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thepencilnerd · 2 months ago

Text

Echo

pairing: Jack Abbot x doctor!Reader summary: Under the bright lights of a fundraising gala, what began as polite smiles and veiled jabs unravels into something far more intimate. Between rooftop confessions, quiet grief, and a night neither party can take back, something buried for years finally comes undone. warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content (semi-public sex, f!reader), blood and trauma in a hospital setting, description of medical procedures and deaths genre/notes: slow burn, frenemies to lovers (much banter), robby cameo + being a father figure, heavy angst + heavy fluff, hurt/comfort, emotionally repressed idiots in love, non-linear timeline, one (1) very touch-starved man, abbot down bad for his s.o. and def has a pain kink, balcony sex + confessions, pwp word count: 9k a/n: love letter to grief, rooftop confessions, and all the things left unsaid (+ shameless, self-indulgent smut), basically i saw this dress on pinterest and i—

The hospital’s annual fundraiser was all overpriced wine and board member schmoozing—the kind of thing Jack Abbot usually avoided. He and Robby had spent the better part of the week arguing with Gloria about why they really didn’t need to be the ones attending.

“But who better to represent the emergency department than its finest?” Gloria had smiled with teeth. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer we reallocate your trauma bay supply order for next fiscal quarter?"

Abbot had muttered something under his breath. Robby had called it extortion. Gloria had walked away victorious.

“If she reassigns our trauma supply budget one more time, I swear to God I’m quitting,” Robby had muttered, though they both knew he wouldn’t.

“Right there with you, brother,” Jack had said dryly.

Which was how he ended up in a suit, lingering by the bar with his tie already loosened.

The gala was obscene in its extravagance. A live string quartet played near the grand staircase. Crystal chandeliers caught every glint of champagne. Rich donors floated from one hors d'oeuvre table to the next, laughing politely and stuffing their faces with canapés that probably cost more than a full day of supplies for the ER.

It made Jack sick.

Not the donations—he appreciated those. Hell, the hospital needed them. But the tone of it, the way money moved through the room like perfume: thick, cloying, and designed to mask something rotten underneath. The people here didn’t know what a trauma bay smelled like at 3 a.m. They didn’t care. They were here to write a check, slap their name on a wing, and pretend it made them saints.

Jack took a sip of his club soda and stared at the bottom of his glass.

He wanted to gouge his eyes out. He just wasn’t sure which fork to use.

Scanning the room, his eyes landed on Robby across the space, mid-conversation with a bejeweled donor who looked like she’d never set foot inside a hospital ward. Robby’s eyes caught Jack’s for the briefest second and widened—just enough to scream help me. Jack raised his glass and shot him a wink.

Then he saw you. He'd recognize your stride anywhere.

What he definitely hadn’t expected was the red satin dress.

Floor-length, plunging back, slit high at the left thigh, the kind of fabric that caught the light like it was trying to start a fire. When you walked into the room, it was almost as though time stopped. You were across the room, charming some rich donor, laughing politely as he fumbled through a question about pediatric trauma outcomes.

Jack didn’t hear the question. He didn’t hear your answer either.

As you turned away from the donor, your bright smile dropped like a mask torn off. Your jaw clenched. You let out a tight breath through your nose, barely more than a sigh. It was the kind of reaction only someone who’d seen you under a hundred different kinds of stress might catch.

Then you looked up and locked eyes with him. You froze.

Goddamn did Jack Abbot look good in a suit.

Salt-and-pepper curls styled just enough to look deliberate, not overdone. The tux hugged his frame perfectly—sharp at the shoulders, tailored at the waist, cutting the kind of silhouette that belonged on a magazine cover instead of an ER floor. He’d even opted for a close shave, his normally stubbled facial hair absent. And his tie—loosened just a touch too much—left a sliver of his throat visible, collar open like he’d tried to behave and gave up halfway through the evening.

You didn’t smile. Neither did he.

But neither of you looked away.

The first time you met Dr. Jack Abbot, you were fresh off your fourth twelve-hour day shift that week. For the first two years of your residency, you’d been under Robby’s wing—solid, day-shift training, plenty of first-time experiences, and a support system that kept you steady. But when it came time to switch rotations, it was Robby who recommended you move to nights.

"More fast-paced," he’d reasoned. "Higher stakes. They could use your skills. You’re ready."

You’d heard about Jack Abbot by then. Everyone had. Ex-military. Brilliant. Demanding. A damn good trauma attending, and an even tougher mentor. You were equal parts intrigued and warned.

The ED hallway was buzzing, but you didn’t miss the way Jack paused as you approached. He glanced at your badge, then at your posture—upright, composed, betraying none of the exhaustion you carried—and finally at the trauma board.

“Hope you’re fast,” was all he said, voice low and dry, like a test he didn’t expect you to pass.

Turns out, you were more than fast. You were precise. Efficient. Clinical.

When a GSW came in thirty minutes later—a young man with a single penetrating wound to the upper abdomen—you and Abbot stepped in together. He hung back just enough to supervise, giving you space to lead the resuscitation while staying close.

You scanned the vitals: hypotensive, tachycardic, altered mentation. “GSW to the upper abdomen, likely mesenteric involvement. Initial BP was 80/40 with HR in the 130s, GCS at 13 but trending downward. Type and crossmatch. Two units O-neg. Prep for a laparotomy?” you asked, assessing quickly as you reached for gloves. Abbot nodded once, already handing you a sterile gown without a word.

He didn’t stop you, but he didn’t let you coast either.

“What’s your plan if the pressure doesn’t stabilize after the second unit?” he asked as you both finished gowning up.

“Call for a third, reassess fluid responsiveness, consider vasopressors if no improvement,” you replied, already focused.

“And if there’s massive hemoperitoneum?”

“Prioritize source control. Suction, pack, find the bleeder.”

Jack gave a small, approving hum. Then you glanced back at him, sharp, poised. He was holding out the handle of a blade to you—steady, without fanfare.

“I’m not handling it,” he said matter-of-factly. “You are.”

You blinked once, then reached for the blade. Gloved fingers curled around the handle as the rest of the room faded into peripheral noise. It was your show now—and he was trusting you to lead it.

The team moved quickly. You made the incision, suctioned blood, clamped the bleeder—a mesenteric vessel torn clean. Laparotomy pads soaked in seconds. Abbot kept an eye on the monitor, watching your hands. You found the source and controlled it, methodical and focused, with Jack’s quiet presence steady behind your shoulder.

Jack nodded once, the faintest glimmer of something like approval in his eyes. After the patient was wheeled off to the OR, gloves off and adrenaline still thrumming beneath your skin, he tossed you a saline flush and a towel. The rest of the team was still moving in organized flurries, cleaning up the bay, resetting trays, pulling down blood-streaked drapes. You peeled off your gloves slowly, breath catching up to you now that the adrenaline was fading.

The smell of antiseptic, blood, and sweat clung to everything. Your scrub top was damp with effort. And still, Jack hadn’t said anything else. Just watched you like he was recalibrating something in his head. Taking the measure of you.

“Not bad,” he said.

You raised a brow. “Not bad?”

He smirked. “Guess we’ll keep you. Though I should probably check the return policy with Robby before the trial period ends.”

Then, lower—just for you: “Though going nipples to navel on that first cut? That’s no man’s land. Bit too risky of a procedure for me to do myself.”

You blinked, thrown off your axis, trying to decide if he was being sarcastic or sincere—or both. “What?”

But Jack was already walking away, gloves off, like he hadn’t just left you standing there like a deer in headlights.

You weren’t expecting to see him either.

Jack Abbot in a tux. Sharp lapels. Cuffs neat. Hair styled but slightly tousled like he hadn’t quite figured out how to look formal without messing it up on purpose. Heat rose to your face, tinting it the color of the rosé being served tonight.

Turning around, you reached for a flute of champagne to occupy your thoughts. He’d just crossed the room, weaving past a pair of donors discussing their latest golf fundraiser, his eyes never leaving you. The clink of glass and silver faded just enough for you to hear the soft brush of his dress shoes stop beside yours.

“Red,” he said, nodding toward your dress. "Didn’t think it was in your rotation." He caught the soft trace of your perfume just as you inhaled the quiet warmth of his cologne.

You arched a brow. “Tux? Let me guess—last worn at prom?”

He huffed a laugh. The corner of his mouth tilted. "Wouldn't you like to know."

“Not really,” you smirked.

He leaned a little closer, voice low. "How’d Gloria rope you into this mess?"

You took a sip of champagne, letting the bubbles fizz on your tongue before replying, “She said the hospital needed a pretty face for the press photos.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “And you volunteered willingly, I assume?”

“I did. She said she wanted someone who wasn’t going to mention sock puppets in his opening speech.”

Jack tilted his head. "So you pointed her to literally anyone but me and Robby."

You smiled into your glass. “You and Robby are very pretty. Just not ‘donate-millions-of-dollars’ pretty.”

He cracked a grin. “Fair enough.”

You both leaned back slightly, falling into a rare pocket of easy quiet.

“If I'm being honest,” he said after a breath, “these things make my skin crawl. Donors patting themselves on the back for saving lives they’ve never seen.”

“Agreed,” you murmured. “It’s like they want the moral gold star without the 2 a.m. trauma call. Or the third straight shift without sleep.”

Jack glanced sideways at you. “Or the resident paycheck that barely covers rent.”

You let out a dry laugh. “And definitely not the part where we spend a decade training, rack up six figures of debt, and still have to fight for safe staffing ratios.”

He nodded once, quiet. “But hey, at least they get their name etched onto a plaque of a hallway they'll get lost in.”

"God," you sighed. "I'd love to switch places with them for a day."

Jack snorted. “Five minutes in a trauma bay and they’d be crying into their cufflinks.”

You were about to take another sip when you paused. “You realize you’re wearing cufflinks.”

“Which is why I’m drinking soda instead of champagne. Keeps me grounded.”

A quiet breath escaped you, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Your commitment to moral superiority is truly inspiring.”

He gave you a narrowed look, not quite smiling but close. “Someone’s gotta keep the place honest.”

You smiled to yourself, looking down and shaking your head, before excusing yourself to go charm another cluster of donors. “See you around—Jack.”

You’d only ever said his first name once before.

He noticed.

Jack stood there a second too long, stunned, watching your retreating back like he wasn’t sure what just happened—or why it mattered so much.

The patient was coding. Jack was tied up in Room 3 with a liver lac. You were alone when Trauma 2 rolled in—blunt trauma, hypotensive, bleeding out.

You didn’t wait. “I need two large-bore IVs, rapid sequence intubation kit, and thoracotomy tray—stat,” you barked to the team, already moving. “Start the MTP now.”

You slid the laryngoscope in cleanly, tube placed with practiced precision.

“Vitals are dropping,” a nurse called out.

“I know,” you forced out. “Keep pushing the units.”

The tray snapped open beside you. You didn’t hesitate. Just in case.

Abbot walked in right as you pulled your hands back, already prepped.

His eyes flicked from the open thoracotomy tray to the line placement to your gloved hands, bloody up to the wrists. He froze mid-step.

Then, without missing another beat, he stepped in beside you. “What the hell?” he muttered, voice low and calm. He didn’t raise it. He never did when it really mattered.

His presence was immediate—like someone flipping a switch—and suddenly the entire bay adjusted to him, calibrated around the two of you.

You didn’t look at him. Just adjusted your grip and said, “Vitals holding. Pressure’s up.”

“Balloon’s a little high,” he murmured, his voice almost too soft to hear over the hum of monitors.

You didn’t flinch, but your pulse jumped. “Adjusted,” you said, fingers tightening slightly on the handle as you recalibrated, eyes glued to the screen.

A beat passed. Then another.

The pressure crept upward. Slowly. Steadily.

The patient stabilized.

You exhaled quietly through your nose, trying to ignore the chill of adrenaline threading down your spine. Jack was still watching you—too closely. And you couldn’t tell if he was impressed or pissed or both. He didn’t say anything for a long moment.

When you finally looked up, his eyes locked with yours—steady, unreadable, searching like he was still deciding how angry he was allowed to be.

“You never should’ve done that without approval from an attending,” he said quietly, the words measured but firm, laced with something heavier beneath the surface.

You nodded, jaw clenched. “Understood.”

Jack stepped closer. Lowered his voice.

“But that was pretty badass. You just saved a life. Good job.”

Then he turned and left the trauma bay. The moment lingered—his words echoing in your ears louder than they should have.

Every pair of eyes seemed to shift away once he left, the noise of the trauma bay gradually returning to its usual rhythm. Monitors beeped. Carts wheeled past. Gloves peeled off with a quiet snap and hit the bin. Hands—steady during the crisis—now trembled faintly.

Pride lingered. So did fear. And you weren’t sure which feeling was winning.

Outside by the nurses' bay, Jack was leaning against the wall, one foot braced behind him, chart in hand but not moving. His gaze was distant—somewhere far beyond the clipboard. A crooked smirk ghosted across his lips, then faded as quickly as it had come. He was still thinking about what you'd done. How steady your hands had been. How much you'd grown.

He’d been impressed. He’d also been scared.

That kind of procedure… it wasn’t something he’d ever do lightly. And you? You hadn’t hesitated. Not out of recklessness, but because you’d known it was the right call. The only call.

"Ballsy," he muttered under his breath. "Damn near reckless."

But his chest swelled—quietly, privately—with something that felt a lot like pride.

The third time you ran into each other that night, it wasn’t by accident.

You were leaning against a balcony railing, champagne nearly gone. One glass hadn’t been enough to drown out the unbearable jargon and vapid conversations—but you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t go overboard tonight. Just enough to appear socially well-versed.

The night had cooled, the breeze brushing goosebumps along your bare arms. Jack found you there, hands in his pockets, jacket unbuttoned, eyes catching on the subtle shiver that moved through your frame.

“You always hide from donors this early?” he asked.

You didn’t need to turn to know it was him. You’d heard those footsteps enough times to recognize the rhythm—the soft, sure cadence of someone who never rushed but never wandered. A grin tugged at the corner of your mouth before you could stop it. Subtle. Reflexive. Familiar.

“Only the boring ones.”

He smirked and stepped beside you, pulling his jacket off with one fluid motion.

Before you could say anything, he draped it over your shoulders—slow, deliberate. His fingers brushed your bare arm on the way down. The heat of him lingered even through the fabric. And then there was the scent of his cologne—clean, sharp, and grounded by something warmer beneath it. The scent made your chest ache with something unnameable—familiar, steady, a little too easy to lean into. It curled in your lungs, lingered in the back of your throat. Your knees dipped slightly, an involuntary response you buried with practiced ease. You’d never admit that, of course. Not even to yourself.

“You’ll freeze,” he said, voice quiet, almost an afterthought.

You didn’t correct him. Just glanced up. He was already looking at you.

“You look good,” he said finally.

Your brow raised.

“In red,” he added, softer this time.

You didn’t say thank you. Just looked at him. Let it sit there for a moment—heavy, a little too charged to touch.

"If you keep being nice to me, people are going to start wondering if the sodas were spiked."

That earned you a low chuckle, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in that infuriatingly subtle way he smiled when he actually meant it.

"Guess I'll have to ruin it with a sober insult later," he said.

You gave him a dry stare. "Looking forward to it."

The air between you tightened, warm and brittle. He shifted just slightly closer, like something unspoken pulled him there.

You shot him a sidelong glance, trying to smother the tension with humor. “Don’t you have some attractive widows to go butter up?”

His lips twitched. “Already secured donations from all of them,” he said, only half joking. Then, quieter, with a faint shrug: “None of them were interesting.”

That gave you pause.

“I prefer women with poor work-life balance and sharp comebacks.” He looked at you again, the curve of his mouth bordering on a real smile now. "You?"

"Hm," you hummed to yourself. "I prefer women with competitive streaks and sharp eyeliner. And men with stress-induced insomnia, commitment issues, and the emotional availability of a damp dishrag."

