since.

The silence wasn’t tense, not exactly, just full.

You stayed standing. Still too full of restless energy – the heat, the shame and the ghost of his pulse under your tongue - to sit still.

Diego finally moved, shifting to dig something from his coat pocket. A small tin of jerky. He popped a piece in his mouth, chewed slowly. When he caught your eye, he smirked faintly.

“Feel better?” he asked, like he was asking if you’d finally taken a piss after a long day out riding.

You didn’t answer. Just looked away, jaw tight.

He didn’t push. Didn’t pry. But his gaze lingered longer than it usually did, tracking your movements with that same calculating gaze, like he was still trying to decide what you were.

You sat down eventually. Not across the room. Not next to him. Just… closer than before.

You glanced at him. He didn’t look at you, but his voice came soft:

“Next time you wait that long, I’m charging interest.”

You almost laughed.

But instead, you leaned back, let the warmth of the fire creep under your skin, and said nothing.

By morning, the storm had passed. But neither of you left right away.

[astroblis]

words really aren't enough to explain how much i adore this type of relationship, especially with complicated characters like diego

A collection of quick fics, experimenting with Diego Brando as a character and as a husband to reader (falls into a similar setup as my other Diego fic, where reader is a rich noble he married for money)

Content: unhealthy relationship, Diego is a mean and condescending man, arguments and threats (like he lashes out in one scene but doesn’t actually hurt reader), canon typical harshness

Diego Brando x Reader in: Insatiable

Your husband was insatiable. Sometimes his hunger got the better of him.

-Nickname-

Pigeon.

Your husband always called you that. You told yourself it was cute, just Diego being his usual eccentric self, but attempting to be sweet with that demeaning little pet name.

“You get to be ‘Dio’ but I have to be ‘Pigeon’?” was all you said in response, only one time in the history of the many, many times he called you his pigeon.

He’s so glad that you had acknowledged it! He had smiled at you and tilted his head and so confidently declared: “yes!” to you.

“Do you get it? Why I call you ‘Pigeon’?” his tone was always so…condescending. But you didn’t understand it, and it’s hard for you to be insulted by a teasing nickname if you don’t know what exactly he’s taking a jab at.

“Not in the slightest.”

“Aw, try to figure it out, you might be able to do it if you actually use your head~”

You were too irritated at how he was talking to you to think that deeply about the nickname at the time. You told him off for how rudely he was always talking to you even though you were literally his spouse, and as usual he didn’t seem affected at all, telling you that you were just being emotional.

You’ve been married to him for a year now, and he’s been calling you pigeon since you met him; but you hadn’t wondered about it since the one time you asked him about it.

Until now.

Diego was gone again, away for another horse race. You didn’t want to pack your bags so you could go with him, and he hadn’t felt like dragging you along with him anyways, so it had worked out better for both of you that you just stayed on the estate.

So you decided to explore “Diego’s parts of the house” that you usually avoided, enjoying the quiet without him around irritating you with his annoying laugh and nonsensical jokes.

His parts of the house included the best bedroom (you slept in different beds due to your incompatibility in the privacy of a chamber), his half of the library, and his personal study, which you had only gotten a quick glimpse of on occasion, because you couldn’t stand to be in that room for very long due to how he decorated it.

Such a contemptible, arrogant jerk…maybe you’d move some of his stuff around to mess with him, and maybe you could manage to ignore the most irritating part of his study this time, though it’s glaringly obvious.

The room was behind two grand double doors that practically chanted: “This is Lord Dio’s private study!”

Your husband was so extra…you remembered telling him it was a complete waste of money to get those doors installed. And as usual, Dio had done it anyways.

You hated those stupid, gaudy double doors. Every time you had to walk by them you were reminded of how you were married to the most arrogant and insatiable man in this reality.

You pushed the doors open with irritation, and your eyes are inevitably drawn to the right wall, despite how much you wanted to ignore it.

Diego’s trophy collection, glistening golden in the sunlight from the open window, each glimmer seeming like a mocking laugh at you, or a teasing wink, taunting you with its mere existence. The giant glass cupboard filled to the brim with first place trophies was practically asking for you to knock it over. Not to mention the first place medals mounted on the wall, and all the various other awards…certificates, presents, pictures, and boxes full of fan letters that he didn’t read but loved for the way they stoked his ego.

Only first places…those were the only things worth displaying in Dio’s eyes, and in a way you were glad he was skilled enough to win every race he participated in, because the first and only time he got a second place in the course of your marriage was a disaster.

-Second Best Only Once-

It was a shock to everyone, really. He had made a rare, and noticeable, mistake. Humiliated himself in front of hundreds of people, resulting in a shameful second place (though he considered every second place shameful) and even you had attended this race so he also embarrassed himself in front of someone he was forced to see often-

He had held it together in public, though not without looking the slightest bit frustrated and his body language reading as incredibly tense. He refused any questions, managed a smile for the camera, and disappeared from the crowds.

And you didn’t know what to do…you’d see him at home…did he need you to comfort him or was it better to just leave him alone? This had never happened before and would probably never happen again but you had to pick something to do…

So you opted to quietly observe him, and make a choice off of that.

He was pissed. Even if he was upset over something, he had never made that obvious to you before. Maybe at most he’d be a little meaner in his teasing than usual but otherwise he’d just avoid you.

Not this time though.

The train ride back home had been eerily quiet, the tension radiating off of him practically suffocating you. He absolutely refused to look at you, so you knew saying anything at this point would be ignored, or you’d just make his distress even worse.

When you get home, you try to take his coat for him, and he quickly shrugs it off his shoulders and abandons it in your hands in his haste to get away from you and lock himself in his study, having still not spared you even a quick glance or uttering a single word to you.

You quietly hang up his coat, hearing the double doors of his study swing open and shut with more force than usual.

You wait a moment, just listening. Sounds like he’s pacing around his study, the bang of what you assumed was his boots being thrown at a wall, and shortly afterwards a loud, splintering smash. Well you couldn’t ignore that-

You probably should’ve knocked before entering his study, especially right now, but that noise scared you…if he had done something he was going to regret later, you had to see.

You thought he might’ve broken the cupboard with all his trophies-

Instead he’s standing over his expensive wooden desk, now broken in half by his own doing.

“Diego…” you murmur, not so much because he was clearly stressed out and you wanted to comfort him, and more so because you were suddenly acutely aware of how much raw strength Diego had.

He glares over his shoulder at you, the sheer cold of his gaze turning your stomach into a block of ice.

“I’m going to bed,” he says. It’d scare you less if he was screaming, his strangely quiet voice triggered some instinct in you to run and hide.

He walks past you, you listen as he marches up the stairs, and his bedroom door swings open and slams shut.

God, when did you start shaking…?

With no idea of what else you could do for him, you go about arranging for a new desk to replace the broken one. Preferably made with an even sturdier wood.

-

Only about a week after Diego’s small blunder that resulted in a second place instead of a first, the trophy had arrived.

You’re not sure what you were thinking…you were kind of hoping leaving it on the new desk you had purchased for him would make him less upset about the whole thing…

But from how he was calling your name from his study…he wasn’t happy at all.

“Yes…?” his gaze was still making you uncomfortable, even after a week, so instead you stare past him at his shiny silver trophy instead.

“Why the hell would you bring this garbage in here?” he growls out, genuinely irritated. You know he’s talking about the trophy, you KNOW that-but your mouth is working much faster than your brain in your sudden nervousness at the sight of Dio upset.

“I thought you’d like the desk, but I can get a different one if you want.” you reply, mentally smacking yourself because that was NOT what you wanted to say.

“Not the desk,” he huffs, swiping the trophy off it and getting right in your personal space. He grips one of your arms tightly, using his other hand to shove the trophy right in your face like he was making some kind of point. “What made you think I wanted THIS in my field of vision?!”

“You still won it,” you point out, taking a step back. “You should be proud…second place is good!”

“Not good enough!”

You weren’t used to flinching away from him as much as you have been this past week.

He shoves the trophy into your hands-but it was better than breaking something again, you suppose…

“Get rid of it! I don’t want to see it ever again!”

“You’re being UNREASONABLE, it’s only a trophy!” you shout back, not that you wanted a screaming match, but dooming yourself to one anyways. “You’re throwing a tantrum like a CHILD.”

You’ve argued with him before. Many times, honestly, and no matter what you said or how frustrated you got nothing you ever did seemed to get under his skin. Every argument before had been just a silly game to him. He’d tease and torment for the entertainment that came from your reaction. Your weak attempts to knock him off his high horse always amused him.

But now you had finally done it. Found a string of words that Really touched a nerve. The one thing he hated more than Anything was being talked down to.

Usually he could take with grace, even if it made his blood boil…but combined with how physically ill he had been feeling this past week over a fatal error, and your statement about him being childish, any last remnant of his composure shattered like glass.

His hand went to your throat, stopping mere centimeters before it made contact with your neck, his once handsome features twisted into something that could only be described as a snarl.

“Diego…hey…”

The silver trophy drops from your hands. They tremble as you lift them up to touch Diego’s wrist, as if you could really stop him if he chose to do anything right now, and you’re almost embarrassed at how pathetic and weak your voice sounds right now. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t, right? He just lost himself for a second…he wouldn’t hurt you…he was just arrogant and temperamental and difficult to get along with…but not dangerous…

It only barely soothed you to tell yourself that.

A dumb rumor you heard about him once replays in your mind. About how he was actually a widower in his young age, because he had killed the old woman he was married to so he could inherit her fortune.

Right now though, with the glare he was giving you, you could almost believe it.

After a moment, he retracts his hand, slowly, poising it over his mouth while he regained that lost composure. He’s strategizing; you know that look.

“You know I hate it when you say stupid things like that,”he says in the tamest tone he could muster, before addressing the trophy. “I don’t want it in here. It doesn’t matter if you don’t understand. Make yourself useful and get rid of it, Pigeon.”

He could try to talk as calmly as he wanted while flashing that irritating smirk, but you weren’t going to just go along with it and pretend nothing had happened by pettily arguing with him over his condescending tone.

“Fine. I’ll see to it that it’s melted and turned into something else,” you suggest, waiting for him to give you some space before you kneeled down to pick up the rejected trophy.

“Mmhmm,” he hums approvingly. “Very good of you! You should listen to me more often~”

Disguising it as yet another jerky, condescending comment was so like him. But that was definitely a threat.

Right now you just wanted to take the trophy and get the hell away from him.

-A Gilded Cage for a Darling Pigeon-

Of course it wasn’t lost on the ever observant Diego Brando that the incident in his study with the trophy had changed your perception of him. Another mistake. Another shameful mistake, lashing out at you like that…

Now you were treading lightly around him, not talking or complaining so much, and watching him much more intently when he did anything.

How boring. He had made you boring, but now he had a different game to play with you.

Of course you thought it was suspicious. Diego suddenly buying you your favorite flowers instead of some grand expensive gift, and pretending to take an interest in you as a person, asking about your day and how you were feeling as if he were a doting husband that actually cared about such things.

He didn’t usually get physically affectionate with you in private, unless he was in one of his strange, clingy moods. But suddenly he was taking every opportunity to hold you and be gentle with you, giving your neck special attention with the way he nuzzled his cheek against it and kissed it whenever he had the opportunity.

“Delicate little Pigeon…”

He used the nickname much more frequently now, as if it were some proof he still thought of you fondly as his.

You shied away from his strange affection. At the end of the day, Diego was the hungriest man you’ve ever known. And whatever he was doing right now to win you back over to his side wasn’t motivated by anything like love, or even guilt for shattering that already shallow trust you had in him. This was a gluttonous motivation. To possess. Your devotion was yet another competition. You could adore as many men as you wished, but he had to be your favorite. The one you’d always choose in the end, over and over. First place. Number one. THAT’S what Diego wanted from you. For you to look at someone else but think of him and how glad you are that your last name is Brando.

But combine that desire with how he looks down on you, and he’s constantly sending mixed messages. Hence why he keeps your devotion by making your life comfortable. He might not be gentle or doting in how he talks to you, but he really will give you any physical thing you want. The best house, the fanciest outfits, the most expensive pets…ask and he’ll get it for you. No one else has the means AND the willingness to spoil you like he does. So as long as you didn’t completely detest his presence, you would keep choosing him and choosing him and choosing him.

“It’s a rather demeaning nickname…” you point out during one of his affectionate barrages of love. He stops rubbing his cheek against yours, poking your arm thoughtfully.

“How do you mean?” he purrs halfheartedly, clearly knowing exactly what you mean but choosing to be difficult.

“It sounds like you’re looking down on me when you call me a ‘delicate little pigeon’.”

“But it’s the truth, isn’t it?” He would sound genuine if you didn’t know any better.

“Diego…I’m not understanding,” you say directly. “Are you just teasing me, or are you trying to get at something?”

He places his hands on your shoulders, his tone shifting slightly colder, more detached.

“You’re a pigeon. You, and every other damn weakling in this society. All of you just wandering aimlessly, desperate to be free of the responsibility that comes from really living. All you pigeons want is to wallow in your own self-indulgence, hold still, and worry about nothing.” His voice is rising in intensity with each syllable. If he wanted to regain your trust, he’s momentarily pushed that down in favor of letting you know how he really felt.

“This society of pigeons needs someone to lead them…that is my goal. To reach the apex. To rule the mindless pigeons. They are all worthless. Their lives are meaningless; I will control them. And show them how pathetic they really are.”

Pure, unbridled hatred and bitterness…his tone of voice, his genuine malice…you’ve never heard someone talk like that before.

You feel cold under your skin, and when you shiver, he rubs his warm hands along your arms, like he could stroke your distress away. Like he could convince you the discomfort you were feeling right now was nothing more than physical.

“How can you talk like that…” you say, because you can’t think up a real reply. You put a hand over his, attempting to gently push him off of you. But his grip is firm. Not quite hurting you, but not letting you squirm away either.

“You’re a little bit different though. Lucky you.”

“I don’t want to hear this…”

“You’re a domesticated Pigeon. Delicate and weak willed, just like all the other ones. But because you live in my house and have my last name I’ll treat you sweetly. You’ll always be a Pigeon…but an especially spoiled one. And I’d wager you don’t really want things to change, because at the end of the day you fall asleep comfortable with your life, and who in their right mind really wants to change something comfortable?”

“Stop! Stop talking!” you protest. He doesn’t have any real interest in holding you close to him, so you writhe your way free from him, spinning to face him so he can’t keep this rambling up without looking you in the eye. He meets your challenge, not to your surprise, his eyes glaring into yours with ferocity.

“Does that bother you? I bet it won’t for long. You’ll forget about it or push it down in a couple of days; you don’t need dignity when you can live comfortably your entire life by sitting back and letting me take care of everything for you.” He changes his pace to be slower, enunciating his words condescendingly as he leans in close to you, his gaudy cologne filling your senses. “That’s the only thing you want, regardless of what you tell yourself. But it’s only natural. All the other Pigeons feel the same way. The only difference is I’m going to give it to you, because I love you very much and I have the means to make my spouse the most spoiled Pigeon of the flock.”

Diego had always been able to insult you and tell you he loved you in the same breath. In his world he could say whatever he wanted, only physical harm was something people like you didn’t recover from.

Given how you still haven’t left him yet only further cemented his confidence in that idea.

“You don’t love me,” you point out.

“Sure I do. In the same way you love all the pampered little dogs I’ve been buying for you.”

“So I’m a little dog now?”

He waves his hand dismissively. “Little dog, pigeon…whichever you prefer. It means the same thing to me.”

“You are a terrible man, Diego Brando.”

“Well I’d rather be terrible than completely USELESS.”

He really loved to throw that adjective around. Useless, useless, useless…if he kept saying it out loud eventually he’d be convinced everyone else and anything they tried to do really was entirely useless.

You cross your arms and turn your face away from him. Completely ignoring him was the only thing that got through to him sometimes. And even now as he gets frustrated at you and calls you a brat who refuses to use their words, you remain stubborn this time, giving him no reaction for his hypocritical, childish insults.

Keep on yelling, Diego. Maybe someone will hear you, you think to yourself. He may be stubborn as hell, but you’ve learned just from watching him that even if he doesn’t get over your defiance he’ll grow bored and leave you alone for a bit if you don’t react to him.

“FINE,” he says decisively after a long few minutes spent trying to get you to look at him again. “Be that way!” Said as if he was being the bigger person by walking away from the argument right now.

He makes a point of slamming the door behind him as hard as possible, JUST to get one last reaction from you. Even if he couldn’t see it, you definitely winced from the noise.

He got the slightest bit of satisfaction from that little victory.

After all, you had been the one who gave up on talking to him. He had won the argument, assuming that’s what it was. And that was the important thing to a man like him.

What you really hated though, was how much of a point he might’ve had there. For once. Why hadn’t you ended things with him yet? Because Diego was your comfortable cage?

A mere glance around the palace of a mansion you lived in answered your questions for you. You didn’t like the answers, but the thought of admitting Diego might’ve had a valid point about you for once made you ill enough to discard the thought and never consider it again.

-

Diego intrigues me very much.

[astroblis]

i need more arlecchino fics with the arranged marriage trope I'M BEGGING

shackled.

Pairings: arlecchino x fem!reader

CW: sfw, female reader, arranged marriage, arle referred to as your husband, use of her real name, idk if this is angst so I’ll tag it as angst and fluff, wlw, I actually fucking hate arranged marriages irl but it’s interesting to write about, fun when it’s the character you like and not a 10 year old girl getting married to an ugly ass 60 year old man who gets no bitches, uhm anyway not proofread.

A/N: nobody gonna request arrange marriage? I’ll do it myself with my husband/husbwife arlecchino 🕯️

Uneven beats of your heart pulsed in your eardrums continuously as you stared out the open window, a cool breeze caressing your downcast face gently. Your pupils flickered down to your extended left hand, dilating smaller out of disdain upon catching sight of the cold silver ring encircling your ring finger.

You dreaded it. This arranged marriage parted an endless uncomfortable pit in your stomach, which you had felt would remain as long as you were trapped in a bind you didn’t want. Gazing down at ring once more, you couldn’t help but find it difficult to swallow the choked feeling in your throat whenever you laid eyes upon the ruby, nausea enveloping every possible sense you had in the moment. Rather than a promise ring that bound you to someone you loved, the one on your finger felt like a tiny silver collar clamped around your flesh. An irking feeling that forced you to love a stranger.

Yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to hate Arlecchino. The woman had actively attempted to respect your personal space, being able to tell how much you loathed the inescapable grasp of your arranged marriage. You could tell that she opposed even the thought of this, especially from the way her eyes would stare down at her own ring with an empty and unfeeling expression.

Sighing deeply, you reached an arm up to grasp the satin curtains, before tugging your arms inward in a single dynamic motion. As you turned your back to walk away from the now closed up windows, you felt a gust of light air brush against your nape, causing you to spin around and lower your eyes from slight annoyance. Right. You forgot to shut the windows first. You just went over to shut the windows, still harboring a hint of irritation. Ever since that marriage, you always tended to feel unwilling to do anything anymore. Frequently always irritated by the smallest of actions as you’d always think to yourself—what’s the point?

Upon closing up the windows completely, you fell back onto the intricately decorated sofa set situated in the corner of your shared bedroom, your mind still a cluttered mess from all your thoughts being scrambled rather than neatly arranged in an array. You began to ponder once more. How things could’ve been different. Ran away, or disobeyed your parents to a full extent.

There wasn’t anything you could do. You didn’t see a point in even trying to keep a happy front anymore. All of your aspirations that you had, every little dream, was now out of your reach as you were shackled into this marriage. The warm air of the heater hit your skin as you rested your cheek into your palm. A small smile made its way onto your lips as you mused at the possible scenarios that could’ve happened if you were free. Perhaps if you were wallowing in your delusion, you could smile atleast once.

“I’m home.”

You blinked from sudden surprise, jolting as the bedroom door creaked open—albeit a bit roughly. Arlecchino’s emotionless voice rang in your ears, had she called out upon entering before? She often enters the living room first, and doesn’t enter the bedroom until nightfall. Then again, you tend to reside in the living room to await your husband’s return, so maybe she simply wondered where you were.

Stray specks of blood decorated her cheek, scattering small splatters ranging in a variety of spots across her face. Right. She was the fourth harbinger after all. You folded your arms as Arlecchino towered over you, still standing upright while her x-marked eyes pierced into you. Shifting uncomfortably, you decided to clear your throat, gesturing towards your own cheek in an attempt to break the thick fog of tension between you two from the lack of words.

“You got some-“

“I’m aware.” Arlecchino replied coldly, making you bite back a scoff at the harbinger’s dismissive response. Well, excuse you for trying to make this shitty marriage more bearable.

Still, it didn’t seem intentionally rude although it did come off that way. You only looked away from her, eyes fixating on a random painting hung over the flower pot on one of the shelves. Hunching your shoulders, you bit down on your quivering lip subtly so that Arlecchino wouldn’t notice. Although you were the one that distanced yourself from her. Although you were the one who only focused on despising this marriage, rather than even trying to get closer to Arlecchino in the slightest for atleast a small hint of peace. It still hurt seeing your husband brush you off like this.

Her seemingly exhausted expression remained glued to her face as she dragged the folded white washcloth along her cheek, eyes staring at the ground aimlessly as she continued to clean her stained face. The weight of all of this had clearly taken a toll on her as well, yet she had to keep a sturdy front for the sake of her profession as a Fatui harbinger. Yet her actions regarding you had always been courteous and respectful. Consistently respecting your boundaries and trying her best to avoid making you feel uncomfortable must have taken a toll on her, especially knowing full well that your resentment for this marriage could have set you off at any given moment.

A sudden wave of sympathy flooded you upon seeing Arlecchino’s tired eyes, dark linings shaded below her eyes as well. Just maybe, you could try to repay her for having your comfort in mind throughout the course of this resented relationship. This relationship wasn’t her fault, and you knew that. She hated this just as much as you did.

Deciding to swallow your pride, you rose to your feet, standing before her as you awkwardly shifted for a couple moments while remaining standing there. Arlecchino paused her movements, raising an eyebrow at your sudden motion of getting up off the couch. She simply stared at you with a puzzled gaze, trying to figure out your sudden want to interact with her.

Hesitantly, you reached out a shaky hand, lining it up with her cheek and gesturing her to lean in. Arlecchino on the other hand, wasn’t expecting you to switch up suddenly like this, only keeping her skeptical gaze locked onto your own eyes. It felt like a trap to lean in to someone who was so hesitant to even look at her. No matter how badly she wanted to lean into the soft skin of your palm, her hesitance seemed to uphold her rationality despite her exhaustion.

“Arle…it’s okay, you can lean in…”

She needn’t be told twice as you felt her hand grab ahold of your wrist to keep it in place, her head nearly collapsing against your hand. Deep breaths echoed within the vicinity, her breaths cancelling every other noise around you two as Arlecchino slowly composed herself from your touch. She pulled back after a couple moments, her cold front faltering for a moment with a flash of tenderness, before immediately snapping back to her calm demeanor.

