#and he will continue to grieve you even as you stand in front of him

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 A DEAL YOU CAN MAKE ON A MIDNIGHT WALK ALONE

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: dazai's worst nightmare has come true, and with you standing before him once again, he has no idea how to act or feel. he's angry. he's resentful. hateful. sad. hopeful. yearning. in love. there's so many emotions clouding his mind that he can hardly think straight. but he's sure of one thing: his run-in with you makes him realize that he'll do anything to get you back again.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: PART TWO IS HEREEEEE HEHEHEHEHE I HOPE U ENJOY - i rushed getting it together skfaizsjf so hopefully it's all ok. let me know if im missing any warnings. reblogs and comments always appreciated!!

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, port mafia boss!reader, civilian!dazai, mentions of past war crimes, ptsd, mentions of alcoholism, temporary amnesia, dazai is mentally unstable, so is reader, both of them are struggling LOL, grieving (reader), a bit of suicide ideation (that's a given from dazai, a little bit from reader too tho), as always: reader is part of the mafia, expect mafia behavior from her, she is not a good person.

SEE: THE LAND IS INHOSPITABLE (BUT ARE WE?) SERIES MASTERLIST

God is famous for his coincidences and absurdism. Dazai is all too familiar with it. Time and time again in his life, it’s been proven over and over. You and he are even the prime example of this: everything from the part you played in his family’s demise eight years ago to you unwittingly saving his life last year. 

But this? 

This can’t be real. 

This can’t possibly be happening. 

Dazai stares at you like you’re a ghost, the air whooshes out from his lungs, and his vision blurs and tunnels until all he can see is you. All of the other patrons of the bar fizzle out of space and time until only the two of you are left in the room, and Dazai just doesn’t know what to do. He’s still half convinced that this is a hallucination, a cruel trick—even an ability working on him would make more sense than you actually standing in front of him.

When he doesn’t respond to you, you raise your eyebrows at him, but he thinks that even if he wanted to respond, he wouldn’t be able to. His voice is stuck in his throat, along with a lump shaped suspiciously like his heart. He can’t get a grasp on his surroundings, and he’s starting to feel dizzy; his ears are ringing terribly, and his fight or flight instincts are triggered, but Dazai is just frozen. He can’t push himself off the chair to leave, he can’t speak, he can’t do anything.

This can’t be real, he thinks again, more desperately this time, but the longer he stares at you, the more real you become. You’re wearing a sleek black suit, the same one you were wearing when you called for the meeting with Fitzgerald to get Dazai back, and a dark coat over it, the same one you would drape over him when you came home to him passed out on the couch, and you’re beautiful, you’re as beautiful as Dazai remembers. More. Impossibly more. Though your eyes are much more tired and vacant than he last remembered them being, and you now wear a red scarf around your shoulders and a ribbon around your neck, it’s you standing a few feet away from him—there’s no mistaking it.

“I’ll take that as a no, then,” you continue conversationally when he remains silent, and to his horror, you make your way over to him. “You’re really familiar, though, maybe we’ve met in passing. Do you come around here often?”

Your words feel like knives jabbing into his back, and Dazai almost wants to cry, but he refrains with a thick swallow and a deep breath. He’s had nightmares about bumping into you on the streets and being slapped in the face with his new reality this way: that you have no idea who he is, that he’s a stranger to you when you’re still everything to him. He’s had nightmares, but he never thought those nightmares would become reality. You’re the boss of the Port Mafia now, what the fuck are you doing at some random bar without any protection?

He’s drawn out of his trancelike state once you’re standing next to him, and Dazai is acutely aware of the number of eyes on him now. The bartender is looking between the two of you with a concerned expression, and the other patrons aren’t slick in the way they keep casting nosy looks in your direction. It’s only when your gaze snaps up, an irritated expression crossing your face, that they all look away, and Dazai realizes a bit dreadfully that this must be a mafia establishment. 

Of course, it is, he thinks bitterly, no wonder he met you here the first time. 

The irritated expression is gone as quickly as it appears, replaced with a far more pleasant one as you look back down at him. 

For a moment—just a moment—Dazai’s chest swells with warmth because he can almost pretend it’s the same way you’d look at him when you’d come home to find him sitting at the piano trying to teach himself a song that he could only vaguely remember. A small smile curling at your lips, a soft expression on your face, and a fond look in your eyes that would make Dazai’s breath catch.

But he can’t pretend because it’s fake. Dazai can tell it’s fake—the small smile on your lips is disarming, and the soft expression is enchanting, but it’s not enough for him not to notice the way it doesn’t meet your eyes. Maybe it would be enough if he were anyone else in the world, but he’s not. He knows you well enough to catch what others would miss, and he’s so used to you looking at him with all three that the absence of one is glaring and unsettling.

It’s not right—none of this is right.

“No,” he finally answers your question when it becomes abundantly clear that you’re not going to move on until he addresses you. Does he want you to move on? Dazai doesn’t know; he can’t even bring himself to look away from you, trying to memorize your face before you disappear again. “I don’t come around here often.”

His voice is unbearably hoarse, and as your eyes trail over him curiously, Dazai becomes hyper-aware of how sloppily he’s dressed. His clothes are rumpled because he was lying in his futon for hours, and he hasn’t changed his bandages in days, so the ones on his wrist are yellowed and frayed at the edges. He tries to pull the sleeves of his tan coat down to cover them, but you’ve already caught sight of them from the way you squint and then look back up to his face.

“Hm,” is all you say in response, pulling out the stool next to him to sit down. You rest your elbow on the bar top and your chin on your hand as you look at him. Dazai wonders what you’re thinking; you’ve always been hard to read, but never more than now. “What’s your name?”

That lump is back in his throat, and the air around him feels too thin. Dazai almost struggles to breathe, but he doesn’t want to make a fool of himself. He’s finally able to bring himself to look away from you, staring down at his lap—his fingers are trembling, he notices absently, starting to feel oddly detached from the situation. He forcibly stills them, trying to get himself together before answering your question, but each passing second only makes him spiral more. 

What’s your name? 

The question rings through his head mockingly, and at once, the resentment he feels is back with a fervor. What’s your name, asks the woman who almost died trying to protect Dazai less than a year before. What’s your name, asks the woman who Dazai lived with for months. What’s your name, asks the woman who sacrificed everything, killed her own father, just to keep Dazai safe. What’s your name, asks the woman who Dazai loves because she wiped her memories of him after he begged her not to. 

It’s like a joke, he thinks so bitterly that he can taste it in his mouth. It’s putrid, disgusting—his life has always been a joke, but things finally started looking up once he met you. You gave him hope for the future, you made him want a future, and then you ripped it away from him, worse than anyone ever has before.

A joke.

“Don’t wanna tell me?” you ask easily, leaning back in your stool. The smile on your face is teasing, but it still doesn’t meet your eyes—he’s a bit unnerved by it. When he first met you, you were cold and aloof; you wanted nothing to do with him. He didn’t think you were even listening to him while he rambled; he’d been surprised when he ran into you the day after, and you remembered what he’d been saying. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

Are you… flirting with him?

The teasing tone, the small, flirty smiles, the way you’re putting in just enough effort that any other man would’ve been charmed—he would’ve been charmed if he didn’t know any better—is that what this is? Dazai suddenly feels unsettled. He thought maybe you came here to relax… take a break from work, like the first time he met you here. Maybe you were even just coming to drown out your sorrows like him, although that may just be wishful thinking on his part. The realization that you might’ve come here to find someone to fuck away whatever is clearly eating at you for the night didn’t cross his mind once until now. He doesn’t like it—something in his gut twists, and he thinks he might throw up. He blames it on the whiskey he’s been drinking, but he knows that’s not the real reason.

What if he hadn’t been the one here?

How many times has he not been the one here?

His suspicions from earlier were confirmed just like that, and Dazai is miserable about it.

“Dazai,” he finally tells you, throat spasming like it doesn’t kill him to have to introduce himself to you again. “My name is Dazai.”

You give him your name in return, and it’s just another stab to the heart—he knows your name. It’s the same name that haunts his dreams. The same name he’d spent half a year cursing into oblivion. The same name he’d gasp when he was in bed with a stranger. He knows your name better than his own, it’s etched into his soul; he would never forget you like you’ve forgotten him.