Jack huffed out a quiet laugh. "Bold of you to describe my entire personality like it's a turn-on."

"If the shoe fits," you murmured, toying with your empty glass.

He looked at you then—really looked. Head tilted just enough to feel like he was trying to read something between the lines.

"It’s always the sharp ones," he said. "Cut deepest, don’t they?"

Your lips twitched. "Funny. I was just thinking the same about emotionally repressed men in positions of authority."

"Touché."

But neither of you moved further.

Jack’s voice lowered, something quieter threading through. “You know, for what it’s worth… I notice. How hard you work. How much you give.”

That caught you off guard. The words settled in your chest, raw and warm. You swallowed around them.

“Then I hope you notice how often it gets overlooked,” you said, voice softer now. “By everyone else.”

His eyes flicked toward yours, something unreadable in them. Like he wanted to say something else. Like maybe he would.

“Hey!”

Robby’s voice cut through the air like a 10-blade.

You turned, blinking back to the present. Robby's head was poking out of the curtains, waving a hand. “Sorry to interrupt your… mood lighting, but I need to help charm this silver fox donor who won’t stop talking about his golf handicap and yacht collection. Won’t stop asking for the 'hot doctor with attitude.' So naturally, I assumed he meant you.”

You glanced back at Jack, reluctant.

He gave you a nod, but didn’t say anything. Just watched you go.

Before you turned to leave, you slid the jacket from your shoulders and held it out to him. Jack stepped forward to take it, but his fingers brushed yours—warm, lingering, just a second longer than necessary.

His jaw tightened for half a breath—barely perceptible—before he masked it, reaching to take the jacket with a small nod. His fingers brushed yours again as he pulled it into his arms. The warmth still clung to it—so did your scent. Subtle, familiar, something floral and grounding. It curled in his chest as he inhaled, slow and quiet, like he didn’t mean to. As you walked away, you felt the weight of his gaze follow you—sharp, lingering, impossible to shake. Like he was still holding something back—he wasn’t quite ready to let you go.

Once you were gone, he allowed himself to bring the jacket up to his face and breathe in lightly, letting the remaining trace of you settle in his lungs. It lingered—clean, unmistakable, and quietly devastating.

With each year, the line between rivalry and familiarity blurred just a little more.

It wasn’t just that you were the senior-most resident anymore—it was that you were his senior-most resident. The one who matched him pace for pace in trauma bays, who called out orders with the same clipped authority, who rolled your eyes at his sarcastic one-liners only to throw them right back at him.

Jack gave you a hard time. You gave it right back.

It started as cold professionalism. Then it turned sharp. Competitive. Then somehow... comfortable.

“Think you can manage this without slicing through the aorta this time?” Jack murmured once during a late night thoracotomy.

“Only if you don’t pass out from blood loss first, old man,” you replied smoothly.

“Old man,” he repeated under his breath. “Remind me why I let you lead in my trauma bay?”

“Because I’m the best.”

He didn’t respond. Just passed the next instrument with a soft, resigned smirk.

There was a night Shen caught you both bickering over a chart like a married couple.

"The guy had a fever and a murmur—of course I’m thinking endocarditis," you said, exasperated, scribbling into the margins.

"And I’m saying we still need to rule out pulmonary embolism first," Jack shot back, arms crossed, watching you like a hawk.

"I’m writing the note," you reminded him.

"Are you going to type it up for me too?"

"If you want it to be legible."

Jack scoffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

That’s when Shen passed by, shook his head, and muttered under his breath, "Just kiss already."

Neither of you responded. Jack’s pen stilled in his hand. You didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at you.

But later that night, as you leaned against the med station reviewing labs, he passed behind you, fingers grazing your lower back as he brushed by.

Casual. Too casual. And yet, your breath caught anyway.

You didn’t talk about it.

You never talked about it.

But it was there, all the same.

Back inside, the ballroom lights felt too bright. You smiled at a passing donor, glass still in hand, but your mind was still outside—on the breeze, on his jacket, on the way Jack had looked at you like he wasn’t ready to let you go.

You found yourself drifting toward the edge of the room, eyes scanning unconsciously. Jack had disappeared into the crowd.

Or so you thought.

“Looking for me?”

You turned to see him at your side again, now holding two drinks—one club soda, one bubbling glass.

You raised an eyebrow. “Trying to get me trashed on overpriced spirits, Dr. Abbot?”

“I would, if this were alcohol.” He offered the glass to you. “It’s ginger ale.”

You eyed it suspiciously, then took it anyway. “Classy.”

He tilted his head, lips twitching. “You called me Jack earlier.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” The bubbles soothed your stomach, uneasy from all the talking and dizzy heights of empty small talk.

The quiet pressed in, heavy and hesitant, neither of you quite ready to fill it—but neither willing to walk away.

“Well, Dr. L/N,” he said, tone dipping into something light but curious, “how do you plan on spending the rest of your evening?”

You gave him a half-smile. “Getting some sleep. Or trying to.” You looked back out across the ballroom, then added, “I talked to Robby earlier—offered to be on-call for day shift tomorrow. Filling in for Langdon.”

Jack’s brows lifted. “Aren't you supposed to be off?”

“Yup. So are you,” you said, glancing at him.

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t deny it. You both knew the pattern by now—same days off, same shifts. Neither of you had ever pointed it out.

“What else would I do on a Friday?” There was something brittle in the joke, something quieter under it. “Work keeps me occupied.”

Jack watched you for a second longer, then said, softer this time, “You shouldn’t have to keep yourself occupied. It's okay to take a breather.”

You let out a dry breath of a laugh, the edge of a smile curling—biting, but small. “That’s rich coming from the only other person who works as many shifts as I do.”

Jack didn’t answer. He just stepped a little closer.

“You could’ve said no to being on-call,” he said. “Could’ve said you had plans.”

“I do,” you retorted. “Sleep for three hours. Chug coffee. Go back.”

Jack tipped his head, like he was trying to read more into your tone than you meant to give away. “Y/N—”

The name stopped you cold. You took a half-step back before you could think better of it, reflexive and immediate, voice clipped and low. “Don’t.”

That caught him off guard.

“I—sorry,” he said, brows furrowing slightly. “I just—”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, too quickly.

Jack looked at you then, something close to understanding flickering in his eyes. As though he remembered, too. How could he forget?

The first time he'd said your name.

Blood on your scrubs. Tears in your throat. A patient you couldn't save.

He didn’t say anything else. Just nodded once, slowly, and let you go.

Then, just as his mouth parted to say something else—

“Dr. Abbot!” Gloria’s voice rang out from the other end of the ballroom, hand ushering him to come over. “The donor from Penn wants a word before he leaves!”

Jack clenched his jaw. His eyes lingered on yours.

“Rain check,” he said, voice low.

You didn’t answer, just gave a small nod as he walked away. And for a long moment after, you stayed where you were, ginger ale sweating in your hand.

You didn’t know it at the time, but this was the moment you’d remember whenever someone asked when medicine stopped being just medicine.

The trauma call came in: car accident, two parents and a child, maybe 8 or 9. The parents were in rough shape but still awake, still responsive—moaning through cracked ribs and splintered glass. The kid, though—blunt force, GCS 3 on arrival. Completely unresponsive. You felt it in your gut before the vitals even came in.

Jack was across the bay when the doors opened. He looked up once—nodded at you. “You’re lead. I'll stabilize the parents."

You didn’t hesitate. Airway, trauma labs, two large-bore IVs. Portable chest. Fast scan. You called it all before the stretcher stopped moving.

The child’s body was limp. Small. Already pale. The pressure in your chest felt like a dam ready to burst.

You intubated with steady hands, but your voice faltered—just slightly—when you called for epinephrine. Jack appeared beside you somewhere around the second round of compressions, gloves on, silent. Watching. Present.

“Vitals still unstable,” someone called from behind you. “BP 62 over palp. Pulse weak. We’re pushing TXA now.” At least he'd stabilized the parents, you thought. If he could save them, you could save their little girl.

Four bags of blood and 18 minutes of chest compressions. The monitor stayed flat.

Still, you kept going. Pushing meds. Calling for another round. Someone offered to take over for compressions, murmured that you needed a break. You shook your head. “I’m fine.”

Then again, more firmly. “I’ve got it.”

No one tried to argue. You were lead. You had it.

Even as your arms began to ache. Even as the blood kept pooling, the compressions rhythmically jarring through your bones. You wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t. The team was moving around you, quiet, reverent.

Then Jack stepped in closer.

“Monitor hasn't picked up a rhythm in 12 minutes,” he said gently. “We can't keep up with the blood loss. There's too much internal damage. You know this.”

You shook your head, barely perceptible, and kept going. Compressing, counting, calling for another round of epi.

Jack’s voice stayed level. “Anyone else would’ve been pronounced dead at the scene.”

You ignored him. Just a few more compressions and transfusions and she'd come back.

Then—

“Y/N.”

That made you freeze.

Your name. His voice.

Your hands were still trembling against the child’s chest.

You looked at the monitor. Heard the continuous tone. Flatline.

No pulse.

“Call it,” Jack pleaded softly.

Your voice was quiet. Hoarse. Cold.

“Time of death, 03:17.”

You stepped back, stripped your gloves off slowly. Fingers stained with blood you couldn’t stop from spilling. Jack said nothing. He didn’t leave.

You swallowed hard, trying to force the tears down. To breathe through the break in your chest.

Jack didn’t touch you this time. He just stood there.

Let you fall apart, silently.

Then you ripped off your gloves and threw them hard into the bin, the sound louder than it had any right to be. You turned and stormed out of the trauma bay without looking back, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

That was the first time he said your name.

And it pulled you back. You never forgot it.

Sometimes you wished you had.

Back inside, the music had changed.

You’d barely rejoined the crowd when the lights dimmed and the emcee called out for the first dance of the evening.

Across the ballroom, Jack saw you before you saw him. You were standing near the edge of the crowd, nursing the last of your drink, the weight of something invisible pressing into your posture.

But you weren’t alone. A tall man—one of the younger donors—had his hand on your arm, leaning in to say something. He offered you his hand.

Jack’s jaw tensed.

He didn’t move—at first. Just watched as you smiled politely, took the man's hand, let him lead you to the dance floor.

It was brief. Chaste. Just a dance. But Jack hated the way the guy's hand lingered at your waist. Hated how close he stood, how you nodded along to something he said, even if your smile didn’t reach your eyes.

A minute later, you gently swapped out with Robby, excusing yourself from your first partner. Robby took your hand with a flourish and spun you once like a game show host. You smiled for the first time in hours.

"You okay?" he asked gently, settling into a slower sway with you.

You shrugged. "Long week."

Robby gave you a dad-look. "Anything in particular on your mind, or just the usual existential dread?"

A quiet laugh escaped, softer than you meant for it to. "Just the usual, I guess."

For a while, the two of you swayed in silence. Robby’s gaze stayed soft. "You’ve been a little quiet lately. Even more than usual. You sleeping okay? Eating?"

Instead of answering right away, your eyes drifted to his shoulder. "I’m fine."

"You always say that. Doesn’t mean I believe it."

A small, grateful smile curved your lips. Robby always knew how to make space—never too much, never too little. He left the door open without pushing you through it.

"You know I’ve got your back, right kid? You ever need to talk, about anything, even the stuff you think you’re not supposed to say out loud—come find me."

"Thanks, Robby. I mean it."

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze. "I know you do."

A voice cut in—low and smooth.

"Mind if I cut in?"

You turned.

Jack stood there, one hand extended. He didn’t look at Robby. He didn’t need to.

Robby chuckled under his breath and stepped aside. "She’s all yours."

Jack’s eyes met yours, steady and unreadable.

“Dance with me?” he asked, softer than you'd expected.

For a second, you didn’t answer. Your breath caught, mind still echoing with the last time you’d heard him say your name.

But then you nodded—slow, tentative—and slid your hand into his.

He guided you gently into step, the rhythm of the music slower than your pulse. His hand settled against your waist, warm and sure, like it had always belonged there. The other laced with yours, a silent tether.

You moved together with a surprising ease, like muscle memory forged in proximity, not practice. It wasn’t just a dance—it was a conversation. A quiet exchange, careful and cautious. Every shift of weight, every brush of fingers was a sentence neither of you dared speak aloud.

You didn’t look up right away. Couldn't. The proximity was dizzying. It wasn’t the champagne. It was him.

Jack’s voice came, low and even. “You always this good at pretending everything’s fine?”

You finally glanced up, something caught between a smile and a flinch playing on your face. “Only when I’m trying to impress a colleague.”

His mouth twitched, barely. “That why you always pull it together when I’m around?”

You didn’t answer.

Gliding across the floor, you felt like you were floating. And still, the weight of his hand at your waist grounded you.

You weren’t sure which was more dangerous: the silence, or the closeness.

“I used to think if I kept moving, I wouldn’t have to feel any of it,” you said, voice barely above the swell of the music. “But some things catch up to you anyway.”

Jack’s grip shifted slightly, not tighter, just… more present. “Running works—until it doesn’t.”

A beat passed.

“I don’t run,” you said quietly.

He met your eyes. “No. You bury it. Same result, different damage.”

You exhaled through your nose, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Funny. Thought we were dancing, not diagnosing.”

“We can do both,” he said, dry but not unkind. “I go to therapy. You slow dance at charity galas.”

Your gaze flicked to his lips, then away. “Guess my way is cheaper since I'm not paying for any of the wine or dine.”

Jack’s hand at your waist didn’t budge. If anything, it steadied you more.

“Y/N,” he said after a moment, voice gentler now. Like he was handing something over. Like he wanted you to take it.

Your shoulders tensed. Jaw muscles flexed.

He noticed.

You looked up, met his gaze, and said, quieter than before but with unmistakable weight, “Jack, you’re walking on thin ice.”

He didn’t flinch. But something flickered in his expression—something equal parts affection and surrender.

You only used each other’s names when it mattered.

The only difference was: he loved it. You hated it.

The hospital had quieted for the night, but the kind of quiet that screamed underneath.

You assisted on his last case—another loss, but this one had cut deeper than usual. Maybe it was the way Jack had gone cold, all clinical control and efficiency… until the voice crack. Just a flicker. A tremor. He’d kept going, ordering transfusions, calling vitals, his tone even until it wasn’t. You saw it—behind the focused eyes, there was fear.

You were the one standing next to him when he finally called it.

You found him up there—on the roof—where the city lights couldn’t quite wash out the weight in his shoulders. Jack was staring out past the edge, hands in his coat pockets, the wind catching just enough to make his scrubs flutter at the hem.

You didn’t speak right away. Just stood a few paces behind him, letting your presence fill the space before your voice did.

“I figured I’d find you up here.”

Jack didn’t turn. “Shouldn’t you be home?”

“I had to wrap up some charting.”

A beat.

“They were a veteran,” he said. “Had a daughter who just got into college.”

You took a step closer. “That wasn’t your fault.”

He let out a quiet, humorless sound. “I know. Doesn’t help.”

You hesitated, then moved beside him, standing shoulder to shoulder.

“I must have had a reason at one time to keep coming back," he murmured, “but I can't think of it right now."

You didn’t have an answer.

But you said his name.

“Jack.”

It was the first time you’d said it out loud. Not Dr. Abbot. Not anything guarded. Just him.

He turned then, slowly.

“Don’t shut down on me,” you said. “Not tonight.”

The wind carried your words away, but he heard them. You saw it in the way his jaw tightened. The way his shoulders dropped just slightly.

“I don’t know how to stay,” he said, voice rough.

“You don’t have to stay alone.”

He glanced at you then—just briefly, like eye contact might split him open.

You searched his face, thinking back to the moment in the trauma bay where he called it. Where his voice cracked but didn’t waver. Where his gloved hands were steady even though his eyes gave him away. You’d never seen him look like that before—so composed, so clinical, and still, so unmistakably human.

The memory stuck to your ribs.