However, you didn’t stop there. You don’t know what flipped that switch in you, but you just felt the urge to grow closer to Arlecchino. Perhaps it was the realization that you weren’t alone in the hellhole of a marriage, and that you two may be suffering together. Knowing she hated this as much as you was comforting, it remedied your internal turmoil slightly, and made you detest the idea of anyone else going through what you were. Or maybe, it was the fact that Arlecchino didn’t push anything in this marriage, and respected you, preventing your mental state from growing worse. It could even be both.

Regardless, you wanted to atleast provide a sort of ease to her. Cupping her cheek once more, you pulled the washcloth from her hand, rubbing it against her cheek in circular motions as stains of blood began to soak up onto the cloth and coloring it red. Arlecchino didn’t seem to protest your attempt at soothing her, face pressing further into your shaky palm as it seemed to be working. The quiet buzz of the heater reverberating through the silence, and the general tidy atmosphere of the neatly arranged bed made everything feel so right. As if this marriage wasn’t so awful after all.

Arlecchino exhaled a swift sigh as you finished washing up her face, remaining silent. The two of you awkwardly awaited for the other to speak up, the crickets outside chirping louder than the two of you by this point. You finally decided to say something, face tinged a light pink from moderate embarrassment

“You didn’t want this either did you?”

Arlecchino shook her head in affirmation, her eyes still avoiding yours—as if she was afraid that your vulnerability would shift over to her, and shatter her calm self at this moment.

“I’m well aware of this situation. Your parents are already closely associated with the Fatui, and want wanted you to marry a harbinger in order to elevate their own status for the sake of the family.” She replied. A sour taste seeped onto your tongue at the mention of the reason why you were forced into this in the first place, unpleasant memories beginning to race through your mind for a few moments.

“Why did you accept the offer then? You could’ve easily declined if you didn’t want to be in this marriage either. There’s multiple other harbingers my parents would’ve auctioned me off to.” You said bitterly, strangely hating the idea of getting married to anyone who wasn’t Arlecchino at this point. Arlecchino merely shrugged in response, raising her shoulders to remove the white fur coat cloaking her and draping it neatly over the coat hanger drilled into the wall.

“I’m not sure.” She paused, taking some time to think over another answer to compensate for her vague response. “I believe I just felt it was necessary in that moment.”

You sighed back collapsing onto the mattress. Suddenly, you felt an arm circle your waist, pulling you closer as you felt Arlecchino push her torso flush against your back. Your face burned from the sudden intimate action, the warmth of her body only serving to make you lean into her further as her sharp nails raked along your stomach lightly. Arlecchino whispered out against you, visibly less uptight than when she came in. She was a bit more relaxed and clingy with you simply with a mere touch against her cheek, it was sweet honestly.

“I still care about you, (Name).” She muttered against your neck, voice muffled as she was evidently quite tired. Pale rays of the moonlight illuminated Arlecchino’s now eased expression, watching her eyes lowered shut as her exhaustion began to catch up with her. Surprisingly, you found yourself relishing in the comfort of her arms as you flipped onto your side facing her to examine her rested features.

“…I’m starting to care about you too, Peruere.”

Your hand drew down along her arm, all the way from the skin of her shoulder down to the black faded enveloping her arms from her curse. Maybe, just maybe, this could work. You found solace in the fact that you could make the best out of this marriage with a woman who kept you in mind and tried her best to care about your interests.

Maybe, you could warm up to her.

A/N: im screaming idk if this turned out good guys pls asaaawaabshshs but yayyyyy arlecchino MY CONTENT WARNINGS WERE ASS ON THIS ONE WHY ARE THEY SO BORING AND SAD ‼️

[astroblis]

been procrastinating just to finish this masterpiece

gurgle. spit. rinse. do not repeat. do not repeat.

18.3 k words [o mein gott!] / warnings - suicidal ideation/suicide, this bitch is mentally ill, unrequited love but it isn't but it is but it isn't, intentionally strange text formatting

summary - trapped on the tulpar. surrounded by your life's work, chemicals and blood stains. and then there's sweet daisuke, who wants you so, so bad.

[2 months after the crash]

ETHANOL POISONING RISK ⌧

IF YOU OR SOMEONE YOU ARE WITH SWALLOWS MORE THAN FOUR TEASPOONS OF ETHANOL CONTENT IT MAY LEAD TO:

ABDOMINAL PAIN CONFUSION, SLURRED SPEECH INTERNAL BLEEDING SLOW BREATHING DECREASED ALERTNESS VERTIGO VOMITING, NAUSEA DIARRHEA 

IF DIARRHEA OR VOMIT CONTAINS BLOOD, OR IF SYMPTOMS DO NOT NATURALLY DESCEND, SEEK MEDICAL ASSISTANCE SUCH AS 9-1-1 OR LOCAL POISON CONTROL. 800-222-1222.

BEFORE CALLING, HAVE THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION OF THE SWALLOWER ON HAND:

WEIGHT HEIGHT AGE TIME SWALLOWED AMOUNT SWALLOWED

IF NOT ALL OR NONE OF THE INFORMATION IS ON HAND, DO NOT DELAY CALLING. DO NOT WAIT. CALL HELP. CALL HELP.

CALL HELP.

“Got 14% ethanol,” Swansea croaks, rotating the opaque cyan bottle in one hand with raised brows. A piqued lip. Wrinkles stretching until the skin is smooth as he observes the sloshing liquid.

“Is that bad?” you wonder aloud, holding the bottle up over your face -closer toward the dusty orange overheads and swish the plastic until its contents cyclone, “That’s alcohol, right? Cleaning and shit?”

Anya grimaces, scanning the ingredients along the back of the bottle, “All the sugar in this eliminates the disinfecting properties.”

Daisuke sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, one hand covering the other around the bottle. Fingers tighten around the pearly cap, twisting it just enough not to break the plastic seal, “But then it doesn’t taste bad, right?”

“We can’t drink this,” Anya shakes her head, reaching out as if to snatch the mouthwash from the intern’s grasp. The same way one would rip chocolate out from a dog’s mouth.

“Why not?” Swansea’s tone is light enough to come as sincerity rather than derision. He flicks the cap open with all the ease of popping a button and roughly punches his bottle against the one in your hand, “Ten and a half years sober: down the drain!”

You were in a minor collision as a child. Your mother’s car rear-ended on the highway while you swung your feet from the backseat. The abrupt jerking flung you hard into the back of the driver’s seat before your seatbelt whipped you back. A rapid burning needled along your neck, leaving you a whiny blob while Mom grumbled out of the car and rounded toward her assailant. Through tinted windows and bleary lashes, you catch turned faces -even drivers slanting your way and back quicker than the crash even happened. Leering curiously, children pushing over each other to peek closer than their siblings and wives’ lips moving as fast as their brains can narrate the scene to husbands. 

Currently, you’re no better: head swinging toward Swansea’s tensed gulping like malleable rubber.

Wrinkles vining by his eyes and throat bobbing unevenly, Swansea pulls back with misty, saccharine drool pooling in the corners of his mouth, wiping it up with the back of his hand before loudly sucking wind between clenched teeth. Even louder, he smacks his lips, clicks his teeth, and stares at the floor. From above a low buzz blankets the soft humming of machinery below, lights clawing to be heard in the still survey of Swansea swallowing way more than four teaspoons of pure mouthwash.

Daisuke pops the seal on his bottle, and Anya blinks wildly as if upon the fifth hundredth one she’ll awake to normality, Jimmy cringes with the slowest headshake of disapproval. You shift closer, scooting your shoes sideways rather than taking independent steps, and place a cautious hand between Swansea’s shoulder blades,

“How was it…?”

Expecting the old man to spontaneously buckle forward with a geyser of crystal blue vomit streaked with innards, you slink back as his pruny mouth falls open. 

Broad shoulders straightening and eyes alight the closest thing you could call joy since the voyage began, Swansea tosses back another shot of Dragonbreath before looking at you, “Not fucking bad.”

*

[!] new message: kills 99.99999999999999999%

[sent by: CPT. curly, grant | subsection: the bathroom is moldy again]

*

[5 weeks before the crash]

Modus operandi declares you perform the most daunting and grotesque step first, then you can peel off the second skin you wrapped around yourself -- throw it into one of the yellow buckets meant to be incinerated -- and wash your hands thoroughly. After that due diligence, you earn the much less demoralizing honor of scrubbing the sinks.

Although. Ola kala dictates you’re being too harsh on the various thrones your crew occupies:

Pretending to find this deal disgusting after five years would be juvenile and beneath you, and nobody would care even if you did. If anything, they could get upset thinking you’d slack off and get the crew credits package reduced. Maybe Daisuke would be a little empathetic, at least. He’s new enough, face round enough, hands soft enough to still pity the janitor just doing their job. Maybe he’d offer to help (and then you could sigh and swoon gratitude before assuring that no, Daisuke, you’re not BBP trained). 

Streaks of greying brown crust around the curve of the metal bowl, plumped just beneath the seat. Scrubbing down by the siphon jet, your sponge meant to be steel wool barely grapples reddish muck from the drain -- you assume because anything with harsher ridges would scar the company’s precious shitbuckets. Boxed off with the same greenish, blueish turquoise color that makes up your coveralls. Thin plastic boxes for the sake of privacy. Technically everybody in the ship could pile into this bathroom at once -- three in the stalls and two at the urinals.

It reminds you of malls back on earth, or grocery stores, not an employment bathroom. 

Smaller gunk already stuck around the bowl’s interior needs to be scraped up beneath a solid silver putty knife. Each blackened chip cracks off easily enough that you can almost act like this isn’t the epitome of your job title.

At this point, you don’t bother wiping your eyes -- content to let them blur with tears until you’re finished. After all, it isn’t like trying to smear the waterworks away with your forearm will make stinging chemicals fumes drift anywhere else. It’d only make your skin damp.

Beneath the concoction of bleach and syrupy blue whiteners, is a new stale wafting.

Oddly: it’s almost sweet, the smell of the bathroom. Or maybe your brain tells you the stench is more pleasant than it really is because you’ve spent so long surrounded by it. Most of the perceived sweetness is from that earthy musk, the things Pony Express feeds you: Canned soups and processed meats and germinated water pouches, all chock full of corpo-grade nutrients and healthy minerals. Not just a couple of years ago, they even used to permit snack sacks like nuts and freeze-dried berries. You never knew why they stopped doing that. You suppose no answer is satisfying because it wouldn’t matter, the smell doesn’t change much, anyway.

After the feces settles up to your brain, and you’re certain the stink is caked into today’s uniform, you get the hint of piss. 

Depending on who most recently took a leak, the smell is different. Sometimes it’s almost sugary, but like if a melon had sat in the sun for two days. Sometimes it’s electric and burns second-hand, making your entire face wrinkle up at the shock. Sometimes it’s got the quietest hint of cat litter. You don’t care to know who’s who. You just acknowledge that they’re all different.

Human bodies are an absolute nightmare. Most times the actual people those bodies host are not much better. 

Years ago you learned that breathing through your mouth did not help at all, then you would just taste the mixture. And the idea of all those particles on your tongue was more than enough to make you hurl. Usually, the job isn’t all bad because at the very bottom when you scoop what should not be touched, you can catch the most relieving smell of cologne. With how many men occupy the ship, the least they could do is be some nasal comfort while you scrub their bowels.

Suds soak acorn-colored, slowly growing darker brown the longer they sit as you attempt to rid all evidence that anybody on this ship ever shit in their entire life.

Backing out from this stall to glance down the row, you see more blackish splotches painting beneath the seats. Staining where each toilet is bolted into the floor. Stubborn to be forgotten.

Yeah. You don’t think these things could’ve survived just one more day.

[1 month before the crash]

“Ain’t shit else to drink around here,” Swansea clacks his Pony Express mug -stained around the lip and Polle picture cracking from years of use- against your own empty cup, “Cheers, kid. Find something else.”

“You just admitted there’s nothing else!” you sigh, glaring after the man as he strides unsympathetically toward the door. 

In fair humor, Anya shakes her head, clicking her tongue, “How could you, Swansea?”

“Yeah,” Daisuke jeers after his mentor, “Boo, Swansea!”

“Boo!” you copy, deciding against a morning drink altogether. Replacing your cup haphazardly in a random cabinet.

“What’re we boozing?” a gravely Southern drawl bawls from the doors, Curly just barely scraping himself to the side as his mechanic slips out.

Swansea thumbs over his shoulder and grunts, “Your idiots don’t understand limited supply.”

“Ah,” Curly catches the wave of brown liquid in his mechanic’s mug, “Coffee’s a hot commodity, what can you do?”

“They can not lose their Goddamn heads,” the man gruffs into the steaming cup, sipping as he returns to work. 

Once the mechanic is out of earshot, Curly frowns your way and confesses, “I was hoping to get a last cup before the pot was dry.”

“Oh well,” Anya sing-songs, combing both hands through her messy shag, “At least we won’t have a fight over it anymore.”

Daisuke nods cheerfully, despite being alert and bright-eyed without any caffeine, you assume it comes with his youth (because the few-year difference between you two is soooooo massive), “Exactly!”

“We can just go back to cute family breakfasts,” you chide.

Curly snorts. Nodding shortly.

Then he mumbles, “Jim’ won’t be too happy about the coffee being gone.”

“Is he up yet?” before Anya’s question earns reply, she spins toward you, “I think I could use some help sorting meds.”

“Oh,” you shrug, “Sure.”

Daisuke perks up, looking rapidly from you to Anya and back to you, “Can I come?”

“Swansea won’t miss you?” you tease.

He pauses in earnest, though. Eyes sliding off toward the motion-activated Polle statue, a consistent ‘uhhhhhhhh’ slinking out from his throat before he shakes his head, “Nahh. I don’t think so.”

Curly’s head darts your collective way, tilting specifically at Daisuke, “You don’t?”

Daisuke does think so, but what’s got more importance to it: A workplace romp or some mechanic experience during his internship? Pretty obviously the answer is you.

“He’ll know where to find me,” Daisuke shrugs easily enough, sweat bulleting down his temple beneath Curly’s knowing gaze.

“If you say so…” the blonde grins.

[7 days before the crash]

Anya stopped you on your way out after mopping the floors. Given that Anya isn’t a pig and most on-ship accidents are related to Daisuke banging around in utility, you hardly ever go into her office without scheduling. But she’d pinged you specifically that the floors were a little more heather gray than eggshell white lately. By time you finished pushing watered-down bleach around the tiles, you realized the floor was always heather gray. This was a trap.

She’s shuffling papers, looking at you through thick, low-hanging lashes, and shrugging, “It’s that time again.”

“Boo.”

“Can’t boo your way out of it now,” she sits and gestures across the table, clearly a silver base painted over with sad beige. You follow with a rumbling groan and fold your arms.

“Okay, shoot,” you throw your head back over the edge of the chair, staring upside down at the digital cloudy sky hanging above the patient beds. You think it’d be a more serene touch if the clouds could stroll by, but Pony Express -regardless of how big the Tulpar is- apparently cannot comprehend such advancement and maintains their stance on stationary clouds.

“You’re not taking this seriously…” a treacherous accusation because,

“If I didn’t take this seriously, I’d tell you I wanna bang Polle.”

“How’d you know about that? These are confidential and- !”

“He brags about saying it, he thinks it’s hilarious.”

“Oh…”

“Anyway,” you check your wrist which does not have a watch on it, and say, “I gotta get to the kitchen in five, so? Can we get this rolling?”

“That was just rude,” she lays the papers in her hand flat and rests her head in her palm.

“Sorry…”

Anya gives no discernable reaction to your apology, pouty lips popping open blandly around a rehearsed questionnaire she can read with her eyes closed, “Have you been able to complete your mandated task as custodial engineer efficiently and to your fullest capacity?”

Perhaps feeling a little guilty about how you spoke earlier, you clear your throat and offer something just a tad meatier than your typical ‘yep’, “As well as the past five years I’ve been here. Maybe even better this time around.”

She’s unimpressed, “Are you capable of shifting multiple variables on a tight schedule?”

You recline, “Naturally.”

“Are you overwhelmed by sudden and unprompted changes in task when necessary?”

“Nope.”

“Have you experienced lapses in time or are conflicted by the day/night screening schedule?”

“Nah-uh.”

“Does prolonged silence and isolation upon the freighter concern you and/or inspire unpleasant thoughts?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you experiencing, whether of your volition or not, troubling thoughts of hurting yourself or others?”

“No.” you sweat. It’s a little hot in medical today, shouldn’t Swansea fix that?

“Hmmmmmm,” you already know the criticism about to fly from her at that testy hum, and those narrowed eyes -suspicion masked by playfulness, “You gave all the same answers…”

“Well, they’re the same because nothing about me changes!” she merely sighs in response, and you cut her next thought short, “Honestly, Anya, don’t worry about this all too much. Jimmy’s right, this job isn’t hard. Anybody could do it, and everywhere needs it.”

The only difficult part is finding a place to hire you.

[1.5 hours after the crash]

Sprays of blood are already browning onto the metal floor. Stretches of pure red skin smoking from between the floor grates, mushy fat parts caught in the lining. Gloved hands pull at the elastic tissue, gummy white slop plopping back onto the floor. Hurriedly, those gloved hands toss the skin into a round yellow waste bucket -the kind meant to be incinerated after one use- because you’re convinced that if you move fast enough you can pretend the hands aren’t yours. 

Instead, a disembodied entity is what plucks shredded chunks of the captain out of the floor, where they’re starting to dry between the lining. 

Smaller gunk already stuck to the ground needs to be scraped up beneath a latex-covered nail. They crack off easy enough, you can almost act like it never happened. Really, you could treasure the memory compared to what you know lies ahead.

Just inside the recoverable parts of the cockpit are the hands and feet Swansea axed off mere minutes ago.

If you stress your ears then beyond the shrieking from Captain Curly, you can hear Anya and Daisuke wailing also. Blubbering meaningless comforts Anya trips over herself to bandage him up. A cloth skin to replace what you’re stripping off the ship.

At this point, you don’t bother wiping your eyes -- content to let them blur with tears until you’re finished. After all, it isn’t like smearing the blood on your forearm will aid the situation, and it certainly won’t make the smell of burning flesh dissipate.

Not when the scent has successfully buried into the back of your nose, and is nailing toward your brain.

Sizzling fat and iron make for a nauseating sweetness, the faintest earthy musk just beneath. Then after the whiff settles, the most putrid sourness of exposed, warm meat chases. 

Breathing through your mouth helps none, then you just taste the mixture. Making your stomach lurch, bile rushing up before you swallow it down in rough chunks that drag down the canal of your throat.

At the very bottom, when you scoop what should not be touched, you can catch the most relieving smell of Curly’s cologne. 

Suds soak pink, slowly growing darker the longer they sit as you attempt to rid all evidence of how violently you each had to rip Curly out of the cockpit. He was unceremoniously dragged along the floor, and no amount of distance from here to the medbay would make the trail lighten. Meaning, as you work your way back, any more muscle stripped from the exposed grouts will be firmly stuck down onto the floor.

Looking down the hall, you see blood rusting on the floor. Lots of it. Stubborn to be forgotten.

You’ll be surprised if Curly makes it just one more day.

[!] new message [!]

Peace and quiet.

Static at either side, your hands have the politest little splay. Webbing tickles as wind whistles through and a moist tar nose pokes around, short auburn fur stabbing into your knuckles. Hot air fans your skin every offbeat. Yellow wings wink from below, dotting dew-slicked sage tendrils. Spiders wave from behind pale silky petals. 

You pray to avoid the temptation of casting eyes any nearer above ground. At least this way, staring out into the horizon -- trying to peek over downy hills. Humble curves curling beneath a seafoam green sky, just tinging azure in the corners of your eyes. You hear a breeze blowing through trees -not unlike the sucking of big teeth- but nowhere in sight do you find thick trunks or brushes. You see flapping wings swiftly gliding fatty birds until they sizzle deep into the sun’s scorching image, but you hear no caws. 

A mushy, sticky roundness skims your middle finger, making you flinch back wildly. Though you don’t dare drop your stare… it wouldn’t matter either way, you can see more than enough no matter how intensely you attempt to dodge it.

Thick gashes in a cluster-quad cover the top of the thin deer’s skull. Two beneath the eyes and along the snout with two more stretching across the top bend in bend, toward where antlers sprout. Each ragged sniff causes the pear shapes to suddenly inflate, folds stretching until you can make out the pinkish flesh beneath faint dark fur. You’d been desperate to avoid knicking the bulbs and discovering their feel, so to find that they felt like silly putty stretched around an elbow was plenty disturbing.

The most you’ll allow yourself to glimpse are those awful antlers. Frail and formed in straight zig-zags, sickly almost yellow. Despite splitting straight from the deer’s head, you can see where skin parts around the thin branches, looks… homemade. Like yanked chicken wire, or an unbound hanger. 

And the closer you look, the more patches you see in its pelt. Pinky lumps glaring into flighty eyes.

Swallowing hard, you just try to keep your gaze locked outward -- into the wide expanse beyond smooth rolling earth. No clouds. No sun. Just seafoam pale light.

Another deep inhale has a warm, soft, almost gelatin-like corm thing filling the gaps between your knuckles. You think the glands are whiter than they used to be, and you think they’re staring, but you can’t be sure; you’re intent on not looking.

You just wanted peace and quiet.

*

[!] new message: the 00.00000000000000001% remaining

[sent by: zare, jimmy | subsection: stop leaving your fucking buckets everywhere i just tripped]

*

[1 week before the crash]

Fish. Green scales and an open slash down the rotund little gut. Flopping into one, mushy pile. Content in nature, to be eaten is to complete their cycle. Bred to be consumed and caught between molars, molars belonging to men with poor dental hygiene. Men like Jimmy, who scream in faces no matter how obviously and tightly they wrinkle in disgust.

“It’s unbelievable how many times I’ve had to talk to you about leaving out buckets, this shit is impossible to avoid when you stand it in the middle of the fucking walkway!” he spits in your face, snarling, and without pause to let you explain yourself he ramps up again, “You don’t listen when I ask nicely, so now I have to start yelling. And another thing- !”

“Heyyyy,” Daisuke waltzes in, a dramatic bounce to each stomp and hair bouncing around his shoulders, “I had the soft sponge you were looking for! Stole it for some spilled tonic, sorry!”

He lets out a quiet ‘eughh’, halting full force just after the door to examine your predicament. Jimmy is practically bent over you, stabbing a finger in your face with his mouth split, throat swollen with venom glands. 

“What’s going on?” he drops the sponge-bound hand at his side and frowns at the co-pilot.

A violation, technically. Crewmates are not to berate one another on deck, but the reporting route is so demeaningly difficult that now you just let Jimmy go off. It’s easier that way.

“Sounds pretty brutal…”

Jimmy’s seething, fist clenching, and you dodge past him to slip the sponge from Daisuke, “Don’t worry about it,” you shoot a raised brow over your shoulder at the brunette, “We’re over it anyway?”

Your answer comes in a scoff and head shake -- resounding agreement. 

[0 days before the crash]

Slamming sideways into a bolted shelf forces a hard guffaw from your lungs. You hardly get time to cradle your bruised core or question what sent you flying when suddenly the trusty old Tulpar rattles violently. Tripping you over hard, solid ground, you barely manage to catch yourself on the rungs of one shelf before your nose cracks on the supply door.

“Hey!” you shriek, another rocky bump shaking you off the shelf and sliding your shoulder into the opposite wall, “Jimmy! Help!” 