Something strange crosses your face when Dazai looks back at you—a hint of familiarity that has his heartbeat stuttering. He sees the brief confusion, the way your mind races behind your pretty eyes as if trying to understand why his name and face were inexplicably familiar to you. For a brief second, he allows a speck of hope to bloom: your love for him is enough to overcome the ability that was used to wipe your memories of him. 

“You’re an author,” you say suddenly, finally realizing why he seems so familiar to you. The spec of hope that had begun to bloom withers in an instant—his throat feels swollen, and his mouth is dry. “I read your book.”

What.

“What?” Dazai asks hoarsely, voicing his thoughts aloud as he stares at you. “You—”

“That’s what it is. I knew your face was familiar, but your name is what made me realize,” you add more to yourself than to him. 

Dazai wants to be disappointed that it’s not just you subconsciously recognizing him, that your love for him is not strong enough to outweigh the effects of the ability used on you, but he can’t be because he’s frozen at the idea of you actually having read his book. He’s wondered over the past few months if you’ve seen it around—when he first published it, it started gaining a lot of traction. It’s still pretty popular; he has people come up to him to talk to him about it, and he always thought maybe you would see his face or hear his name in passing, that maybe when you did, a part of you would subconsciously miss him. That he could haunt you like you’ve haunted him. 

He never imagined you would’ve fucking read it.

“You read my book?” Dazai presses, his voice almost as faint as he feels. The ground suddenly feels uneven, and the stool he’s sitting on sways. He has to try to casually reach for the bartop to pretend like he’s not having to steady himself. 

“Yeah,” you say, and don’t add anything else. 

Dazai turns his head to the side to look at you. Did you think it was bad? Why aren’t you saying anything else? He wonders, a bit horrified by the thought. When you don’t make any effort to explain how you feel about it, Dazai grimaces and forces himself to speak up.

“And… what did you think?”

He’s not sure if he actually wants to know the answer.

“It was good,” you say simply, but Dazai can tell that’s not your full opinion. He can hear the unsaid ‘but’, and he doesn’t want to know what that ‘but’ is, yet he finds himself pressing anyway.

“But…?” he prompts, against better judgment. 

You look at him, that empty look that’s been lingering in your eyes is replaced, a bit more entertained now as you look over him curiously, as if trying to decide whether or not you actually want to tell him the ‘but.’ Dazai’s fingers thrum impatiently against the bartop as he waits for you to speak, and you notice from the way you glance down and then back up to his face. 

“The ending was interesting,” you finally say.

Dazai blanches. “Interesting?”

“It was cynical,” you amend, and Dazai’s eye twitches. “The whole novel was built up to expect a happy ending, and you had the main couple just leave each other at the end. It came out of nowhere. I didn’t like it.”

“Sometimes, people don’t get happy endings, and sometimes, it happens when you don’t expect it,” Dazai spits, a bit too bitterly from the way you raise your eyebrows, the corner of your lips curling up in amusement. Dazai isn’t quite as entertained, wondering where you get the audacity to say you didn’t like the ending that you gave him. “It’s realistic. People don’t get happy endings. Clearly.”

“Clearly,” you echo, sounding all too entertained by the conversation that has Dazai’s blood boiling.

“What? And you think it’s not realistic? Is that it?” Dazai turns his head away from you instantly, taking a long sip of his drink to try to quell the way his stomach churns.

“I think it’s cynical,” you repeat. “They clearly loved each other—there was no reason for them to split the way they did.”

Dazai’s head snaps back in your direction. “Well, that’s life—one minute, someone loves you, and you’re their whole world, and the next, they toss you aside. You’re forgotten, left behind. And they just move on like you never even existed.”

“Cynical,” you say again, and Dazai wants to throttle you for it, but he refrains. “People don’t just forget someone that they loved. It’s not possible—you can’t forget someone who was once so important to you.”

“Impossible?” Dazai asks through gritted teeth. “What about you? You’ve never forgotten about someone important to you?”

The amusement on your face fades as you study him a bit more carefully; Dazai realizes miserably that he’s being way too obvious with his resentment toward you, and you’re going to get suspicious. And you don’t know him, the last thing he needs is to be on the Port Mafia’s radar like this.

… Or maybe, it might not necessarily be a bad thing, he thinks, mind starting to race with possibilities. You told him how Ilya Repin’s ability worked while in the safe house. Now that you’ve followed through with your plan, the Three Deaths should officially be subsumed into the Port Mafia, meaning there’s a high chance that Repin is still somewhere in Yokohama, and with him, the painting that stole your memories of him. 

If he could find it…

“What do you mean?” you finally question, and Dazai’s drawn back to reality.

He averts his gaze from you immediately. “Nothing,” he replies quietly, the fight draining from him instantly when he sees your brows furrowed in confusion. “It’s nothing.”

Your lips part to speak, but you’re interrupted when the door to the bar slams open harshly. You don’t even turn around to see who entered before you roll your eyes, giving Dazai a wry smile. “I’m afraid that’s my cue, my keeper has arrived.”

You rise to your feet to leave, your drink still untouched on the bar in front of you. Dazai’s gaze lingers on you for a second before he looks to the door, eyes shooting open when he sees none other than Nakahara Chuuya standing there. The man is livid, and Dazai can hear the litany of curses about to spill from his lips, but tilts his head curiously when it never comes. 

It doesn’t come because he’s too busy staring at Dazai, eyes wide and lips parted.

Does he… recognize Dazai?

Dazai straightens in his seat, brows furrowing as he observes Chuuya carefully. You seem to notice the odd reaction, too, from the way you squint at your executive. This shouldn’t be possible, though—the plan was that everyone would have their memories of Dazai wiped in order to ensure that there was no evidence that he was ever connected to the Port Mafia. Connected to you. There’s no way Chuuya should know who he is, but that expression was damning; it’s like he knows exactly who Dazai is and knows the implications of you running into Dazai by chance.

“We’ll talk later,” Chuuya finally says, voice rough. “Let’s go.”

You sigh, looking thoroughly disappointed as you glance back at Dazai once, an odd expression on your face. He thinks maybe you’ll say something, but you don’t, and the bitterness he feels returns with a vengeance. 

He calls your name as you turn your back to him, and when you pause, he says, “Red is your color.”

It’s not a compliment, it’s him sharpening a knife that he’s preparing to jab into your chest, but he guises it as one because you don’t know that he knows what he does. You stiffen at his words, and Dazai’s suspicions are confirmed when Chuuya shoots him a vicious look behind your back. He knows.

“Yeah? My father used to say the same,” you say, voice a bit too tense to be casual.

“Used to?” Dazai presses, readying the knife against your skin.

You hum in agreement. “Used to. He passed.”

Passed, Dazai thinks mockingly. He makes sure to hide his scathing tone as he smiles sweetly and drives the dagger right into your heart, “I’m sure he would be proud of you.”

You don’t respond, but Dazai can see the way your head hangs a bit lower at his words, and your hand lifts to toy with the ribbon around your neck. For a brief second, Dazai feels gleeful—he’s glad that he can hurt you, even just a little—but the momentary satisfaction dissipates quickly. He doesn’t like hurting you, but more than that, he knows whatever pain he might’ve caused with his words is still nothing compared to the last six months he’s suffered. 

You leave without another word, and Chuuya follows after you, but not before giving Dazai another dirty look, one that promises that this isn’t the end. He sighs as he slumps over on the barstool. The satisfaction is long gone, the adrenaline rush that your appearance triggered has dissipated, and Dazai just feels sick again. He feels sick and lonely, but most of all, he just misses you. He misses you so bad that he thinks he might be willing to do anything to get your memories of him back

With that thought in mind, he fumbles for his phone and shoots a text to Ranpo before he can lose his nerve.

Dazai: ok. i’ll help but under one condition

Ranpo: knew you would :P deal

--------

Chuuya has been stiff since the two of you left the bar. You can tell that he’s waiting for you to say something, and that alone is proof that something weird is going on. You figure otherwise, you would’ve been scolded from the moment you stepped outside of the bar to the moment you slammed the door to your office in his face.

You don’t confront him right away—he’ll try to slip away if you make an attempt at cornering him, so you wait until the two of you are in the elevator going up to your office to say anything.

“Who was he?” you ask as soon as the doors slide shut, positioning yourself in a way so that he can’t reach the buttons without getting through you first. Chuuya stiffens as his gaze cuts to the side to focus on you. “The boy at the bar. You recognized him. How?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says tightly.