“I know it’s not fair,” you said, voice low. “That we carry the worst of them home. That we never get to know if we were enough.”

Jack didn’t speak. But he didn’t move either. That was something. So you added, a little too soft, “But you are. You are enough.”

A long silence.

Then, to break it—because it felt like too much—you rolled your shoulder and said, “Robby’s gonna kick your ass if you jump off during his shift.”

Jack huffed, the sound barely audible but real.

“Come on,” you added, nodding toward the stairwell. “Let’s get off this roof before someone reports us for loitering.”

You didn't move.

Not yet.

Just stood there in silence, waiting—not because you needed him to follow, but because you weren’t going anywhere without him.

And Jack came. Eventually. Quiet and heavy and slow, the shuffle of his shoes steadying against the roof's concrete.

He didn’t say anything. Just stepped beside you, close enough to share warmth but not break space.

Then you walked. Together. Not quite brushing shoulders, but close enough to feel it. Close enough to stay.

The night had grown heavier.

Somehow, you and Jack had found your way back to the balcony—again. It was quieter out here, the city humming beneath you, wind tugging softly at your hair. Your skin still held the memory of his hand at your waist. The music inside was muffled now, like the two of you had stepped out of the narrative entirely.

Jack leaned against the railing, but his gaze never left you. Something about the way he was looking—like he’d been holding back something for far too long.

You crossed your arms, more to anchor yourself than anything. “You’re staring.”

“You said my name,” he replied, voice low.

Your throat tightened. “You started it.”

He pushed off the railing, slow and deliberate. “You know what I mean.”

You didn’t back away. But your voice came sharper this time, more breath than warning. “Don’t. Don’t start something neither of us can come back from.”

That gave him pause. He looked like he wanted to say something—maybe everything—but bit it back. Jaw tight. Shoulders tense.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” Jack said. “But I can't keep pretending this is nothing.”

With a quiet breath, he confessed. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Your heart tripped.

“I try,” he continued, voice cracking. “God, I’ve tried. But you show up in every shift. Every damn quiet moment. I hear your voice when I walk through those doors. I look for you at every trauma call. And when you’re not there, it’s worse.”

You didn’t speak.

“I’ve been through hell,” he went on, stepping closer, “seen things I still don’t have names for—but none of it scares me the way you do. Because this?” He gestured between you. “This is real. And if I say it out loud, I don’t get to pretend anymore.”

Your breath hitched. “Jack…”

He looked at you, eyes tired and wide open. “Say something. Please.”

Your voice came out thinner than you meant. “You're my attending, we’re not supposed to—”

“I don’t care.”

The silence cracked wide open between you.

You let out a breath—shaky, exasperated.

"Fuck," you said, voice breaking. "What do you want me to say? That I can't stop thinking about you either? That I see your eyes every time I close mine—your smile, rare as it is, stuck in my head like a damn echo? That I come home and swear I can still smell your cologne because it’s the only thing that brings me any sense of comfort?"

Your hands were trembling now. You didn’t stop—couldn't.

"Pretending this means nothing is easier than risking what happens if it actually matters. Because if it does—Jack—"

Jack caught you before you could even get the words out. His mouth was on yours, rough and unyielding, and you didn’t stop him. Didn’t want to. You kissed him like you meant it, because fucking hell, did you mean it.

When your back hit the wall beside the balcony doors with a quiet thud, he pressed closer, hands framing your jaw like you were something to be memorized.

There was nothing polite in the way you touched each other now. Just years of tension, unspoken things, and the desperate need to feel something real.

You didn’t let go.

Neither did he.

His lips trailed lower, brushing the hinge of your jaw before nipping gently at your neck. The sound you made—half breath, half shock—only seemed to spur him on.

“Then don’t pretend,” Jack whispered against your skin, voice rough and reverent. “Let yourself have this. Let us have this.”

Your hands cradled the sides of his face, fingers brushing across his cheekbones. All these years spent by his side and you hadn’t taken the time to admire his freckles.

You leaned in again, pressing your lips to his—slower now, deeper. One of his hands slid down your back, splaying across the small of it as if anchoring you in place. The other tangled into your hair, careful but needing.

You gasped when his hips met yours again, your breath catching between kisses. He pulled back just enough to look at you, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide.

"I need you," you finally said.

And that was all he needed.

He rushed to close the curtains on the inside and lock the balcony doors before returning to you.

Your world narrowed to the way his mouth reclaimed yours, the press of his body, the heat building like a fuse lit too close to the end. Somewhere in the distance, the city kept moving. But here, in the quiet shelter of the balcony, there was only this.

Jack dropped to his knees, the motion fluid. You sucked in a breath as his hands slid up the backs of your thighs, coaxing one leg upward until your heel hooked over his shoulder. Your foot pressed gently against the curve of his back.

He tugged at the hem of your dress. You were already holding the hem of your dress, bunching it at your hips with practiced ease. The lace of your underwear was delicate, barely in the way—he hooked a finger around the side, sliding it with a slow, deliberate motion that made your breath hitch.

You were already soaked, and the way his eyes flicked up confirmed he knew it. He looked up at you once, eyes dark and unwavering, before leaning in.

His mouth was slow at first—exploring, learning you. The way your breath stuttered when his tongue found a sensitive spot, the way your fingers clenched in his hair. “You taste just as incredible as I imagined,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. When he inserted a finger and curled towards himself, you nearly buckled.

You didn’t mean to cry out, but it slipped past your lips, helpless and raw. Your hand flew up to cover your mouth, which made him smirk. He caught your elbow with his free hand, gently but insistently, pulling your hand away and intertwining your fingers into his hair. You gave his curls a tug and were met with a moan. It was impossible to hide the smug grin that painted your face.

“I want to hear you,” he murmured, voice thick with heat. His voice dipped lower, rougher.

You felt the press of the marble wall cool behind you as your back arched. One hand flew to the wall, the other gripping his shoulder as he kept going—steadfast, focused, like you were the only thing that existed. Like this was something he'd been starving for.

And maybe you had been too. Because every sound, every gasp that left you was honest.

You hiked your knee higher, anchoring your heel along the dip of his back. The dress had long since stopped mattering.

Jack’s grip tightened, one hand digging into the curve of your ass as he anchored you against the wall. His other hand slipped between your thighs, fingers sliding inside you with precision, curling until your legs nearly gave out.

"Jack, I'm—" You moaned into your clenched teeth, the sound too loud, too needy—but he wanted it, taking it in like oxygen.

Your head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, eyes fluttering closed as your breath came in shallow, stuttering waves. He didn’t let up. The rhythm was relentless, mouth and hand working in tandem, dragging you closer to the edge with every sweep, every flick, drinking you like water from a desert oasis. He stopped only when you tapped his cheek twice, silently begging for mercy.

Your skin glistened, painted with heat. Before he pulled away, Jack leaned in again, his tongue tracing the trails of your release up your inner thigh with slow, savoring strokes. Each pass of his mouth made you twitch, gasp, overstimulated but unwilling to stop. He kissed the soft skin in their wake.

When he finally looked up, his face was just as wrecked, jaw set and glistening with you. And the look in his eyes when he glanced up—hungry, worshipful—was enough to ruin you.

His lips were parted just slightly, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven bursts. “God, you’re perfect.” His eyes lifted to meet yours with something close to divine awe.

It came out quiet—like a confession he'd finally allowed himself to say out loud.

You leaned down and kissed him, tasting yourself on his tongue. He let out a low, contented sound against your mouth, one hand tightening around your thigh, the other still steadying your hip. You could feel the tension in him—tender, aching—as if the moment might slip through his fingers if he didn’t hold it close.

Your fingers slipped into your dress, pulling free a small foil square tucked just inside the cup of your bra. Jack blinked down at it, then back up at you, clearly caught off guard.

He raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

You shrugged, breathless. "Was holding it for a friend."

Jack smirked, eyes dragging down your body. "Sure you were."

You made quick work of his belt, unbuckling it and pushing his pants down just enough.

“He talks too much,” you muttered, smirking.

You looked down.

And stopped.

He was perfect. Cut, trimmed, thick, just the right length. The kind of sight that made your breath hitch. Your hand slid along his length with a few firm pumps—just enough to make him hiss between his teeth.

You couldn't resist. Lowered to your knees, gave him a few languid licks, savoring the taste. He whimpered, his hand gently gripping your hair—but not pulling, not yet.

After a few more pumps, Jack pulled you up by the chin with a bruising kiss, swallowing your gasp.

“I’m not coming anywhere but inside you,” he growled against your lips.

You smiled, teasing. “Maybe next time, then.” Your fingers trailed down the front of his dress shirt, feeling the heat of his body even through the fabric—muscles taut and firm beneath your touch.

Then you turned, facing the wall—cheeks hot, breath short. One hand braced flat against the cool marble, the other gathering the bunched fabric of your dress. You looked over your shoulder, eyes dark with want.

Jack swore under his breath. He moved behind you in a blur, hands rough on your hips as he lined himself up. The heat of him pressed against you, teasing, maddening.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice lower than gravel.

You pushed back, just enough for him to sink in, slow and deliberate. He filled you up inch by inch, warm and hot and perfect, making you gasp as your forehead pressed to the wall.

His hands wrapped around your hips as he bottomed out, his mouth dragging along your neck, teeth grazing your skin until he whispered a sharp, broken "fuck"—more to himself than to you. Like he was trying not to explode.

You tried to move, just a little forward, a little back—restless with need—but his hands tightened.

“Don’t,” he breathed. “Just—just give me a second. You feel fucking incredible.”

“Jack,” you whimpered.

If he clenched his teeth any harder, he might've popped his jaw. "Fuck, I love when you call me by my name."

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Please.”

That undid him.

He gripped your hips tighter, fingertips digging into your supple flesh—just shy of bruising. The pain was delicious, grounding you to every thrust, every second of connection, hips rocking forward, slowly at first—deep, deliberate, like he wanted to feel every inch of you from the inside out. Each thrust sent a spark up your spine, your moans echoing softly. His mouth returned to your neck, biting just enough to leave a mark, his breath hot against your skin.

"You feel too good," he muttered, almost like it hurt. "Too good."

You tried to respond, but the words got lost somewhere in your throat as his pace picked up—harder, deeper, everything building.

Your hands flattened against the wall, bracing yourself as your body rocked with his rhythm. It was dizzying—overwhelming—in all the best ways. Every drag of his hips made your knees tremble, every grunt and growl in your ear pushed you closer to unraveling.

Without warning, he turned you around to face him. His eyes were blown wide, pupils dilated, chest heaving. He lifted your left leg with his right hand, supporting your thigh against his side as he surged forward again.

The angle had you seeing stars—vision spinning as he hit that spot inside you with maddening precision. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as your head dropped forward against his.

Your hands clasped behind his neck, holding tight, desperate to keep him there. You raked your fingers through his curls, tugging hard enough to make him moan—and dragged your nails lightly down the back of his neck, leaving a faint trail of heat in their wake. His mouth found yours again—tongue hot, hungry—kissing you like he needed it to breathe. His left hand anchored you by the hip, grinding you against him as his rhythm deepened, pulling another cry from your throat.

There was nothing left but heat, hands, breath. And the way he looked at you like you were the only thing he'd ever wanted—needed.

"I'm yours," he whispered, forehead resting against yours, voice ragged. It wasn’t a declaration—it was a truth. Raw and full and real.

Your lips brushed his, trembling. “And I’m yours.”

The moment cracked open between you. You kissed him—desperate, hungry, chasing the high you were both barely holding onto.

You felt yourself teetering, the peak just within reach. Jack looked like he was holding back, focusing on keeping every muscle drawn tight with restraint—putting your pleasure before his. But you needed him there with you, completely.

You leaned into his ear, breath hot. “I need you to cum for me, Jack.” His fingers dug deeper into your hip. "I need you to fill me up." Your knee wrapped tighter around his torso, drawing him impossibly closer as you held him to you, clinging like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. You bit the curve of his neck, sharp and claiming.

That was all it took.

He let out a guttural sound, hips stuttering as he came undone, pulling you with him into a release that felt like freefall—earth-shattering and unrelenting.

Your release crashed through you moments after his, drawn out and all-consuming. Every nerve lit up, your body shaking with the intensity of it. It wasn’t like anything else—no drug, no high. Just him. You. This.

For a long beat, neither of you moved. Your breath came in broken gasps, foreheads pressed together, bodies trembling in the aftermath. Sweaty. Beautiful. And quiet.

Jack’s hand smoothed up your spine, grounding you. His lips brushed your temple, and the world finally began to settle back into place.

He gently brushed strands of damp hair from your face, fingers tender where they swept against your skin. The breeze caught a few pieces, but they clung to the sheen on your cheeks. When you finally let your leg down, your knees buckled slightly. Jack caught you without hesitation—arms strong, sure, keeping you steady as your weight shifted. You clung to him without thinking, hands gripping his shoulders like a lifeline. When you finally loosened your grip, he didn’t let go right away—his arms still braced around you like muscle memory, like instinct.

Pulling back, you realized what a disheveled mess the two of you were.

You reached up and smoothed down the front of his shirt, fixing the lapels of his suit, tugging the hem of his jacket into place. Thankfully whatever hair gel he used was bulletproof, only a curl or two out of place. He brushed his fingers along your hairline, gently tucking back strands that had come loose, then adjusted the strap of your dress where it had slipped off your shoulder.

There was a beat of silence—comfortable, but heavy.

Clearing your throat, you tried to gather your thoughts. “I, uh…”

Jack’s eyes remained a little dazed, as if he was still anchoring himself to the moment.

A breath escaped you—half-laugh, half-exhale. “Tea. I was gonna ask if you wanted to come back to mine for tea.”

He blinked once, then his lips quirked.

“Tea?”

“Yeah,” you said, half-smiling. “Or, like… whatever. Just to wind down. You don’t have to.”

Jack shook his head once, slow. “Only if you’re not just holding it for a friend.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too. “You’re welcome anytime, Jack. You know that, right?”

His gaze softened. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I do.”

You nodded once, awkward and earnest. “Cool. Good. Great.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “You always this smooth after balcony sex?”

You shot him a glare filled with playful menace. "Depends. You always this cocky after someone invites you over for tea?”

He smiled—one of those rare ones, small and sideways. “Only when it’s not just for the tea.”

You groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” he said again, softer this time. “But I’m yours, remember?”

You tilted your head, smirking. “Return policy on that is… nonexistent, right?”

His smile widened just a touch. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

“Careful, Jack. That almost sounded romantic.”

He chuckled, then sobered just enough to meet your eyes. “Maybe it was.”

The breeze danced around you both again, brushing cool air against warm skin. Still, the embers between you remained.

“Come on,” you said, tugging gently at his hand. “Let’s go before someone realizes we’ve been out here defiling the sacred balcony.”

He followed without hesitation. Fingers laced with yours.

This time, neither of you looked back.

#the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt imagine #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot x reader #jack abbot smut #jack abbot #jack abbot imagine #shawn hatosy #dr. abbot x reader #dr abbot #dr abbot smut #the pitt x reader #dr abbot x you #jack abbot x you

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riseninsaturn · 2 years ago

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i have decided to just stick to one klapollo week fic, which is disappointing but i plan to write a lot more klapollo fics in the future, anyway. this gives me time to make sure my one fic is really good and also i got some time to work on the vera fic which i think is coming along super good :D

#saturn.txt #it's kind of a mess to write but it's been fun #it's just really non linear and also requires juggling about 6 different writing styles #so alternating those takes counting work

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diamonddaze01 · 3 months ago

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WINGS AGAINST THE WIND

PAIRING: kwon soonyoung x reader| WC: 6.7K GENRE: hurt-comfort | non-linear storytelling | based on boys by alfie jukes WARNINGS: alcohol consumption A/N: for keopihaus’s spring event! i picked pantalone | had this brain worm at work and this is the end result. not entirely happy with it, but we ball. happy to finally be able to write for svt again | hochi’s debut on the blog! welcome sweet boy RECOMMENDED LISTENING: boys, alfie jukes | motion sickness, phoebe bridgers | sweet disposition, the temper trap | summertime sadness, lana del ray | cherry, harry styles | out of my league, fitz and the tantrums | lovers' carvings, bibio | i wanna be your girlfriend, girl in red

SUMMARY: The tide pulls in. The stars burn on. Neither of you move.