Polle smiles at the yelp, calling an unhelpful, “Don’t drink undrinkables! If you or someone on ship does: call help at 800-222-1222!”

The doors part swiftly, clicking loudly as two hands force them aside faster. Hands that you’re sure are not Jimmy’s unless he spontaneously got more tan and started wearing thick silver rings. This is strange because you’re sure Jimmy was the one lingering outside the closet just seconds ago, sure maybe looking a bit spacey and distracted but not that spacey.

Your name isn’t called by Jimmy’s voice, either.

It’s Daisuke’s. 

Doors clash against his elbows, fervently trying to squash him but he puffs out wider, stuck into the clacking jaws like a louse and he reaches out to you with the most concerned folds in his face. He screams for you again, “Grab my hand!”

You do, nails biting his wrists with enough teeth to draw blood. He makes no complaints, adrenaline masking any possible sting as he hoists you out of the custodial office. The momentum slings you both straight onto the floor, heads knocking against each other. He rolls each arm tight around you while scooching toward one wall with the strength of his thighs.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” he pants, “Captain just ran by and said to get low!”

“Where’d Jimmy- ?!” 

You’re cut off by a blistering slam -- metal shredding against hard rock. Tulpar screams that way as she dies. Yet something screams louder: animalistic and ragged, pure terror dragging through the walls of the ship like barbed wire. Echoing in bubbles, filling each inch of the vessel until it’s overcome by the shirrrrrrrrrrrrr and whirl of thick, luscious emergency foam spewing out of Tulpar’s gaping wounds. Sparks spitting as fast as still-damp froth can put them out.

Fizzling out with surprising serenity. 

Overheads once blood red blink blinding white twice before cutting. Drenching you both in pitch black.

Daisuke squeezes your arm in one hand and palms the flat of your spine with another, wrenching increasing bundles of fabric into his hand. He gasps and trembles, closing your body off between his legs. When all you hear is his thundering breath, you ask, 

“Did we just crash?”

Silence consumes you. 

No humming gears or hissing pipes. Just your tempered exhales and Daisuke’s gasping. 

“I think so,” he sniffles, unwinding the arm wrapped around yours to scrub away the wetness dribbling down his face before it crusts. 

You lunge off each other, still clasping hands, breaths mingling between your buzzing faces. 

Lights flash hot white once. Then twice. Then red. Then they flicker back to normal.

“That must be the backup generator,” Daisuke assures before you have the chance. He nods unsteadily to himself, “Swansea must’ve flipped it…” he laughs tenderly and without humor, “He’s probably pissed. I totally ran out without saying anything.”

“Yeah…” your head is a little too thick with foam to realize the implications of what he said, “Probably.”

[9 hours before judgement]

teeny bopper thinking with his dick. some useless kid. a cute kissing buddy.

Daisuke can play lots of roles, just never the right one. 

“It’s time to be brave, Daisuke,” Jimmy asserts, searching for any weak points he can exploit, “You want to impress that mop-pusher of yours, right? And Swansea’ll be proud, too.”

Daisuke rallies himself, radically stiffening. Both terrified and electrified at the proposition, “You really think?”

And Jimmy’s stark certainty just emboldens him, “You’ll get a recommendation and a date. Everyone’s counting on you. Captain’s orders.”

Daisuke knows you’ve been on edge, maybe if he can rescue Anya you’ll realize he’s worth something more serious than late-night makeouts.

*

[!] new message: polle says: “call help!”

[sent by: musume, anya | subsection: evals are meant to be like a pop quiz i cant tell you when theyre coming up… even jimmy knows that…]

*

[5 months after the crash]

Most of Pony Express’ provisional chemicals are Grade A: Windex watered down with literal H2O -- a stock of bottles pumped into the bottom of the ship before taking off. Meaning the only genuine water not provided by Dragonbreath bubbles in plastic cylinders beneath your feet. You’ve assumed the water to be from a sink in some warehouse, compound that with the fact it’s mixed with a bleaching agent and it has to have less germs than the water packets provided onboard.

Reaching blindly into the shelf at eye level, you grasp the first bottle that fits into your palm. Pulling and turning it. Full. Blue. Not electric blue, though, more like cartoon water. Not too much more saturated than the Dragonbreath water packets.

Sandpaper tongue scraping the ridges of your mouth, you try your best to remember how refreshing water is. You don’t think you can.

The synthesizer has run dry. And the vendor is dead.

Your lips are chapped, skinning each other as you push them together.

Rolling the bottle from one hand to the other, you take care to monitor its weight. Heavy. How much liquid lulls around. Over half, you think you could handle over half.

You’ve had mouthwash already.

If your kidneys can survive that, they can take this, right?

It’s just more alcohol with water. You don’t even think it’s ethanol, which basically means it’s safer than mouthwash.

IF POSSIBLE: WAKE AND MOVE PERSONS TO A COMFORTABLE PLACE TO SLEEP OFF EFFECTS. MAKE SURE PERSON WILL NOT: FALL, CHOKE ON TONGUE OR VOMIT, OR OTHERWISE SUSTAIN INJURY.

TO ENSURE PERSON DOES NOT CHOKE ON VOMIT, TURN ONTO THEIR SIDE.

DO NOT MAKE PERSON THROW UP UNLESS TOLD TO DO SO BY A HEALTHCARE PROFESSIONAL OR POISON CONTROL.

CHECK PERSON FREQUENTLY TO MAKE SURE CONDITION DOES NOT WORSEN.

WHEN IN DOUBT CALL FOR HELP.

CALL FOR HELP.

CALL FOR HELP. 98.9% 91.1% 80.02221222% KILLS99.9%OFGERMS

[4.5 months after the crash]

“I dunno if I can ever have a mojito again…”

Anya is the only one to look up from her cards, pouty lips sinking further and brows bending. Swansea makes a disconcerted grunt from the base of his throat. Daisuke doesn’t move whatsoever, blinking sluggishly down at his dealt hand -- mouth open and eyes listless. He doesn’t seem particularly inspired by anything before him, and you doubt the raw alcohol coursing his veins is helping any.

Jimmy has locked himself in medical to feed what remains of Captain Curly his painkillers. He requires absolute solitude and recently, nobody wants to disturb Jimmy while he prowls the ship for another fruitless task.

Swallowing pooled spit from the bowl of his jaw, Daisuke’s gaze rolls around the table with all the grace of a loose marble before he flings a hand forward. Knocking his bottle of mouthwash onto the side, it gushes out rolling across the table and wetting the spare pile of cards before he gasps loudly and picks it up. He watches you stretch over the table to move the cards.

Swansea snaps, slurring some scathing statement Daisuke doesn’t hear over the sight of you. Shirt sliding up your waist, exposing skin he shamelessly ogles. 

Daisuke plays the hard rim of his uncapped bottle against his lip, tipping back until the hard minty taste is scarring down his tongue. With it comes the immediate urge to gag and spit, but he powers through like a man: the way Swansea says.

He has to close his eyes and dig all five nails into his palm just to get the stuff down. Maybe it’s because he’s not like you- he’s never had a mojito before.

“Are they bad?” he asks.

“Huh?” you copy, swiping damp cards against your coverall pant leg.

Anya quietly observes the interaction, laying her hand upright on the table for all to see. Though you and Daisuke are too preoccupied bumbling toward one another. And Swansea hasn’t been properly taking his turns since the second round.

“Mojitos.”

You don’t have the strength or mind to explain yourself so you just nod and keep rubbing the suit off onto your pants -moist red and black shreds sprinkled across your thigh, “Yeah. Like shit.”

[2 months after the crash]

A long time ago, back when you first joined the crew, there was a Polle poster advertising kitchen safety. They discontinued it a year later for ‘violent imagery’ and decided to loop kitchen safety beneath the Don’t be Daft issues. That poster was your favorite, though, and given the state of things you almost regret not stealing one before they vacated every copy from every freighter. It hadn’t been the cutest, but it was definitely eye-catching. Every time you passed, you couldn’t avoid paying attention.

A goldfish with delicate, silky fins swims toward the bottom of its slender tank. Full to the jet-black lid with water, tiny oxygen bubbles floating along the right-hand side, just near the handle. COOK WITH CARE! glubbed the fish SAFETY ISN’T TO SPARE!

An uncharacteristically careless Polle sipped coffee with a gloved hand while the other was hairs away from starting the blender. Silver blades jumping to dice a clueless friend as it inspected the glittery metal.

Don’t be Daft is much less effective, in your opinion. After all, the much less foreboding message has done nothing to prohibit you from giving into Swansea’s pressure. 

”Don’t you miss it?” he teased. For a man fresh out of sobriety, he sounded so devoted to everything he once battled. But you know what? 

He was right. You did miss it. At least the heavy-lidded, sleepy little high of it anyway. 

Absolutely not the taste.

Sour and bitter works best not consumed at all, but you especially think the manmade minty freshness makes everything worse. Enhances that burning taste until it scorches out your nose and works up the back of your eyes. Heating your face from the inside. 

Laying your cheek against the cold wood of your table, both arms coiled around your waist. Hoping any kind of familiar pressure will keep down what cannot be swallowed.

You think you only make it worse, like pushing on a tender bruise. 

Woozy eyes swing to the half-empty bottle of sugary alcohol. Just the thought of another swig has you stumbling onto both feet, ankles rolling aside until you’re crashing into the wall. Clawing toward the sink to plop your head in. Slobber veining toward the drain as you moan once.

Then twice.

Then red stains shoot into the sink. You don’t get to gasp before another shot comes back up, foul flurrying from your mouth. So hard your head feels ready to pop open.

Rust companies you. Knowing it's your own makes you shrink back. Concern immediate, then shriveling: if that’s blood, you should seek the nurse. You should cry out for Anya. 

Another acidic spout cuts through your stomach, up your throat, and takes out a tooth before clattering into the metal sink.

You watch it slide like thick slime into the drain. Pulling out the tooth and pocketing it for the trash. Rinsing blood from the rim with fresh mouthwash, then gargling and spitting the taste from your mouth. You nearly puke again just from the smell.

The gap in the back of your mouth shrieks out. You just push your lips together tighter, taking the bottle with you as you slink away from the scene and toward the custodial office. Conveniently and coincidentally across the ship from the medical room. 

[1 day after the crash]

“Have you been able to complete your mandated task as custodial engineer efficiently and to your fullest capacity?”

You inhale the clinically stale air of the medical room, imagining it could dig out the remaining chunks of rotted, cooking meat from your nasal cavity. No matter how roughly you beat your coveralls or snort the chemical fumes in your office, the stench of grilled fat and blood persists. Clawing one nail beneath the other, you wonder if suddenly popping keratin straight from the bed would make Anya forget this evaluation.

“Do you have to do this?”

Anya shoots you an unimpressed glare, “Have you been able to- !”

“Yes, I have.”

“Are you capable of shifting multiple variables on a tight schedule?”

Pressing up harder from beneath your thumbnail until it stings, you’re sure the time is coming: she’ll forget all about this and just bandage you up. Cooing dull reassurances rather than poking for the softest part of your belly to slice open. Guts don’t need to be shared, you don’t think, there’s nothing to talk about.

“I didn’t suddenly stop being capable, no.”

“Are you overwhelmed- !”

“Anya,” you sigh, giving up on the nail torture to massage tensing temples, “Nothing changed. I’m fine.”

She stares at you too hard. No amusement in her straight face before she confesses, “I don’t believe you.”

“What does it matter what you don’t believe?” you groan, slacking into the seat across from her.

A thin teal curtain is drawn around the edge of Captain Curly’s bed. Aside from the offbeat squelch of his throat opening for air, silence radiates from that side of the room while he lies practically comatose. Anya told you she assumed the instant his adrenaline wavered, he was out from the blood loss. And he’s been out since. 

“In the event of a work-related incident: are you fearful of continuing work with Pony Express?”

“None of us work for them after this,” you spit, if it wasn’t already faxed out then surely this crash would be enough to terminate your lot.

She repeats herself until you throw out a frustrated, “no! fucking- no!”

And she keeps flapping her lips, droning with procedure that’s on the bottom of your priority list, “Do you consider harming others when you otherwise would not have?”

“No, Anya! I’m fine!” i just smell a corpse in the back of my mind at all times. it won’t leave. i can’t get rid of it. i smell it now, and it reeks. it just makes me want to

“Have you considered harming yourself?” she trails off, blinking up at you. Papers flopped onto her desk, which was shuffled toward the right in the crash. Uprooted and askew.

Uprooted and askew, you slowly shake your head and answer, voice almost drowned out by the new sound of Curly breathing, “No.”

She muffles your name, bit-crushed beneath the captain’s impression. Strange how someone so big becomes something so small: you keck at the horrible passing thought. Curly the esteemed captain, a slab of cooked meat.

You salivate.

People salivate before vomiting, right?

You can say it’s that. You’re so sick you’ll vomit.

“I’m serious,” you think that’s what Anya says, “I know it seems pointless, but I need you to be open with me. This isn’t about Pony Express anymore. I’m just worried about you.”

You could tell her she should be, or you could spare her the piece of mind. Give her peace of mind.

“I’m fine, Anya,” you stand and grin, a firm perch of the lips, “Really.”

Anya rises before you have time to process the protesting screech from her chair, she darts around the edge of her shifted desk and latches onto you. Wrapping arms around your neck and squeezing air out, “Please… please...”

“You’re so thoughtful, Anya,” you return the embrace, shoulders drooping. Her nails scrape the nape of your neck. It’s bizarrely reassuring to have no choice in her arms, “You’re kind. I wish…” you sigh, barely clinging to the remnants of adulthood in you saying it’s too immature to bury your face into her jugular, “I wish my mom was more like you growing up.”

Anya’s claws sink into the top-notch of your spine, cutting sideways in harsh lines before she takes your shoulders in her hands. As if she really was your mother, as if you really did something wrong, as if you deserved all the ensuing agony: she shoves you back with a ghastly face. Onyx eyes swimming in a pearly sea, shock etched into her -down to her trembling hands. She jerks them into her sides to hide the shaking.

“Get out!”

“What?”

“Get out,” she steps back, “I’m not- I’m not your mother.”

“I- yeah, uhm… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… I’m not saying…”

“Get out.”

“Anya, I’m sorry!”

“Get!” she flings papers your way, they fly away in every direction except toward you. When they float and drift onto the floor by your feet, you see the evaluation questions. Pencil notes beneath each one, “Out! Get out!”

You’ve never seen her so desperately upset. Not even at the news of layoffs. Not after her several rejections to medical school.

“Anya?” what’s wrong?

She skirts behind the curtain surrounding Curly’s bed.

You don’t get to ask. You assume the evaluation has been concluded.

[3 weeks before the crash]

A curved spine and furrowed brows are often the sign of an artist in deep concentration. With the way his knuckles are whitening hard pressed against Anya’s metal desk, you don’t doubt Daisuke envisions himself as an artist either. His little tongue creeping out the side of his lips. Pen swipes scratching through the room.

Anya smiles down at the man, “I can’t file my reports when you steal all the pens, you know?”

Daisuke grunts in acknowledgment, mouth opening like he’s about to respond only to let out a resounding, utter silence. 

You laugh at the profound focus he exhibits, “I’ve never seen you so serious.”

“Hold on, hold on,” he’s muttering, then shooting up with the lemony post-it cupped to his chest, “Done!”

“Let’s see it,” Anya waves.

Daisuke flips the tiny square around to show off his work: a wide forehead parted by two obnoxious bug eyes and a thick nose. 

“Is that Jimmy?” you tilt your head, Anya’s neck limping in the opposite direction.

“Yimpyyyy!” Daisuke cheers, pointing at the name scrawled beneath, “Yimpy!”

“Yimpy?” you steer closer, just to stick the note against your finger and push it nearer to Anya’s face, “Yimpy!”

“Yimpy…” she nods slowly, then shrugs and slicks her finger against the rapidly aging adhesive stripe. Laying it flat against her corkboard to tack in place, stepping back proudly with a soft giggle, “Yimpy.”

Daisuke beams over making the sullen and serene Anya laugh. Turning to you for a private celebration, only to see you laughing as well. It feels even better that way.

*

[!] new message: signed legal agreement

[sent by: juarez, daisuke | subsection: huhhh you had to sign up for that????]

*

[first day of expedition]

“Everyone, meet Daisuke.”

“I’m Daisuke!”

“Hi, Daisuke!” the room drones, in a slow little tune reminiscent of an Alcoholics Anonymous chant.

“He’s an intern, so technically all of us can teach him something but I figure he’ll learn the most under Swansea,” Captain Curly nods toward the mechanic. Swansea swears between gritted teeth while you snicker.

“And what about the esteemed custodian, can’t the kids stick together?” he weasels, “Bad enough to get another baby on board.”

“Please,” Curly sighs, the hand he laid on Daisuke’s shoulder tightening just so before he drops it altogether. Clasping both fists in a plea, “I’ve been assured this is nothing that will sabotage the voyage. We should just brace for rationing a bit tighter with the last-minute addition.”

“Ain’t excited for more babysitting.”

You, very maturely, blow a raspberry at the older man, “Don’t break a hip bitching about it.”

Daisuke giggles at the retort, nearly earning his own beratement if not for Anya quickly cutting in:

“Go easy on them, it isn’t like that’s anybody’s dream job.”

“Besides,” Jimmy sneers, “they’re the most reliable part of the crew, we might catch a cold from the shitters if this one wasn’t there to clean ‘em.”

Curly bends to clap his co-pilot on the shoulder, perhaps a bit harder than he has to, and shines that million-dollar smile your way, “You’ve been my lucky charm on every voyage. Highest credit payout when the rest of the crew is living clean!”

You roll the praise off with ease, locking eyes with Daisuke, “Most of what I do is shovel the shit Jim’ spews. You’ll learn more with Swansea, for sure.”

Daisuke’s never met you before. He doesn’t know you at all. 

But he’s sure that the boiling coil in his stomach is disappointment when he’s hauled off toward the utility room with Swansea rather than wherever you’re going.

[1 month after the crash]

“I let you in there and you’ll tear the ship a new asshole,” Swansea swears, squinting over you as you lean against the opposite side of the door.

Daisuke looks your way as you shrug, “Alright, already, I don’t even care anymore. Not like fighting with you is worth it, stubborn geezer.”

Swansea scoffs, crossed arms tightening over his chest (Daisuke’s head flips back toward his mentor), “Yeah, right! I’m sure as soon as I walk away you’ll try ripping into that foam and get us all killed!”

“Why would I give a shit, Swansea?” Daisuke chuckles at your bite, bleached chestnut hair flapping around his shoulders.

“Because you’re young!” Swansea points right between your eyes, and Daisuke’s stare swings back around toward the older man, “You’ve got no ears,” you raise a brow at the accusation, “Everything I’m saying goes in one end and floats out the other, until you end up scraping the ship open and suddenly everything ole Swansea said makes sense!”

Daisuke’s head whirls back at you, chomping down a smile at whatever you’ll say next.

“What? You think I don’t listen?”

“I know you don’t.”

“Just ‘cuz I don’t have the patience to wait around until you’re ready for me to mop up utility…” you roll your eyes, “You know that rule is stupid.”

“I don’t know anything,” he mocks.

Daisuke’s neck will crick off how often he wrecks it back and forth, with all the thrill of a high-speed tennis match. 

“So, what’s the plan?” that question only earns you a wrinkled glare.

Swansea knows you know the plan. And he knows you’re only dragging this out for the knucklehead beside him’s entertainment. It’s far more irritating than anything else. 

Then, just to dig into his side, something somehow more irritating pounds closer and closer.

Jimmy appears over your shoulder -- Swansea makes a displeased grunt from the base of his throat, silently prodding the brunette for -what everyone’s sure is- his 500th rant of the day. Which is the worst, and funniest, thing about Jimmy, even if he’s entirely silent you can always read how pissed he is just by other people existing.

“Yeah, capitano?” Swansea scoffs when the man doesn’t just start prattling.

Daisuke straightens out, hands flaking at his sides. Brown eyes shooting to you, an almost comical bead of sweat dripping down his nose. You roll your eyes again and coo,

“Captain Jimmy, do you have orders for us?”

That, of course, is what sets him off.

Jimmy throws his hands in the air, aggravated, “I’ve been running around this ship, being helpful, while you three stand the fuck around?!” he jabs a shaking finger in your face, and you notice up close that it’s crooked after the first knuckle -like he broke it and never bothered having it set properly (something you wouldn’t put past him), “Go mop up Curly’s shit or something! This place is filthy, you’ve got things to be doing- I know it!”

“I already emptied his stupid bedpan and the catheter, whatever’s happened since is Anya’s business.”

Daisuke watches you with eyes positively sparkling as you sass a man on a higher wrung of the ladder without batting an eye. When Jimmy’s not looking, you catch him mouthing excitedly ‘you’re so cool’.

“Useless!” a hot glob of spit melts onto your cheek, he pays no heed to your grimace, “I pull my fuckin’ weight while you just stand here, a useless goddamn body!”

Yeah. Whatever.

You wait until Jimmy has stormed off again before playing off the infectious saliva stinging your face, smearing it off with the back of your hand, “Say it don’t spray it, dude.”

Daisuke snickers. That’s the best part of the interaction since your pseudo-captain forced his way through. Maybe since the crash, even. Not many things make your heart sputter or remember what it was like to beat, but for some reason Daisuke is different.

As for work... There isn't much to be done on anyone's part. Not yet at least. Daisuke can't do anything without Swansea's (extremely temperamental) supervision, and Swansea can't do anything until the foam is cleared, and you can't clear the foam until Swansea lets you, which so far he has been intensely clear about how little interest he has in that option. Three useless bodies. 

Make four out of the incapacitated Curly. Then five anytime Anya isn't actively supervising or aiding the captain. As for Jimmy.... you aren't exactly sure what it is Jimmy does to keep busy except for maybe crawling around the Tulpar to nitpick everyone else. He raves about the responsibility he takes, but as far as you’re concerned each of his assignments have been childishly basic. 

Perhaps his real work ethic translates into being as unapproachable as possible.

After talking to Jimmy, you always have the strongest urge to drink more. Swallow more. Bathe more. Purge the entire interaction from your system -kill 99.9% of him off until only the most vague and pleasant parts remain. The parts where he's fucking walking away and shutting up.

[4.1 months after the crash]

Aside from your hard steps down the rattling Tulpar, you can hear quiet lights droning: protesting their own existence. A blood orange hue staining the Polle Horse posters stuck down the walls, your skin glows too, but most of all: it turns the candy pink petals of a sweet hibiscus darker, kind of like a mildew eating out from the fabric’s folds. 

You gently prod the ribs hidden beneath that fabric with your shoe’s toe, “Daisuke? You awake?”

“Eughhhh,” he rolls onto his back unsteadily, arms wiggly and he completely falls onto one elbow in a way you’re sure wasn’t intentional. Those suspicions are confirmed when his entire round face yanks toward the center, a wimpy whine escaping his plump lips as he cups the elbow with his spare hand and massages the afflicted bone, “I don’t feel gooooood…”

“I can tell,” you squat down, hesitating only a moment before soothing your hand from his shoulder and toward the injured joint. His body seems to go lax beneath your warm touch, he smiles up at you,

“You’re so nice to me…”

“Uh, I guess? I never really thought of it like that.”