Your eyebrows shoot up at the blatant lie, mind spinning as you try to figure out why Chuuya would lie to you about this. The only thing he’s ever lied to you about before is whatever it is he knows about the Port Mafia’s regime change that eludes you. Could it be related? You doubt it—you’re not sure what some random one-hit-wonder author would have anything to do with a mafia coup—but it makes you feel a bit nervous, it makes you unsure of where you stand with the one person who has always been your other half. 

Why is he suddenly so comfortable lying to you? 

Why is he lying to you at all?

“And you’re lying to me about it,” you say tightly, swallowing thickly as your mind races for answers to your questions. 

He’s been distant lately—is it because there’s something going on that no one is telling you about? You know Chuuya wasn’t happy about your decision to demote Kouyou. Has it left him more resentful than you initially thought? You suddenly feel very, very alone. If you don’t have Chuuya solidly at your side, then who do you have? Klaus? Is that it? 

History moves in such vicious circles, doesn’t it? You remember the amused words Mori spoke to you many, many years ago—back when you’d followed him to the underground clinic before he became a doctor for the previous boss, when he would sit you at his desk and force you to read old textbooks and recite them to him because he refused to have an uneducated protege.

Doesn’t it? 

The previous boss was the right-hand of his father and took power from him by force; you heard it was a brutal execution, and people whispered that it should’ve been the first sign of madness. The previous boss was killed by Mori, the man he trusted to take care of him, a man who quickly became his right hand when his mind continued to deteriorate, and then Mori took control. Mori was killed by you, his heir, his second-in-command, his right hand, and then you took control.

Your gaze slowly tracks over to where Chuuya still refuses to look at you.

Doesn’t it? 

“I met him before,” Chuuya finally says, shaking his head, oblivious to your spiraling thoughts. “He was a fucking asshole. Don’t waste your time with him.”

“When did you meet him?” you ask, voice coming out a bit sharper than you intended. Chuuya gives you a wary look, like he’s only now realizing that something is seriously wrong, and you try to smooth your face out. “Just curious.”

“At the same bar,” Chuuya tells you. “A couple weeks ago. He was a little shit—drunk and insulting me as soon as I walked in.”

“Is that so?” you question flatly, eyes settling on him, watching the way his expression twists in frustration.

“Why would I lie to you about this?” Chuuya demands.

“I don’t know, Chuuya, why would you?”

A hurt expression flies across his face as he fully turns to face you, arms crossed over his chest. When he speaks, you can hear the anger dripping from his tone, but more than that, you hear the hurt. “What exactly are you accusing me of?”

Your shoulders slump, the fight draining from you when you see how betrayed Chuuya looks by your questions. Your voice wavers as you whisper, “I don’t know.”

He sighs at your answer and then steps forward. Your eyes slide shut as he rests his hand on top of your head. He brings his other hand up to cup the side of your face, tilting your head up to force you to look at him. You want to cry when you see the pain in his eyes as he studies your face. You chew on the inside of your cheek and try to look away, but he forces you to keep your gaze on him.

“I’m on your side,” he whispers, thumb running over your cheek. His other hand slides from the top of your head to hold your face between both of his hands. The leather of his gloves is coarse against your skin, but it’s achingly familiar—you’ve missed Chuuya desperately. “I’ve always been on your side.”

“Then why are you lying to me?” you ask weakly, hands coming up to curl around his wrists. “Chuuya, I feel so lost. I don’t understand what’s going on, I—”

Chuuya sighs and steps away as the elevator reaches the top floor of the building. The two of you walk down the hall past your guards and step into your office quietly. You walk over to the door in the back of the office, leading to the penthouse apartment. The moment you get in there, you feel suffocated again. The air is too heavy, and when you try to breathe in, it tastes stale and rotted. You look back at Chuuya to distract yourself and raise your eyebrows.

“Please,” he says, tired. “I can’t.”

You nod tightly and look around the apartment. It’s just as Mori left it—you’ve hardly touched it at all. You haven’t brought anything over from your own place. The walls are still black and empty except for some pinned-up crayon drawings of Elise’s, their bright colors feeling almost out of place. The living room is staged with gaudy decor, remnants of Mori’s taste, meant to impress any possible guest rather than comfort its owner. But the bedroom is stripped of everything personal, as cold and impersonal as a hotel room.

You like it this way. It’s easier to pretend you don’t actually live here, that this isn’t where you fall asleep at night, isn’t where you wake up to suffocating silence. You can almost pretend that Mori is still around, and you’re just occupying his space until he returns. But some nights, the weight of it settles too heavily on your chest, and the emptiness echoes too loudly for you to handle. Like tonight.

Chuuya follows you into the living room, expression unreadable as he glances around. “You still haven’t done anything with this place.”

“I haven’t,” you agree quietly, looking down at a picture on a nearby table. It’s of you, Mori and Elise—you were much younger then, it was taken when you were ten, still at the underground clinic, before he became the doctor for the previous boss. “Did I ever tell you how I met him?”

Chuuya doesn’t respond immediately. “How you met… Mori?”

“Mhm.”

“You didn’t,” he murmurs, taking a few steps closer to you to look down at the picture in front of you. “When you were still cute.”

“Hah,” you say, unamused, nudging his shoulder. “I lived on one of the main warfronts during the Great War before Tokoyami Island appeared and the fighting moved there.”

Chuuya lets out a noise of acknowledgment. “You told me that much.”

“It was a small village in a valley,” you continue quietly. “I don’t even… really remember where. The war was going on all around us, but the mountains and the forests kept us shielded from the worst of it. But we could hear it. Smell it. The gunfire and the explosives, the smoke was so thick that it reached our village. We couldn’t leave our houses without masks; there was a constant haze and—”

You cut yourself off as you look away, swallowing thickly. You feel Chuuya’s hand come to rest on your shoulder, concern rolling off of him in waves.

“I thought you didn’t remember any of this,” he says. “From before Mori found you.”

“I didn’t,” you reply, voice cracking. “Not until—”

Until you killed him. Until all of the memories you repressed came rushing through the floodgates without the one person who helped you hold them back.

“We weren’t supposed to leave the village,” you rasp. “They were scared that one wrong move would draw attention our way. I was seven, Chuuya. I didn’t understand, not really. I didn’t understand why my dad suddenly stopped bringing me out to the river—it was the only place where we could see the stars clearly, and I loved the stars, so I went to go see them on my own one night when everyone was asleep.” 

Chuuya says your name quietly, like he knows what you’re going to say, but he doesn’t. Your mouth is so dry that it feels like ash has built up in it, but you force yourself to continue.

“I didn’t even see him at first—the soldier,” you whisper. “He was hidden in the brush. Hurt. His leg was stuck in a bear trap, and he was dehydrated. He thought he was hallucinating when he saw me, thought I was an angel. He scared me, I wasn’t going to help him, but he was so young, Chuuya. He didn’t look any older than my cousin, and he was in so much pain, and he was so kind to me. Offered me the last of his food when he realized I was scared. I got him water and bandages and helped him free his leg. I was just a kid, I was only trying to help. I didn’t understand what I’d done.”

“That’s not your fault,” Chuuya says hoarsely. “Whatever happened wasn’t your fault, that’s—”

“By the next night, the village was burning,” you interrupt. “He got back to his regiment with my help, and he led them back to us. I don’t even remember his face now, but I remember him. I was playing with my brother by the well, and he stepped out of the tree line, and I didn’t even think I was seeing things right until my brother dropped his toys, but then the rest of his regiment followed, and the gunfire started, and the screaming. And he came up to me, and his eyes were empty. I’ve never seen anything like it before, it was—”

Chuuya starts to say your name, but you interrupt him, agitated. 

“Would you just listen?” you rasp, nails biting into your black jacket. “He didn’t kill me. I figured it was his way of repaying me for saving his life; he hit me over the head, and when I woke up, I was at the bottom of a pile of corpses.”

Chuuya inhales sharply. He reaches out hesitantly for your hand, and you let him hold it, but your hand remains limp in his.

“Do you know what death smells like?”

“I’ve killed—” he starts to murmur.

“No, the decay, Chuuya. For the first few hours, all you can smell is the blood,” you breathe out. “That’s what you smell. You never stick around for cleanup, and even if you did, cleanup always happens quickly. But after a day passes, the bodies start to decompose. It happens fast when it’s humid. And it was the middle of the rainy season. Hot. Muggy. By the end of the first day, all I could smell was rot.”

Chuuya looks sick, you can see it in the reflection of the picture you’re staring at, but his grip on your hand tightens.