JUNE 2019

The first time you see Soonyoung that summer, he’s chasing seagulls down the shore, barefoot and grinning, arms spread wide like he thinks he can fly.

The ocean wind tousles his hair, strands of it sticking to his forehead, but he doesn’t stop running. The birds scatter around him in startled flurries, wings beating against the sky in protest, but Soonyoung only laughs—a sound carried away by the tide, swallowed up by the crash of the waves.

You watch from the porch of your family’s beach house, hands curled around a cold glass of lemonade, condensation damp against your palm. The sun hangs low, turning the sky soft at the edges, streaks of rose bleeding into gold. The scent of salt lingers in the air, familiar and thick.

It’s always like this with him. Soonyoung, with his sunburnt nose and scabbed knees, the boy who never walked when he could run, never whispered when he could laugh. Soonyoung, who arrives with the summer and stays until it ends, as much a part of this town as the sea-glass that washes up on the shore, as the rusting Ferris wheel down by the boardwalk.

And just like that, it begins again.

JUNE 2002

You are six, and the world is too big.

The ocean roars, an endless, hungry thing, swallowing the shore in foamy white before retreating like it changed its mind. The sky stretches too wide above you, and the sun is too bright, pressing hot fingers against your skin. Even the voices—grown-ups talking, seagulls screaming—are too loud. So you hide, small hands curling into the fabric of your mother’s dress, peeking out at the unfamiliar boy in front of you.

He is loud. He is all knees and elbows and wild energy, his hair sticking up like he’s been running into the wind for hours. His shirt is untucked, one sneaker untied, a smear of something suspiciously orange at the corner of his mouth. He stands with his weight on the balls of his feet, like he might take off at any second.

And then—he grins.

"TAG!"

He smacks a hand against your arm. Then he spins on his heel and bolts, kicking up sand as he tears toward the water, his laughter trailing behind him like a kite in the breeze.

Your feet stay rooted. Your heart pounds. You glance up at your mother, searching her face for an answer, but she only nudges you forward, voice warm with amusement.

"Go on, sweetheart," she murmurs. "He’s waiting for you."

You look back at the boy—Soonyoung, she had said his name was. He is already halfway to the shoreline, but he pauses, turning back to you. His hands cup around his mouth as he shouts, "Come on! You’re it!"

Your fingers twitch. Your toes curl in the sand. And then, something in you—some quiet, cautious thing—loosens just enough.

You take one step. Then another.

And then you run.

SEPTEMBER 2008

You are twelve, and summer is ending. The world has narrowed.

Once, it had felt endless, stretching beyond the dunes and the boardwalk and the chipped-paint fences of this beach town. But now, it feels smaller, shrinking to the space between sun-warmed pavement and the steady crash of the tide, to the places where Soonyoung goes and where you follow.

You don’t remember when you started falling in love with him. Maybe it was when he climbed onto the roof of your house just to prove he could, his grin bright as the moon above, his breathless told you so floating down like a dare. He had scaled the old oak tree by your window with the reckless confidence of a boy who had never believed in falling, fingers gripping the rough bark, feet scraping against the gutter as he pulled himself up.

Now, he sits there, legs swinging over the edge, toes brushing against the night air like he could dip them into the stars if he tried hard enough. His hair is mussed from the climb, sticking out at odd angles, and his t-shirt is streaked with dirt where he must’ve wiped his hands. But his eyes—his eyes shine with something wild, something boundless.

"You coming up or what?" he calls down, voice laced with laughter.

You hesitate. Your mother would kill you if she knew, but Soonyoung is already scooting over, patting the space beside him like it’s the easiest thing in the world. And maybe, for him, it is.

You climb. It’s clumsy, slow-going, your fingers fumbling against rough bark, but when you reach the top, Soonyoung is waiting, grinning like he knew you’d make it all along.

The roof is warm beneath your palms, still holding the heat of the day. The town spreads below you in quiet patches of light—porch lamps glowing amber, the boardwalk flickering in the distance. The ocean is a dark, endless thing, breathing against the shore. And above, the sky stretches wide, a mess of constellations neither of you can name.

"You ever wonder what it’s like to be a bird?" Soonyoung asks suddenly, voice softer now.

You turn your head, catching the way the moonlight skims the curve of his cheek. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs, tilting his face toward the stars. "Just—flying wherever you want. Never having to stay in one place."

You frown, pulling your knees to your chest. "But don’t birds always come back home?"

Soonyoung is quiet for a long moment, his fingers drumming against the shingles. "Maybe." Then, turning to you, eyes crinkled at the edges, "But I think I’d want to see everything first."

Something flutters in your chest, strange and new. You don’t know what it is yet.

So you don’t say anything, just tip your head back and watch the sky, the stars too many to count, the night stretching wide and open before you. And beside you, Soonyoung hums under his breath, legs still swinging, like he’s testing the air—like he’s already getting ready to take off.

JULY 2019

The waves lap gently against the wooden beams, the water below shifting with the tide, black with hints of silver where the moonlight kisses it. A faint breeze rolls in from the horizon, cool against your sun-warmed skin, and beside you, Soonyoung hums some half-forgotten song under his breath, the tune swallowed by the wind before it can reach your ears.

He’s always humming, always moving—tapping his fingers against the railing, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Even now, leaning over the edge of the pier, he rocks onto his toes like he’s daring himself to fall forward, like he trusts the ocean to catch him. You don’t know if it ever occurs to him that it wouldn’t.

"Bet I could jump," he says suddenly, tilting his head toward you, eyes glinting in the dim light. He grins, teeth flashing white. "Bet I could survive."

You roll your eyes, but your heart stutters anyway. "Bet you could break your leg."

Soonyoung laughs, pushing off the railing to stand upright. He stretches his arms above his head, his t-shirt riding up slightly, exposing the strip of tanned skin just above his waistband. "C’mon," he says, nudging your shoulder with his. "Where’s your sense of adventure?"

You huff, turning your gaze back to the water. Somewhere in the distance, a boat bobs along the horizon, its light a tiny pinprick against the vast dark.

It’s not that you don’t have a sense of adventure—it’s just that Soonyoung’s is always bigger, always wilder, always burning too bright for you to hold in your hands without it slipping through your fingers like embers.

"You don’t always have to prove something, you know," you murmur, watching as a gull drifts lazily above the water, its wings barely moving, carried by the wind.

"I’m not proving anything," Soonyoung says, voice softer now. He nudges you again, more gently this time. "I just like knowing I could."

You don’t answer right away. The breeze carries the scent of salt and something sweet—funnel cakes, maybe, or the last wisps of cotton candy from a boardwalk stand closing up for the night. The sounds of the carnival are distant now, nothing but an echo of laughter and carousel music winding down for the evening.

Soonyoung swings an arm over your shoulders suddenly, tugging you into his warmth. "Hey," he says, voice teasing, but you hear the quiet sincerity beneath it. "If I ever do something stupid, you’d catch me, right?"

You exhale a small laugh, shaking your head, but you don’t pull away. "Yeah," you say. "I’d catch you."

Soonyoung grins, satisfied, and you stand there together, the waves below whispering secrets you’ll never quite understand.

AUGUST 2011

You are fifteen, and the ocean is endless.

It stretches before you, vast and rippling, the sky above painted in the soft pastels of late afternoon. The waves are restless today, tumbling toward the shore in a frothy rush, stealing the sand from beneath your feet as they recede. You should have been more careful. You should have braced yourself better. But Soonyoung was beside you, and it’s always easier to forget things when he’s there.

The wave catches you off guard—one moment, you’re standing ankle-deep in the water, and the next, the current surges forward, swallowing your knees, your waist, knocking you off balance. The world tilts, salt filling your mouth as you go under, the water curling around you, flipping you end over end until you don’t know which way is up.

And then—hands.

Soonyoung's grip is firm, fingers wrapping around your wrist, tugging you up, up, up until you’re breaking the surface, gasping as the air rushes back into your lungs. He’s laughing, because of course he is, his eyes crinkled at the corners, his hair dripping saltwater down his cheeks.

“Damn,” he breathes, grinning wide, “I thought the ocean was about to steal you.”

You’re breathless, stunned—less from the tumble, more from the way his hand is still wrapped around yours, warm and solid, grounding you. Your heartbeat is a staccato rhythm against your ribs, matching the waves that crash around your legs.

“You okay?” Soonyoung asks, squeezing your fingers lightly, like he’s making sure you’re real, like you haven’t been carried off with the tide.

You nod, but you don’t move. You don’t let go.

And neither does he.

A gull wheels overhead, crying out against the wind, and the moment stretches long and golden, suspended between you like something fragile. His thumb brushes against your knuckles absently, as if he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, and you think, suddenly, that you’ll remember this forever—the salt on your lips, the sun-drenched glow of his skin, the way his laughter still lingers in the space between you.

The tide rolls in again, swirling around your calves, and finally, reluctantly, Soonyoung pulls away, raking a hand through his wet hair. “Come on,” he says, stepping backward toward the shore, “before the waves drag you under for real.”

You follow, but you swear you can still feel the ghost of his touch, the warmth of his palm against yours, even as the ocean tries to wash it away.

SEPTEMBER 2012

You are sixteen and have realized summer doesn’t feel the same when Soonyoung’s not there.

The days stretch long and golden, but they feel hollow, like an echo of something that once was. The ocean still hums against the shore, the seagulls still wheel lazily overhead, crying out into the heavy afternoon air, but everything feels off-kilter, like a song played in the wrong key.

You walk the boardwalk alone. The wooden planks creak beneath your feet, weathered and warm from the sun, but they don’t bounce with Soonyoung’s unrelenting energy, don’t tremble beneath his eager footsteps as he drags you from one end to the other, chattering about nothing and everything.

He’s not here.

He’s in a city miles away, where the air smells of pavement and ambition, where he spends his days in mirrored studios lined with scuffed wooden floors, his body moving through the shapes of something greater, something bigger than this sleepy town could ever offer. You know this is what he wants—have always known that Soonyoung was meant to move, to run, to fly.

And yet.

You sit on the pier at sunset, legs dangling over the edge, watching the waves catch the last light of the day. The seagulls drift overhead, weightless and free, carried by the wind like it loves them. You wonder if Soonyoung ever stops to watch them in the city, if he looks up from the rhythm of his own body long enough to remember the way the ocean breathes, the way summer feels here, with you.

You press your palms against the wooden planks, grounding yourself in the familiar, in the place that has always felt like home. But without Soonyoung’s laughter ringing through the streets, without his sunburnt hands pulling you forward, it feels smaller somehow.

The wind shifts, carrying the sound of distant music from the boardwalk, the scent of salt and spun sugar. You close your eyes and pretend, just for a moment, that if you turn your head, Soonyoung will be there beside you—grinning, wind-tousled, eyes alight with something that makes everything feel alive.

But when you open them, it’s just you.

And summer has never felt so quiet.

AUGUST 2019

The days stretch long and golden, collapsing into nights laced with salt and the hum of cicadas. The ocean is a constant whisper in the background, ebbing and flowing like breath, like the slow pull of time neither of you try to fight.

Soonyoung drives with one hand on the wheel, the other draped lazily over the window frame, fingers trailing through the wind as if he’s conducting an invisible orchestra. The air is thick with heat, the scent of sunscreen and sun-warmed leather filling the car. The radio crackles, the same summer songs playing on an endless loop, and Soonyoung sings along—offbeat, off-key, always a lyric behind. You don’t correct him. You just listen, watching the way the wind tosses his hair, the way the sun paints his skin in soft gold.

Some nights, when the sky is wide and full, he takes you to the dunes. He doesn’t ask, just tugs you by the wrist, his grip warm and insistent, leading you past the weathered wooden fences, past the sea grass swaying in the breeze. The sand is cool beneath your bare feet, grains slipping between your toes as you climb higher, until the town is just a scatter of distant lights behind you. The ocean stretches vast and inky beyond the horizon, the waves gleaming silver under the moon.

Soonyoung flops onto his back with a sigh, arms sprawled like he’s trying to hold onto the whole sky. “Look,” he says, pointing upward, “Cassiopeia.”

You follow his gaze, but all you see are stars—scattered and bright, endless pinpricks of light. “That’s not Cassiopeia,” you say, wrapping your arms around your knees.

“Sure it is,” he argues, tracing a messy W in the air. “And that’s Orion, and that’s the Little Dipper—”

"You’re making them up," you accuse, raising an eyebrow.

He grins, rolling onto his side to face you. “Maybe. But who’s gonna prove me wrong?”

You roll your eyes, but you lie down beside him anyway. The sand still holds the heat of the day, warm against your spine, grounding you. Above, a flock of birds shifts in the sky, their silhouettes carving soft, fluid patterns into the dark.

Soonyoung watches them too, something quiet settling over him. “Do you think they know where they’re going?” he murmurs, voice barely above the hush of the waves.

You exhale, watching your breath dissolve into the night. “I think they just go.”

For a moment, there is only the sound of the ocean, of the wind moving through the dunes. Then, Soonyoung turns to you, his gaze steady, unreadable. The wind ruffles his hair, brushes softly against your skin.

“Yeah,” he says at last, voice low. “Yeah, I think so too.”

The tide pulls in. The stars burn on. Neither of you move.

AUGUST 2013

You are seventeen, and the summer tastes like salt and firewood smoke.

The nights blur together, one bleeding into the next, stitched together with sand sticking to sun-warmed skin and the hum of cicadas in the dunes. The air is thick with the scent of the ocean, of burning driftwood, of marshmallows turned molten over an open flame. Somewhere down the shore, music drifts from a crackling speaker, the melody warped by the wind, and Soonyoung—always Soonyoung—is beside you, too loud, too restless.

Long days melt into long nights. You spend the afternoons sprawled on the sand, the sky above a vast and endless blue, the kind of blue that makes you believe in forever. The kind of blue that makes you think forever might look like this—Soonyoung’s laughter bright and uncontained, his body twisting away from the incoming tide, only for him to launch himself straight back into it, fearless, unrelenting.

At night, the two of you wander the boardwalk like ghosts, dodging pools of neon light, walking the railings with your arms outstretched, breathless, unsteady, pretending the ocean below is nothing but air. Soonyoung, always first to jump, teeters on the edge like he’s trying to touch the sky, his fingers splayed wide, his laugh caught in the wind, pulling you in with him. The world is full of motion, but here, together, you feel like you’re part of something still, something that lingers in the spaces between his words and the sounds of the ocean.

A mockingbird calls from a distance, its song old and familiar, a note of something that’s already slipping away. You know it’s a song that used to belong to summers long past—before the world started demanding things of you, before the noise of growing up began to drown out the simple things. Before Soonyoung’s laughter, wild and free, was something you couldn’t hear without a tinge of fear.

You both sit on the railing, the wood warm beneath you, your legs dangling into the night air, too far from the ground but not enough to feel unsafe. The ocean is a dark mass below you, a black expanse of water that pulls at your feet as though calling you in. You breathe in the salt, the smoke, the unspoken understanding that summer is already slipping away.

Soonyoung is a constant, a whirlwind, a never-ending movement. He is arms waving, words tumbling, laughter spilling over like waves crashing against the shore. And yet, here, now, in this in-between moment—his gaze steady, his body still except for the absentminded fidget of his fingers against his thigh—he doesn’t feel like motion at all. It’s as if even Soonyoung is holding his breath, waiting for something, maybe for the summer to tell you both what comes next.