He tilts his head back against the floor, stray bubbles of foam soaking into his dyed strands, thin black brows furrowing, “Whaddya mean…?”

“I just. I dunno,” you guess it doesn’t matter how you phrase it, or what it even is that you phrase, Daisuke won’t remember come tomorrow, “I just talk to you how I think everybody should talk to you, you’re really someone that I like. As a person.”

“Really…?” his mouth splits in a wide smile, even rows of teeth glinting up at you. You take a weirder, closer glance and see that some teeth actually aren’t even, the bottom front pair grow over each other and one canine is a little far to the left. He giggles quietly, “I like you, too.”

“Thanks, Daisuke,” looking down each end of the rounding corridor, you slip onto your ass and sit with Daisuke curling around you. His knees come up until they’re brushing your knees and he tries nuzzling his face into your thigh, “You’re real touchy when you’re drunk, huh?”

“I’m not drunk!” he breaks down immediately after the charge, “I didn’t have that much!” his hand clanks around the floor until it scoops up a nearly empty bottle of mouthwash, he drops it before managing to properly show off what he’s drank, “Swansea had a ton more…”

“This shit’ll kill you, Daisuke.”

“You drink it…” he pouts, wrangling his hands into the back of your overalls and pulling as if trying to coax you to lie over his belly.

“In, like, shots. Quick swallows. Kids do it all the time.”

“That’s still drinking!”

“I’m not a good person, Daisuke,” you laugh it off, but it feels weird to say. You don’t think you meant it, but it felt. Solid. Coming out of your throat so concisely it still startles you how it sits in the open air, “I deserve to drink it.”

He blinks up at you lazily, lashes batting and you feel him yank your overalls tighter, “That’s not true!”

“I’m just someone that got stuck here years ago, you don’t know…” you shake your head, “I didn’t mean it.”

And saying that felt chunky, like upchucking cottage cheese and curdled milk. So sour you can feel it singe the back of your nose.

“Good because you’re my favorite,” he uses your pantlegs as leverage to crawl around and lay over your lap, turned onto his back. His hands settle over his chest, fingers busying themselves wringing his sweatbands around his wrist, “You’re funny and really pretty. And you’re nice to me.”

“You said that one already,” you pat his cheek when his eyes drift closed a little too long.

“It’s true…” he bemoans, reaching up to copy the gesture. Popping his lithe fingers once, then twice, against your cheek -not even hard enough to leave an imprint, “I like you a lot.”

“It might be time for bed, Daisuke…”

“My mom would like you,” tiny grunts escape as you prop him upon his feet, one of his arms thrown around your shoulder and he lends most of his weight to your side. Sloppy feet borderline hindering your joint trek back toward the common lounge.

“Would she? She wouldn’t disprove of my influence?”

“Nahhh, she’d love you,” his drunken grin falters just a moment as you lay him onto his mat, “She got me this internship, you know?”

“Did she?”

“Mhmmmm,” he snags you by the sleeve, urging you into his bed, “Said I was too aimless but I just don’t know what to do with myself,” he blinks up at you, “Never took to anything. Never wanted to try anything… just partied and drank. Now I’m drinking away this internship, and I might not ever get to thank her. Or show her that I learned anything.”

Just as you see water swelling along his lashes, you fall onto his mat, combing fingers through his hair. The bleaching has made it feel a little rubbery, it stretches a bit before untangling around your knuckles, you scratch over his scalp and pray it drains the tears before they fall.

“I’m sure you’ll find a chance, people like you always make it through.”

“Like me?”

“I mean. Pony Express has got to be tracking us somehow, right? They have to know we crashed…”

“Yeah,” he sighs, bloodshot eyes drifting over your features, “You’re so smart, too, my mom would be totally obsessed with you…” content to let yourself drift off in the coupling silence until Daisuke is audibly swallowing and murmuring again, “You know, when I need some dreaming material before bed… I like to imagine taking you on a nice beach date. Like. A real beach, not the sunset window screen. And we could have a lot of fun, I think. I like you.”

You nod slowly, scrunching his hair in your hand.

Even with your eyes closed, you know he’s turned to look at you -feeling his nose nudge across your cheek and his damp eyelashes scuttering along your temple, he says louder, “I really like you.”

“That could’ve been nice,” you admit.

“I’ll make it happen,” he promises, finally closing his own eyes, and committing to falling asleep together again.

Then his brain zaps again, apparently too fired with curiosity to realize he could just ask in the many coming days you’ll spend stranded on this big ass rock,

“How’d you end up here anyway?”

He yawns. Loudly.

You yawn back.

Not bothering to open your eyes before blandly spitting, “If I didn’t find some kind of purpose, I could’ve killed myself.”

Then nothing. Not shock or disappointment or even a feigned gasp. It’s almost… offending, humiliating even. You swing up violently, lips twitching to scream when you’re stunned still:

Daisuke’s wholly asleep. And now you can hear his soft snoring, quiet sighs escaping his -you bet pained and burning- throat.

[5 months after the crash]

“Pfft, I thought you said this would work!”

“I thought it would!” 

Daisuke giggles and lifts some of your dead ends, “You know I don’t think any amount of bleach could get these colored…” he’s mumbling, mindlessly, thinking nothing of it, “They’re so fried…”

Immediately your entire face twists unpleasantly, “Hey! Don’t say that…” you shove Daisuke’s hands away, clutching the dead ends by your neck, “Get scissors and just chop ‘em off, then…”

“Right now?” he tilts his head, blinking at you stupidly.

“Right now!” you shout, drunkenly.

Just as drunkenly, Daisuke stutters over while shaking his head, “No way! They’re just dead ends… I didn’t mean it mean,” then he’s tweaking his own bleached, frayed strands of hair between his fingers, “I got ‘em, too! Look!” 

Peeking through your disgusted scowl, you reach out and yank, “You do.”

Daisuke snickers in your face, nodding, “Exactly! Sorry I said it weird.”

You nod sluggishly and Daisuke simply lets you hold his hair. You judge the splitting hairs, you think it’s strangely pretty -- maybe just because it’s Daisuke.

“You’re lookin’ at me funny,” he mutters, looking from your eyes to your lips. You do the same, “You look at me like you wanna kiss me.”

You shrug. Coy. Pouty. Perhaps not acceptance, but most definitely not denial.

“Can I?” he wonders.

You lean in first. He tastes like mouthwash, and you keep kissing him anyway.

[4.2 months after the crash]

Page two, subsection General Safety, paragraph seven states that in the event of shattered glass. The custodial engineer is the sole person capable of collecting and disposing of loose shards. There are thick gloves in the office and a hazard bin for exactly this moment.

After Jimmy stormed off with the emergency axe, Swansea stumbled down the hall toward utility. Grumbling about the apparent nerve of your new captain after burying the blade into the window screen. Red bathes the foamed lounge. Daisuke sits criss-cross from you: both your faces turned up toward the cracked screen. Starry-eyed at the glitches like two toddlers sat in front of morning cartoons. 

Then a crimson glint catches from your peripherals.

You twirl in place, shuddering into the wall before drunkenly reaching out and grasping for glass. 

There’s no time for gloves or bins- not when glass is littered everywhere! This is too urgent.

Bare prints pricked long ways, you know you’re cut before the bleeding even starts. It never outright hurts when you cut yourself by accident, there’s that momentary shock like ice pressed right against your skin. Then you bleed out onto the floor, and then it stings. Skin peeling back exposing the tiniest bare fragments of yourself to open air. It fucking stings.

You whine and pull back and Daisuke hurries over. He hisses at the sight and plucks your hands away from the scene. Blood drips from your fingertips and over the carpet, no doubt to fester a new commune of mold. 

“Uh, shit,” he blinks himself as sober as possible, then has to close one eye just to see straight while clobbering for a bottle of the trusty stuff, “Disinfectant! Right? Gotta clean this…”

Daisuke holds your hand palm-up, clenching it like he believes what’s next will hurt at all. In his other hand is a backwash-frothy bottle of DragonbreathX mouthwash -- it tips hesitantly. Guzzling faded teal into the cup of your hand. You hold your breath, expecting that searing wave of alcohol draining a wound. Daisuke holds the bottle upright and stares through you.

It just feels like you have a slowly leaking handful of mouthwash. Sugar sticking around your cupped skin. 

“Should I get Anya?” he asks, watching your blood turn the liquid brown before tipping over the edge of your hand. Drooling from the cracks between your fingers.

“No,” no, no you don’t think she’d help at all. You shove your fist knuckle-down into your thigh and smile wryly at Daisuke, “I think the mouthwash will be fine… It’ll take care of everything.”

It’s just some glass, after all.

[!] new message [!]

When you try raising your head, it hurts. But not really. Just an incredibly dull vibration that you know is meant to be a painful deterrent, so you choose not to fight it. No matter how badly you know you should look up.

Mom sits on one end of the couch and Dad on the other. They lean into their respective arms and do not cross the middle of the couch, where you sit. Every few minutes a bell rings from inside the television, but other than that all it plays is monochrome snow. Randomized pixels all buzzing across the screen. A white glow emanates from the screen. It looks cold, you think if you pressed your palms flat against the glass a chill would race up your arms. 

Mom yawns, Dad shoots a brief slant her way before mumbling, “Tired?”

His thick voice and drawling tone mutilate the vowels, though, so all you can make out is a gentle, ”Terrred?”

Mom shrugs and speaks over your head without looking away from the television. Dad nods listlessly and they both rise and shuffle off down the hall, leaving you and TV buzzing. A bell rings. 

It tingles sweetly, all gentle songbird and high. Sort of like the bell at school warning you from being late to class, or permitting you to charge into the canteen for soggy pizza and frozen milk. 

When Dad comes back, he’s without Mom, and he’s got wavy blonde hair and a little scruff. And he doesn’t speak at all. His eyes are hidden beneath stray golden strands, but his lips are stretched pleasantly. Pressing the TV into pitch black before scooping you into two big arms, cradling your neck against his chest.

You hear his heartbeat; pulpy, it pounds in loud, viscous waves. As if it needs to prove that it's still alive. And the heat is overbearing, as though he’s melting from the inside out.

He lays you down and leaves. 

A bell rings.

*

[!] new message: i am my worst moment i am defined by my past and i am fucking awful

[sent by: sender outside of network. please contact captain if messages from unknown senders continue to route to this machine. do not respond. do not respond. do not respond.]

*

[6 hours until judgement]

Sixty excruciating minutes drag by before five fingers are snapping over the edge of the mattress. A distinctly metallic click follows. Hinges squeak apart, clacking against the frame of the bed with finality. A wobbly elbow pokes into sight before that clutching hand pushes up, dragging his whole body sideways as you yank the sheets with effort. Standing upon squiggling knees, downcast eyes linger beneath the bed -- he can’t see that far down. But he’s sure he already knows what you’re looking at.

Get it over with he wants to hiss Just shoot me. Don’t keep me in suspense.

Your forearm writhes with a ‘click’, eyes heavy with discoloration. Somewhere between sinking into your skull and popping out like a cyst -- they finally rise upon him.

Somewhere between upset and stoic, your face remains unchanged as you lay the hidden hand just by his bandaged arm. Silver glints angrily into his eyeball -- he’d flinch away if he could.

Just do it already he screams in his mind, but all that escapes are wheezy whistles Just fucking shoot me!

You already said you would, didn’t you?

It’d help everyone. Meat would make the crew happier than when they still had those canned soups. That’s what you said. So just get him over with.

[10 days after the crash]

He always said the past is something that defines who you are, but not something you need to be enslaved by. You can be a terrible person, and become something shinier. Less obscure or offensive to observe over time, you just need to put in the work. You wonder how long you can be disgusted by your thoughts before they’re no longer your own.

this doesnt even look like curly anymore

Instinctually, and despite not having verbalized it, you clasp a hand over your mouth at that.

You unwind the bent arm to wrap knuckles in warm bed sheets. And he watches you. You think he knows what you were seething. You’re sorry. You don’t say that. Rather, you ask,

“Do you sleep anymore, Captain?”

He ticks his head just slightly, just enough as he can manage before the muscles shred and burn. 

“I bet…” you murmur, uncapping the jade bottle of little white relievers, “it just hurts all the time now…”

He tips his head back, then shudders forward.

Shaking two capsules into hand, you look down at the panting crimson stain that is Captain Grant Curly and shake another two out. Then you tip six more out. Balling the pills in your hand. 

His pupils shake around your hand with the pills, dilated to hell -his entire eye nearing black.

You notice now that Curly has no eyelids. But the muscle still attached and bound around his socket puckers as if there’s anything there to move. It all pulses with the best intentions, just to accomplish nothing. Same for his nonexistent lips, singed off just to show off bare nerves beneath crisp gums and gapped teeth. Blood dried into the bones’ indents. His teeth chatter as he moans, as if to speak but there’s only a stubbed tongue back there. Nothing he can use to shape the words to beg for

“Should we just…” his gaze snaps up to your face then, teeth clicking against each other, “Uhm…” open red muscle flexes around his neck but before you can see which way he moves his head, you clench shut. 

can we kill you already?

Pure darkness swallowing your sight, you fiddle around the plastic green bottle and replace eight of the pills, “Here, Captain, open up.”

Barely peeking through your shrouded lashes, you slot the pills between gaping, warm gums where teeth should be. His tongue feels like fucking sandpaper, you cringe and clench your eyes harder.

“I’m sorry,” you shake your head, hand shaking at his jaw before soothing the caps down his gullet, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Logically, it makes so much sense: he’s in pain simply lying here -no skin, charred flesh, exposed nerves, chopped limbs- and you don’t imagine he will ever recover what he’s lost.

Emotionally, you clam up completely; rejecting the thoughts until you can claim they were never even yours.

You never got the question out, anyway. And you never saw his response.

So, practically, none of that happened. You just gave the captain his pills because you’re a good subordinate and a good crewmate, and more importantly a good friend.

Eyes still closed, you mutter, “Feel better soon, Captain…”

He moans in protest as you turn. Groaning louder when you call Anya back into the room, claiming to be finished.

“Thank you,” she sighs, stepping into her office with hands clasped over her heart. One soft palm laid over the other, “I’m sorry to put it on you like that, but I just…” she frowns, “The sound… I’m- well. I can’t- “

“Anya, it’s fine. I don’t mind,” you wave her concerns away, a thin, forced smile stretching over your face. And you pretend the huffing behind you is just the new sound of Curly breathing.

Escaping into the hall, you wait as long as it takes for the medical room to click shut behind you before darting for a waste bin. Clamping the sides between two shaking, clammy hands and heaving into it.

Your whole body jerks over the neon bucket. Something like a big ball races up your intestines and just beneath your uvula before falling back into the well of your stomach. Gagging again, you feel it just about to slip over your soaked tongue before: nothing. The thick coil shudders back down again with nothing in your stomach to offer up. Besides spit that burns on the way down.

Your stomach rumbles for something to puke up.

Begging for relief.

[13 hours before the crash]

“Woah.”

Gold tresses gleam beneath the digital moonlight, two pale faces shining your way. Deep lines cut beneath your captain’s eyes. 

“Didn’t expect to see you out here so late, Captain…”

He shrugs, throwing an arm over the back of the lounge couch to better watch you, “I’ve had to think over some things recently,” you’re about to prod and he must be able to sense it because then he asks, “What are you doing up?”

“I wanted a sweet tonic, honestly.”

He raises a thick brow at the response, you merely shrug and meander toward the kitchen. Not sparing the code booklet a glance before punching numbers into the synthesizer.

“I’m basically already fired anyway, right?” you rationalize, sensing his judgments from across the floor, “Plus, there’s supposed to be fewer germs in the sweetener anyway, so it’s healthier than a regular tonic.”

When he doesn’t miraculously approve that response and spin back around, you scoff, continuing the one-sided argument,

“What? Will me sneaking another sweetener pack get you in trouble with your old bosses?”

Curly sighs and slumps back into place, “No. I guess not……… Look. Kid. I didn’t know any more than you all do. I didn’t. I didn’t know.”

“It’s not really my business, Captain. You heard Jimmy, I’ll be off to another shithole soon enough.”

Nothing back, not even an admissible chuckle.

Sliding squishy, silicone packets on either side of the humming fabricator is a simple enough task that you can look away without screwing anything. So you watch Curly as he watches the window screen -- silent. Stiff. Unsure, you poke again, “What’re you looking at?”

“There’s a dead pixel in the screen,” he scans left to right as he says it though.

Two glasses in each hand, you sit beside Curly on the white pleather. It squeaks at the sudden weight when you throw yourself back, slipping one tonic toward Curly while curling the other into your chest. Nestling it comfortably in the middle with the straw right beneath your lips, “Where?”

He ignores the offered drink, “I’m still looking for it.”

“Huh… okay,” you squint up at the screen, sipping the sweet mixture.

That look is back in his eyes. That vacancy. Pulling in and nulling all the light above, something reminiscent of a black hole. He stares down at Jimmy that way a lot. 

“I just don’t see it, but I know it’s there,” he says: solemn, gloomy, “I know it’s up there.”

Curly has a wide face and wider shoulders. Blonde scruff has grown out around his jaw since his last shave on earth, and the hair on his head is almost waxy with how perfectly it falls and frames his head. Rosy cheeks, button nose. And those dull blue eyes. Captain Grant Curly, your beloved and trusted pilot.

“Uhm, you know, Captain…”

He blinks, eyes flicking your way before returning toward the screen.

“I’ve been thinking a lot more lately,” you sit up straighter, shoulders feeling lighter as you finally confess, “I usually do nothing but think, but now it’s stuff that’s actually… important. And it’s all terrible. After this crew disbands, I’ve got nothing and nobody to go back for. I’m not sure what else to strive for if I’m not being told what to do, I don’t know what else I should stay alive for. I feel like I’m watching someone else use my body to make all the worst decisions possible but I don’t know how to find the will to stop myself,” you feel nauseous in a good way, the way you feel when you lurch the last part of a hangover. Just before the stomach lining starts repairing itself. Getting everything you’ve let stain your back out into the open actually feels… 

“I’ve just been thinking that maybe Jimmy was probably right about me… about everything…”

Good.

But if it’s good, then why does Curly shoot off the couch like you lit fire at his feet, and why does he scream like you did too?

“Goddammit, kid!” he scoffs, raking untamed tresses, “I’m not the ship’s personal diary!” he heaves, eyes wide, “We’ve got psych evals for this shit!”

He looks down at you, you’re still on the couch and you’re completely still. Your mouth agape and hands folded nervously over your drink. He thinks he could hear a bit of Jimmy’s blunt gruff in the back of his mind: he sharply turns away and marches toward the doors.

You feel nauseous. In a terrible way. Like your dad just called from the hospital. Suddenly your nose feels fuller than it used to, and suddenly your eyes are fucking burning, and suddenly your arms shake so violently you need to put your drink on the table. Next to Curly’s untouched one. You hiccup, short of breath.

Thudding steps pause just after the hiss and release of the lounge doors parting, a man sighs, “Don’t spend all night out here, kid.”

You don’t hear that over the sound of your own breathing, heavy and wavering. Pretty pathetic.

Befitting to be hidden away scrubbing some abandoned shithole. Desperate enough to hire a goddamn mess.

Jimmy was probably right.

*

[!] new message: neighhhh^7

[sent by: hotard, swansea | subsection: last i’ll say this, i need to be there when you clean utility.]

*

[3 days after the crash]

You get it, really you do. After a crash, some gears are bound to not work the way they used to, that’s just common sense. In the same way Curly is forever changed, Tulpar too is marred by her collision. And the same way Jimmy has already taken the helm and is pushing for rationing and repairing, doors squeal in agony as they open. The offside closet attached to Utility did when it opened for you to enter, and you were already prepared for it to do the same as it opened for you to leave.

Except it didn’t.

“What the fuck…?” you groan.

Slapping both hands against the metal door, straining your arms to manually glide the steel apart. Huff and puff as you might, nothing would budge.

It reeks of stale emergency foam, leaking through the cracked walls. One stumble too far back and you may be torn apart by space. 

That could be preferable to starving alone in a closet, though.

You just wanted something to do. Something to get the smell of a breathing corpse out of your nose.

Banging into the door with both hands wide open, you scream hard for any pair of ears to hear. “Help! Help! Help!”s devolving into wordless, snotty trills and ceaseless violent slams on cold metal. Your voice echoes in the cramped space. Bouncing through one ear and out the other faster than wails leave your mouth. 

You slowly become less upset about being trapped and more upset that nobody’s found you yet. It didn’t feel real until the third time you screamed: Nobody’s looking. 

Dropping your arms, you just ball your pants into each fist and hang your head to whimper. Tears streaming down your face. Dripping onto the floor, rolling between grates. Hacking into the open air. Flem webbing down your chin.

It’s like being seven all over again. Strangers pushing rusty carts past you as you shiver in a tank top and jorts in the meat section. Shiny plastic swelled over beef and pale chicken watching high over your head. A big man with a round belly and a white plastic card clipped into his yellow shirt came upon you. He asked your name. He asked if you knew where you were.

“Do you know where you are, kid?”

“Did you get lost?”

“Hey, hey, hey.”

A big man with a round belly has no choice but to pop you in the cheek with the back of his hand. Immediately he apologizes.

“Sorry.”

Not a grimace crosses his features as he wipes a conglomerate of tears and snot and drool from your cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. His brows are creased so far down that they nearly hide his eyes. You reach up, snagging his wrists in your hands, burying a cough into your shoulder,

“The fuck happened in here?” he means it entirely, obviously expecting an answer as he jitters you by the neck, “You see 

Whatever else he’s saying sounds too complicated. Underwater. None of your business. It makes you feel little again: watching another man with a plastic card over his chest, and a tie latched around his neck have a stern conversation with your mother. Who looks like she couldn’t care less while he’s red in the face.

“Are you fucking listening to me?” he scathes, “Do you wanna die or something?”

[12 days after the crash]

“Huh?”

“Do you wanna die or something?” Swansea swerves the axe in front of your face. Ticking it like clockwork.

“I’m just trying to clean out the foam,” you cannot fight back the yawn as it drags out, protruding the middle of your sentence like a fat beetle.

He merely tightens his stance and glares at you. Axe now against his chest, hugged between both arms.

“I’m trained for this, I know what I’m doing,” for a man of his age he’s more determined than he knows what to do with. Both of you have been at this argument for at least a couple hours. Not long now before the nighttime window screen illuminates, “Besides, if we’re really stranded here then isn’t it better to just die now than wait for something worse off?”

Rather than answer with sincerity, Swansea sarcastically bites, “Is that your way of saying we’re all gonna kill ourselves?”

“Starving, Swansea. Starving.” 

Sighing, Swansea pulls a hand on the door and preemptively shushes you. Not that it stops you from nearly splitting ears as you cry “fucking dick!”

Clasping a hand over your mouth, Swansea swings you both into utility after a fleeting glance down the hall to ensure you were alone. Shutting the door so you’re locked into the vast floorspace of a fucking empty utility room. Foam clogs, maybe, a quarter of the room: stuck near the edge of the wall where most of the damage was concentrated.