“It’s so thick that you can taste it in your mouth when you try to breathe,” you say softly. “I tried to hold my breath at first, but that only made it worse because eventually I needed to breathe, and when I did, it was so…”

You don’t finish the sentence, lost in your own thoughts as you look up at the window looking over the city.

“And the flies,” you swallow thickly, almost gagging past the lump in your throat. “The flies showed up after the first day. The buzzing. There were so many of them, I wanted to cover my mouth, but my arms were pinned at my side. I still can’t take deep breaths without tasting the rot in the back of my throat. Sometimes when it’s too quiet, I can hear the buzzing of the flies around me.”

Chuuya lifts his free hand to wipe away a tear that you didn’t realize was rolling over your cheek.

“I could just barely see the sun rising and setting through the limbs above me. I was stuck beneath the corpses of my family members and neighbors for four days before a different regiment showed up—they saw the smoke. They started pulling the bodies off the pile to bury them, but I couldn’t even call out for help.”

You reach out for the picture on the table, brushing your thumb over Mori’s face.

“He was the first face I saw,” you whisper. “He didn’t even realize I was alive at first, but when he did, he pulled me out of the pile and carried me somewhere safe. I couldn’t speak or move for weeks; I was pretty much catatonic. His superiors wanted him to send me away, but he was the head physician and said I was better off with him. I don’t know if it’s because he realized I had an ability or if it was because he was worried about sending me away, that he knew I’d never be okay again back in the real world.”

 “He saved me, Chuuya,” you finish, turning to face Chuuya again. You reach out to grab his jacket, forcing him to look you in the eye. “Do you understand now why I can’t just accept I did what I did on a whim? On a suspicion that he used me as a scapegoat? Do you understand why I can’t just let it go—why I need to know what you’re keeping from me?”

Chuuya almost looks like he wants to cry when he looks down at you. You know his answer before he says it. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because you asked me to,” Chuuya finally says, hands reaching up to cradle your face again, begging you to listen. “Please, you have to stop asking.”

Asked him to, you think, even more confused than you were to begin with. Your mind races to put together the few pieces of the puzzle that Chuuya gave you. But why wouldn’t you remember asking him unless—

Repin?

“Repin,” you realize softly, looking up at him for answers. The heaviness in his eyes is enough of an answer. “And… does this boy from the bar have anything to do with it?” 

He sighs heavily, hands dropping to his side as he gives you a long look.

“No,” he answers after a moment. “That little shit doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Is that another lie?” you ask with a slight smile that wavers at the edges.

“No,” Chuuya says quietly. “It’s not.”

You search his face for something—anything—that will make this all make sense. That will make it hurt less. But there’s nothing. Just that same pained look, the weight of everything he isn’t saying pressing down on you incessantly. 

Your fingers loosen their grip on his jacket, slipping away as your shoulders slump. You don’t know what you were hoping for. Answers? Closure? Neither would bring Mori back. Neither would fix whatever had broken inside you the moment you pulled the trigger. Neither would rid yourself of the rot in the back of your throat or the buzzing in your ears.

Your head tilts slightly, eyes flickering toward the window. The city outside is bright, alive—but you feel impossibly far from it, like you’re watching from the wrong side of a one-way mirror. The top of this building is a prison; the scarf around your neck is a shackle. 

A humorless chuckle slips past your lips. “It never ends, does it?” you murmur. Your breath hitches, and you tilt your head back to look up at the ceiling. “This will never end. I’m so tired, Chuuya.”

“I know,” he whispers, reaching up to brush your hair behind your ear. “I know, I’m so sorry.”

“I just want a break,” you say shakily, leaning into his touch for a moment. “I just need a break.”

Your lips part as you look up at him again, his eyes are dark as he looks down at you, entirely unreadable. You shift your weight forward, closing the space between you again. You lift your hand to trace the light scar on his cheek before sliding to cup his jaw. His lashes flutter as he turns his face into your touch like he always has, the familiar warmth of his skin seeping into your fingertips. You look at him through your lashes, studying his face carefully as you run your thumb over his bottom lip. 

“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?” you breathe out, thumb pressing down gently on his bottom lip. He swallows thickly, pupils dilating as his lips instinctively part for you. Your lips curl up into a teasing smile that’s a bit frayed at the edges. “Like old times?” 

He lets out a shaky breath, and your hand slides down from his face to cradle the side of his neck, thumb tracing slow circles against his pulse. You lean in to ghost your lips against his jaw before trailing slow kisses down the column of his throat, savoring the way his breath hitches and how his muscles tense beneath your touch. His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s not sure if he should reach out to grab your hip or push you away.

“Please,” you murmur, kissing his pulse point once before resting your head in the crook of his neck. Your hands slide down his body to rest on his waist before you slip them around him, holding him close. You press your body closer to his, your breath shaky against his skin, feeling his warmth, his presence—the one thing that grounds you in the suffocating haze of what has become your life. “Please, I need one night to forget. I can’t keep going like this.”

Chuuya tenses under your touch, and for a moment, he’s utterly still. The silence stretches between you, too heavy, and you hold your breath as you wait, heart hammering in your chest. His hands finally move—one settles at your hip, the other curls into a fist at his side. 

For a second, he doesn’t push you away.

After what feels like an eternity, he exhales sharply and grips your shoulders, pushing you back just enough to look you in the eye. His gaze is dark and conflicted, and your heart sinks.

“We can’t,” he says quietly. “I can’t.”

“Please,” you whisper again, voice cracking as you shift closer to him. Your fingers hook in his belt loops, clinging to him desperately. “Just for one night.”

You don’t wait for an answer—you don’t want to hear his rejection. You lean in to press your lips against his. They’re warm and familiar, tasting of red wine and nicotine—you’ve kissed Chuuya a million times before, you’ve always felt most at home with him, but it feels… wrong this time, and you don’t know why. 

Frustrated, you press yourself into him again, lifting your hands to cup his cheeks. You slant your lips against his to deepen the kiss, trying to remind yourself of what this used to be. You barely notice the wetness against your lips until the salty taste seeps in.

When did you start crying?

Chuuya kisses you back, but there’s no heat behind it—it’s empty, he’s just going through the motions. His lips move chastely against yours, never taking the step to deepen the kiss, and you know it’s another rejection. When he pulls back to rest his forehead against yours, you take in a ragged breath, swallowing a sob.

“I can’t give you what you want,” he murmurs.

A shudder racks through your body, fingers digging into his shirt as you press your face against his chest. His hand comes to rest between your shoulder blades, holding you close to him.

“I don’t know what to do,” you gasp, speaking the words out loud for the first time. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Chuuya. I don’t know what to do about Cao Xueqin. I can’t get him to back down. And the government is threatening to send the Hunting Dogs to Yokohama—I don’t know what to do. He would—he would, and he’s gone, and he’s gone because of me. I need him, Chuuya, I don’t know why I did this, I don’t get it, I—”

Your words break into another sob as Chuuya presses his lips to your forehead, arm tightening around you as you collapse into him. He shifts to he can sit down on the couch, pulling you into his lap and cradling you in his arms. He presses your ear to his chest so that you can hear his heartbeat, stroking your hair gently as you let yourself break down in his arms.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “I’ve got you. We’ll get through this.”

It’s not the first time, and certainly won’t be the last time, that Chuuya’s words of reassurance do little to keep your anxiety at bay. Paired with his gentle rejection, it’s useless against the war that’s raging within you. You need to quell the doubt in your mind, the paranoia devouring all of your logical thoughts, the voice in the back of your head that gnaws at your mind and tells you that this isn’t right. But you’re exhausted, so instead of searching for answers or seeking out a body to numb your mind, you allow yourself this moment to drown.

--------

Dazai knows what he signed up for when he agreed to help the Armed Detective Agency. He’s been warring with it since he got home from the bar last night. Helping the Armed Detective Agency means working against you—he knew this when he messaged Ranpo, but it was different actually hearing the plans happening around him.

“Getting the new mayor out of office or trying to apprehend and imprison one of the most dangerous ability users in the world, I think one is quite obviously less dangerous than the other,” Ranpo says dryly, sticking a lollipop in his mouth as he kicks his feet up onto the conference table. “One is also less likely to bring the entire wrath of the Port Mafia down on us. If only marginally.”