And as the ocean sings beneath you and the stars hang heavy above, you know for certain, with a clarity that hits you like the warm evening breeze, that you love him. It’s not a revelation. It’s just the way the world feels right when he’s here. You realize you’ve always known, that the way your heart flips every time he’s near isn’t just the rush of summer or the thrill of adventure. No, it’s something deeper, something more permanent.

You don’t say it. You don’t need to. The ocean is enough, the wind is enough, and Soonyoung, sitting so close you can feel the heat of his skin even through the night air, is enough.

“You ever think,” he asks, his voice quiet for once, the ocean’s roar filling the space between his words, “if birds feel trapped by the sky?”

It’s a question you don’t know how to answer, but you don’t need to. You both sit there, staring out into the distance, the waves crashing like a quiet promise. A mockingbird whistles in the distance, and for a moment, the world stops moving. It’s just the sound of the ocean, of the night stretching long and endless, and Soonyoung, who has always been everything, sitting quietly beside you, as still as the sky.

APRIL 2014

You are almost eighteen, and Soonyoung calls you at midnight like he has forever.

The phone buzzes in your hand, sharp in the quiet darkness of your room, a signal of something both familiar and foreign. His name lights up the screen, and for a second, you're back to summers where the nights felt endless, where time seemed to bend around the two of you. You press the phone to your ear, and even before he speaks, his voice settles into you like the weight of an old song, one you’ve memorized in the corners of your heart.

“I made my decision,” he says, words spilling fast, but there’s something different in them tonight. They feel heavier. Like he's holding something back, or maybe you are. The sound of his breath, quick and charged, vibrates through the line.

“What decision?” You try to keep the steadiness in your voice, but there's a flutter, a pulse in your chest you can’t ignore.

“About college,” he says, and the words feel like a blow you didn’t see coming. “I got in. I’m going across the country. I—I’m going to dance.”

And the world feels too small for a moment, like the walls of your room are suddenly pressing in on you. Across the country. It might as well be across the world. His dream is taking him somewhere far away, somewhere you can’t follow.

There’s a quiet stretch of silence on the other end, the kind that fills the space with too many things unsaid. Your fingers tighten around the phone, the cool surface grounding you, but not enough. Not enough to stop the sudden ache that settles into your bones.

You want to say something. Something that makes this okay, something that makes it feel less like the earth is shifting beneath your feet. But you don’t. Because there’s nothing to say to make it okay.

“Soonyoung,” you whisper, barely enough to hear, but he catches it, and his laugh is soft, uncertain.

“I know,” he says. “I know it’s far. But it’s what I want.”

You hear him breathing, and you know this is it. The moment when things start to change. Not a slow shift, but a sharp one. The way the seasons will turn, the way you’ll look back and realize the summer you thought would last forever is slipping through your fingers.

“I might not be there this summer,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter now. “The program’s got pre-season stuff... It’s in June, right? I won’t be here for any of it. I—” His voice falters, and for the first time, you hear the uncertainty in it, the crack where his words don’t fit quite right.

And it’s like someone took the last bit of air out of the room. You both know what it means, even if it isn’t said directly. This summer—this one that’s always been the same—is about to slip into something unrecognizable, into something new.

“Okay,” you finally say, your voice low. And the weight of that word feels like too much to carry. Too much for one night, too much for one phone call.

You know he’s still there, still waiting for you to say more, but there’s nothing left to say. Soonyoung’s dream is his own now, and you’re left standing on the edge of something, unsure how far you’re willing to fall.

“Happy birthday,” he says softly, as if it’s a way to close the space between you. But the distance feels like it’s already there, stretching out farther than the ocean between you.

JULY 2014

You are eighteen, and June slips away in the space between breaths.

Each day blends into the next like the tides rolling in and out, each wave a soft reminder of everything you’re losing.

The air is warm with the promise of summer, thick with the scent of salt and the distant whisper of fireworks. The city hums with the pulse of late-night life, but the streets outside your window feel empty now, quieter than they should be, as if the world is holding its breath, waiting for something.

Anything.

Then, there’s a knock at your door. It’s sharp, unexpected, and when you open it, Soonyoung is standing there, his chest heaving with shallow breaths, his hair damp from the cool night air. His eyes, wide and alive with something unspoken, lock onto yours and without a second thought, he grabs your hand and pulls you out into the warmth of the night.

“Come on,” he says, his voice breathless, but urgent, like he’s chasing something, like he’s trying to outrun everything that’s coming. “Come with me.”

Before you can ask any questions, before you can make sense of the moment – there are a million questions in your head. What happened to pre-season? Why are you here? Are you here for me – he’s dragging you down the empty streets, past the shuttered shops and the quiet houses where people are already asleep. You can hear the soft tap of your shoes against the pavement, but it’s drowned out by the sound of his laughter, the wild, unrestrained joy of someone who doesn’t know—or doesn’t care—about the world waiting for them. His grip on your hand is firm, like he’s afraid you might slip away if he lets go.

The boardwalk is silent as you pass it, the lights above flickering like old memories, casting long shadows that stretch across the empty path. And then, finally, you reach the beach, the sand soft beneath your feet, the cool breeze of the ocean sweeping over your skin. The sound of the waves is constant, a steady rhythm that seems to match the beat of your racing heart. The moon hangs high above, bathing the shoreline in a silvery glow, casting everything in a dreamlike haze.

“Soonyoung,” you start, breathless from the run, but before you can finish, he pulls you into his arms, his hands finding their way to your waist, his body warm and solid against yours.

“Dance with me,” he says, the words more like a command than a request, and before you can respond, he’s moving you, spinning you in circles, no music but the sound of the waves crashing, no rhythm but the way your feet meet the earth, the way your heart thunders in your chest, in time with the crash of the waves.

You laugh, caught up in the madness of it all, in the feeling of the night, of him, of everything slipping away and yet feeling more alive than you’ve ever felt before. The stars above are a blur, a smattering of white across the black sky, and for a moment, it feels like you’re the only two people in the world, like this—this strange, reckless dance—might be all that matters.

“Where did you come from?” you ask between breaths, trying to catch your own as you stumble in the sand, laughing.

Soonyoung doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he tilts his head back toward the stars, his hair falling in messy strands across his forehead, the moonlight catching in his eyes, turning them silver. He looks like he belongs here, in this moment, with the world at his feet and the night surrounding him, as if nothing else has ever mattered but this dance, this night, the two of you.

“I don’t know,” he says softly, but the words hang in the air like they’re something sacred. “But I don’t ever want to leave.”

The wind picks up, ruffling your hair, pulling you closer into the dance, and you feel it then—the unspoken promise, the feeling that this moment is all there is, that the world can shift and change around you, but nothing will matter as long as you’re here, together, in the glow of the moon and the rhythm of the ocean, with the sound of your laughter echoing into the night.

For a second, just a second, you think it could last forever.

JUNE 2017

You are twenty-one, and you still love Soonyoung.

The dingy dive bar on the boardwalk smells like stale beer and regret, the kind of place you've always passed by, nose scrunched in distaste, never once thinking you'd step inside. But tonight, Soonyoung winks at you with that signature grin—daring, mischievous—and says, "We're twenty-one, let's have some fun!" as he drags you in.

The air inside feels thick, the dim lights casting shadows that stretch across the worn wooden floors. The smell of cheap liquor clings to everything, but for some reason, it’s comforting tonight, like the world is giving you a small, tight hug. You glance around, noting how it’s exactly what you expected—grungy and lived-in, with cracked bar stools and neon signs that buzz faintly, but there's something about it that feels like a secret you've been let in on.

And then there's Soonyoung, his grin lighting up the room like he's the only thing in it that matters. You realize, in the half-faded light, how much has changed. He’s older now, sharper. His shoulders are broader, and his hair falls messier, less like the careless perfection of youth and more like someone who’s been fighting to make a name for himself. But his laugh—his laugh still holds that same reckless joy, the kind that turns ordinary nights into something more, something you’ll remember for years.

The past few years have been a blur—his choreography intensives, your internships. Summers were fleeting, slipping through your fingers faster than you could catch them, leaving only the echoes of missed chances and unspoken words. But here, now, in this bar, with the stale air and the clink of bottles around you, time feels still. You hold on to everything he says, every word like it’s gold. You try to memorize the shape of his smile, the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, the way he’s always looking at you like you’re something more than just a friend, even if neither of you ever says it aloud.

He nudges you, his fingers brushing yours as he hands you a drink, a little too full, a little too fast, but you don’t care. “To being twenty-one,” he says, and for a moment, you wonder if this is what it feels like to be young forever.

You sip your drink, the burn of alcohol mixing with the sweetness of something unspoken, and you can’t help but feel dizzy—not just from the booze, but from the way he’s looking at you, the way his presence fills the room in a way it never used to. And maybe he’s tipsy, and maybe you are too, but when he leans in—his face too close, his breath warm against your lips—and presses a sloppy kiss to your mouth, you don’t pull away. You don’t even think to.

His lips are soft against yours, a little too wet, but it’s familiar, in a way that’s almost too much. And when he pulls away, eyes still hazy with the remnants of alcohol, you find yourself smiling—grinning like an idiot—and somehow, you’re both still standing there, in this dingy bar, as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

The next morning, sunlight floods through the blinds, the world outside still too bright and too loud. Soonyoung doesn’t bring up the kiss. You don’t either. Instead, you nurse your hangovers with orange juice and your mothers’ chiding, a familiar kind of torture.

You pretend like it never happened. Like it didn’t mean anything. But both of you know it did.

You swallow another sip of juice, a little too bitter, a little too heavy. His eyes flicker to yours across the kitchen, and for a moment, it’s like everything that’s unsaid is spilling over. But then he just shrugs, grins like nothing ever changed, and asks, “You wanna hit the boardwalk later?”

You say yes, because there’s no reason not to.

Soonyoung never brings up the kiss.

SEPTEMBER 2019

The air is different now. The ocean feels colder when it reaches your toes, like it’s finally remembering the sharpness of autumn that’s waiting just beyond the horizon. The sky dims earlier, stretching the shadows long across the shore, as if the world is already preparing to move on from the endless days of summer. The light no longer spills like honey—it’s thin, fragile, slipping away in fragments, as though the sun is reluctant to leave.

One evening, Soonyoung drives you to the cliffs, to the highest point in town where everything feels a little more distant, a little more infinite. He doesn’t speak much on the drive, his hands lightly gripping the wheel, his eyes focused on the road, though his mind feels miles away. You don’t ask what’s on his mind, not yet.

When you reach the top, the wind greets you like a forgotten friend, strong enough to make you feel weightless. Soonyoung steps out first, slamming the car door behind him with a sharp thud that echoes against the rocks. He walks toward the edge, the same familiar sway to his movements, like he's always been here, like he’s always been this person—fearless, reckless, unafraid of the unknown. His arms stretch wide, the wind catching his shirt, lifting it like he might take flight.

His silhouette against the fading light is something you know by heart. You’ve seen it before—seen him standing at the edge of the world, the one constant in a summer full of changes, a quiet promise that nothing would ever really shift. But now, he seems smaller somehow, as if the weight of the night has already begun to settle on his shoulders, as if he’s already carrying something he can’t let go.

"Summer’s almost over," he says, his voice barely audible over the wind, but still, you hear it—clear and sharp like a bell tolling in the distance.

You nod. You both know what that means.

Summer has always meant everything, and now, it’s slipping away faster than either of you can grasp. Somewhere, in a place far beyond this summer, this town, these nights—life is waiting.

Soonyoung turns to you, his face still half-lit by the fading light, his eyes unreadable in a way they’ve never been before. The way he looks at you, like he’s searching for something he hasn’t quite found yet, makes the air feel heavier. You swallow, fingers curling tightly into the fabric of your sweater, the warmth of it barely enough to chase away the cold creeping in.

"You ever think about what comes next?"

You take a moment before answering, your heart catching somewhere in the gap. "Yeah," you say, and it’s the truth. You think about it all the time. About how everything seems to be moving, how things are slipping away, and how you don’t know how to hold on when the world keeps shifting.

"Me too," he says, and the words feel too final, like a door closing softly in the distance. His eyes are searching yours, as if looking for a reflection of the question in them, but you don’t know what answer he wants, what answer you have.

In the distance, a flock of birds takes off, heading toward something unseen, something only the wind knows. You watch them, the flutter of their wings a reminder that not everything has a destination—that sometimes, they just go.

You don’t say it, but the thought lingers there, the answer to a question he asked only a month ago—maybe they don’t know where they’re going. Maybe they just go. Maybe that’s what you’ll do, too, when the time comes.

Soonyoung exhales, long and slow. "Guess we’ll figure it out."

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe it always will be.

Soonyoung doesn’t come back the next summer. Or the summer after that.

The silence between you stretches, a quiet that fills every corner of your life. The sky is still the same shade of blue when summer rolls in, but it feels emptier now, as if it’s lost something it never meant to lose.

Your mother sends you news articles. They arrive in the mailbox, pressed between the usual letters and bills, but they stand out. Always. She folds the pages carefully, her handwriting neatly scrawled across the top: Look what Soonyoung's up to now.

One article is about how he’d been selected to join a world-renowned dance troupe. Another talks about how he’d choreographed for Coachella, the way his name shimmers in the lights of the stage, filling every word with something grander than what you remember. Then there’s the Super Bowl. His name, in bold letters, nestled between those of stars, as if it belonged there all along.

Each article feels like a different version of him, a version you never thought about until now. The way he stands at the center of massive stages, the weight of his presence carving space in places you always knew he was meant to reach. But still, with each new article, you can’t help but feel that familiar ache in your chest, the one that comes with absence. He’s somewhere out there, taking up space in the world in ways you’d never thought possible, but not here. Not here with you.

You can’t help but wonder, as you read about his successes, if he’s forgotten. If the days on the cliffs, with the ocean at your feet and the wind in your hair, have faded into something like a dream, a summer you shared once but can never go back to. Maybe he never felt it the way you did. Maybe he was always meant for something bigger than that small town, something grander than the boardwalk and the rusty Ferris wheel and melted bubblegum ice cream.

You try not to hold it against him. But it lingers—soft, insistent. The part of you that once thought you were forever, that once imagined summers and years stretching into something permanent. Now, it's just you, the ocean, and the echoes of a laughter that’s grown fainter with time.

But then, every time you close your eyes, you can still see him—the way his arms spread wide on the edge of the cliffs, the way the wind tugged at his hair, and the way, just for a moment, you thought he might fly.

JUNE 2024

Years later, you find yourself back on that same beach. The air hangs thick with memory, the scent of salt and sand settling into your lungs, familiar in a way that aches. You stand at the water’s edge, toes curling into the cool, damp sand, and for a second, you half-expect to see Soonyoung running down the shore, legs kicking up spray as he chases after the birds—always just a little too fast, just a little too wild, a laugh spilling from him like the ocean itself.

But he isn’t here.

The beach is quieter now, the laughter of summer replaced by the steady hush of the waves, the soft whisper of the wind that cuts through the air, carrying with it the weight of everything that’s changed. It feels different, but in a way, it doesn’t. The same sky, the same ocean, the same stretch of sand you once walked barefoot with him.

You stand there, the pulse of the tide at your feet, and listen. His voice is there—woven into the crash of the waves, into the way the wind tugs at your hair. It’s him, lingering like a shadow you can’t quite shake. You can almost hear him, shouting your name, daring you to join him in one more race down the shore, one more moment that was never really enough.

You wonder, for just a second, if the ocean remembers him the way you do—how his laughter once filled the air like music, how his presence used to make everything feel like it was meant to last. Maybe the ocean knows. Maybe it’s kept him in its depths, tucked between the rhythm of the waves, as if it, too, is holding on to the summers you had.

You are twenty-eight, and you will always love Kwon Soonyoung.

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literaryvein-reblogs · 5 months ago

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Writing Notes: Flashbacks

In fiction, a flashback is a scene that takes place before a story begins.