Before you can bite his hand, or chew out more swears, he’s speaking again:

“I wasn’t lying, nothing in here works anymore,” he holds up a finger, letting it fall to the left, “Except that cryo pod. I’m hiding it from Jim’, I just know something about him ain’t right. I don’t want him or Curly to be the ones in it,” he must catch the confused twitch by your eye because he redirects his pointing toward the lounge where Jimmy and Anya and, most importantly, Daisuke are sleeping, “The thing might be big enough for you and Daisuke to jigsaw into place, and I’ll make sure it starts from the outside. Just gotta wait for Jimmy to stop fucking wandering,” then he sighs, mostly to himself but also for you.

He says, pretty evidently disappointed, 

“If there’s not enough room for both of you. I’ll be making sure the kid’s the one that gets in, you know?”

You think you do. You assume you do.

Something about a

[8 hours until judgement]

“Please, please, please please please,” you’re slurring all the consonants together, flurrying out each word as if they could save him, “Please! Please, Daisuke?!”

Daisuke responds the only way he can: writhing. 

His eyes are full circles of bloodshot white. Piercing through you ambivalently.

Malice and resentment, but also so so so much regret. Past all his grunting and squealing, no words have room to grow. Instead they stay buried with the rest of his feelings, deep in his chest right about where his lungs are filling with blood.

“Don’t leave me,” you gush, squeezing him on your lap. Devastated over a death you can physically feel coming. He’s getting so warm with all those weeping wounds, and he flexes with each passing breath -- every one taking more effort than the last, “Please, I need you. Daisuke…” 

He knew you were selfish. A little flighty, too. And as much as he wants to grant your pleas, this task is just a bit impossible.

You’re asking someone to live when there’s no remaining quality of life.

[1 month after the crash]

Page five, subsection Poison Control, paragraph one -Polle pledges that if any chemicals are out of stock without proper logging, personal credits will be docked from the crew pay package. To ensure something like that doesn’t happen, custodians are required to perform stock counts. Often. 

To distract yourself from the mounds of foam cobbling the Tulpar together, maintaining its air seal, you continue to perform this duty. Even if you’re sure it’s one of many less pressing matters.

“Ready and reporting for duty!” is what greets you. Daisuke pushing two fingers to his forehead with the other arm wound behind his back, a toothy smile parting his face, “Hi!”

“What’re you doing?” you skip past the intern, keying the walk-in open.

“Keep you company.”

“That’s against policy, you know? I’m supposed to be alone for this,” on the off chance he believes that you believe that, you force a tiny laugh out.

He takes the bait and shrugs, slotting against the gaping doorway. Picking and twisting his neon sweatbands absentmindedly. His eyes snaking after you, “Are you gonna snitch on me?”

Bending to lift a toppled bottle of blue, bubbly chemical -a motion you feel Daisuke thoroughly examine- you make a flippant hum, “I don’t see why I would.”

You spare all of two seconds trying to push the chemicals onto the top shelf -unsuccessfully- before your dear, sweet intern is charging into action. Bravely saddling up beside you and rolling up his sleeves somehow higher.

“Oh, you need help with that?” now Daisuke curls up behind you, already grasping the jug in your palms without any response.

Daisuke’s arms are not the biggest or broadest, but he’s certainly more capable than the aging Swansea or thin Anya. You’d just about rather die than approach Jimmy.

Besides, maybe the sight of his muscles flexing overhead is interesting. Bubblegum hibiscus flows around your waist and warmth flushes up your back. Hard chest rounding against your back, thick thighs nearly shuffling between yours.

Daisuke is breathing so heavily, but you don’t think it’s from any heavy lifting. Plump lips parted before he sucks his bottom lip between sharp teeth, eyes darting from your face -sickly in the pale freighter lights- to your own pulsing chest. Spindly fingers fumble out for your own, looping around the first two before he bravely snatches your entire hand. Scrubbing his thumb along your knuckle.

“Can we…” he has something in mind, and at the last minute you watch that pivot click behind his eyes, “Can we share a bed tonight?”

Smaller than the closet, you’re forced to slather Daisuke with your weight. Legs tangling and arm over his stomach. He’s got a hand up your shirt drawing shapes into your back; it’s about the calmest thing about him right now. Blunt nails crush the impression of lopsided, top-heavy hearts into your skin while his head is pin-straight forward. Gaze locked on the pumpkin-painted ceiling, the sunset projection across the room more interesting than saying anything he actually wants to.

“I feel like,” he has to close his eyes, visualizing himself on the edge of a cliff. Jumping off. If you don’t catch him, he’ll die anyway, “We do this a lot.”

“Cuddle?”

“Get close,” the pace of his breathing quickens, your head on his heart bobbing in rushed time, “And then we kinda pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Do we?”

“I think so,” he’s questioning himself even with a hand up the back of your shirt. Eyes squeezing harder until technicolor shapes are popping into little greyish stars, “I thought so, anyway…”

Mercifully, you lay a hand over his jaw, squishing round cheeks between thumb and forefinger. Scooching up on the lumpy medical mat to sweetly lay a kiss on his cheek. Instantly his face flares, the hand not shoved up your back latching onto your wrist -- squeezing but not prying, cooking your lips. The next moment his head falls and twists, lips puckered and sugary against yours. 

Hand slithering along your arm until he’s cupping your cheek, arm curling tighter around your waist. Nigh pulling you on top of him completely. Plying the fat of your thigh, working toward your ass with cute whines. Grinding tenting jeans into your leg with little distorted jumps.

You pull back, kiss his cheek, and murmur, “Goodnight, Daisuke…”

He sighs quietly but grins against your face and nods, “Goodnight…”

Hugging you tight, Daisuke rolls you two enough so he’s able to hang off you like a backpack with arms wound around your waist. Legs entwining with yours. He kisses along your shoulder before burying his face in your neck. You think something wet drips on your skin, but you don’t ask about it -- too scared of the response.

Daisuke is sweet and kind and you know he likes you. You like him too.

You squeeze the hand he has rested over your stomach.

You just don’t know how to like him without ruining everything you liked.

(at some point in the night, you’re woken by anya -- asking with just the tiniest bend in her lips- asking if you knew daisuke was in your bed. you would nod sleepily and she would wish you goodnight. daisuke, then, drowsily smiled and mumbled ‘what’s up anya??’. she ruffled his stiff, bleached hair and wished him goodnight too.)

*

[!] new message: stop fucking ignoring me and answer these

[sent by: sender outside    network. Please contactact captain if messages from unknown senders continue to route ot this machine do not espind. Do not respond. do not respond..]

*

[5 months after the crash]

The inside of Anya smells worse than the outside. 

A thought you never imagined you would actively have, but something that makes sense logistically. 

“Does logic help with team cohesiveness?” Polle asks over your shoulder.

In theory, it should.

“So how did your crew end up like this?” he sounds a little girlish, high-pitched and all. You think pointing that out could get you a visit to the HR office.

But also, the question is valid. How did you get back here, and at this point, is there a point to being back here? The rag is sopping wet and all the white threads have turned burgundy. Everything is so… ripe. Pungent. Pushing muck around the scratched tile. Everything not clinging to Anya seeks to stain you. 

Why are you here?

Polle answers: “Biohazards! You are the first line of defense between your crew and disease!”

A janitor is important, after all.

Nobody else wants to play in shit and blood and oil so it’s best they seal off the slimiest grub they can find to roll around in it. Who better than you? If you get sick it’s fine.

“That’s what you’re paid for!” Polle chirps. Giving a mock salute. Obnoxiously clicking his black hooves.

Which is why Anya appointed you the one to wipe the captain’s shit out of a bent bedpan. Which is why Anya gave you one last task: mop up the vomit she choked out. Whatever you can’t mop, everything on her clothes and skin and tangled into those petite little framing hairs, should be burned. For sanitation. 

“It’s about all you’re good for,” a deeper voice adds. Disgust grating each vowel.

Polle laughs behind the stiff veneer of his poster, nailed down years before you came here and no doubt hanging up long after you eventually croak. 

Looking up at the red man on the bed, you find him already staring down at you with that single bulging eye. The fucking nerve: leaving you all here, free to venture out. Free of your nastiest thoughts, free of the grotesque thanklessness of sucking puss out of an open wound. Free of the concern of where you’ll end up next.

Free to just die.

“What did you just say?” you snarl, an unfamiliar fire encouraging you onto your feet. On a bridge, staring into crystal waters at a fish floating belly-up.

All his crispy lungs can get out is a quiet moan. Pained at the center. Gooey in all the wrong ways.

“Why did you watch Anya die?” his gaze darts down to your hands, now balled in blistering fists, “Why were you the last one she talked to?” he refuses to look back into your face, “And why does Daisuke want your fucking approval so much? And why is Jimmy obsessed with keeping you alive?” unsteadily your volume has risen, yet startling even yourself when you’re shouting. The cockpit safety gun -that spontaneously disappeared not long before the crash, that you’re pretty sure you spotted just now beneath his bed- would be comfortable in your hand right about now, “Maybe our crew would’ve been better off if we just fucking ate you!”

Curly’s chest convulses wildly. Now he’s looking you in the face.

Polle says: “Play nice! *unrest amongst the crew requires befitting punishment from the Captain, and will dock personal credits from the crew pay package.”

He looks afraid. Squirming away from your cinched hands and huffing inconsistently. Like he’d cry if he could.

Sympathetically, you crumble to your knees, bent over his bed and hugging the sheets while dry-heaving self-loathing, “I’m sorry- I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it!” you hack, snot and salt mingling in the back of your throat, clogging it as you rush to spew, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry- I didn’t mean it, Captain, I didn’t - sorry! I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit’s one year older for you, Captain! [6 days before the crash]

How’s it feel?” you tilt your head, bumping both brows lightheartedly.

“Surprise!” Jimmy jeers from beside you, arms folded.

“Surprise!” Daisuke copies, “Look at your face!”

“Gotcha!” Anya giggles, dainty hand curling over her mouth.

“Cheers!” Swansea, despite his eagerness to appear unenthused, is the loudest after Daisuke.

“Uh. Wow,” Curly blinks, shaking his head. You hope just clearing the adrenaline from his system… you wouldn’t think this party could be that much of a startle.

Unless something else had completely overridden his mind, he should’ve known this was coming.

Swansea was last year, after all, and your crew always moves the parties in a routine circle.

“Last year must’ve been wild, huh?” Daisuke nudges you with an elbow.

“Huh?” you wonder if he could read minds. You beam the number four into his third eye, waiting to see if he’ll snag the bait.

He doesn’t, confirming two possibilities: he either does not read minds or is committed to keeping his powers a secret. In both scenarios, you have no choice but to move on, so you do.

“Last year, I can’t believe I missed it! You guys got Swansea,” he points across the room, some would call it rude but you think it’s just another harmless Daisuke-ism, “Wish I could’ve seen him get loose!”

The old mechanic grumbles a vague threat to keep you silent.

“It was fun, he ate three whole slices of the company cake and puked. Real party animal shit,” while Anya recounts how Swansea stumbled over himself as everyone screamed ‘surprise’, you whisper to Daisuke, “I actually made the cake last year. Captain was too busy filing reports from corporate.”

“No way!” he hisses back, “You know the sweetener code?”

“Uh-huh, take notes,” you mimic a notepad and pen in your hands, “2-3-4-1. It was the first thing I scammed my way into memorizing on this stupid ship,” perhaps a bit unwise you’re just telling some new intern this, but oh well, “Captain pretends he doesn’t know.”

An overly dramatic hum breaks out over your shoulder, making you jump in place as a deep voice quizzes, “What’s that?”

Recovery is simple enough, you just twine your hands bat your lashes, and beam, “Ohhhh, nothing, Captain!”

He seems a bit out of things as he laughs. That usual spark in his eyes long faded and lips not quite quirking the way they used to. Even just a single day ago, his face seemed brighter.

Even as he brings the cake to your crew, sat around the cheap table. Anya and Swansea are on one side, across from you and Daisuke. Jimmy at one head by Anya. And Curly at the other by you. 

“Speech! Speech! Speech!” Daisuke chants, encouraging you to join.

Swansea grins, lackluster and slight but full of mirth he would never show, leaning his chin against folded hands, “Yeah, captain.”

“Can’t be a party without a speech!” Anya giggles, head turned fully toward the blonde, “We won’t let you get out of it!”

Before Curly’s mouth opens, even a little, the man on the other side of the table prompts:

“What’s wrong?” Jimmy scours his friend with those wooden eyes.

Curly can’t maintain any mask in front of the slightest prodding, let alone from Jimmy. . . .

that’s all it said on the report from management we will receive the paycheck for this delivery I don’t know any more than that

Silence gnaws at the table before Swansea braves to break it: pony express finally kicking the bucket huh what a joke and we’re the punchline

You blink. The back of your neck is freezing cold. Your throat is too tight to swallow any saliva, so you let it all pool in your mouth.

i don’t have any savings they can’t just do this right

Anya’s voice wasn’t always so shrill, was it?

Are your ears melting off? They’re burning hot enough, you think. The temperature clash makes you push a shaking hand into your gut. Tissue bubbling beneath your palm.

A hand joins the one you aren’t pushing against your stomach, coaxing your nails out from puncturing your chair’s armrest. Daisuke squeezes your hand, turned away from Swansea in favor of studying your troubled face. Each minuscule slacken surveyed by him, he can pinpoint the exact moment your crewmates’ voices stop sounding like bland static impersonations and start sounding like themselves again.

Unfortunately, that exact moment is when Jimmy asks:

“When did they tell you?”

You actually look at Curly for his response, and Daisuke decides that maybe he should look over too. At least seem a little invested in anything that isn’t your obvious unrest.

“Earlier this week,” each body not belonging to Daisuke flinches at the brutal honesty, which he supposes is fair, “I was instructed to wait until we’re closer to the haul destination. But I can’t keep something like this from you all…”

“So, I guess you got what you wanted. Without the guilt.”

Not exactly the shot you assumed Jimmy would be taking, but you can’t say you disagree with it.

Captain Curly constantly had this greyed look in his eye. Watching a movie he could recite the ending to. Maybe even one he dreaded having to sit for again.

For a long time now, you’ve suspected he wanted to move on. Who better to confirm it than the longtime friend, co-pilot Jimmy?

“I can get back to my…” the brunette snorts inauthentically, “How’d you put it? ‘Struggle of a life’?” he swings a rabid arm across the table, “Anya never got into medical school because she’s, well, let’s be real. And how many employment years Swansea got left in him?” he sneers towards your more youthful half of the table, “Daisuke will be fine, mommy and daddy have him covered. So there’s that at least! And that one won’t be out of work for long, huh? Anybody could do that job, and everywhere needs it. Only worry there is finding the right dump desperate enough to hire a burnout!” Jimmy slumps back into his chair, leveling Curly with an almost painful glare, “But you. Headed for bigger and better, right?”

Curly clenches both fists, sighing through his nose and head shaking, “I’m just,” he blinks too hard, each drop visibly manual, “I’m just working on my life being a place I don’t have to fucking escape! That’s what I was trying to tell you: nothing more!”

Jimmy bangs a fist on the table before swiping it across to display you all, you and Anya recoil at the unexpected motion as he declares, “We’re the ones you’re trying to escape! Leave the dirt behind now that your boots are clean!”

“That’s not what I meant!” hearing Curly raise his voice is sickening. You turn your hand on the rest to now be the one squeezing Daisuke.

“That is what you meant,” Jimmy asserts, “You just couldn’t frame it to yourself in a way that kept you as the hero. Abandon the crew and make your escape.”

“What else could I do?!” seeing him so desperate, clawing for a way out of Jimmy’s needling like a declawed cat in plastic, has you doubling over yourself with a buzzing stomach.

Jimmy throws himself back into his chair at the head of the table, “Let’s have some fucking cake, hm? Props to the twilight crew of the Tulpar. Props to the captain and his new prospects.”

Even in a different light, you don’t know if you would’ve ever enjoyed here- hearing Captain Curly’s advancement from the Tulpar.

So when he looks to you for any cheap defense, you don’t find anything to say. You even congratulate yourself for not whimpering for him to talk the higher-ups out of this. 

Jimmy does not find your bravery as inspiring, and instead scoffs, “Even your codependent maid can’t talk you out of this.”

Ashamed, you sink into the seat. Only Daisuke’s grip keeps you from slithering onto the floor. Slimy and wet and pathetic. And whimpering for some kind of miracle that means this won’t really be the last time you work with your crew. You lay your hand in the hand Daisuke doesn’t pulse, his gaze solely on you: now hunting for the moment you pick yourself up. Or at least for an opening where he can manufacture it for you.

Curly’s knife clinks as he picks it up, sawing through plasticine sugar.

You don’t raise your head.

[8 hours until judgement]

“Please, please, please please please,” you’re slurring all the consonants together, flurrying out each word as if they could save him, “Please! Please, Daisuke?!”

Daisuke responds the only way he can: writhing. 

His eyes are full circles of bloodshot white. Piercing through you ambivalently.

Malice and resentment, but also so so so much regret. Past all his grunting and squealing, no words have room to grow. Instead they stay buried with the rest of his feelings, deep in his chest right about where his lungs are filling with blood.

“Don’t leave me,” you gush, squeezing him on your lap. Devastated over a death you can physically feel coming. He’s getting so warm with all those weeping wounds, and he flexes with each passing breath -- every one taking more effort than the last, “Please, I need you. Daisuke…” 

He knew you were selfish. A little flighty, too. And as much as he wants to grant your pleas, this task is just a bit impossible.

It’s bizarrely greedy for everything he could have to give, gobbling him down and demanding more. In a strange way he could only accept in death, he likes it. Wanting to reach up and fondle your cheek -- tackle some hair in his fist and yank you onto his level -- Daisuke flails his hand up with a whimper and gargle. Blood spitting onto your shirt.

Jimmy nearly trips over you with a full, unopened bottle of mouthwash in his hand. Cracking it open ferociously before dumping it over Daisuke’s gaping gashes, dowsing you in the process. Fresh mint horribly scars the inside of your nose.

Finally.

Captain Curly’s corpse stench is wiped straight out.

Relief.

Relief. He’ll live!

“You’ll be fine,” you weep, though, hard and ruinously, “You’ll be okay, Daisuke. It’ll fix everything,” but you can’t say what it is because you already know that if you do, you’ll be wrong, “It’ll fix everything!”

Mouthwash can’t fix this.

Your hand is still wrapped, bloody and sticky and aching, infected from sugar poured over deep glass cuts. Mouthwash can’t heal anything properly.

But you scream for it anyway, “Please don’t leave me, Daisuke…!”

Rattling footsteps shake you from behind, followed by a meaty hand on your shoulder, “Out of the way, kid, I’ll take care of him.”

“No!” you bawl, frantically clawing into Daisuke’s flowy pink shirt as he flounders on your lap, “Please, no, no nono!”

“Get to the pod,” he curses down at you. Lifting the axe despite how you and Jimmy scream at him to stop, stop just listen fucking listen stop it stop!

Daisuke’s body lurches against your thigh. Pelvis jumping once. Chest sputtering twice. All ten fingers twitching.

Followed by punctuating silence.

Jimmy yells, as Jimmy always does. You don’t catch any of it.

The sight of Daisuke’s body was too captivating. 

Swansea’s voice joins the mix, but he’s far away. Adults arguing overhead. Things you don’t care about nor do you want to hear. It takes you back to your childhood.

You wish you knew Daisuke back then, maybe you could’ve been sweeter with him.

And maybe someone better acquainted with the ship’s layout, like yourself, would’ve been a better choice for Jimmy. You’re not foolish enough for him to approach, but you almost pray you were. Younger and stupider.

Swansea said it himself. You have less quality of life. You’re the perfect candidate to die.

“Kid, I said get the fuck to the pod!”

Swansea butts you in the gut with the axe so hard you cough up stomach acid.

Rolling onto your back in agony before kneeling up, crawling out toward the hall as Swansea restrains Jimmy.

[7 hours until judgement]

The smell of death clings like a snarling dog to rope. Gnashing teeth growling around frayed, rotting strings. Blood and flesh slide off his bone as he lives. Painkillers could’ve dulled the sensation of twinging muscles but they don’t make him ignorant to the fact it's happening. Worse is the lingering stench of vomit. Which makes him feel worse than knowing he’s dying as he lives: Anya was his responsibility and now she’s had to take care of herself the only way she knew how. 

He can’t even be upset she took the rest of the capsules. She deserved them if it meant some peace.

Now he prays Daisuke is dead. For as short of a time as he spent with the boy, he knows him well enough to say he does not deserve suffering. And as Daisuke had to pull himself out of that collapsed vent, skin caught and shaved off by metal scraps, he was only suffering. 

He knows Jimmy very well.

He thought he did: but then, he should’ve expected this, right? If Jimmy was so capable of inflicting pain, then he should’ve seen those signs. He knew that Jimmy was unstable and mean-spirited and violent, but he never thought Jimmy could torture people.

Anya opened his eyes and he couldn’t. Function. 

With that knowledge came such overbearing responsibility that Curly froze completely.

And now, because of Jimmy, he has no choice except to remain frozen.

Even as you crumble into the room.

Even as Jimmy and Swansea’s voices slough down the halls, ringing through after you.

Curly wants to soothe your terrible hacking, wants to get you back home. You’re a misguided thing with some frustrating parents. You should get to find another gig.

So why are you going for the [PONY EXPRESS PERSONAL PROTECTION WEAPON] case?

[ISSUED TO CAPTAINS IN CASE OF UNREST AMONGST THE CREW]

He watches through one eye as you kneel by the bed. A glint of confusion passes over your face, and in the next instance is gone: your thumb scrolls over the clicking digits.

Every muscle in his neck convulses as he swallows. Slow and pained before it goes down.

The case does not open. He exhales.

You calmly seat yourself on the floor. Both hands grasp the metal box. Both thumbs meticulously click through each possible combination to open the lock. [6 hours until judgement]

Sixty excruciating minutes drag by before five fingers are snapping over the edge of the mattress. A distinctly metallic click follows. Hinges squeak apart, clacking against the frame of the bed with finality. A wobbly elbow pokes into sight before that clutching hand pushes up, dragging his whole body sideways as you yank the sheets with effort. Standing upon squiggling knees, downcast eyes linger beneath the bed -- he can’t see that far down. But he’s sure he already knows what you’re looking at.

Get it over with he wants to hiss Just shoot me. Don’t keep me in suspense.

Curly watches, heart thundering so hard into his ribs his entire chest shakes. Just shoot me already.

One pulsing eye, twitching muscle lining the organ. 

Your forearm writhes with a ‘click’, eyes heavy with discoloration. Somewhere between sinking into your skull and popping out like a cyst -- they finally rise upon him.

Somewhere between a pill-induced rest and knocking out beneath senseless, whole-body waves of pain. He prayed he’d just go cold after the third day, and now he’s not sure how long it’s been since Jimmy lashed out. 

Somewhere between upset and stoic, your face remains unchanged as you lay the hidden hand just by his bandaged arm. Silver glints angrily into his eyeball -- he’d flinch away if he could.

Just do it already he screams in his mind, but all that escapes are wheezy whistles Just fucking shoot me!

You already said you would, didn’t you?

It’d help everyone. Meat would make the crew happier than when they still had those canned soups. That’s what you said. So just get him over with.