“How are we supposed to get the mayor out of office without getting information from the Port Mafia?” Yosano asks, shaking her head. “Pictures of him talking to suspected mafia affiliates aren’t enough to get the assembly to vote him out. We need actual correspondence. Proof that he’s just an extension of the Mafia.”

An extension of you, Dazai finishes when Yosano spares a look in his direction. His fingers are stiff in his lap—he should probably speak up, he’s not even supposed to be here, he’s only here to give some insight into the Port Mafia and he hasn’t helped with much of anything, but every time his lips part to speak, he tastes ash in his mouth.

“I could apply for a job in the city hall,” one of the office workers, Haruno, offers quietly from the corner of the room where she’s taking notes for the meeting. “There’s an open job posting for a secretary at the—”

“Out of the question,” Fukuzawa says immediately, raising his hand to silence Haruno. “We will not be putting our office workers at risk.”

“But President,” Haruno protests, setting down her notepad. “The best way to get this information is to get on the inside—”

“No,” Fukuzawa interrupts firmly, crossing his leg over his knee as he leans back in his chair. “Whether we’re directly up against the mafia or going at this from a side angle, this is going to be dangerous. Our detectives will be the ones to handle this, but—”

“Going through it that way will take too long,” Ranpo says dismissively, head tilted back to look at the ceiling. “Plus, it’s not reliable enough. There’s no telling if you’ll get the job, and if you do, if you’ll have the clearance you need to get the information we need. We need to be more direct than that—”

“We can’t just storm the city hall, Ranpo,” Kunikida sighs, pushing his glasses up. “That’s a great way to get us thrown in jail.”

“What about—”

“I met her the other night,” Dazai finally says loudly, too abruptly. He swallows thickly when all eyes turn onto him. His gaze flickers over to Yosano, who looks concerned, and then to Ranpo, who doesn’t look surprised. “Her.”

They all exchange looks with one another, and though Dazai technically knows he is an outsider, the Agency has never made him feel like one before now. He could only imagine what they’re thinking—wondering if he’s going to rat them out to you, wondering if their plan is doomed before they’ve even fully begun. He knows they don’t trust him; they don’t really have much of a reason to, but it still makes his stomach flip. His throat tightens, fingers tensing in his lap as he looks down.

“What do you mean?” Yosano demands after a moment of silence. “She sought you out?”

“No. No,” Dazai says immediately. “She… didn’t even know it was me. It was just by chance.”

“She didn’t know it was you?” Kunikida splutters. “How is that possible—?” 

“What happened between you two, Dazai?” Yosano asks quietly, and Dazai’s heart sinks, a lump forming in his throat as he stares down at the table. He knows there’s no getting out of it this time, and he has to brace himself as he decides what to say. “We have to know before doing all of this.”

“She wiped her memories of me. Her and everyone who knew about me. All traces of our—” Dazai cuts himself off, taking in a shuddered breath before exhaling. “That’s not the point. The point is, I know the places she frequents. I can get the information you need if I can get close to her again. I can—”

I can do exactly what I was accused of. 

The thought rings through his head too loudly; his stomach churns, remembering the accusations Mori hurled at him and the betrayal on your face. He would be doing exactly what he was accused of. But it’s for the better, right? If he gets close to you, he’ll have a better chance at finding the painting that Repin used to take your memories of him, and if he finds some information to help the Agency, then there’s less of a chance that the military police will be sent in to deal with the Port Mafia and less of a chance that you’ll be caught in the crossfires or targeted yourself.

“Out of the question,” Fukuzawa repeats, dismissing Dazai immediately. “You are a civilian. I was against even letting you stay here for mission preparation, but Ranpo insisted on it. We are not sending you into the heart of it.”

“I haven’t been a civilian in a long time, you all know that, and I have the best chance of anyone here,” Dazai argues, sitting up in his seat. He ignores the nausea creeping up his throat. “I know her. I know all the places she likes to go. If one of you tries to do this and gets caught, you’ll be lucky if she kills you. You have no idea what she did to the journalists trying to expose her. But I know her, so—”

“But she doesn’t know you, Dazai,” Yosano interrupts, voice unusually gentle. “You’ll be at risk.”

“No,” Dazai says, swallowing thickly. His pulse is pounding; he has to blink to clear his vision. “No, she wouldn’t hurt me, she—”

“You can’t be sure of that,” Kunikida says. “She’s boss of the most dangerous mafia in the eastern hemisphere—maybe the world right now. If she figures out that you’re trying to get close to her for information, she’ll kill you just like she would any of us.”

“She won’t,” Dazai insists. He knows it in his heart. Even if you can’t remember him, you’d never hurt him, and it would never get to that point because—“She made sure that her second-in-command kept his memories of me. If things go wrong, I can go to him and he’ll intervene—”

“This is ridiculous.” Kunikida shakes his head, expression twisted in concern. “There are too many holes. It’ll never work. If you get close to her and he notices and realizes what you’re doing, it’ll blow everything up. And there’s no guarantee that he’ll save you if you mess up—”

“No, it’s perfect,” Ranpo says as he sits up in his seat, glasses hanging on the bridge of his nose as he looks down at all of the pictures on the conference table. “Wiping conscious memories might not necessarily affect the subconscious. He’s right—she might not hurt him, might even be blind to his real intentions because her subconscious is at ease with him. And if things do happen to go wrong, he has an extraction plan that has nothing to do with us.”

“And if that extraction plan goes wrong?” Kunikida demands. “There’s no telling it’ll work—we’re betting everything, his life, on a maybe. Just because he thinks the second-in-command of a mafia boss remembers him, how do we know he’ll protect him if things go wrong?”

“Because,” Ranpo says, lips curling up into a smug smirk as he leans forward to look at Dazai, “this whole transition of power happened to keep you safe, didn’t it?”

Dazai stiffens. The weight of Ranpo’s words slams into him, knocking the breath from his lungs. His mind reels back to the last night he spent with you at the safe house—the resignation on your face, the anguish in your eyes when you realized what had to be done. You made the choice to kill the closest thing you had to a father to protect him.

And now, here he is conspiring against you.

He feels sick so suddenly that he has to physically steady himself by grabbing the arms of his seat. He tells himself again that this is for the best—he needs to get close to you anyway, he needs to find the painting that took away your memories of him because he needs you back, and if the government doesn’t get something, then there’s going to be a military operation in Yokohama that you’ll be at the center of. 

Going behind your back to get a few files to incriminate your friend is nothing compared to that.

Right?

“I was trying to figure out what the missing piece was,” Ranpo continues with a grin, looking mighty pleased with himself. “From what I knew about Miss Mafia Princess through Akiko, she never would’ve killed Mori without a reason. It was to protect you—she wiped her memories to not drag you back in, wiped everyone else’s to keep you safe, but let someone she trusted keep their memories to intervene in case she made a mistake somewhere along the way. It was all to keep you safe.”

Dazai gnaws at the inside of his cheek. This is too much for him in one day—seeing you yesterday had been too much, and now this—now working with the Agency, working against you, having all of this brought up again and thrown right in his face—

“I think I should go,” Dazai suddenly says, standing so fast his chair scrapes violently against the floor. “Let me know if you want my help.”

“Dazai—” Yosano starts to call after him, but Dazai is already tunnel-visioned on the door, making his way out of the conference room rapidly. 

“Dazai,” Ranpo repeats. Dazai pauses, but doesn’t look back. “Do it. Get close to her. See what you can find out.”

Dazai glances over his shoulder. Fukuzawa looks displeased, but Dazai has learned that they seem to know better than to question Ranpo’s decisions, so he’s not entirely surprised when the older man nods in agreement. 

Dazai exhales shakily before nodding in return and quickly making his way out of the office. He only gets into the hallway before he’s keeling over, hands on his knees as he breathes in deeply. His head is swimming, his chest is so heavy that he feels like he’s being crushed. He clenches his fists as he tries to push away the nausea rising in his throat, pressing his forehead against the cool wall. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing his mind to go blank, but the weight in his chest refuses to lift.

His fingers tremble as he exhales slowly, trying to force the ache into something manageable. It doesn’t work. His thoughts are relentless, whispering accusations in the dark corners of his mind.

Conspiring against you. Doing exactly what he was accused of. 

It’s unforgivable. 

But it’s for the best, he tries to convince himself desperately. He needs you back, and you need him. Dazai knows it; he could see it in your face just from that brief meeting—you’re lost and lonely, just like him. Despite your betrayal, despite his resentment, despite his desire to hate you, he still loves you. He’ll always love you. He needs to find the painting Repin created that stores your memories of him, so he can destroy it, so you two can have each other again. And he needs to help the Agency find something to get Lippmann out of office, otherwise the military police is going to rain hell down on Yokohama, on you.