Flashbacks interrupt the chronological order of the main narrative to take a reader back in time to the past events in a character’s life.

A writer uses this literary device to help readers better understand present-day elements in the story or learn more about a character.

Whether it’s a vivid memory or a dream sequence, a flashback scene (sometimes called an analepsis) is a window to an earlier occurrence that provides critical information to the story.

In the opposite narrative direction, a flash-forward (sometimes called a prolepsis) is a sneak preview or foreshadowing of future events.

Books make time travel effortless. Here are a few writing tips for moving elegantly between different time periods in your narrative:

Use verb tense shifts to move between the flashback and main narrative. Whenever your narrative or characters recall a memory from a time before the story began, you have two choices. If the memory is short, you can describe it briefly. If it’s longer, you may want to pull the reader back into a full scene describing a past event. It important to mark the beginning and end of a flashback to make your time jumps clear to the reader. If you’re already using past tense to tell your story, once inside the flashback, use a few lines of past perfect tense to introduce the change—e.g. “he had gone to the marina.” Past perfect tense uses the verb “to have” with the past participle of another verb (in this case “gone”). After a few lines of this, transition into simple past tense—e.g. “he climbed onto the boat.” Generally speaking, using past perfect for a long section of text is jarring for most readers. It’s enough to use it only at the start of the flashback before switching to simple past tense. At the end of the flashback, return briefly to past perfect tense and then transition back into the tense you started out with to signal a return to real time.

Keep them relevant. Flashbacks help fill in the characters’ motives and history, but if they are too long or tedious, the reader will get bored. If you use flashbacks, always be aware that time is still moving in the front story, and make sure that your reader can hear the clock in that front story ticking. It can be tempting to unload every last one of your character’s memories but tell the reader what they really need to know, and no more than that. Keep the language in these passages clear, always keeping the readers’ understanding in mind.

Sometimes the whole book is the flashback. Occasionally, the first scene or first chapter of a book will feature the main character (or a supporting character) beginning to tell a story to someone else. Framing the events of the storyline this way, with a dual point-of-view into a character’s life over the passage of time, can bring more nuance to the storytelling. Before using this technique, ask yourself whether the character’s arc is dramatic enough to make for interesting retrospection.

Tell the present story first. Sometimes it may not be clear where a flashback belongs until you’ve completed your first draft and have a complete view of the storyline. Don’t feel any pressure to weave in flashbacks as you write: simply tell your story in a linear fashion first, then shed more light on a character's motives that may need more clarity, or set up later events in the revision process.

Ways to Use Flashbacks in Your Writing

Flashbacks can either be quick dips into the past or a larger narrative thread within a story. Taking readers out of the present time to learn about an earlier event can help a writer tell a story in a non-linear style. Approaching short story or novel writing in this way can make the narrative more interesting. Flashbacks have several other important functions in literature.

Flashbacks aid character development. Diving into a character’s past, even momentarily, is a way for writers to convey background information that supports the main storyline. Writing flashbacks can provide insight into the main character’s motivations for the decisions they make and actions they take. For example, if a character's backstory includes something critical that happened in high school that can explain an event in the present, a writer can create a scenario that triggers a character to recall and reflect upon the memory.

Flashbacks incorporate different time periods. Everyone has layers of moments in their lives that influence who they are in the present. Following the chronological sequence of a storyline can leave a plot feeling flat. Flashbacks break up the chronological flow of a story, making it more interesting and realistic.

Flashbacks make readers more connected to the characters. Effective flashbacks provide a deeper insight into who a person is. Maybe a villain thinks back to the parents who abandoned him—a past event that has directly impacted his bad behavior. Though readers might not excuse the character’s actions based on his past experiences, the flashback helps them feel empathy and make sense of the antagonist’s behavior.

Flashbacks can explain the current conflict. Flashing back can help a reader better understand why and how the protagonist got into the situation that’s driving the plot and the reasons behind the main conflict. If there’s a long history of bad blood between the protagonist and antagonist, a writer can use flashbacks to show readers this history.

Examples of Flashbacks in Literature

A sight, a sound, a smell, a time, a place—writers use different stimuli to trigger a flashback. Once they take the reader back in time, they use flashbacks to enlighten them. Here are three flashback examples that demonstrate different ways this device can be used in literature:

Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad: In Joseph Conrad’s novel, a flashback makes up most of the narrative, creating a story within a story. Sitting on board a small ship on London’s Thames river, the crew of the Nellie waits for the tide to shift. As the sun sinks below the horizon, the sight triggers a memory for a crewmember named Marlow who begins to recall his time as a riverboat captain in the Congo.

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald: “In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my head ever since.” So begins Fitzgerald’s novel The Great Gatsby. He uses a flashback in the first scene of the first chapter to kick off his story.

Reasons to Incorporate Flashbacks into Your Story

While flashbacks are not a requirement of writing fiction, they can create layers of complexity and intrigue.

Flashbacks can be a powerful way to make a promise to a reader. It’s common to open a chapter with a cataclysmic event, then move abruptly into the past (“Three Weeks Earlier”) where (usually with a dose of dramatic irony) your protagonist finds himself in an entirely normal situation. This forges a contract with the reader that you’ll explain how the hero went from one situation to its opposite.

Revealing a character's backstory this way can help to make sense of their present-day actions. You can use flashbacks to fill in a backstory about a character’s past or situation, and the flashback sequence creates new micro-promises in itself.

Sources: 1 2 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

#flashback #fiction #writeblr #writing tips #literature #writers on tumblr #writing reference #dark academia #spilled ink #writing prompt #creative writing #writing advice #on writing #light academia #writing inspiration #writing ideas #books #writing resources

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reyaint · 3 months ago

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the classes | mandatory

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date: march 23, 2025. 3:01 am. (starting). i fell asleep. lmao. 10:30

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✧˖*°࿐ The Mandatory Classes

𓂃༊veltrius Lumos Academy's mandatory curriculum blends rigorous academics with cultural and artistic exploration. these courses ensure students develop critical thinking, research skills, creativity, and problem-solving abilities, preparing them for higher education and global careers.

✧˖*°࿐ Language Studies

𓂃༊students are required to take Haiqinian, Greek, and English throughout their academic journey.

*ೃ༄Haiqinian Language and Composition (3 years, Pre-AP & AP Available)

𓂃༊ Year 1 (Pre-AP or Regular Haiqinian Language & Composition I):

✧ 𓂃 › grammar & sentence structure: verb conjugations, syntax, and advanced sentence formation.

✧ 𓂃 › composition: essay writing, formal letters, and literary analysis.

✧ 𓂃 › literary study: introduction to Haiqinian classical and modern literature.

𓂃༊ Year 2 (AP or Regular Haiqinian Language & Composition II):

✧ 𓂃 › advanced grammar & writing: rhetorical devices, argumentation, and structured compositions.

✧ 𓂃 › comparative literature: study of Haiqinian texts alongside global literature.

✧ 𓂃 › research & analysis: writing research papers and learning source evaluation.

𓂃༊ Year 3 (AP or Regular Haiqinian Literature & Composition III):

✧ 𓂃 › critical literary analysis: deep dive into Haiqinian poetry, novels, and plays.

✧ 𓂃 › creative writing & public speaking: writing short stories, poetry, and persuasive speeches.

✧ 𓂃 › capstone research paper: a long-form thesis-style paper analyzing a Haiqinian literary work.

*ೃ༄Greek Language & Literature (3 years, required for all students)

𓂃༊ Year 1 (Greek I – Basic Grammar & Conversation):

✧ 𓂃 › introduction to the greek alphabet & pronunciation.

✧ 𓂃 › basic sentence structure: verb forms, nouns, and adjectives.

✧ 𓂃 › conversational skills: daily interactions, greetings, and essential expressions.

𓂃༊ Year 2 (Greek II – Intermediate Grammar, Translation & History):

✧ 𓂃 › complex sentence structures: subjunctive, conditional, and imperative verb forms.

✧ 𓂃 › translation practice: excerpts from Homer, Aesop, and historical texts.

✧ 𓂃 › greek culture & history: myths, political systems, and philosophy.

𓂃༊ Year 3 (Greek III – Advanced Reading, Writing & Translation):

✧ 𓂃 › advanced text analysis: works of Plato, Sophocles, and Aristophanes.

✧ 𓂃 › academic writing & discussion: essays on Greek mythology, ethics, and politics.

✧ 𓂃 › capstone project: a final presentation translating and analyzing a classical Greek work.

*ೃ༄English Language & Composition (2 years, English III is an elective)

𓂃༊ Year 1 (English I – General English Skills, Literature & Creative Writing):

✧ 𓂃 › grammar & vocabulary: structure, syntax, and advanced composition skills.

✧ 𓂃 › literature study: analysis of classic and modern English literature.

✧ 𓂃 › creative writing: poetry, short stories, and personal narratives.

𓂃༊ Year 2 (English II – Critical Thinking & Analytical Writing):

✧ 𓂃 › advanced literature study: British and American literature from different eras.

✧ 𓂃 › essay writing & rhetoric: persuasive essays, literary analysis, and argument development.

✧ 𓂃 › public speaking: presentations, debates, and discussions on literary themes.

𓂃༊ Year 3 (English III – Elective, Optional for Advanced Study):

✧ 𓂃 › world literature focus: exploring literature from South America, Asia, and Europe.

✧ 𓂃 › research & thesis writing: students write and defend a long-form literary thesis.

✧ 𓂃 › experimental writing styles: creative non-fiction, stream-of-consciousness, and hybrid prose.

✧˖*°࿐ Mathematics (3 years, AP Available)

*ೃ༄Core Math Progression:

𓂃༊ Year 1 (Algebra I w/ Probability – Pre-AP or Regular):

✧ 𓂃 › linear & quadratic equations: graphing, inequalities, and polynomials.

✧ 𓂃 › probability & statistics: basic probability theory, combinatorics, and statistics.

✧ 𓂃 › real-world applications: business forecasting, data analysis, and logical reasoning.

𓂃༊ Year 2 (Algebra II w/ Statistics + Precalculus – AP or Regular):

✧ 𓂃 › advanced algebra concepts: exponential/logarithmic functions, matrices, and conic sections.

✧ 𓂃 › statistics & data science: regression analysis, probability distributions, and data visualization.

✧ 𓂃 › pre-calculus introduction: trigonometric functions, sequences, and limits.

𓂃༊ Year 3 (AP Calculus + Finance or Regular Finance):

✧ 𓂃 › differential & integral calculus: derivatives, integrals, and applications in physics/economics.

✧ 𓂃 › financial mathematics: investments, banking, risk analysis, and economic modeling.

✧ 𓂃 › capstone project: using calculus and finance principles to analyze a real-world financial trend.

✧˖*°࿐ History & Social Sciences (3 years, AP Available)

*ೃ༄Year 1 (AP or Regular Haiqin History):

𓂃༊ linear & quadratic equations: graphing, inequalities, and polynomials.

𓂃༊ probability & statistics: basic probability theory, combinatorics, and statistics.

𓂃༊ real-world applications: business forecasting, data analysis, and logical reasoning.

*ೃ༄Year 2 (AP or Regular World History):

𓂃༊ advanced algebra concepts: exponential/logarithmic functions, matrices, and conic sections.

𓂃༊ statistics & data science: regression analysis, probability distributions, and data visualization.

𓂃༊ pre-calculus introduction: trigonometric functions, sequences, and limits.

*ೃ༄Year 3 (AP or Regular Government & Economics):

𓂃༊ differential & integral calculus: derivatives, integrals, and applications in physics/economics.

𓂃༊ financial mathematics: investments, banking, risk analysis, and economic modeling.

𓂃༊ capstone project: using calculus and finance principles to analyze a real-world financial trend.

✧˖*°࿐ Science Studies (3 years, AP Available for Some Courses)

*ೃ༄Year 1 (AP or Regular Chemistry):

𓂃༊ atomic theory & molecular structure: periodic trends and chemical bonding.

𓂃༊ thermodynamics & reaction kinetics: understanding physical and chemical reactions.

𓂃༊ lab work: hands-on chemical experiments, titration, and organic synthesis.

*ೃ༄Year 2 & 3 (Choice of Science, Must Take at Least One More):

𓂃༊ environmental science: climate change, ecosystems, and sustainable development.

𓂃༊ forensics: DNA analysis, fingerprinting, toxicology, and forensic anthropology.

𓂃༊ anatomy & physiology: human body systems, genetics, and medical applications.

𓂃༊ physics: classical mechanics, electromagnetism, and astrophysics.

𓂃༊ marine biology: ocean ecosystems, marine conservation, and field research.

✧˖*°࿐ Specialized & Cultural Studies

*ೃ༄AP or Regular Myths & Legends:

𓂃༊ greek & roman mythology: The Iliad, The Odyssey, Aeneid.

𓂃༊ comparative mythology: Norse, Celtic, Japanese, and Mesopotamian myths.

𓂃༊ symbolism & influence: how mythology influences modern media and storytelling.

*ೃ༄Astrology I (AP or Regular):

𓂃༊ foundations of astrology: birth charts, planetary movements, zodiac signs.

𓂃༊ cultural perspectives: astrology in Greek, Chinese, and Vedic traditions.

𓂃༊ scientific & spiritual debate: skepticism vs. belief, practical applications.

#reyaint #reality shifting #shiftblr #reality shifter #shifting #shifting community #shifting motivation #anti shifters dni #dr scrapbook #boarding school dr

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s-soulwriter · 2 years ago

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Hello , here are some really basic writing tips.

Intriguing Openings: Start with a bang! Drop your readers into the middle of action or create a mystery that begs to be solved. Make them curious from the first sentence.

Character Backstories: Dive deep into your characters' pasts. Share their quirks, secrets, and defining moments. Readers love discovering what makes characters tick.

Sensory Descriptions: Paint a vivid picture using all five senses. Describe the smell of freshly baked cookies, the feel of a soft summer breeze, or the taste of a sour lemon.

Plot Twists: Keep your readers on their toes with unexpected plot twists. Surprise them by turning a seemingly predictable story into something extraordinary.

Cliffhangers: Leave your audience hanging at the end of a chapter or post. A well-placed cliffhanger will have them eagerly awaiting the next installment.

Metaphors and Similes: Add color to your writing with creative comparisons. For example, "Her smile was as bright as a thousand suns," adds a vivid and poetic touch.

Character Relationships: Explore complex dynamics between characters. Highlight their conflicts, alliances, and the evolution of their relationships throughout the story.

Symbolism: Incorporate symbols or motifs that carry deeper meaning. They can enhance the overall theme and give readers something to ponder.

Narrative Voice: Experiment with different narrative voices, such as first-person, third-person limited, or even second-person, to find the one that suits your story best.

Foreshadowing Mysteries: Drop subtle hints and clues early in the story that will become crucial later on. Readers love piecing together mysteries.

Unreliable Narrators: Consider using an unreliable narrator to keep readers guessing. They might misinterpret events or hide critical information.

Flashbacks as Puzzle Pieces: Use flashbacks strategically to reveal key aspects of the story or characters. Make them fit together like a jigsaw puzzle.

Dialect and Dialogue: Give characters distinct voices through their speech patterns and accents. Engaging dialogue can showcase personality and culture.

Emotional Rollercoasters: Take readers on an emotional journey. Make them laugh, cry, and experience every emotion alongside your characters.

Settings with Personality: Make the setting almost like another character. Show how it impacts the characters and the story's mood.

Evoke Empathy: Share characters' vulnerabilities, fears, and desires. Readers relate to flawed, authentic characters with whom they can empathize. Let them fail.

Experiment with Structure: Play with non-linear timelines, multiple perspectives, or fragmented narratives. Challenge traditional storytelling conventions.

Clever Wordplay: Incorporate puns, wordplay, or clever language usage to add humor and depth to your writing.

Cinematic Scenes: Write scenes that readers can visualize as if they were watching a movie. Use dynamic action and vivid descriptions.