Slowly, your lips part -- eyes on his, and you draw the gun from the bed, laying it flat in your palm before turning the barrel. Finger snug around the trigger, teasingly curling tighter until it jerks in your hand, bucking into the meat of your palm. 

You pull tighter, until the gun is firing. 

Jerking your hand back; he can see that silver catches silver and clatters to the ground, but he can’t hear it. Can’t hear much of anything following the gunshot crunching through the back of your skull.

Iron pervades the room as soon as your body hits the floor. Brain matter clumped around the sliding med door, peeling off slowly and squelching onto indifferent tile. Bone shards sparkle from the puddling floor. 

You cleaned that floor just today. 

Who’s going to clean you up?

He’s self-aware enough to know why his first thought is something so callous and mundane, but he isn’t present enough to realize that heavy breathing -like a sprinter fresh off some marathon- is his. It startles him. Eye darting around the room to find the wind-sucking culprit, that sick bastard stealing all the oxygen must be the one! The one who shot you- he needs to find them- someone else in the room- 

Someone else, surely?

Someone not previously seen on the ship, right?

Someone he’s never met before, you know?

Because he met you five years ago, and he’s seen you walk up and down the Tulpar corridors countless times since he’s known you, and you wouldn’t do this. You’d never shoot yourself, he knows that.

Just like how he knew Jimmy would never hurt anybody.

As if sensing those condemning thoughts, his dearest friend runs into the room just then. Wide-eyed and ripping the gun from your hand without a teary blink, screaming, 

“Swansea’s gonna fucking kill us!”

Curly can’t see straight -blurry green splotches zig-zag around medical. He must not be seeing straight; no way he could be because Jimmy would also never kick aside the corpse of some unfortunate kid. 

Swansea shouts the name of his co-captain.

Curly feels the laugh bubbling between his ribs before he even registers it's coming out. Raw throat croaking and exhales biting exposed nerves.

It’s just too funny- everything, really- it’s hilarious.

So funny he could just about throw himself into open space.

[!] new message [!]

Amber sands sink beneath your feet. And long ways above you, itching cloudless vermillion skies, are hot pink hibiscus flowers with gold stigma scraping even higher. Each flower casts wide shade from the sun -- it blares at you, dull vibrating from all directions that makes you so very deeply nauseous. It sounds distressed.

Dark ocean, frothy and black, still sparkles over the coast. White sprinkling far into the horizon. 

Shiny onyx beads pop out of the vibrant sands; scorpions driving in lines down toward the coast.

All you hear is the gentle crashing waves.

Then a wavering voice, no distinct syllables, just a nonsense song. You turn, and there’s a picnic basket on a pink gingham blanket. You know the voice comes from inside. No matter how roughly you shove your feet through the sand, you’re slowed to a near standstill. But the basket waits, assuredly so.

Flopping onto the soft cotton, your eyes flutter shut with hands folded over your stomach. Lullaby waves coo you to blissful rest, and the voice inside the basket praises your hard work.

This could’ve been nice.

Peace and quiet.

* *

[five years ago]

“And this is the internal system for messages,” his lips press a bit too firmly, that universal misalignment saying you’re not gonna like this, “I’ve only ever seen it used for custodians. Specific requests and all.”

“So, like, if somebody fucks the medbay but that’s not on my schedule, they just get to message me here? Like an email?”

Curly jumps at your swear before nodding slowly, “Uh, yeah… Something like that.”

“I thought going into space, we were beyond email…” you step deeper into the dark closet, rusty shelves lined to the gums with white bottles, labels bubbling from age. Reaching out to tweak the receiver’s edge, tracing a single finger around the tiny screen, you raise a condemning brow.

“Well, we’re still just people,” the blonde watches in real-time as your amazed smile flattens and those stars in your eyes fade over with rippling fluorescents, “Most advanced part of the Tulpar is the idea it exists,” he shrugs, “And maybe the fabricator.”

“Fabricator?” that makes you grin again, “No shit- we got a fabricator?”

Your language could use some work, but that wide fucking smile reminds Curly of when he was starting out -- sure, his uniform still had more specs back then, and sure he was in a much better position. But still, he was just a kid (only nine years older than you now but sure, a 27-year-old kid) impressed by the idea of floating through the stars without realizing it wouldn’t be too different from earth life. Besides the fabricator, at least.

“We do,” he confirms, stepping back from the 6x7 foot closet with ‘CUSTODIAL OFFICE’ printed across the front in chipping white paint, already pivoting down the hall suspecting you want to witness the machine posthaste, “You want to see it?”

“Yeah!” you cheer, slamming the door shut behind you before speeding toward the lounge, calling back, “It’s gotta be in the kitchen, right?!”

* *

[!] no new messages [!]

@toxycodone / @maniacpixiedreamboy + @penguite + @morbiddog + @whoresinatrenchcoat + @voidcat / @fortheharbingers

trying another horror fic a la bug sluts @ da clurb

[astroblis]

𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞

a/n: lowercase intended! been in an anime binge lately and am currently watching horimiya. its great honestly, it makes me feel so mushy bc me when !! but also i can kinda relate. sorry this wasnt proofread! if there are any mistakes lmk ;-;

characters: rtte!hiccup x fem!reader

tags: kinda angsty, unrequited (?) pining, intimate touches and moment (nothing nsfw)

word count: 1.5k

if you missed it, here's part one: can i be her?

the road to recovery was slow, and the mending of hiccup and i's relationship even slower. although i had forgiven him, there was an undeniable shift in how i acted towards him, whether it was intentional or not.

i had felt guilty about it, of course, but i couldn't force myself to go back to the way things were and pretend nothing had happened. even more so when i could tell that hiccup and the other riders picked up on it too.

after that incident however, something else had also changed. as subtle as it was (or tried to be), hiccup had begun doing things out of his own volition. small things like the soil in my garden being damp when i wake up, my medicine cabinets tidied and arranged how i liked it after a nap, or even my hut being spick and span, a still-hot plate of food awaiting me on my bedside table when i wake up.

it was strange to be on the receiving end of such actions. i had gotten used to helping the riders more than i had received it in return. so having hiccup do so much for me just because, induced emotions in me that i'm still quite unsure in how to handle.

today was spent patching up the riders after a grueling training session and a few accidents (mostly snotlout) and we make conversation as they tell me the new things they've discovered when they went adventuring a few days ago.

my huge cut had - thankfully - been steadily healing, the riders taking turns in making sure i wasn't doing tasks i wasn't supposed to. a few weeks since the incident and i could finally start walking around my hut with much, much caution.

taking this opportune moment of reprieve, i'm currently sat at my front porch, admiring the view of the sea and horizon off in the distance. i sipped quietly on my drink while wrapped in a blanket, the birds chirping and soft swaying of the trees my only company.

...that is until strong gusts of wind caused by a familiar midnight black dragon landed on my front yard, along with his ever-familiar rider in tow.

"[name]! i come bearing new entries to my journal, along with snacks of course."

right. ever since my injury, hiccup had made it some sort of tradition to come and talk to me about things he discovered while out on adventures or simply reading up and researching on subjects he thinks would interest me.

he reasoned it as him hoping i wouldn't feel too lonely even though the other riders visiting routinely (which i soon figured out was coordinated by hiccup thanks to a slip of the tongue from tuffnut) had given me plenty of company since then.

hiccup took his seat beside me on the porch swing, making himself comfortable. offering the other half of my blanket and he takes it with a smile, scooting closer to me.

initially, i seemingly wasn't quite receptive of this tradition he had started; lack of responses, barely any indication that i was interested in whatever he was talking about. but the dragon rider hadn't exactly let it affect him whatsoever. he continued coming regularly, and talking enough for the both of us.

"hiccup." i spoke, softly and quite mellow, but it had stopped his rant completely as he turned to look at me.

i raised my head to look back at him, my eyes slowly dragging over his features. sweat beaded faintly across his brows as he also searched my face of any indication of emotion. he gulped, the action quite apparent, "yes?"

"are you doing all this because you feel guilty?" i questioned, my voice devoid of any accusatory tone, yet it made him flinch slightly in his seat. "if you are, then you shouldn't be, because i already forgive you."

he pursed his lips and brows furrowed as he continued to keep his eyes on me, clearly displeased despite my words. i felt a warmth slowly settle on my hand, looking down to find his hand grabbing onto mine.

my heart beat quickened, a soft yet steady heat creeping up onto my cheeks. for a moment, it had felt like we were suspended in time, the universe letting us have this moment that we've needed.

"even if you have forgiven me," he paused, his body turning to me and gripping my hand tighter, "i can't." he whispered, a soft tremble in his voice as i watched his eyes gloss over.

"i'm sorry. i'm so sorry." he almost weeps, his voice crackly and tears turning his eyes glossy. "i shouldn't have talked to you like that. been so - so caught up in my emotion that i just had zero regard for how you were feeling to how i was saying it." his voice shakes slightly, and my heart crumpled at the emotion.

gently setting aside my drink, i reached to hold his hands with both of mine, softly rubbing my thumb along the natural contours of the back of it. my throat felt tight, that same burning feeling in my eyes coming back, but i steeled myself and my voice to be able to say what i needed to.

"hiccup.. i understand, i really do." my voice had felt so fragile, like glass, about to break if more pressure is applied to it. "in the time i've spent by myself these past few weeks, i've come to a certain understanding and acceptance to the situation. and it's okay," i squeezed his hands, "i'm okay."

he subtly shakes his head no, one of his hands breaking free from mine and drifting to my wounded abdomen, past the hem and underneath my shirt. hiccup was quiet but his touch spoke more than his words tried to convey. my breath hitched at the action as he continued with his ministrations, yet his expression more spaced-out. i'm not sure what it was exactly, but i could tell he was heavily contemplating something in his head.

despite the gauze barrier, i could feel the heat of him emanating through it. it allowed that familiar warmth to bloom in my chest once again, the same warmth that only he seems to be the cause of. it had felt entirely too intimate to consider it as something friends do which only raised so many more questions and confusion in my head.

this wasn't normal for friends, right? is this something he normally does with the others?

i gulped down the lump in my throat, the thought of him doing the same thing to a certain blonde-haired viking setting an uncomfortable feeling in my gut.

before i could voice out any of my thoughts however, my eyes widened and cheeks warmed considerably once i felt his touch travel to my cheek. it was soft, almost feather-like, and comforting. his eyes glowed beautifully, the orange sunset reflecting onto his green eyes, effectively enchanting me with how beautiful it looked.

he kept his eyes on me, seemingly waiting on a sign on how i felt about the current predicament. seeing no protests from me, he continued on, now essentially cupping my face with both of his hands, his piercing eyes never leaving my face, flitting between my eyes and lips.

"hiccup..."

"hiccup!" a familiar voice cut through the silence and the trees, dispelling the intimate moment in an instant. i hurriedly moved away from his clutches, picking up my forgotten drink, as hiccup nervously fixes his hair and clothes.

astrid appears on the path in front of my hut, lax features and usual demeanor indicating that she didn't see whatever just happened between hiccup and i. "there you are. figured you would be here." she spoke, walking closer towards my porch.

hiccup laughed, notably a little more breathless than when he normally is, yet astrid doesn't bat an eye or pick up on it. admittedly, i spaced out as she rambled on, the scene before still playing over and over in my head.

hiccup's soft touches was still practically branded onto my skin, with how i could still feel the heat of his touch despite him being on the other side of the seat we were on. his actions had only made me more confused, swirling thoughts trying to reason why he did what he did yet none of them made sense.

what was that? was he...

i shook away the thoughts as i come back to consciousness back in time. "[name], i hope you don't mind that i'll be taking this guy with me for a little bit. i need his help on a few things regarding training." she spoke.

i nodded, plastering a small smile on my face but i turn to look at hiccup, silently torn on wanting him to go or letting him leave. his gaze was on me, searching my face but perhaps my features weren't translating my desire well, because he turns to astrid and smiles, "we can go, we were just finishing up anyways."

my heart cracks just a tiny bit, that same feeling that i felt a few weeks ago leaking through the cracks of my resolve little by little. but i force the smile back on my face, standing up to bring my drink back inside, the atmosphere now leaving a bad taste in my mouth.

they gather their things and leave side-by-side, and i also turn and huddle back into my hut, missing the longing look hiccup held to my disappearing figure.

DO NOT REPOST MY CONTENT ANYWHERE! i would love to hear any and all thoughts. mwah! have a great day!

quick access to my library.

[astroblis]

𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐢 𝐛𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫?

a/n: hi everyone!! thank you so much for 1k likes across my works! i was in actual disbelief when i got that notif. i thank you all so much for the love. i dont rly do celebration posts and such but i still thank you all sm for it ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡) i haven't had much chance to write this piece so its been sitting in the drafts for a little bit but!! i have a break coming up so im hoping to do some writing then. also this is not proofread so forgive me.

characters: rtte!hiccup x fem!reader

tags: angst, hurt/comfort, unrequited (?) pining, hiccup being angy, mentions of not eating and getting hurt, almost fainting, implied almost death (astrid), near death experience, fighting, blood (got wounded)

here's part 2: take a chance with me

The salty breeze wrapped around me like a comforting blanket, sounds of the waves crashing on the shore almost lulling me to sleep after such a long couple of days. Had it not been for the sweat rolling off me, or the ache in each movement, I would have no doubt fallen asleep.

"She almost died, [Name]!" his voice boomed, his gaze so piercing it had me pinned frozen in the clubhouse across from him.

"We had a plan and you didn't stick to it. Gods knows what would have happened if the rest of the team hadn't been there to clean up your mess," he looked at me, the disappointment so apparent in his eyes it burned through the protective barrier around my heart, "And now they got away with the Dragon Eye!" his hands banged on the table, the loud noise nearly scaring me half to death and causing me to jump in my spot.

Astrid almost died. Because of me.

My throat ached, feeling like it loathed with the body it was in, rejecting this emotion that coursed through my body so intensely. My eyes burned, so terribly that I had nearly convinced myself they were acid, all in an attempt to swallow down the emotions and hope to tuck them in a corner of my mind somewhere, never to be seen or felt again.

"Maybe I was a fool to think you were ready for this." he muttered under his breath, but I heard it so clearly and the rest of the riders did too.

The said blonde laid a hand on Hiccup's shoulder, silently asking him to take a breather and calm for a moment, but he only shook it off, the irritation still clearly running hot in his veins. He stormed off, hurriedly flying away with Toothless, not a single glance back at me.

Astrid only sighed, silently approaching me, and the rest of the gang stood motionless on the other side of the room. Even the twins were uncharacteristically quiet, which had unnerved me more than I had let on. She rubbed my shoulders, allowing me words of comfort but I hadn't heard any of it despite looking right at her.

I mumbled a few words before scurrying off, making a beeline for my hut and hoping to shroud myself in the four walls and indulge in isolation. I thanked Thor for a moment due to my hut being farther than the main base, giving me ample privacy.

My emotions had only caused me to hit the targets harder, to push myself further, until I was sure something like this wouldn't happen again. What if Hiccup was right?

My winged companion whined worriedly beside me but I was too far past the point of comprehension to even realize that I was littered in tiny cuts and bruises, and my limbs had ached for a while now. But I ignored it, not even close to being content with my progress in training.

I laid in my bed, nearly motionless for the past 24 hours. Not even the sound of multiple knocks and quips from the different riders, nor my stomach growling had given me any energy to move. All my windows had been shut, allowing little to no sunlight into the room. The darkness had allowed for me to continuously slip in and out of slumber, the time passing faster than I thought it was due to it.

By the third day, I had resorted to aggressively cleaning every inch of my house, not wanting to drown in the thoughts and providing myself with a distraction. I still hadn't opened the door but had at least opened a few windows to let in some light.

Hiccup coming to knock on my door almost had me stopping in my tracks, but I chose to tune him out, not wanting to deal with that whole situation at the moment. I needed time to process the emotions and think clearly and rationally before I could face him again. I needed to improve and be sure there's been a significant improvement before he can see me again.

It took me four days, four whole days, to allow the simmering emotions to bubble over and explode to whatever mess I had become now. On a random beach at another island, training like my life depended on it with virtually no one but my dragon as my witness, and it was comforting to say the least.

The guilt from Hiccup's words had hit me like a truck, the possible outcomes of my choices in the heat of the moment and how it had almost cost one of my closest friends' lives. It made frustration build up inside me with each missed blow, each kick, each strike.

I had gotten so absorbed in my own emotions that I didn't hear or even notice the multiple footsteps of unwanted guests on the same beach. All I heard was the violent roar of my dragon and I turned around to see one of the Dragon Hunters on the ground.

I readily hurried my stance, thanking the Gods I was already holding one of my weapons, and cursed to myself. 'Fuck how did they manage to sneak up on me? Was I really that distracted?'

My vision flit between the hunters as they slowly and carefully stepped towards me, their weapons glinting under the sun. I knew I was at a disadvantage, my bruised and battered body would not be able to out-fight all of them. So I have to be smart, and figure out a way to get out unscathed.

It was quiet as we only stared at each other. This was odd, I thought, why aren't they attacking? Before I could ask questions, a familiar voice caught my attention as he walked up from the ship and onto shore.

"Ryker." I spat. Gripping my weapon tightly, I glared at the man in front of me.

"Quite good timing that I catch you here alone, hm?" He smirked, crossing his arms as he looked down at me, "Take her and her dragon." He ordered, the men around him charging at me at once from all different directions.

Over my dead body, I thought, no way are they taking my dragon! "[D/N] let's go!" The sound of metals clashing and explosions were all I heard as I parried all oncoming attacks my way as best I could and so did my dragon.

Heavy breathing and heavy limbs were all I felt as I slowed and struggled to keep up with my enemies. In a moment of weakness, I felt a blade slash through my side. Warm blood quickly trickled down my hip as I screamed out in pain.

A loud roar was all I heard before seeing a big explosion and my enemies knocked unconscious onto the floor. My dragon wasted no time and hurriedly picked me up before flying away to return to the edge, narrowly missing the arrows being shot our way.

I breathed heavily, clutching my side with one hand in an attempt to stop the bleeding, and my other holding onto my dragon so I don't fall into the ocean. The ride had felt extremely long and I could feel myself slipping from reality as more blood poured from the wound.

Blearily, I looked around my surroundings as I felt myself being placed softly onto what smelt like grass. I barely recognized my hut in the near distance and the garden I was growing beside it as my dragon hurriedly grabbed medical supplies.

Thankfully he already knew which ones to grab from seeing me patch up the other riders over and over again, and brought over gauzes and pastes. I huffed and groaned, trying and dragged to prop myself on a nearby tree to properly dress my wound.

"[D/N], get me water... water please." I was feeling exhausted but I knew subconsciously that I couldn't fall asleep now, or it would create even more difficult consequences.

My winged friend quickly grabs and brings over a pail of water to me. Taking off my armor and lifting my shirt, which was already slashed through anyways, I assessed my wound and figured it hadn't gone deep enough to rupture any organs or I would have much worse symptoms.

While cleaning my wound, a soft thumping and pairs of footsteps sounded before they spoke. "[Name]? Where are you? What happened?"

I didn't speak, focusing on stitching myself up and not crying. [D/N] however quickly beckoned them over and they quickened their paces, soon surrounding me with their bodies. The riders were shocked upon seeing my state and Hiccup had briskly told all of them to turn away from me.

Familiar warm hands were placed on my arms, "[Name]," Hiccup spoke softly. My vision blurred and my throat tightened, making it harder to stop the tears from falling, "Let me help you with that. Please." His voice was small yet firm, a hint of pleading lying underneath. Yet it was still caring, and warm, and it filled the cracking crevices in my resolve as I pulled away to let him work.

"Astrid, refill the bucket. Fishlegs, grab me more gauze and paste. And get some of the stuff Gothi gave us." The two nodded, ambling away quietly as Hiccup diligently worked on my wound. "Ruffnut, Tuffnut, and Snotlout, grab one of her shirts and get her hut prepared." Surprisingly, there wasn't any complaints or jokes from the trio, only diligent nods and they went straight to work. Thus the only sound between us was the soft rustling of the trees in the wind, and my voice hissing at the pain of being stitched up.

"It was-" I gulped, trying to swallow down the burning feeling, "It was Ryker." Hiccup's hands stopped only for a moment and stayed quiet, so I took it as a sign to continue.

"He-He ambushed me. While I was on another island, training." I added, however the pain had teetered into being unbearable causing a whimper to escape my throat.

Luckily Hiccup had finished with the needle and moved onto wrapping it, an ever-present ache there but it was much better than the searing pain I had felt moments ago. Hiccup reached beside me and covered my chest with my torn shirt.

"I'm sorry."

I slowly blinked my eyes as I raised my head to take a good look at his face. His hair was disheveled, more than usual, and his under-eyes slightly darker. He had this seemingly perpetual small furrow in between his brows.

But his eyes were still that beautiful green that I had fallen in love with at first sight. One could argue that his slightly bloodshot eyes complimented the green but I couldn't feel much happiness knowing it was because he was losing sleep over me.

His voice was quiet, dripping with sorrow and regret and it had me pursing my lips, my heart feeling tight.

"I'm sorry I said those things. They were out of anger but they don't excuse how it had hurt you." he continued, his pinky carefully linking with mine. He was testing the waters, afraid I would push him away once more but to be honest, I was too tired to even formulate a response.

"Hiccup..." I whispered, softly curling my finger around his. He looked into my eyes, hesitant to hear what I would say.

"I'm tired." I breathed out. My eyes blinked often, already on the verge to dreamland. He nods wordlessly, picking me up with barely any effort it seems, and bringing me inside my hut. Thankfully it seems like the twins and Snotlout have already finished with cleaning up my place.

Hiccup helped me into the shirt they picked before tucking me into my bed. His hands were comforting, brushing away loose hairs from my face. But it was fleeting, much like most of his touches towards me. Like it burned him, or he was disgusted by it.

He makes sure I'm settled well but before he could get comfy on the edge of the bed beside me, Astrid's voice is heard through the door. "Hiccup?" she calls, and his head quickly whips to the direction of her.

A small frown creeps up onto my face yet thankfully Hiccup only thinks of it as caused by my injury when he turns back to look at me. He smiles, a little unsure and an unfamiliar emotion in his eyes, as he reaches out to tuck a stray hairs away from my face.

"Sleep well. I'll be right here." he murmured. I only heard the soft sound of wood creaking and warm, green eyes before falling asleep.

note: guys,,, i've been gone so long?? literally ive been so busy T-T also got friendzoned before the summer so that was great. ANYWAYS!! if u liked this, i would so love to hear ur thoughts. and!! there may or may not be a part two to this too hehe

[astroblis]

bumps and bruises • model! taerae x volleyball player! yn

featuring! natty of kiof, karina and ningning of aespa, tsuki of billlie, and hanni of nwj

summery! taerae has been a well established model but his soulmate is making it pretty damn hard to land a job lately when they're constantly getting a bump or bruise or every time your soulmate receives an injury, the other person also receives it

other! smau, kms/kys jokes, mentions of injuries, i havent played volleyball in 3 years so my terminology might not be correct, mature language and themes, ill add more as i go along

started ??? ended ???

tags are open!

warm ups!

genderbent haikyuu + paying with face card + teaser

──────────────────

one. distortion two. contusion three. tendinitis four. stress fracture five. edema six. hematoma seven. concussion eight. lesion

[astroblis]

after classes with zerobaseone maknae line υ´• ﻌ •`υ

pairing shen quanrui (ricky), kim gyuvin, park gunwook, han yujin + gn reader⠀⠀⠀details fluff, diff tropes and scenarios for each member, established relationship (ricky, gunwook), f2l (gyuvin, yujin)

cw none ⠀⠀⠀wc 699 748 654 787 respectively (2888 in total)⠀⠀⠀reading time 12 min

note if you are the one who liked this post when tumblr accidentally posted it you are a real one but i am sorry you had to see that. anyway ... this is my return to zb1 tumblr since 2023 + short explanation! ricky’s and gunwook’s fics are calmer because they’re in established relationships, to give off a sense of constancy - gyuvin’s and yujin’s are exaggerated because they’re not, to give off infatuation 🙏🏻 these r not very good but i hope you like them!