It’s for the best.

Dazai presses his knuckles to his lips, biting down on the skin hard enough to hurt, desperate for something to anchor himself, but he’s drowning in memories of you now. The warmth of your skin against his, the way you would gently cradle his face between your hands, the adoration in your eyes as you looked down at him—he needs you back. Everything he’s tried to push away for months crashes onto him at once. 

The months of anger and resentment have drained for the time being—all he wants is you, and he’ll do anything to have you back again. 

Anything.

--------

The grand chandeliers of the New National Theater glitter like a thousand tiny stars, casting warm, golden light over velvet-lined balconies and the sea of elegantly dressed patrons below. The air is thick with perfume, candle wax, and the hushed anticipation of the evening’s performance. Usually, you wear your suits to your weekly trips to the opera house—you come here for business, not pleasure—but tonight, you’re dressed in a gown.

You move through the crowd easily, your heels clicking against the marble floor. Your executives think that you’re meeting with an informant for intel. You don’t give them specifics. You don’t need to—you’re the boss now. But you give them just enough that they’re not suspicious—that Chuuya’s not suspicious—you don’t need him, of all people, to know who you’re really meeting. 

Anticipation curls low in your stomach, fingers twitching in the silk of your gloves. You don’t know what you expect from tonight, but you know what you want, and that’s why you came dressed in your nicest gown and in the color he likes best on you.

You reach the box and pause in front of the heavy velvet curtain. A slow inhale, a careful exhale, and then you push inside.

He’s already here.

Seated in his chair with one arm draped lazily over the backrest, Fyodor Dostoevsky looks as unbothered as ever, as if this is simply another night at the opera instead of a meeting between enemies. 

“You’re late,” he murmurs when he hears you enter. “The show has almost begun.”

His gaze flicks over his shoulder to assess you, violet eyes widening just a smidge when he sees your attire. His lips curl up into an unreadable smile, something between amusement and curiosity, but he rises to his feet to greet you. He holds out his hand and you place yours in it, breath catching when he bows his head down to brush his lips against your knuckles. 

When he lifts his head back up, he doesn’t let go of your hand.

His fingers tighten around yours, cold despite your gloves. His smile remains in place, but his eyes are as calculated and knowing as ever. In spite of everything, you find yourself enjoying the weekly mind games and power plays that take place between you and Dostoevsky.

“You dressed up for me,” Dostoevsky hums, voice soft as silk, thumb brushing over the inside of your wrist, a feather-light touch that sends a ripple of heat down your spine. “I’m flattered. You look beautiful—I did tell you that red is your color, didn’t I?”

He has said those words to you before—the first time you met him here—but for some reason, your mind draws back to the boy you met at the bar instead. His face flashes through your mind—smiling, eyes warm as he meets yours, which is odd because he didn’t smile at all during your brief encounter with him, and he certainly wasn’t warm; he was angry and bitter about whatever was bothering him.

Weird.

“I dressed for myself,” you reply smoothly before your prolonged silence becomes suspicious. “Though I suppose it’s a happy coincidence.”

His lips curl up into a smirk. “How fortunate for me, then.”

He tugs lightly on your hand, guiding you a step closer. His touch is deceptively gentle, but there’s something beneath it—a quiet command, a reminder of who he is and what he’s capable of. 

He’s playing with you. He always is. 

You don’t usually entertain it, tonight you do.

You could pull away, but you don’t. You let him guide you forward until your chest nearly brushes his, and you don’t push away his other hand when it comes to rest on your waist.

His gaze remains fixed on yours, eyes lidded and pupils a smidge larger than they should be. “I wonder,” he muses, voice dipping lower, “what it is you truly want from me tonight.”

The question should put you on edge. Instead, it makes the heat spread from your abdomen to your chest, fire coursing through your whole body. You don’t answer right away, letting the silence stretch and the tension rise between the two of you. 

Will you admit it? Or will the two of you spend another evening dancing around what it is you both really want? 

He wants you to say it, you know that, but you fear it might cross a line that shouldn’t be crossed. Fyodor Dostoevsky is your enemy still, and it’s only a matter of time before he makes his move on Yokohama. It would not look good if word spread about your meetings with him when it happened, and it could be exactly what he’s plotting to smear your reputation.

“What I always want from you,” you say at last, tilting your chin up. His face is so close to yours that you can feel his breath against your lips. “Information.”

His smile widens, teeth glittering like knives beneath the warm lighting of the opera house, and the thumb on your wrist presses down, just enough for him to feel the steady, rapid beat of your pulse beneath it. “Is that so?”

“Maybe I just wanted to see you,” you offer, a lie, and he knows it from the way his eyes glimmer with amusement. “Would that be so strange?” 

“Strange?” he echoes, entertained. “Not at all. But terribly dangerous, don’t you think?”

You know what he means. You’ve known from the moment you started these little meetings, these clandestine encounters dressed up as you meeting an informant. You shouldn’t be here, standing so close to him, entertaining whatever this tension is between you. But the thrill of it—of knowing that you shouldn’t and doing it anyway—makes you stay. Gives you something to look forward to when you have nothing.

Dostoevsky leans in just enough that his breath ghosts the shell of your ear when he speaks. “You intrigue me,” he breathes out. The confession is quiet, meant only for you. “No one plays games with me quite like you do. I enjoy our meetings very much.”

You turn your head to the side just enough that your lips skim his jaw. His throat bobs at your brief touch, and your lips curl up into a pleased smile. You make your decision.

“Or maybe I want something else tonight,” you continue, like he didn’t speak at all, your voice quiet. He turns his face to look at you—you’re so close that your lips almost brush his when you speak, but you don’t let it deter you. “Indulge me?” 

His chuckle is soft, and he pulls back just enough to look at you again, violet eyes glinting under the golden light of the chandeliers. He lifts your hand again, pressing a lingering kiss to the inside of your wrist as the lights of the opera house finally start to dim, signaling the start of tonight’s performance.

“I will indulge you in anything, darling.”

[obsessedwrhys]

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ The Seven x Deadpool!Reader

t/w: loooots of dark humour/jokes, reader is insensitive and an asshole since they're also a supe working at vought, your powers are the exact same as Deadpool (even the skin condition), mention about killing, death, gore, r-pe, n@zis?!?!, alcohol, some intimacy (?). Also reader is gn!!

ᯓ★ here's a version with the boys <3

HOMELANDER

This man hates you so fking much

Has tried to kill you multiple times, he tried lasering you, tearing you in half and even throwing you into the sky but you just always manage to come back like the damn plague

Eventually he gives up trying to kill you and just had to deal with the fact you'll be kept alive... just temporarily though... he's still looking for ways to kill you

However, your powers gave you dozens of advantages when around Homelander.

He can be having a meeting about something serious and everyone would be listening to him due to their fear towards him, then there's you who'd be doing your own thing and just shout out unrelated things like "Donald Trump just blocked me on Twitter!! HAH!! SUCK IT CORNFLACKS!!"

Everyone turning to you with startled expressions while Homelander simply rolls his eyes before continuing his presentation.

You are a complete nightmare to the PR team, that's why for interviews or any events, you'll always be paired up with Homelander so he can keep you under control and stop you from saying weird shit that could ruin the company's image.

"So Deadpool, how does it feel being in the Seven working alongside Homelander? You've been working together for almost 3 years now" A reporter would ask as you two are surrounded by screaming fans.

"Like I'm in the twilight series, not because of the fantasy but because I'm still waiting for the part where he impregnates me—"

"O-kay! That's enough, just silly ol' Deadpool with those inside jokes"

"You can tell in this eyes that he wants to fuck me right now. HE'S GONNA FUCK ME!!" You shouted as you're being dragged away by him.

Obviously when you had found out about his relationship with Stormfront, especially her background, you had to say some shit about it. Not giving the slightest care about the fact he could be grieving over her death.

He'll be in his room standing in front of the window and you'd just storm in, being as loud as possible.

"I can't believe you dated a N@zi!! Is it because I'm Jewish?!" Which may or may not be true, nobody knows your origin.

He may hate your guts but if he ever needs someone to help him do some dirty work, you're the person for the job, you never ask why or how, which could be the only thing he likes about you.