Leave Room for Imagination: Don't spell everything out. Allow readers to use their imaginations to fill in some blanks.

Remember that storytelling is an art, and there's no one-size-fits-all approach. You can use these techniques to improve your unique style and the story you want to tell. Most importantly, have fun writing.

And remember to drink enough water!

If you want to have more of this , than click below and follow me.

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arimiadev · 2 years ago

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why does aniplex want mahoyo to fail

I love visual novels. being a long time fate/stay night fan and only having heard of mahoyo from hushed whispers about its cinematography, I was super invested when it was announced to be coming to the west and I could finally play an official version of it.

however, a lot of people interested in type-moon works had never heard of mahoyo, let alone it getting an official english translation. but how? aniplex is publishing the game and they're one of the largest anime distributors in the world.

with the console release of mahoyo being almost exactly a year ago and the steam release being just 10 days away, I want to look over some of aniplex USA's bizarre and nonexistent marketing for one of my favorite visual novels.

let's clear up a few things, first.

mahoyo is the shortened form of mahoutsukai no yoru (not to be confused with mahoutsukai no yome, i.e. the ancient magus bride), which has been localized as witch on the holy night. mahoyo was a linear non-eroge visual novel released by type-moon in 2012, being one of the first scripts kinoko nasu (co-founder of type-moon) wrote back in 1996 and adapted into a VN many, many years later.

in April of 2022, a console remaster (switch, playstation 4) was announced with HD assets and voice acting, to be published by aniplex. notably, this console release would contain an english translation and was later confirmed in June to be sold in the west via online retailers. this was huge news, as this meant mahoyo would be the first type-moon visual novel (not including gameplay-oriented titles like fate/extella or fate/grand order) to be officially released in the west, as despite numerous fan translations, their more recognizable visual novels tsukihime and fate/stay night still had not received a localization.

type-moon is the developer behind mahoyo and aniplex is the publisher, meaning that type-moon made the game and aniplex is in charge of distributing (and marketing) the game worldwide.

timeline:

April 11 2022: Mahoyo rerelease announced for consoles (Switch & PlayStation 4), including English translation

July 4 2022: Aniplex confirms Mahoyo will be available to the West, localized under the name Witch on the Holy Night

October 14 2022: 2nd trailer released, more voice actor info announced

November 3 2022: physical pre-orders launched, demo version available

November 18 2022: Aniplex attends Anime NYC with Mahoyo

December 7 2022: Mahoyo released digitally on Switch / PlayStation 4 (Dec 8th in Japan, Dec 7th in America)

December 12 2022: Mahoyo reaches 110k units sold worldwide

January 27 2023: Mahoyo physicals release

July 5 2023: Mahoyo reaches 150k units sold worldwide

September 10 2023: Mahoyo announced for Steam via a now unlisted Aniplex livestream

December 13 2023: Mahoyo will be released on Steam (Dec 14th in Japan, Dec 13th in America)

some of the dates might be a little fuzzy, especially the release dates, as some sources go by japanese time and some go by american timezones, so just be aware of that.

now, let's talk a bit about mahoyo itself.

mahoyo is a masterpiece. it's a niche game not meant for everyone. its cinematography is top notch among visual novels. its writing style can be off-putting to people who want faster-paced stories. it's one of my most beloved visual novels I've ever played, and I've been in this field for almost a decade and have played well over 100 VNs.

mahoyo is a completely linear visual novel—meaning it has no choices or gameplay—that follows aoko, a high schooler mage trying to balance her perfect school president facade with her secret life as a mage, something she has to keep secret at the risk of death. this is one of the lesser known type-moon works but it's well beloved because of the care put into it.

if you've ever heard someone talk about it, it's almost impossible for them to not mention the visuals. mahoyo is one of the most visually impressive visual novels I've ever seen, with its inspired use of artwork and in-game animations. I cannot recommend this VN enough if you like modern fantasy and don't mind linear VNs.

before we dive into aniplex USA's marketing, I want to clarify a few marketing terms for people who don't market visual novels as a job. marketing is not just advertising—it's everything related to how a product communicates with potential users, including its branding, its packaging, its everything. when marketing a game, you have several different avenues: social media, press & influencers, trailers, store pages, and more.

today I want to show you how, based off what I have researched after a long, manic day, aniplex USA has failed mahoyo on all of these accounts.

so let's go back to its western release.

mahoyo has a few official english channels:

website

twitter

facebook

aniplex also has an official english twitter with almost 500k followers where they shared mahoyo very rarely—only 9 tweets about the game ever.

well, surely their other pages are more maintained right—

both accounts stopped posting July 10th/11th, with their last post being about mahoyo going on sale on consoles. let's look at their posts prior to this, though, starting with the twitter.

we can see that the twitter account was made in december of 2022. if we scroll down far enough (it's not hard, given they only have 33 tweets), we can see that their first tweet was on december 6th 2022:

let's go back to our timeline. can you tell me when mahoyo's remaster released digitally?

yes they made both of the english mahoyo social media accounts the day before the game launched

we can very easily add up the entire social media posts for the game thus far:

mahoyo english twitter - 30 tweets and 3 retweets

mahoyo english facebook - 27 posts

aniplex english twitter - 9 tweets

aniplex english facebook - 2 posts

no other english social media accounts were tied to the website, so these are the only ones I looked at. this means in total, there were only 68 social media posts for the console release of mahoyo by the publisher for english audiences.

but what about the steam release? after the game sold over 150k+ units on consoles, surely aniplex was ready to market it a bit more for pc users—

neither account has made a post about the upcoming steam release.

if we look at the twitter, they have 3 tweets since July that do talk about the upcoming steam release- however, these are retweets from the japanese mahoyo account.

we know that this twitter and this facebook account are the official social media for mahoyo as they're linked on the website, so they're definitely meant to be followed for game updates in the west. well, maybe the english aniplex twitter has posted about it—

none of the english aniplex or mahoyo accounts have made a single post about the steam release

that's right, the social media posts I counted above are the only posts for mahoyo on their english accounts, all dating back before the steam release was announced. since then, they have not made a single original post even mentioning the steam release.

meanwhile, the japanese mahoyo twitter has been hustling hard to promote the upcoming steam release—reposting trailers, character bios, and more almost every day with pretty good numbers.

in fact, the japanese mahoyo twitter did such a good job at marketing it that the aniplex USA twitter never mentioned the english mahoyo twiter, instead only @ ing the japanese one in tweets (despite the english one being linked on the website).

why they even bothered making social media accounts and then not running them despite being one of the largest anime distributors in the world I have no clue.

well, maybe they didn't need to rely on social media presence. maybe they were going for the in-person approach and marketing it at conventions.

mahoyo had basically no anime convention presence

the only reference I can find to aniplex notably promoting mahoyo at any western convention is this tweet of them at anime NYC. from someone who was at anime NYC, I've been told that they pushed the game heavily at their booth with TV screens promoting the game.

however, anime NYC is only one anime convention. you cannot hope to sell a game by just attending one anime convention. mahoyo might have had a presence at other american conventions, but I'm unable to find any images or news about this.

maybe they don't understand type-moon

aniplex is the publisher for fate/grand order, one of the most successful mobile games ever created. they're also the distributor for a majority of type-moon related anime, ranging from fate to garden of sinners to side series. aniplex's marketing team should have lots of experience with type-moon properties.

maybe it was promoted in other aniplex titles

I was also unable to find a news post in fate/grand order related to mahoyo's release, despite news posts for other type-moon series (namely fate but also things like melty blood) getting news posts in fate/grand order. I might've missed the news posts when looking back through FGO but I don't believe there was one.

maybe it sold well in other regions but not western ones

(I'm going to be referring only to the console release for these stats, keep in mind)

mahoyo released December 7th/8th 2022 with an english, japanese, simplified chinese, and traditional chinese translations. at the end of the release week, mahoyo's japanese twitter announced the game had sold 110k copies worldwide and famitsu reported that 66,344 of these units were sold in japan. this means we have around 43k units unaccounted for.

we know the game was available in english, japanese, and chinese languages but we don't know what regions. mainland china has a very large visual novel playerbase (I say this as someone who sells visual novels), which means if it were sold there then it's easy to say that a big chunk of that 43k units could be attributed to them—this also means it would be easy to believe that aniplex saw mahoyo selling worse in western countries and took this as a sign to not promote the game any more there.

but was it ever sold in mainland china? from what I could tell—no.

looking at pricing charts for the nintendo eshop and the playstation store, china is not listed on either. furthermore, searching the game's chinese title on the chinese playstation store does not bring back any results. it looks like the only predominantly chinese-speaking regions that were able to buy it are hong kong, taiwan and possibly singapore (the playstation store page for it doesn't look like it's available for purchase anymore).

so what does this tell us?

without any other numbers it's hard to tell how many of the 43k launch week sales came from english-speaking players, but even if we conservatively say that only around 20k of the 110k launch week units were from western countries, that's still almost a million in revenue (and remember, the physical limited edition of the game was available in english for $60, which is $20 more than the digital base version).

maybe the store page is so good they don't need to market it

here's a little secret: store pages matter a lot more than you'd think. there are entire job positions dedicated to tailoring store pages (like a steam game page) to make it perfect for the game's target audience. there's a science to it that includes the artwork, descriptions, tags, screenshots, and more.

let's see what aniplex did for the steam page of mahoyo.

A tale told with vivid colors and rich sound in a classic TYPE-MOON visual novel.

I don't know how to describe this short description charitably other than to say it sounds like a person who's never heard of a visual novel has been tasked with describing a visual novel.

this tells me nothing about the game other than it's a visual novel. I hope you know what type-moon is, because if you don't then you've learned nothing else from this. alright, well, let's look at the screenshots—

there's only 1.

currently as of writing this, there's 10 images uploaded as screenshots (no trailers, they keep adding and removing the trailers for some reason). 9 of these images are just the full artworks from the game while 1 is an actual screenshot.

I really hate this, as you're not actually shown what the game looks like unless you look at the very last screenshot. this will absolutely lead to some people not understanding what they're getting into. what's worse is that some of these CGs are spoilers, especially one in particular featuring my wife touko.

why are we spoiling people instead of showing them screenshots? why not show people what mahoyo actually looks like??

there's also absolutely no use of the announcements section on steam. each game on steam can post announcements related to the game, including upcoming releases, new updates, and more. it's customary to post a steam announcement when a game has a release date announcement. mahoyo's steam page has none.

well they probably released the trailers in english for hype

I wish I had that much hope.

on mahoyo's english website, all of the videos listed are from the official type-moon youtube, which is their japanese channel. type-moon went through the effort to translate these videos. aniplex didn't upload these to their own youtube, where they already upload everything related to the fateverse and nasuverse.

searching up witch on the holy night brings up no results for the trailer—aniplex never uploaded the trailer to their channel.

maybe they got influencers to play it

according to steamdb, the max amount of viewers mahoyo streams have had on twitch was 71 viewers.

furthermore, if we check twitch and look for vods attached to mahoyo, we only find 4 videos total, all of which were posted in the past week. it looks like they didn't even reach out to streamers to play the console release, much less pay them.

over on the press side, it does look like they reached out to at least a few reviewers. for example, on the review by noisy pixel, they clarify that a review copy was provided by the publisher for review purposes. we can add that to the bare minimum of marketing—reaching out to press.

however, they did get for some other influencers to share the game! ...twitter game sale influencers, that is.

there's actually a lot more of these types of tweets for mahoyo than I was expecting when I searched it on twitter. as a friend pointed out, just because it says "#ad" doesn't necessarily mean these were paid for by aniplex—a lot of these links look to be referrals, which means they're getting a cut of any purchases.

let's recap

mahoyo released over 110k copies in the launch week for it's worldwide console release despite very, very limited marketing efforts from its publisher aniplex. now that the game has proven it can sell very well despite being a lesser known linear visual novel, aniplex has done no marketing for the steam release- no tweets, no influencer outreach, no localization of trailers, no announcements via steam, nothing.

so why?

why does aniplex want mahoyo to fail?

even after all of this, I still do not know why. to me, it's clear that the marketing team at aniplex were (most likely) given no budget for this game and just couldn't do anything with it, deciding to spend what little money they had on press outreach and an anime NYC booth.

but why? why didn't aniplex give them a budget, even a small one? why was their budget so tiny they couldn't even afford to tweet? to RT more posts from the japanese twitter? to share the already translated trailers to their own accounts?

I've heard a few excuses like "type-moon hates western fans and probably caused it" but this doesn't make any sense either. why would you authorize a translation of your game and allow your publisher to sell the game overseas but specifically make them not market the game (and what publisher would agree to that)? I've even heard excuses like "they just forgot it was coming out", to which I ask "how does an entire marketing team (a company the size of aniplex absolutely has a team(s) for marketing and not a singular person) forget a release for a game that's already sold over 150k copies?". the only excuse I've seen that I somewhat buy is that they did not have much faith in the game and relied almost entirely on fans doing word of mouth marketing for the game.

I don't think we'll ever get an answer. while I do believe the marketing team at aniplex was most likely given no budget for mahoyo, it still begs the question of why. why did someone at aniplex not want to give mahoyo a marketing budget? why are the japanese accounts for mahoyo and type-moon the only ones doing the marketing?

I hope the information I've provided here is accurate—if it's not, I'll try to update with corrections. I don't want this piece to cast hate towards the staff at aniplex or anyone involved with this projects, I'm just trying to assemble the pieces on what feels like a game being left to word of mouth. I've tried to include as many links to my sources as I could so you could come to your own judgements about what has happened regarding mahoyo's worldwide release.

mahoyo is a visual novel that's dear to me and will absolutely sell well on steam—with an estimated 50-80k wishlists, it's going to have a solid launch despite the zero marketing for its steam release. if you love other type-moon works or want to see an absolutely visually stunning visual novel, please check it out.

— arimia

#visual novel #visual novels #mahoyo #mahoutsukai no yoru #witch on the holy night #mahoyosweep #type-moon #visual novel game #anyway please play mahoyo #my articles

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hephaestiions · 6 months ago

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day 21 of @hprecfest — a fic rated M | previous recs

author rec! more importantly: tacky rec! evocative, poignant & mature (heh), @tackytigerfic's works are charmed slices of aching life. tacky has a gift for making a meal out of the mundane: their style is imbued with the hush of a glade, something quiet that burrows under your skin and expands there. writing about magic lends itself to the excitement of outlandish predicaments— fuck or die marriage bonds, werewolves, time travel— but i love how tacky takes these improbabilities as opportunities to explore the vulnerable and common humanity that fuels love, friendship, desire, grief. i'd take a chance on tacky's spin on every ship, every trope & every circumstance, purely because i'm convinced they'd take as good care of me as a reader as they do their brilliant, complicated, messy characters.

i chose tacky's M-rated works because i think they best demonstrate how narrative pleasure can, and often does, lie outside the graphic. for an action-oriented, fast-paced reader like me, fics that hold my attention through careful tension & hard-earned payoff are especially enthralling. everything tacky writes, regardless of rating, is glorious & an instant recommendation, but when i think of especially fascinating work with a rating that doesn't usually hold space in my preferences, it's these:

between the power lines (M, 3.2k)

For Harry Potter, all roads eventually lead to Draco Malfoy.

an elaboration & attestation to my personal maxim: to fall in or out of love with someone, take a trip with them. glory be that these two do, glory be that it's the former. this fic stretches and softens with every word, like resin in the sun.

the long fall (M, 3.6k)

It's supposed to be a simple house renovation, and maybe it's just the paint fumes, but Harry is feeling dizzy around Draco Malfoy. And what's the real meaning of family, anyway?

vignettes from a life & love that glow hotter with every change. every word exchanged carries the weight of so much history, care & consideration. the dynamic is sweet & achy, a take on new parenthood that leans entirely into the uncertainty & joy of changing realities.

last offices (M, 6.7k) (mcd)

It didn't seem fair that Malfoy was dead, and Harry was supposed to just keep on living without him.

i reread everything before reccing, but i couldn't bring myself to reread this one because of the sharp, acute devastation of it. pain, regret, grief, dialled up to the extreme and done shatteringly well. the non-linearity of this fic is especially cruel; the heartbreak is never allowed to settle. 100% recommended!

our little life (M, 7.2k)

Sometimes Harry dreams. Only they're not really dreams at all, and Malfoy is always in them. It's time travel, but not as we know it, and Harry just needs a good night's sleep.

entire lives woven into snippets of togetherness, the call of something distant yet inevitable. harry dreams of universes with draco, which is to say, harry dreams of universes where he's loved. also includes the absolutely stellar line: Harry wondered if there was any possible universe in which Malfoy wasn’t an absolute dick about his dad.

take the moon (M, 15k)

Harry Potter has always wanted a family of his own, and when a deadly blood curse forces him into a marriage bond with his best friend Draco Malfoy, it looks like he might just have found one. This isn't the story of the marriage. This is the story of two hurt and damaged men who learned how hard they could work for the sake of love.

two men who don't quite know how to allow what they want fully into their lives, a slow crunch of yearning, the even heat of a dynamic that holds itself away from the brink, brilliantly satisfying when they give into the fall.

in conclusion: a stellar author with a flair for the understated whose works call to be savoured. as always, if you love them (it's tacky, who doesn't?), let me know!