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ricky 리키

RICKY HAS not once had a problem with picking you up in his car, despite not going to the same school. You’d always wondered how he found enough time and energy after classes to endure the twenty-kilometer, forty-five-minute drive from his school to yours, especially with how prevalent and severe the traffic was in the city you lived in.

You’ve repeatedly told him—borderline reprimanded—that he’s never had to do this, and that you can make the effort home all by yourself. Ricky’s always replied with a shrug and an excuse about how he likes doing this for you, even if your high schools were in completely opposite directions from the heart of the city.

As your class ends today, you fully expect him to be there, waiting in front of the gate in his wildly expensive bright red car (which used to embarrass you slightly when he pulled up, but you’ve gotten used to it) with a warm smile on his face and a drink in hand for you. Amongst the hurried footsteps of your peers, you manage to find a way past them and straight to the exit, eager to find your boyfriend’s familiar face in the crowd of other students dismissed the same time as you.

It might sound a little hypocritical of you, but even though you didn’t hold it to a standard of Ricky to pick you up everyday, it still made you feel happy inside whenever he did—which has been everyday since the new semester started.

Without fail, the moment you step outside the bounds of campus, your boyfriend is there waiting for you in the expensive bright red car you expected him to be in, with two strawberry lattes in his front seat cup holders visible through the window—one being intended for you.

He unlocks the door as you walk up, waiting for you to fasten your seatbelt and settle in before he shifts the gear stick to drive.

“How was your day?” he inquires, coming to a halt at the first stop light. He pulls the straw of your latte from its spot in the small compartment on the door panel, poking it through the wrapped paper and putting it into the drink for you.

You take a sip when he hands it to you, gulping down before replying. “Good, actually! My teacher was sick and didn’t show up, so I had an entire period to catch up on assignments,” you say. “What about you?”

“Good now that I’m with you,” he answers, shrugging. “My presentation didn’t really go so well, and I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

The school he attended was a notoriously strict, high-standard international school that was practically established to cater to company heirs and others alike—and Ricky was no exception to that. However, it meant that he was also held to a higher standard than most students the same age, and you knew that your schedule and school were more lax than his.

“Let’s get some sleep,” you suggest. He simply hums in agreement as the traffic light turns to green, putting his focus back on the road while accelerating.

You get to Ricky’s house not long after that, greeting his mom before making a beeline to his room. You both sneak under the covers of his bed, and take a minute to talk a bit more about each of your days before settling in fully.

Your boyfriend’s hesitation is palpable, and you’re sure it’s because he feels a little guilty for sleeping when you would usually spend time (awake) together after classes. But his eyelids are betraying him, and his eyes are shutting as the conversation pursues, so you resolve to let him know it’s alright.

“You can go to sleep, I’m okay,” you assure him. “I’ll wake you up later.”

Ricky nods. “Thanks a lot, [Name].” He sinks down into the mattress a bit more. “I love you.”

“Just get some sleep,” you quickly respond. “I love you too.”

You often wondered how your boyfriend always had the energy to pick you up everyday, and today you got your answer—he doesn’t. He’s just been able to find the energy because it was you, and now you know how lucky you are.

gyuvin 규빈

GYUVIN’S UNSURE when this arrangement between the two of you started. It was majorly unspoken, even from the beginning—after class, you would follow the languid crowd of students to the main gate, and you’d find him waiting by the potted camellia plant placed adjacent to the cement post near the opening of the school.

Then, you’d stop by the 7-Eleven around the corner for your fix of ice cream (if you felt like it; if not, the row of frozen yoghurt shops and local coffee pop-ups across were just as inviting). He would offer—no, insist on paying—and you would engage in a back-and-forth about how it shouldn’t be this way, that you should just let him pay, because, you know... he wants to.

And then it’s bittersweet—literally. For some reason, you always pick some kind of wack flavour that Gyuvin has no interest in. Today, it’s limited-edition Baskin Robins espresso-flavoured ice cream in a 4-ounce cup. You probe him to try at least half a spoonful of it, and he does, noting the bitter top note of the taste. He also notes that you let him use the same spoon you used just now, which somehow makes the ice cream come off a bit sweeter on his tongue.

Gyuvin doesn’t remember when all of this became a daily thing. You weren’t even classmates a year ago, much less friends; how did this... happen between you two?

You’ve begun your trek home, side-by-side (him nearer to the street, of course), when he realizes this all started because you live two blocks apart. What he still doesn’t know, though, is why you’ve both kept this routine up for so long.

Whatever. Gyuvin shakes off the thought with a literal shake of the head, tuning back in to what you were saying. He divides the focus of his gaze between you and the path ahead.

“... I suck at the sciences, and, you know, Park Gunwook, all-knowing science genius is always out to get my top 1 spot in class. I’m so—” You groan. “Frustrated!”

He chuckles. “I’ll sabotage him for you.”

“Oh, sure you would. You’d sabotage your best friend’s grades for some classmate.” Rolling your eyes, the notion almost makes you laugh. Gyuvin’s cute when he jokes like this; he always says he’d do all kinds of things for you, and it’s clearly an exaggeration, but it also makes you insanely giddy to believe that he could really mean what he says for a second.

You lick the mini wooden spoon in your hand clean of any remaining melted ice cream. “I hope you don’t tell Gunwook any of this, by the way. I kind of need him to tutor me in physics,” you not-so-sheepishly add, nudging Gyuvin’s arm with your elbow.

“Yeah, he won’t hear anything from me. My loyalty lies with you only,” he jokes.

“I’d hoped so,” you reply.

Then, as per usual, the rest of the walk is silent—with many mumbled warnings from him whenever you cross the road. He’s made it a point to notify you of oncoming vehicles or any potential hazards (like a puddle you can slip in or an obstacle you might trip on). You’ve observed he’s always had that habit, and even though you’re well aware of the ground you walk on yourself, you don’t mind it too much; it just means that he cares for your safety.

Gyuvin’s house is short two blocks in the journey to and fro the school compared to yours, meaning your house is farther away and further behind his. Still, since the first time he walked you home, he’s never complained of the extra steps he takes past his house on the way to yours and the ones he takes back to his after he’s dropped you off.

Today is just like any other day. You arrive at your doorstep, and he hands you the backpack he decided to carry for you halfway into the trip home.

You sling a strap over one shoulder before looking up at him again. “Same time tomorrow?”

Gyuvin nods, a small smile on his face as he affirms your statement. “Same time tomorrow.”

He waits for you to close the door after stepping inside, and then he pivots his heel ninety degrees back towards his house. He’s sure it’s only him, and it must all be in his head, but the air between you has shifted. He might even know why he still chooses to walk you home after all this time.

gunwook 건욱

GUNWOOK AND your favourite time of day is the period just before dusk, when you’ve finished studying together for the afternoon and head up to the—more often than not—restricted rooftop of your school building.

You’re aware that your boyfriend can get in trouble (and perhaps lose his status as class rep) by sneaking up to a blocked-off area of the school, so these visits have become a lot less frequent over the past few months; despite this, you’ve viewed the rooftop as one of your favorite places even though you’ve only been there with Gunwook, and not as frequently as you did before.

To you, whenever you were up there with the boy you loved and held so dearly to your heart, time seemed to slow—you’d take your places on the floor, knees close to your chests as you stared up at the sky, awaiting the sunset and subsequent dusk to fall on you both.

There have been some days that have served as exceptions to the rooftop being exclusively your and Gunwook’s spot, though, like when you feel the desire to be there yourself on the occasion your boyfriend can’t join you due to a prior engagement—a day like today.

The rooftop offered a view of the Seoul skyline, with your school being established strategically near the middle of the city. The breeze was colder in higher places, and it ruffled your hair as it blew past you.

Gunwook assured you that he’d meet with you after he finished something up for the incoming school festival. You admired your boyfriend for being so hardworking and kind towards everyone, even when you and he both knew he felt pressured most of the time.

And at this moment in time—the rooftop doesn’t feel as special to you alone in comparison to when Gunwook is here to accompany you. The view is still breathtaking, and the winds hitting your face are refreshing, but time isn’t slowing down for you like it does when you’re with him. This is your spot together, after all.

A tap on your shoulder wakes you straight out of your thoughts, and you turn to see a smiley Gunwook preparing to sit down beside you on the floor. When he has, he inches closer to you so you can lie your head on his shoulder the way he knows you want to. Then, the motion of your hands finding each other is almost automatic; he begins to stroke the back of your hand in circular movements with his thumb.

“So, how long have you been up here, huh?” your boyfriend teases, flashing his gummy smile and earning a light chuckle from you. “Since you left me to go do your student council thing,” you respond, scoffing.

Gunwook laughs. “Hey, I think you’ll enjoy the school festival when it happens. We even got that bungeoppang seller outside that you like so much to come in,” he tells you, “I just have one thing to do on festival day—and then, after that, I’m free and we can sneak off up here.”

“What do you have to do on festival day?” you ask.

The boy next to you giggles, knowing that what’s about to come out of his mouth is too cheesy for how long you’ve been dating (which was about to be three years soon). “Take a picture with my [Name], of course.”

You can’t even begin to digest that overly exaggerated sweet statement, and you rip your hand away from Gunwook’s jokingly. “You’re so...” You shake your head in feigned disapproval. “Cheesy.”

“I am, but it’s only for you,” he says, beaming.

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” you brush it off, lips curving into an upward crescent. “If other people knew you said this kind of stuff to me, they’d never see you the same way again.”

Gunwook rolls his eyes, now throwing his arm over your shoulder. “I’m lucky it’s just us here then.”

yujin 유진

YUJIN’S BEEN athletically inclined since elementary school, and you’d be lying to say you weren’t envious of him sometimes. With training and his becoming popular overnight when the first semester of tenth grade started, though, it’s undeniable that he’s been perpetually busy.

So, whenever your long-time best friend does get the time to spend with you, you make the most out of it and do something memorable together; however, you could never really tell when his high school varsity coach would schedule a last-minute training session and ruin your plans.

Today is... unfortunately one of those days. You’d taken a bit of time to plan a hang out consisting of a late afternoon stroll through the park, then dinner at a restaurant you stumbled upon recently Yujin hadn’t tried yet but served his favourite food. You knew this was all in vain, though, when just as the bell rang, you found him at the foot of your classroom door, holding a drink from the vending machine as an “I’m sorry” gift to express his regret (and guilt).

He grins an awkward, strained grin when you make eye contact. “[Name], I know you had something planned out today, but—”

“It’s okay, Yujin. We can do it another time,” you say, taking his hand in yours and starting to walk away from the door.

“Really?” he questions. “I hate doing this to you, and I’d spend all my time with you if l could, because, you know, you’re...” he pauses, visibly deliberating what to say, “you’re my best friend, and I don’t want to make you feel like our friendship is one-sided because it’s not, I don’t want it to be, and we’ve been friends since middle—”

Due to the frequency of this kind of thing happening, you’ve grown accustomed to it. The first few times your best friend bailed on you, you felt hurt (and maybe upset), but it’s happened enough times now that it doesn’t faze you anymore.

You stop in your tracks, facing Yujin. “It’s really okay,” you repeat, dropping his hand. You understand that he has his own obligations, and you could take no other course of action than to give way; moreover, you’d known for a while that since approaching high school, your friendship would be different. Things were bound to change, anyway.

He winces. “Are you sure?”

“I am,” you answer. “I’ll wait for you.”

“Okay.”

You decide to spend the two hours Yujin’s at practice to finish all your due assignments—but it’s hard to devote yourself entirely to organic chemistry when all you can do is think of him. You’d liked your best friend since the summer of ninth grade.. and you’re in eleventh now. Evidently, you’ve never told anyone, much less Yujin himself, and it’s starting to take a toll on you... and so does simply thinking about it. So, to avoid giving your feelings any more thought than you already have, you put down the black Muji pen you’ve been using to revise your notes and surrender to sleep.

When Yujin finds you, your eyelids are closed and you’re lying down on your left arm, head turned to the right. The homework he presumes you were trying to do is sprawled out across the table messily, but your pen still has a place in your hand. He wonders how long you’ve been asleep, mimicking your position this time facing you. Not long after, he falls asleep staring at you.

When you wake up, your eyes feel like they’ve been glued shut. You can’t flutter them open as easily as you usually can, and even when you do, your vision is clouded and hazy. Still, you can make out the sleeping Yujin resting his head on his forearms and facing you—sure, your eyelids had a hard time fluttering, but your heart didn’t (as cliché as that sounds). Sitting up, you click your phone on and discover that it’s an hour past the time he finished practice. He must’ve fallen asleep waiting for you to wake up; you fell asleep waiting for him.

You know you should probably wake him up, but you can’t help it and rest your head back down onto the table anyway. He looks really... calm this way; it’s nice. Your gaze flickers from one facial feature of his to another, then another, and so on. And then, suddenly, you remember why you’ve liked him for this long.

Yujin slowly wakes up, rubbing his eyes and running a hand through his hair as he does. The second he becomes aware that you’re awake too, he jolts up.

“Come on, [Nickname]. Let’s go get dinner,” he invites.

You’re packing your things into your backpack when Yujin, who is standing awkwardly off to the side, interrupts. “I’ll skip practice next time—I’m sorry.”

[astroblis]

I'M SLAPPING MY DESK, SHUT THE FUCK UP THAT'S SO CUTE

NEW YEARS KISS

“your best friend decides to volunteer when you complain about not having anyone to kiss on new year’s eve!”

pairing: bff!gyuvin x gn!reader

genre: fluff!!, friends to lovers!!

warnings: reader is somewhat of a romantic (?), reader is also said to be a little inexperienced in terms of dating!!, a little (implied?) jealousy from gyuvin, seunghan cameo (1. FREE HIM!! HE DID NOTHING!! 2. he was the first non-jebi guy i thought of <3), they’re cute <3, this is nawt my best work i literally wrote this on new year’s eve while with my family 😭

notes: HAPPY NEW YEAR MY POOKIES!! i hope all of you have an amazing, healthy and happy 2024 🥹🫶🏻 may all your goals come to fruition!! also, i’m very excited for a new year with my jebis, may they continue to thrive and be as happy as they can be <3 also, hope wakeone burns down xoxo MWAH LOVE U ALL <33 ALSO!! i picked gyuvin for this bc some knetz are pissing me off currently with their stupid hate for gyuvin, so i decided to write this bc i LOVE KIM GYUVIN!! IF YOU DONT MAY GOD STRIKE YOU DOWN

word count: 1.6k

you don’t mind being single, really. it’s not really the ‘being single’ part that makes you feel weird, but rather just…not getting to have the same experiences as your friends. always having to sit and nod along when they talk about a date they went on, or how they celebrated a holiday with their partner. it’s exhausting being surrounded by couples all the time. they’re all your friends and you’re happy for them, but when it comes to events like this, you really wish you’d have more single friends.

new year’s eve is supposed to be fun, filled with laughter and loud excitement for the coming year — it is all that, but it’s also you watching your friends huddle together once the countdown to midnight starts, sharing sweet nothings before celebrating the new year with a sickeningly sweet new years kiss.

all while you kind of just stand there, celebrating the arrival of yet another year on your own. for those few lips-locking seconds, at least. is it a little silly to feel left out? of course, but is it really that absurd to want to experience a new years kiss just like everyone else? well, you don’t think so. gyuvin, your best friend, sees things a little differently, though.

“it’s so stupid, i don’t get why you’re so hung up on it,” gyuvin huffs past his snacking on some chips, throwing you a sideways glance. “just think about it, most of them have a different new year’s kiss every year. does that seem like something you want?” you roll your eyes, snatching the bag of chips from his hands. “you don’t get it,” you stuff a handful of chips into your mouth, “it’s romantic. it’s like saying ‘i have no idea what the new year will bring, but at least i will always have you.’ you’re not romantic enough for this.”

gyuvin just gives you a skeptic look, turning his attention back to the drama playing on your tv. it’s silent for a while, both of you a little lost in your respective thoughts until gyuvin quietly speaks up, “does it really bother you? that you don’t have someone to….” he trails off, voice a little unsure. his voice is sincere and doesn’t have the teasing tone it had earlier so you’re a little caught off guard.

you clear your throat, answering in an equally small voice, “well…yeah, kinda? i don’t know. i just think it would be…nice, for a change, you know? i want to experience stuff like that too, instead of just always watching from the sidelines.” gyuvin nods, seemingly understanding where you’re coming from, and that was that. for now, at least.

you didn’t think much of that little one off conversation, neither of you bringing it up again in the weeks that followed. though, unbeknownst to you, that seemingly unimportant conversation kept knocking at the back of gyuvin’s mind every single day. he thought about it an embarrassing amount, really. he kept telling himself that it was because he thought you were being silly, and all those times he thought about being the one giving you your new year’s kiss were definitely nothing more than fleeting, stupid thoughts. nothing more.

which is why gyuvin is so conflicted when he walks through the door of your little friend group get together on new year’s eve, bags of snacks in hand, only to see you laughing with a guy he hasn’t seen before. there’s an unfamiliar feeling bubbling in his chest and he almost involuntarily thinks back to your conversation, to the fact that you really want to kiss someone once the clock strikes midnight — and it starts to mess with his head.

he’s quickly roped into a conversation with ricky and some of his other friends, though his eye seem to be glued to you instead of the people talking to him right in front of him; his eyes drifting back to you giggling along to whatever that strange guy was talking about every few minutes, the unsettled feeling in his chest spreading all over his body. “are you even listening?” gyuvin’s attention is ripped away from staring holes in that guys head when ricky addresses him directly, ricky’s hand on his shoulder bringing him back to reality.

“yeah, sorry.” the smile on gyuvin’s face is tight, ricky glancing to where you’re still speaking to the guy and it all makes sense to him. he sends gyuvin a sympathetic look and tries to keep up the conversation, though it’s clear gyuvin’s mind is entirely preoccupied.

when the calls for new snacks start, gyuvin immediately volunteers to filling the bowls back up in the kitchen, if only to avoid his eyes from drifting back to you and the guy — whose name is seunghan, he learned — and in turn dampening his mood even further. today is supposed to be fun, why is he moping around like this?

“what did the chips do to you? you’re practically glaring ar them,” gyuvin’s head whips around at your voice, the playful smile on your face lifting some of the heaviness in his chest when he sees you standing in the doorway.

“oh, hey.” gyuvin gives you a small smile and goes back to his snack duties while trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, “who’s the guy you’ve been talking to? you bring him along?”

shaking your head you reach over to steal a handful of cheese puffs gyuvin had just emptied into a bowl, “not me, but ahrin. his name is seunghan and she has her eye on him,” you mumble, “he’s funny and they both seem to like each other.” gyuvin nods, hand absentmindedly playing with his sleeves, “you think she’ll go for the new years kiss with him?” gyuvin asks, and you can tell he regrets the question as soon as he asked it.

you just shrug silently, the sudden mention of the kiss rendering you a little speechless. “ and you? you got anyone to kiss this year?” gyuvin says in an overly sarcastic tone, seemingly in an effort to loosen the tension a little. you snort at that, “ha ha, very funny. leave me and my romantic aspirations alone,” the lightheartedness in your voice makes gyuvin relax a little, and just when he’s about to speak, someone bangs against the kitchen door, demanding your attention.

“c’mon you two, we’re playing some games,” matthew calls before rushing back to the living room. you and gyuvin share a short glance before loading up on all the snacks and following suit, excited for the mess that is most definitely about to ensue.

two screaming matches, one round of (rigged, according to hao) just dance, three bowls of snacks and dozens of tears spilt through laughter later and the almost dreaded countdown to midnight is inching closer. the couples are slowly starting to separate from the group again, looking for an area that is less crowded and a little more romantic. your high mood is slowly starting to go down, the feeling of once again being the third wheel, in a way, accompanied by this off-putting feeling of loneliness in a room full of your friends bringing the self-doubt at the back of your mind to the forefront again.

gyuvin plops down next to you, stretching his long limbs with a groan, “god i hate sitting on the floor,” he looks around, the amount of couples in your friend group only now really hitting him, “damn, is that kiss really that important?” it was a rhetorical question, really, and he was speaking to himself more than anything, yet you turn to scowl at him.

you open your mouth to go on a rant about the lack of romance in gyuvin’s mindset when he suddenly turns to you, cheeks a little flushed but eyes filled with determination, “i’ll do it.”

you blink at him, “huh? do what?” gyuvin swallows, “kiss you. give you the new years kiss you want.” it takes a second for his words to register, before you splutter at him incredulously, “what— gyuvin why would we—“

“okay, time for the countdown! ten!” you hear from the other side of the room, and panic starts to fill gyuvin’s expression. “because i want to. i’ve been thinking about it ever since you mentioned it, and—“

“seven!”

“you said it was like saying that i have no idea what the new year will bring, but at least i will always have you, right?” his eyes search for yours, his pupils shaking and you nod, still a little stunned.

“four!”

“that’s exactly i want to tell you. so please—“

“three!”

“i want to be the one to give you your new years kiss. if you want—“

“two!”

and then, it happens. you grab his face and pull him close, hesitation for just a millisecond before your lips meet right as it reaches midnight. the fireworks outside colouring the sky feel almost pathetic in comparison to the burst of emotions exploding in your chest, it’s warm and fuzzy and just feels so right.

both of your faces are flushed bright red as your lips separate, but neither of you can keep from biting back the goofy smiles spreading on your faces. before you can even begin to think of something to say gyuvin leans back in, pressing another kiss to your lips.

and another. and another…and another.

you only separate for good when your giggles break through the kiss, gyuvin’s hands cupping your face, “i’d say that was a pretty good start into the new year, no?”

[astroblis]

₊˚.༄ ginger tea - sung hanbin

this is very self indulgent because i was sick last week too :(( i can never keep sickfics short and sweet because i'm a sucker for whump, this is very soft whump though ! my writing's still a bit rusty but it's getting better (i hope). also, i'm still not sure about the layout for my posts so i'm trying out different things, i'll stick to one layout eventually!

🖇️request

↬hanbin x gn!reader ↬2054 words ↬fluff, soft angst, one shot ↬tw: mentions of vomit, a little bit whumpy, not proofread

your muscles were aching, your head pounding like a bass drum and you could barely breathe with your stuffy nose. you had to be in class in an hour but getting out of bed was a daunting mission.

you rolled over, clinging to the warmth of your bed, hoping a few more minutes might work a magic fix. and, before you knew it, you were out like a light.

you’re woken up two hours later by the sound of your phone ringing.