"Y'know, maybe if you didn't have such a big mouth, you'd be tolerable"

"All the people I've slept with have said otherwise"

Compatibility? 50%

STARLIGHT

Before she joined the Seven, she had an image of what kind of person you were, she just didn't know it was this worse.

When you found out she used to work at this Sunday School Church, you just haaaaad to say something about it.

"So like, you say that prayer always works, but every night I pray for my hair to grow and it never does. Do you think God has me blocked? How do I get unblock?"

"Uh..."

You two surprisingly get along without one wanting to slice the other's throat, except sometimes the things you say can really piss her off. Which is why when the company assigned her a new costume, she was trying her hardest to avoid you, but you found out anyways.

"Holy shit Starlight! Nice costume, is this your Miley Cyrus breakthrough? Girl power!"

Insert her groaning out of annoyance.

Again, the second you discovered she was dating a guy behind the death of Translucent, you were heartbroken :(

"Of course this happens right when my therapist gives up on me!"

Despite your behaviour, you pitied her when it was revealed that she was taken advantage of by The Deep, so like any good friend, you took revenge by cooking his friend octopus and eating it happily in front of him.

"Revenge does taste sweet" You'd say happily while Starlight just watches by the side, both grateful and horrified at your actions.

In my opinion, you would definitely be the person she goes to once she starts working with the boys, you'll always be providing whatever information that happens in the company for her to use.

It helps her worry less about getting anyone killed 'cause you literally can't die.

Compatibility? 60%

QUEEN MAEVE

You're half the reason why she rethinks about her life choices when she wakes up in the morning

Not because you're a handful (which you are) but because you're always paired together on missions

"Deadpool! The hostages!"

"OKAY! God... you act just like my drunk uncle"

Which is a joke/nickname you like to address her by because of her alcoholism (yikes)

Whenever the company needs you for something, half of the time she's the one assigned to search for you.

There was this one time she caught you trying to have Anika track down Kanye West's location, nobody knows what shenanigans you were up to.

Another thing to mention was that you two were chosen by the company to sing a Christmas song for the year's Christmas ceremony.

Just imagine during the bridge of the song, she's singing normally while you're completely going off, your high note so high you were sure you had Mariah Carey a run for her money.

Even though she finds you a lot to deal with, you're actually her buddy to train with.

Since you're very skilled with Katanas, she likes to practice her swordsmanship with you.

You like to tease or make fun of her everytime she fails to strike you which is good motivation for her to get better. Maybe you guys bring out the best of each other?

Last thing I'd like to add is when she was found out by the public that she was a lesbian (She's bi but you get the running joke), you had gifted her a t-shirt that says, 'Biggest Dick in Town'

Compatibility? 80%

THE DEEP

Your human punching bag

If Vought was a high school instead of a company, you'd be the bully and he'd be the nerd getting stuffed inside the locker room.

For example, Homelander could be confronting Starlight about her relationship with Hughie and everyone would just start raising their voices til you come in yelling "SHUT UP!" to the Deep who had not said a single thing during the entire time.

Just imagine him staring at you like 😐

To be honest you also ate his friend octopus so you guys are actually never getting the chance to make up.

"Look dude, I don't appreciate your tone"

"I don't appreciate your haircut either but we can't all get what we want"

You may be a crazy person but you weren't going to be okay with the fact he violates every woman he sees, so not only did you cook the octopus but you also called in a male stripper disguised as a woman just for him to celebrate on his birthday.

Just imagine him all happy when you tell him the news and later that night he'll run inside your room, completely pissed off at your act after finding out but you just laughed and said.

"Happy April Fools 😚!"

"That's next month dipshit!"

Also, you never understood his weird fantasies. He has a thing for sea animals??You've caught him multiple times either flirting or getting off to one. It was concerning even for you.

"From how many animals you've fucked, you might just turn from the ocean's 'Seaman' to 'Semen'." You joked which he did not find funny.

Maybe you messing with him could just be your way of getting along with him since you're the same with everybody else, it's just he has more flaws to poke fun of and he's sensitive about them.

Compatibility? 5%

A-Train

He thinks you're fucked up in the head.

Half of the shit that comes out of your mouth just has him reacting like in the GIF

Buuuuuut you're the one he always brings to the club because you always know ways to give the party life.

You've somehow even got on the wall of fame, a lovely portrait of you with your hands making out a heart.

Also, you know about his business with Compound V waaaaay before anyone else did. He's still grateful you didn't tell anyone.

Just like everyone else, you also enjoy messing with him except he's fast and constantly avoiding you.

"Hey A-Train, how much do you wanna bet that I can die faster than you?"

"Dude... seriously?"

You guys rarely get sent on missions together because you're always slowing him down, not basing off the fact he's fast but because you get easily sidetracked with other things.

"Alright, we're here now, how much C4 do we use?"

"Fuck math! Let's use all of 'em!"

You ended up detonating all of the C4 on you before he could object the idea, he was able to run out in time, your action nearly getting him killed while you ended up dead.

But it's fine you'll just grow back.

You know that race he has against Shockwave? You'd be at the VIP section standing near where Homelander and Queen Maeve is, waving your huge banner that has a picture of A-Train's face and yours pasted over a figure carrying the other in bridal style.

Compatibility? 55%

TRANSLUCENT

He makes people paranoid but you make him disgusted.

There was this one time he was bored so he snuck in your room to see what you were doing.

At first he was confused why you had so many cute plushies but then the more he explored your room, he realised your room is basically every collector's dream.

You even had a huge teddy bear in the corner of your dressing room.

The reason why he doesn't like to spy on you is because the last time he did, he saw you putting your hand in the blender, then proceeding to put your private part into it.

Never again, he thought, never again.

He doesn't need to witness you carry out your intrusive thoughts.

Surprising enough, you're close with his son, I'd like to think that after his death, you practically became the kid's godparent. Though you can be sort of a bad influence, leading up to how he is in Gen V.

You always tell him you hate kids but he thinks otherwise.

After all, he can read people well.

You guys like to pull pranks on each other since you guys like competing on who's more sneaky

There was this one time, you woke up to find your suit gone so you ended up walking around the building, completely naked and unfazed by people's stares.

It was when you walked around the corner that you found your suit worn by someone else, turns out it was Translucent under it.

"Why is it so fucking tight dude? How do you stay in this shit all day?"

"You get used to it"

Compatibility? 85%

BLACK NOIR

Lovers.

He doesn't mind your attitude because he actually can't say anything about it.

No seriously... he can't talk.

But hey he's got a good shoulder to cry on.

"I just... hffgh... I can't believe my album didn't surpass lady gaga's... She doesn't even know how to use Katanas like I do!" You'd let out a loud sob while he just stares at you for a while before placing a hand on your shoulder, patting you gently.

You know the scene where he's playing the piano for one of the company's party? You'll be laying down on top of it and singing in your usual overdramatic high pitched voice.

He finds your humour amusing so he always does this little head tilt like in the GIF when you say some weird shit while waiting for his response.

Since both of you are the only members of the Seven that wears a full body suit, obviously you had to try on his but since it was impossible to achieve that, you just had the company make a copy for you.

He'll be walking down the hallway doing his normal routine until he notises another person in his suit, the moment you speak and he realises its just you is when he let's his guard down.

"I just got some transplants done to my ass, that's why I look different"

You both are never sent on missions together 'cause you guys don't work well, pretty much nobody works well with him since he's the silent type.

Example, you two were hiding behind some crates ready to jump on the bad guys who were snucking in illegal drugs. He gestured for you to wait as he went to check again, only to turn back to see you gone.

"Marry Christmas motherfuckers!"

He heard your voice shout and he found you standing on top of the stacked crates, machine gun in hand and began shooting aimlessly.

He didn't even do anything but just watch until you ran out of bullets. However, multiple survived and began shooting at you so you ended running towards where he's hiding at.

"Yankee yankee!" You yelped.

You know the video of the two girls taking off their wigs to reveal that they're bald and they start bonding over it? I'd like to imagine that's you and Black Noir with the skin condition under the suits.

One more scenario I wanna add, you guys could be having a meeting but since you were bored and you always hated meetings, you'd draw a big heart on a piece of paper and show it to Black Noir from across the table. Surprisingly he'd draw a heart back to you.

You were overjoyed so you began to draw you and him doing it, doggy style. He stares at your doodle for a while before choosing to just focus on the meeting instead.