#drarry #drarry recs #drarry fanfic #tackytiger #geets recs #geets does hprecfest #there is a lot i have to say about tacky's works that didn't fit into this #the pattern of tacky always placing these characters in some kind of #alternate setting/reality/circumstance #there's smth abt how they work with the concept of change that's absolutely masterful #i'm reserving this commentary for when i read the WIP & inevitably want to yap abt it #they're also #incredibly funny #so many of these themes can be heavy or angsty but tacky will always fit in a voice that sparks amusement #a line here a situation there an expression elsewhere #you'll grin about it #anyway tacky if ur reading this i love u and everything u do thanku for being such a force in fandom

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tsukimefuku · 1 year ago

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✎ᝰ. jujutsu partners au masterlist

mdni | canon divergence | multigenre | nanami x reader x higuruma

cross posting: on ao3 here.

ᝰ summary: ten years after a mission gone bad in which gojo and nanami saved your life, you go — against your will — to work at jujutsu high as a sorcerer. you just never hoped this would elicit working alongside partners, and getting too close to them might turn out messy. this is a sequence of one-shots set in the same canon divergent alternate universe, in which Reader is a sorcerer with a considerably complicated relationship with Jujutsu High.

ᝰ important info: they're all written and posted in a non-linear fashion. To keep some organized way of reading them all, the fics are listed in chronological order below. Writing in this is kind of experimental, so writing style might differ from one story to another.

ᝰ a/n: blue for Nanami focused stories | orange for Higuruma focused stories | both for both | stories with other characters have no particular color.

+ Disclaimers

- CONTAINS NSFW CONTENT. Do not proceed unless 18+! - Contains angst, fluff, and slow burn. - There will be more multi chapter short stories. - The one-shots are listed in chronological order. - I write flawed characters — and when I say flawed, I mean FLAWED. They can (and sometimes will) be idiots, assholes, mess up, make mistakes and make up. This is an important one, please don't ignore it. - I’ve decided this will be an actual triangle (fight me)

+ One-shots, short-stories and drabbles (in chronological order of events)

Stories below will be tagged as follows:

To be loved is to be changed (light/implied Nanami x OC/Reader) 💛😂 The day you arrived at Jujutsu High and encountered friends from the past.

These silly little memories (light/implied Nanami x OC/Reader) 💛😂 You reminisce about the past while chatting with Ijichi and Yuuji.

In my shoes (light/implied Nanami x OC/Reader) 💥💔💛 You get severely injured while on one of your first missions with Nanami.

Tea for your thoughts (light/implied Nanami x OC/Reader) 💛 Soft drabble where you receive tea waking up after a terrible night.

Valentine's Day and dark chocolate (light/implied Nanami x OC/Reader) 💛 You bought a box of chocolates you don't really like.

Would you let me die? (light/implied Nanami x OC/Reader) 💛💔💋 You and Nanami have a significant conversation, and you request something of him.

Driving lesson (Platonic Ijichi & OC/Reader) 💛😂 You asked Ijichi for some driving lessons.

Wardrobe malfunction (Light Nanami x OC/Reader) 😂 Your cursed technique isn't exactly clothing-friendly, and when you find yourself in a less than ideal situation, you only had one person you could ask for help.

Nanamin (light Nanami x OC/Reader) 😂 You ask Nanami why people keep calling him “Nanamin”.

Photo, motto! (Yuuji, Nobara and Megumi chaotic trio, light/implied Nanami x OC/Reader) 😂💛 Yuuji, Nobara and Megumi are shocked to learn you have no social media accounts, and decide to change that. However, things don't go as planned.

About witches and villages that hate sorcerers (light/implied Nanami x OC/Reader) 💔💥 What happens when your communication gets cut off during a mission in a village, and everyone knew you went there in the wrong state of mind?

Kikufuku picnic gratitude (Platonic Gojo x OC/Reader) 💛 Your friend Satoru Gojo just had some intense news and needs company.

The search for the man in the black suit (Higuruma & OC/Reader)💥 You were assigned to find and capture Higuruma Hiromi, a curse user sentenced to death by Jujutsu higher ups. You're just not sure if he really deserves to die.

Suspended death row (0%)

Toxic endeavors (Higuruma & OC/Reader)💥💔 You and Higuruma are on your third mission together, and you save him from getting injured, putting yourself in harm's way as you do so.

Team fighting (light Higuruma x OC/Reader) 💛😂 You decided to train team fighting with Higuruma in an unorthodox way.

Short story: Right, wrong and the in-between (Nanami, OC/Reader, Higuruma) 💛💔💥 You and Higuruma were assigned to investigate the disappearance of women around Shinjuku. This led to a dicey situation regarding what place Jujutsu sorcerers occupy in this world and what is their role to play when non-sorcerers get involved. Chapters: Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Epilogue

Crooked gardening (light/implied Higuruma x OC/Reader) 💛 Higuruma keeps thinking about something you have done for him, and takes a walk to clear his mind.

Kindness and sunflowers (light/implied Higuruma x OC/Reader) 💛😂💋 You get a drunk Higuruma safely home.

Short story: Colleagues in arms 💥 Nanami and Higuruma are dispatched to exorcize a curse together, having to conciliate their personal issues in order to get the job done. Chapters: Single chapter

Where does your mind drift? (light Nanami x OC/Reader) 💛💔💋 After you and Nanami get stranded trying to get back to Tokyo, you both end up having a chat about your feelings.

The event, Part 1 (explicit! Nanami x OC/Reader) 💛💋🌶️ after struggling for so long with the feelings you had for nanami, your colleague and closest friend, you finally decide to put an end to your misery and confess to him. little did you know there was no misery left for you to wallow in that night — none at all.

PRIV FOR REWRITE -The event, Part 2 (Nanami x OC/Reader) 💔💋 The aftermath of The Event, Part 1. Nanami needs to have a serious talk with you.

The man who played with fire (explicit! Higuruma x OC/Reader) 💛💋🌶️ After some drinks by yourself and getting frustrated with someone, you stupidly knock on Higuruma's door to test a theory.

The morning after is still last night (Higuruma x OC/Reader) 💛💋 After last night, you and Higuruma share a brief pillow talk.

What if (Nanami x OC/Reader) 💛💔💋 What if the world was more forgiving, and you and Nanami never became jujutsu sorcerers?

Short story: Lover's Pass (Nanami x OC/Reader) 💛💔💥💋 You and Nanami were sent to investigate cursed activity linked to disappearances in the Lover's Pass. Meanwhile, you both still have to deal with the fallout that happened after the last time you were together. Chapters: Single chapter

Bartender confessions (Nanami x OC/Reader) 💔 Nanami is trying to drink himself into oblivion to get his mind off of you.

Tactics (explicit! Higuruma x OC/Reader) 💛💋🌶️ You and Higuruma finally go on your first not-date when you decide to give him an answer.

Human resources, tasukete! (Gojo / Shoko / Ijichi. Fluff Higuruma x OC/Reader, just crack, honestly) 💛💔😂 You're concerned and decide to ask your friends about Jujutsu High's HR policies regarding romantic relationships.

It takes one to know one (Higuruma x OC/Reader) 💛💋 You and Higuruma decide to make a promise to each other.

Tie me up (explicit! Higuruma x OC/Reader) 😂💋🌶️ After failing to make a romantic dinner, you're very upset. Hiromi volunteers to “help you out” with that frustration.

Tea and coffee (Higuruma x OC/Reader, implied Nanami x OC/Reader) 💔💛😂 - You had a sleepless night and needs some caffeine to keep yourself from falling asleep before the day has even begun, so Nanami and Hiromi lend a helping hand.

Short story: Old regrets and guilt ridden pasts 💔💛💋🌶️ After you enter Hiromi's domain and he meets an acquaintance from the past, you both see yourselves confronting ancient ghosts and old regrets. Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 (10%)

Bread for breakfast (Higuruma x OC/Reader, implied past Nanami x OC/Reader) 💔 - Hiromi decides to walk down to a bakery he likes and have breakfast before heading to Morioka, and ends up bumping into Nanami.

Fixing broken things (implied/soft Nanami x OC/Reader) 💔💛 - After you realize that everything you were taking care of just wound up crooked anyway, you're pissed and needs a helping hand in order to not let the anger get the better of you.

Forgiveness is a collective resource (platonic Gojo & OC/Reader) 💔💛 - As you're telling Gojo about your most recent fallout, he ends up telling you in return the last question Geto posed him before leaving.

The letter (Higuruma x OC/Reader)

💔 - Reader writes a letter to an absentee.

Books and dinner (coming soon…) 40%

Unwell (implied/soft Nanami x OC/Reader)

💔💛 - you had a terrible day, but at least, you’ve got a helping hand.

Bar discoveries (coming soon…) 0%

No more patience behind the wheels (platonic Ijichi & OC/Reader)

💛😂 - your friend ijichi has become the unwilling listener to all your woes, and it is definitely taking a toll on him, so he decided to take the matters into his own hands and try to solve your communication problems for you.

Eulogy for the love remained (coming soon...) 30%

How do you say it? (soon) 0%

Bad dream (nanami x OC/reader) 💛 - after a bad night filled with nightmares, nanami is glad to see you never left his apartment.

In-office nap time (soon) 0%

The scars we carry (soon) 0%

Something’s off (soon) 0%

…

The ship of Theseus 0%

+ About and P.A.Q. (Possibly Asked Questions)

Q: How did this come to be? This came into my mind as I was thinking about my Jujutsu Kaisen Original Character, Shiori Yamada. She is from my JJK Canon Compliant fanfic, Sand and Snow. I thought: what if she came to Jujutsu High years after the events of Sand and Snow? And that's where it started.

Q: What's the difference between the short stories and the one-shots? Mostly, I usually have a long or dedicated main plot in my short stories, whereas in the one-shots, what is written is much more focused on an excerpt of the characters' interactions.

Q: what is the best way to read this? I wrote it in a way that basically all one-shots can be read as stand-alone pieces (same for each short story). Just read in the chronological order of events, as listed above.

Q: is it the same f!reader in all of these stories? Yes, it is The reader is based off of my Original Character, Shiori. I didn’t intend to make her a staple, but just liked the character too much to let it slide. I’ll eventually make a reference sheet with her story (as soon as I finish Sand and Snow, to avoid spoilers).

+ Relevant updates + Notes

other updates can be checked on the reblog section

Playlist (a.k.a. stuff I listen to when writing these): ♪ Want me too - Mons Vi / ♪ Heart's a Mess - Gotye / ♪ It's gonna rain - Bonnie Pink / ♪ I love you so - The Walters / ♪ Ichigo Batake de Tsukamaete - Sunny Day Service / ♪ Setsuna - Sunny Day Service / ♪ For Emma - Bon Iver / ♪ Break - alex_g_offline / ♪ My love, mine all mine - Mitski / ♪ Babooshka - Kate Bush / ♪ One last kiss - Hikaru Utada / ♪ Tactics - The Yellow Monkey / ♪ Mr. Deja Vu - Naja / ♪ Stuck on the puzzle - Arctic Monkeys / ♪ We’re all eating each other - Julie Ivy / ♪ Head Over Feet - Alanis Morissette (HiguReader specific) / ♪ Nothing in my way - Keane (NanaReader specific) / ♪ I bet on losing dogs - Mitski / ♪ Chamber of reflection - Your Anxiety Buddy (cover) / ♪ Sunny - Yorushika / ♪ Sayonara Bye Bye - Matsuko Mawatari / ♪ Misery - Maroon 5 / ♪ First love/Late spring - Mitski / ♪ Heart skipped a beat - The XX

ׂ╰┈➤ You can listen to the full playlist here (on YouTube).

Update + Mar 26, 2024

I just decided to list all one-shots and short-stories together. Seemed more simple and efficient.

Update + Mar. 23, 2024

There are some things I want to put here because as an anxious writer, I like when other writers do this.

1. this is my COPIUM from the trauma I have endured during JJK (thanks Gege), so no matter what, THERE WILL BE A HAPPY ENDING for all characters. I just like the bumpy road, makes the happiness at the end feel worthwhile.

2. I decided to one-shot the ending. However, the long fic based off of this universe will probably have a slightly different and bigger one. There are many things (protagonist’s power journey, lore, her backstory, actual big plot that I have planned, etc) that I really want to write on the long fic, and didn’t find a way of doing so in these one-shots and short stories.

3. I don’t know if you’ve seen it, but I began cross posting these on AO3. The link is on the top.

4. The Big Sad™ and The Big Feels™ are about to get started. I’ll just finish up some one-shots first and then proceed with them. There will be angst, but a lot of fluff too.

Commentary

Random thoughts and fun facts from the author that absolutely no one asked for but I wanted to write anyway

Themes are... guilt, forgiveness, grief, and life after loss, I guess? Idk, I like writing characters interacting and growing with each other, so I just give them their trauma and let them work through it.

I first got inspired to write HiguReader when I listened to “Loser, Baby” from Hazbin Hotel. They’re both so over Jujutsu High’s shit and vibe on that shared contempt that I just loved the concept of it.

I was terrified writing my first smut piece (The Man who Played with Fire), and I’m astonished at how well it was received. You guys are the best, seriously.

I got inspired by some very talented authors on this site to write non-explicit sex scenes, and will try doing it in two or three one-shots, where there is sex involved, but I don’t think smut would fit very well.

Writing smut as a demisexual person is an entire experience, let’s just say that.

From the very beginning, I just found it impossible in my heart to ship or even hint at shipping OC/Reader and Gojo. Also, as a NM person who doesn’t appreciate rigid hierarchy of romantic x platonic relationships, I wanted to write more on becoming friends with Gojo. However, from what I could see when writing these fics and shorts, this will end up mostly in the long fic.

I STRUGGLE with headers so damn much. I don’t like using fanart (shy to ask for permission), and finding good fitting anime frames/manga panels is usually a little difficult without becoming too repetitive. I’ll just try my best making headers for the AU stories moving forward.

I like writing strong, capable, willful female characters who are secure of themselves and have got some rizz iykwim. Dainty female characters are really not my thing when it comes to writing.

Writing in 2nd person is still a challenge for me. I was used to writing in 1st person in a Lispectoresque style when I wrote ten years ago.

#jujutsu kaisen higuruma #higuruma x reader #jjk higuruma #jjk hiromi #hiromi x reader #higuruma hiromi #jjk imagines #jjk drabbles #jjk x you #jjk #jujutsu nanami #nanami kento #jjk nanami #jjk fanfic #nanami x reader #nanami x you #jujutsu kaisen #fuku writes #jujutsu partners au

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