"hey, where are you sweetheart?" you picked up the phone without even checking the caller. once you recognize the familiar voice, you immediately snap into a sitting position, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

"oh my god, bin, i’m so sorry i overslept," you confess. you hear background chatter and figure hanbin is already at the coffee shop for your study date. he promised to help you with your finals, despite his busy schedule.

hanbin's voice carries genuine concern. "it’s okay, your voice sounds tired, are you feeling alright?"

“i’m okay," you hesitantly admit, "just feeling a bit under the weather. i'm so sorry for making you wait."

you downplay your ailment, though you can never fully deceive hanbin; his perceptive nature sees through your attempt to minimize the situation. the guilt starts settles in.

"It’s alright, i'm coming over," he reassures you with his signature comforting tone. there's not a single trace of annoyance in his voice, even though he's been patiently waiting for you for the past thirty minutes.

"no! it's okay. I know you're busy, and you made time for me to help with studying, and—" you start to babble, but hanbin interrupts with a soft chuckle.

"my schedule's never too packed for you. plus, it gives me an excuse to escape practice." he speaks in that sing-songy voice you adore, prompting a genuine smile from you.

"well, in that case, i'm glad i could rescue you from the clutches of boredom."

he laughs, "exactly. I’m bringing some medication, tea and cuddles."

true to his word, a few minutes later, there's a gentle knock on your door. you’re greeted with a bear hug and whisker dimples.

“how are you feeling beautiful ?” you can't help but grimace at the pet name, your hair's a mess, you’re pretty sure there’s a toothpaste stain on your sweatshirt, and the fever's turned you into a bit of a sweat machine.

"i look awful," you grumble, stealing a quick glance at your reflection in the small corridor mirror. hanbin's eyebrows furrow, he's quick to interrupt your self-critique.

"you always look beautiful to me," he adds, a reassuring smile accompanying his words. he then, presses his palm against your forehead, seamlessly slipping into concerned-mom-mode. his eyes pop wide, and his lips pull a total 'o' move – the classic hanbin surprise face.

"you're burning up!" he exclaims, guiding you to the couch with a gentle urgency, concerned that standing might tire you out even more. your dizziness was palpable; even reaching the front door felt like a monumental effort.

"did you eat something since this morning?" hanbin questions while putting the grocery bags on the kitchen island, his focus shifting to the small pharmacy bag.

"no, i felt too nauseous," you admit, your voice laced with a hint of shame.

he pauses, worry etched across his features, but he swiftly transforms it into a warm beam, the last thing he wants is to make you feel bad. "no worries, love. let's get you cozy first,"

he disappears into your room, returning with a fluffy blanket and a pile of cushions. he arranges the cushions, making sure they cradle you just right. the blanket, soft and inviting, is draped over you, and he tucks its edges gently, creating a cozy nest.

you can't help but admire his simple yet caring gestures. there's a warmth in his eyes, a quiet assurance that makes you feel secure.

"better?" he asks, his eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort.

“yes, thanks bin, you're an angel” you grab his hand, trying to convey your appreciation as best as you can — can’t risk a kiss in your current state. hanbin takes your hand in his, and kisses each of your knuckles softly, you feel like your heart might explode. in moments like these, you wonder how you got this lucky.

“no need to thank me, now, you need to take your medication…" he makes his way to the kitchen and rummages through the grocery bags, revealing an array of medicine.

he hands you a cup of water along with a few pills and another cup filled with a suspiciously white liquid. "i know it looks like a lot, but the pharmacist promised it should work wonders,"

you nod reluctantly, eyeing the medicine-filled cup. you take a sip of the chalky liquid, the taste makes your face scrunch up in immediate disgust.

"ugh, it's gross," you whine, hanbin chuckles at your distaste.

"you did it! now, the water to wash away the icky aftertaste," he hands you the water with an encouraging smile. "bottoms up!”

you manage a small grin, appreciating his encouragement, and with a final gulp, you conquer the medicine ordeal.

"now, about the nausea, how about a little snack, you can’t take more medicine on an empty stomach" hanbin suggests, you manage a weak nod, grateful for his attention. as he heads back to the kitchen, you can't shake the lingering discomfort; the idea of ingesting any food makes you feel even more nauseous but you don’t want to discourage your boyfriend.

he returns with a plate of crackers and slices of apple, “you don’t have to finish it all,” he hands you the fork with an encouraging nod then turns on the TV and puts on your comfort show, in the hopes that having distraction will make it easier for your stomach to handle the meal.

hanbin watches you eat with a mix of hope and concern, his eyes searching for signs of improvement. after a few bites, your stomach rumbles, and you reluctantly set down your fork. he doesn't want to force you to eat but on the other hand that the lack of nutrition might make you feel worse.

"just one more bite, okay?" hanbin insists, his voice soft. instead of waiting for your response, he picks up a piece of apple and brings it to your lips, offering it with a reassuring smile. "small bites. we'll take it slow."

you take a deep breath before taking another miniscule bite, but as hanbin's hopeful gaze meets yours, the nausea suddenly intensifies. without warning, you get up abruptly, rushing to the bathroom as your stomach rebels. your boyfriend follows, concern etched on his face. you wish he didn’t but he holds your hair gently as you vomit, the sound echoing in the small space.

“i'm so sorry," each retch is accompanied by a twinge of shame, intensified by the fact that fever has left you a bit delirious. you can't help but shed a few tears. yet, through it all, hanbin remains unwaveringly calm and gentle, rubbing your back soothingly.

"shh, it's okay” he repeats, his voice a steady anchor in the storm. he stays by your side, offering comfort as you navigate through this less-than-pleasant moment. as you finish, he helps you rinse your mouth, his touch gentle against the fatigue and fever.

guiding you back to the living room, he reassures, "take your time," and tucks you under the blanket. "if you're not up for eating, we can try again later."

you stare at his expression, he looks even more concerned than before, and you're not sure why but an odd inclination to cry takes hold. maybe it's because hanbin is right here, taking care of you, even handling the less glamorous parts without seeming annoyed or bothered in the slighest. your thoughts became a muddled blend of exhaustion, an overwhelming swell of gratitude, and an uneasy undercurrent of guilt,

as you struggled to fend off the fever-induced haze in your mind, you hadn't noticed hanbin quietly settling beside you, extending a glass of water. "small sips,"

you accept the glass, your body still tense from the earlier ordeal. "i'm sorry," you repeat while trying to supress the sob that threatens to escape your lips.

"hey, don't be sorry," he says, wiping away a tear with a tenderness that melts the tension, his thumb gently caressing your cheek. "i'm the one who made you eat when you didn't feel like it. we'll take it one step at a time, okay?" his soothing voice intensifies your emotions, and you find yourself shedding a few more tears, feeling extra awful with your scratchy throat and stuffy nose.

being the empath that he is, hanbin seems on the brink of tears himself, but he doesn't succumb. instead, he gently rubs your back and strokes your hair, humming your favorite songs in an attempt to help you calm down.

"think you need some sleep," he whispers after a few minutes. you nod weakly, and he helps you shift into a more comfortable position, fluffing the pillows and adjusting the blankets.

"anything hurting?" he asks while tucking you in, his fingers gently ensuring the edges of the blankets cocoon you snugly.

"my whole body is aching," you murmur, the exhaustion evident in your voice. moments later, hanbin returns from the kitched with warm heat packs, their comforting weight carefully arranged on your body. as he tends to you, the furrow on his brow and his careful, deliberate movements betray the emotional toll it takes on him to witness you in discomfort. he refrains from asking more questions, not wanting to exhaust you or burden you; he still feels a bit guilty from the ealier nausea ordeal.

before he even gets the chance to check on you again, you've already drifted off to sleep. when you slowly open your eyes two hours later, hanbin is still hovering over you, changing the wet cloth on your forehead with a fresh, cool one.

"hey sleepyhead, feeling better?" he asks, gently stroking your cheek. you nod slowly, his cool hand soothing your warm face.

now that your mind is clearer and the fever has gone down, you feel the shame settle in — you've never been this vulnerable in front of hanbin, you know he doesn't mind taking care of you but you feel sorry nonetheless.

"thank you again, for taking care of me, i was a complete mess earlier," you shyly blurt out.

"it's what i'm here for my love," in response, he graces you with that infectious smile, reminiscent of fluffy clouds and blooming spring flowers.

hanbin leaves your side momentarily but returns with a steaming mug of ginger tea, its comforting aroma filling the room.

"here, this might help you feel even better," he says, handing you the mug. the warmth of the tea and his comforting presence start to chase away the stiffness in your body.

hanbin settles down beside you, wrapping his arms around you in a gentle embrace.

"You know," he starts with a mischievous glint in his eye, "you owe me. i've been exposed to your germs," you chuckle and hanbin's relieved to see you laugh.

"i don't mind as long as I get to cuddle you like this," you say, sinking deeper into the embrace.

"even when I'm all sweaty?"

"you did it for me, i don't see why i wouldn't do it for you," you say, your tone light but filled with genuine affection.

hanbin seems a bit taken aback by your response. even though he spends his time taking care of the people around him, accepting the same level of care from others has always been a bit challenging for him. it's as if he fears it might compromise his dependable attitude. however, ever since you started dating, he's been gradually getting used to the idea and the same goes for you — taking care of each other even in the messiest moments felt more natural.

"you've got yourself a deal. just promise you won't judge the sweaty, sickly version of me too harshly."

you playfully roll your eyes, "bring it on, i'm ready for it warts and all,"

with a smirk, he leans in, planting a gentle kiss on your forehead. "i'll hold you to that."

[astroblis]

be careful, don't fall | sung hanbin

genre: fluff

pairing: reader x sung hanbin

about/tags: clumsy reader and student nurse hanbin (700+ words)

university setting, hanbin volunteers at the school clinic, reader has no sense of balance, hopeful relationship, idk if i'm good at fluff, celebrating leader hanbin!

Sung Hanbin is an incredibly attentive person. 

In fact, the first thing he learned about your personality is how you have zero spatial awareness. Your shoulders are bruised every other day, to which he eventually learns is from bumping into the corners of the walls and lockers. So when you became closer friends, he naturally found himself walking by your sides, placing you in the middle of the hallways – just so you no longer bruise into the wall. 

The second thing Hanbin learns about you is that you’re always on your phone. Whenever you walk to classes together, he finds himself slightly guiding you in the right direction. Such as gently pushing you to the side to avoid stepping on puddles or pulling you away from the trashcan you’re about to bump into. You often call him your lifesaver, and he beams at the compliment each time.

The third thing Hanbin learns about you is that you get overly excited about everything. When you arrived at the restaurant by the university for the club meeting, you jumped out of the car too fast. You ended up hitting your head at the top of the car door, at the mere premise of food. 

“Tsk tsk, slowly next time please y/n” he says as he pats and coos at your head. You giggle because he looks so serious, his eyebrows are furrowed as he’s examining the bump that’ll appear on your head. He gets ice from the restaurant and wraps it in a handkerchief, before holding it to your head. 

“Again, you’re a lifesaver Hanbin” you say as you lean your head into his hands holding the ice pack. He’s smiling at you cutely, as you laugh at yourself over this predicament. 

By now, Hanbin is well used to the routine of making sure you don’t hurt yourself. And while you insist that you are more careful now – Hanbin still carries bandaids, tissues, and an empty ice pack in his school bag everyday. Just in case, he thinks. 

So when one day you show up at the school clinic limping, he approaches you with a face that says “what happened to being more careful huh?” But because he is Hanbin, he doesn’t actually gloat. 

Instead, he sits you down on the bench, and bends down to examine your foot. Before he can ask anything, you defend yourself with an “I know, I know, I wasn’t watching where I was going and I ended up missing a step on the stairs.”

Hanbin looks up at you sympathetically and you see your own reflection in his glasses. His lips break into a thin line before saying “well thankfully, it’s not broken. It might just be a sprain.” He makes sure to smile widely, cheek dimples on full display to make you feel better about the situation. He stands up to get an ice pack and some gauze to wrap your foot with and you watch him as he busies himself getting all the supplies to fix you right up. 

When he has what he needs, he bends down again and lifts your foot for elevation, asking you to hold the ice pack to your ankle. In that moment, he notices that you skinned your knee as well. “Y/n you’re bleeding” – he rushes up to get some cloth, water and iodine. When he gets back to you, he blows gently on your wound before dabbing the medicine on it. You hiss, and your leg spasms slightly. 

“Stop moving, it’ll hurt less that way”. He continues to blow on your knee, allowing cool air to relieve the sensation of pain. Though it’s supposed to be painful, you smile softly at a gentle Hanbin who looks so focused on the injuries you caused yourself. He catches you staring at him, and looks right back up at you. 

“I should really be more careful huh....” you begin. 

Hanbin isn’t thinking, isn’t thinking at all when he tucks the strand of hair that fell from your face. Your breath hitches, your heartbeat picks up its pace, and your cheeks start to pink.

“yeah, or maybe just hold my hand so you don’t fall as often.”

There’s a silence, a beat, before you respond with “I’d like that. I'd like to hold your hand often” Even though his ears are bright red, he bravely takes your hand in his. “Okay, we start now” he says it less like a question and more like a fact. 

"Okay, starting now" you repeat, interlocking your fingers together. You watch as Hanbin's eyes smile before his lips are able to catch up, and he tightens his grip around your hand before helping you up. He brings his arm around your waist, supporting you as you both walk out the clinic together.

After that day, he learns something about himself this time – that he really, truly, likes you.

A/N: lil cute scenario to celebrate leader hanbin! also, tips for fluff please ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

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tagging: @honghongbri -> join my taglist so you don't miss out!

[astroblis]

2AM CRISIS

genre. comfort. sickfic. warnings. reader is sick specifically throwing up so don't read if you find that rly gross... some comments abt it being reader's first time sleeping over and the hyungs being extremely cautious lmfao. not proofread. pairing. yujin x fem!reader. wc. 1k. request. requested by @theriizeler a/n. i hope this makes u feel better dodo :(( first time writing yujin i hope i did okay he's rly such a sweetheart :( ppl need to write more for him cause i get not writing for him cause of his age but he's always skipped over...

“Ew…” Yujin mumbled, crouched on the floor of the bathroom with you as you heaved again. For this being your first time sleeping over (with extremely watchful eyes from Hao and Hanbin), it definitely was not going as planned. You had felt something was wrong the entire day, but your boyfriend Yujin was so excited to spend the night with you that you didn’t have the heart to cancel on him.

You should have trusted your gut, though, because now you were throwing up in the toilet in painful gags, your throat burning and a disgusting acidic aftertaste left in your mouth. Was it something you had eaten? Or maybe you had caught a stomach bug at school… You envied your boyfriend for evading it, though you guess it made sense. He rarely attended because of his schedule.

“Stay right there.” Yujin whispered, getting up and leaving the bathroom to find some water for you. 

He didn’t have much experience taking care of someone since he was usually the one always being pampered and babied. He tried his best to recall what his mom and Hao had done when he had gotten sick, but the memory was foggy as he had mostly just slept until he felt better. They did force him to take some horrible-tasting medicine, though… God, did he have to persuade you to do that as well? He’d rather just die than possibly give you an excuse to despise him.

Once he was back with a bottle of water, he handed it to you and sat back down on the floor of the bathroom. It was almost 2 am by now, and he wasn’t exactly sure what to do. He could see tears prickling at your lashes, and his absolute worst fear in the world was seeing you cry. He had no idea how he’d make the tears stop once they started.

You swished your mouth with the water and spat again into the toilet before taking a proper drink. The cool water soothed your burning throat, but it didn’t ease all the discomfort. You still felt like shit, and your stomach still hurt. Your head was also pounding, but it wasn’t as bad as the nausea. 

You turned back to Yujin who’s eyes were blown big and confused, though you could tell he was worried about you. His under eyes looked tired and you suddenly felt really bad for waking him up to go puke in his bathroom. If you had been able to get up without disturbing him, then you would have. But he had fallen asleep clinging to you like a koala, and there was no way to escape his grasp without waking him up.

“I’m sorry… you should just go back to sleep.” You muttered, but Yujin was quick to shake his head.

“I can’t just leave you throwing up by yourself… I’ll stay until you’re ready to go back to bed.” He told you, stroking your hair gently. You tried to breathe steadily in hopes of stopping the urge to throw up again, but it didn’t work. You quickly pushed Yujin’s hand away from your face and discarded more of yesterday’s meal into the bowl. Both you and Yujin grimaced in sync, and he hesitantly pulled back your hair and stroked your back.

The tears that you had tried to keep at bay finally started to stream down your face. You hated everything about the situation. You felt awful, not just physically, but for ruining your first sleepover with Yujin like this. No one wanted to be sitting next to their girlfriend who couldn’t stop vomiting at 2 am. 

“Don’t cry— please, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Yujin panicked. The only thing he could think of doing was offering you more water, which you took amidst broken sobs. He wrapped his arms around you hesitantly, knowing that he always calmed down in your arms. Maybe it would help you, as well. Your sobs slowed a bit, in turn slowing down Yujin’s anxiously beating heart. 

“Hey, what if I just get you a bowl? You can keep it by the bed and then you won’t have to stay here on the floor, hm? We can cuddle too… if you want?” You would’ve smiled at how cute Yujin’s suggestion was if you weren’t too focused on calming yourself down. You knew he was trying his best, and while he was a bit slow on ways to help (you were pretty sure there were some pills to help with nausea that Hanbin had bought last time Gyuvin had felt nauseous during a shoot, but you were certain that your boyfriend had no idea where they were stored), his presence alone was enough to make things a little better.

“Yeah… let’s just do that.” You agreed, standing up slowly. You flushed the toilet and rinsed your mouth once more with water. While Yujin was getting a metal bowl for you, you brushed your teeth, relieved that your mouth no longer had the awful aftertaste of stomach acid.

Once you were back under the blankets on the mattresses that the older members had set up on the floor of the living room (which was almost too overkill as neither you nor Yujin would even think to attempt anything like that, protesting Hao’s carefully thought of set-up would’ve seemed even more suspicious), you felt your stomach ease a bit. 

You curled up against Yujin’s chest, wanting nothing more than to be as close as possible to him. The soap and shampoo scents from his earlier shower lingered on his skin, and you were surprised at how effective it was in stopping your nausea and relaxing you. Your head was still pounding, but you’d take the pain over feeling sick. Maybe you would even be able to get some sleep again like this.

Your boyfriend kissed your forehead and started talking softly, trying to get you to fall asleep to the lull of his voice. It was extremely effective and you found yourself dozing off within minutes. You smiled when the last thing you heard Yujin say was a whispered “feel better soon, princess.”

↳ zerobaseone taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @eternalgyu,, @okshu,, @chewryy,, @haecien,, @sobun1est,,

@emmylksblog,, @talkingsaxy,, @thesunsfullmoon,, @chenleszone

[astroblis]

domestic leehan fics always make me implode

archive iii ★

boyfriend!leehan 150 > words

notes! part 3 and the final fic originally written for my friends. i hope you enjoyed them!!

▸ 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺?

"Pretty?" His soft voice runs shivers down your spine, his hands running through your hair as you groan, throwing the blanket over your shoulder and burying yourself in your bed.

"Prettyy~" you hear him moan, a visible pout on his face as he shakes your arm. "Wake up!! Please, for me." He turns your tired body around, the sun shining perfectly on his well built face, his eyes sparking when he sees your small smile.

His hand comes up to caress your cheek, diving down to bury his head into your neck and circling his arms around your waist. "Good morning, pretty," he mumbles, his hands rubbing your sides.

"Morning.." you mumble back, your voice groggy as you bring your hands up to his hair, giving it a little ruffle before hugging his big body. He sighs in contentment, happy to squished by his lovey girl.

︴bonus! tagging @yuniniverse since you asked <3

🎬 navi

@chiiyuuvv on tumblr . do not steal works/headers/line dividers

[astroblis]

kekeke :moist:

two-faced — jjk smau

in which gojo pisses off a famous streamer (you 🫵) for funsies and unleashes a legion of loyal fans who want him dragged, doxxed, or dead. fortunately for him, you have your own secrets that you’ll take to the grave, perfect for him to take advantage of. when the two of you meet, an unlikely love story for the ages blossoms aka a lighthearted smau abt gojo n the gang!!

pairings: gojo x f!reader

genres: social media au (smau), crack, fluff, strangers to enemies (?) to lovers

warnings: profanities, dark humour, sexual jokes, mentions of death and suicide, very stupid jokes don’t take anything too seriously!! ignore timestamps. will contain jokes / references from the manga !! you will be warned of spoilers on the posts that have them 🤍

this is my first smau so if it’s not funny i Apologise 😨 just for the shits n giggles !! upload schedule will probably be based on how well this is received 🤍 note all characters are in uni (ages 18-20)

unread notifications !

profiles one | profiles two

01: hit tweet this, hit tweet that, why don’t you hit the gym?

02: hot girls pay the government 2 b a citizen

03: nanami’s right titty tingle

04: What Ever Major Loser

05: let him in, LET HIM IN

06: it’s “save the turtles” until i drink boba with my hands

07: silence of the lambs

08: god giving me my greatest obstacle and it’s a man

09: would u still love me if i was a chip floating around in ur stomach?

10: deny that instead

11: twitching eyes and clenched fists

12: getou’s bang grease

13: spring loaded penis bomb

14: first date options and gojo picks spit boba (it works?!)

15: lactose intolerance, biggest killer since cancer

16: unknown mysterious reason unravelled

17: i wish i could have at least (1)

18: beautiful princess disorder

19: GOGOGOJO GONE !

20: tba

pinned accounts !

@whats-humanity-lol @vduxx @saltypuffin1040 @porridgesblog @justpuddinglol @sleezzsister @fadingpalacebonkpsychic @iluv-ace @realestalphamegathugd4ddy @invisible-mori @mimiqz @hyuckworld @wheredidmycrowngo @ericupid @satorukissr @rumi-rants @milza12 @nymphsdomain @thunderimpulse @waengyknow @err1vki3 @nerdiel-has-no-braincells @whatamidoing89 @aboveasphodel @doughnuts-eater @archer-fb @giannitaa @leathernourishingshoepolish @poisonnuggies @cotton-eee @postmancat @yoontaedotin @crushed-satellite-stars @polartrident @starsfilm @etsukis @bladeismine @the-fab-killjoy @a3th3rrr @alatuskaleidos @emii4evr @trcomedump @usermins @ancientimes @aelynaneedsalottathing @jaynawayna @milceslv @lvryeager @sukisprettyface @kissezfornamjoon @satoryaa

couldn’t tag account (make sure your settings allow u to be tagged!)

( being added to the taglist means you will be tagged at every new release ! ask 2 be added / removed 🤍 )

[astroblis]

rediscovered some texture stuff i had in csp :DDD a fun time!

[astroblis]

Hello folks! I’d like to show you my full my full piece for Stars & Dreams @damianyazine :D

I had a great time working on it and I’m very happy to see many others were excited for the project as well.

Speaking of which, if you’d like to check out the full zine, there’s still a chance to get a hold of copy during this leftover sale. Maybe you’d like an extra copy for your bud, which is also good.

Anyways, have a nice one! ✨⭐️⚡️✨