Compatibility? 90%

(This took a while cause I was on vacation)

[aventoru]

“my mother died on this day,” mydei tells you. you’re sitting on the stairs leading up to castrum kremnos, gazing up at the starry night. contrary to okhema, night falls upon the city.

you hum silently, intertwining your hand with his. “she was good to me,” he continues. your other hand comes up to rest his head on your shoulder.

mydei is no stranger to pain and loss. he had grieved when those he cherished left him behind to venture ahead to elysium. he had roared angrily and charged into battle, fought tirelessly, and emerged victorious against the rigid kremnoan traditions. but with all that he has been through, mydei had never felt like this.

a silent tear succumbs to gravity, leaving a tiny damp spot on the fabric of your shirt. the tear is insignificant to his might as the lance of fury. he was sure the kremnoans would even call it an embarrassment, for they believe a warrior sheds no tears.

but to him, it’s a drop of water in the pool of crimson he had accumulated in battle. a single moment of clarity in a life filled with bloodshed. “i feel strange,” he admits. an indescribable feeling overtakes his body. like an eternal yearning, he wants to reach out and grab something that is no longer there. it’s fleeting and nostalgic, like a whisper in the springtime, like sand slipping through his fingers.

mydei was never a creative, but he could imagine it clear as day. he pieces together the memories of what was and creates what could have been. his mother’s gentle voice caresses his ears and her warmth seeps through the chilly wind. or maybe it’s your body heat. he’s not so sure anymore.

his imagination bleeds into reality and mydei feels like a little boy again. his mother is standing in front of him. “mydeimos,” she calls out his name. her figure is just as he remembered, hair flowing like silk and face kind. she says nothing after that, but her presence is enough to fill his world with light.

“mydei,” you start,

and just like that, the dream fades. his imagination disperses and opens his eyes, returning to reality. the bittersweet feeling settles.

he knows what you’re going to say. it hurts when there is no exact way to grasp this feeling, but it’s worse when his torment is described out loud.

“i think you ___ her.”

mydei stills, his body tensing.

the word fails to translate in his brain. it’s okheman and foreign to him. but at that moment, it encapsulates his entire being.

the crown prince of kremnos feels his body go slack against yours as he breathes out a sigh of relief. the tears well up in his eyes again and he tilts his head up, gaze trained on the blinking stars to stop their flow.

mydei realizes it then. he knows.

there is no word for fear in the kremnoan language, and there is none for miss either.

masterlist

[witherby]

If Punch line can trigger Jason easily what would happen is she ever met Harley?

Let's explore that!

Punchline: First Session

Masterlist is Here!

"I need your help."

Harley perks up, gasping, and rushes over to hug Batman tightly.

"I never thought this day would come," she says, jumping up and down and clutching a gauntleted hand. "Yes!! Yes I would love to be your therapist! We have so much to work on, starting with your parents. I really think you never internalized the event and haven't given yourself any space to grieve after —"

Her hands get squeezed gently, recapturing her attention. Blue eyes meet white lenses, and she furrows her brow.

"Okay, that's fine!" She sighs. "Can't say I'm not disappointed, but if one of your kiddos is looking for help instead, I'm still more than hap—"

"Not one of mine," Batman gently interrupts. "This is a...very delicate case, Harley."

"What's delicate mean in this context, Batsy?" She asks. "Delicate like schizophrenic? Delicate like CPTSD? Delicate like one wrong word away from explodin' and killin' everybody in a mile radius?"

"Delicate," he says, "like...this might hit too close to home for you."

"Me?"

Batman nods. Harley hums, equal parts curious and cautious.

"Any good psychologist worth her salt won't let a personal connection get in the way of providin' aid," she tells him. "If the patient isn't somebody I can help myself, I'll help ya find someone who can. When can I meet 'em?"

--

Your file lies scattered across the floor of the cave. Harley stares wide-eyed at your picture while she trembles on her hands and knees. Bruce, having changed out of his suit, kneels beside her with a steadying hand on her back.

"Oh," she whispers, "Brucie, she's so small for her age. And her age!! Sh-she's..."

Harley shakes her head. Bruce continues rubbing small circles in her back. When she leans against him for support, he holds her upright.

"How'd he keep a kid hidden for eight years?" She whispers, voice thick. "I know I fucked off to go play Happy Family with Ivy, but..."

"Nobody knew," he says. "Harleen, don't play the blame game, not for this. He kept her a secret for a reason; no one was supposed to know."

Harley lifts her hands to her face, rubbing her eyes before any tears can well up and fall. She takes deep, calming breaths, gathering her focus, then carefully collects the papers and stands with his help. She draws a pad and pen out of her pocket.

"I ain't promising anything," she says, looking up at Bruce. "This is...this is a whole different ball game, 'specially with that chucklefuck as the daddy. But I'm gonna try, okay?"

He nods. "Take your time. You were the first person I thought of, but don't force this if it's too much."

Harley gently squeezes his hand in acknowledgement. She walks past him and down the hall towards the containment cells, heels clicking quietly against the floor. She dug out her old coat with the name tag pinned to it and even threw her hair back in a low braid to appear as non-threatening as possible. The closer she gets to your door, the more the wonders if you would've been more comfortable if she showed up in her combat getup and mallet.

"Miss Punchline?" She calls, stopping in front of your cell. A cursory glance of your environment tells her immediately that you're under-stimulated. She writes that down. "I'm Doctor Quinzel. Do ya mind if I come in and chat with you a while?"

You cease all movement. You'd been sitting with your back to the door, gently stroking the head of the teddy bear Alfred gave you while muttering Mistress Mary's nursery rhyme, but when you hear her, you practically turn into a statue. Unless she actively stares at your back, Harley can't even see you draw breath.

"Miss Punchline?" She repeats calmly. "I won't come in if you don't want, but I'd really like to talk to you."

"...Popsy talks about you, sometimes," you say. Harley can't decipher your tone, but the words make her feel cold all over. "Says he used to miss his favorite gal."

"I'm sure he's mentioned me once or twice," she says, clearing her throat. "But I'm old news. Why don't you tell me about yourself? I'm gonna punch in the door code now, okay?"

You don't move. Harley unlocks your cell and walks inside, getting a better look at how sparsely decorated it is. The bed is clearly unused and half of the activities left here would cause an ordinary child to lose interest in about an hour without company. Overall, Bruce and his family are keeping you in a dreary room. If she accomplishes nothing else today, it's a guarantee that she's gonna get you better accommodations.

Harley walks around the room until she can see you face-to-face. Once she's in your periphery, your eyes snap to her and follow her every movement like a predator. She lowers herself to the ground, taking a seat a few feet away from you.

"There you are," she says kindly. Your smile is just as placid as the one in your photo. "I like ya make-up. The swirly pattern on your cheeks is very cute."

You don't respond, though your smile widens briefly. Highly receptive to praise. Your eyes don't leave hers, scanning, assessing, calculating. Harley doesn't feel like you're about to attack her, but you're clearly juggling something around in your mind.

"Bet you're thinking about mine," she continues. "Normally I like puttin' on the face paint, but sometimes my pores gotta breathe, you know? Well — the pores I got left." She glances down at her hands, paper white like the rest of her body from her dip in a vat of acid. With relief, Harley notes that your unpainted skin is a healthy color. Even though the bar's lower than Hell, it's nice to know that at least the Joker didn't immediately treat you to a dunk of your own.

"Punchline, I'm gonna be frank with you," she says.

"Nice to meetcha, Frank," you chirp, grinning mischievously. Harley lifts a brow.

"That was funny," she praises. "I know your, eh, Popsy, he places a lot of value on bein' funny. Used to say nothin' was worth the effort if it didn't amuse him at the end of the day. I'm sure you know that already."

"A giggle a day keeps the boredom away!" You say, pitch and cadence matching that of your father's. Harley knows that the grip on her pen is too tight. She breathes deep and forces herself to relax. "Ohh, hit a nerve, Frank?"

"I'm doin' just fine," she says. "What's boredom look like for you and Popsy?"

You separate your hands, fingers splayed wide, and make explosion noises.

"Do you get caught up in that explosion?"

Your smile doesn't change but your eyes get sharp. Harley makes a note.

"It's hard keepin' him entertained all day, every day," she says. "I would know. But I'm gonna tell ya somethin' your popsy probably never has."

Harley scoots a tad closer to you, reaching her hand out and gently taking one of yours. She can feel every bone in your hand and has to utilize all of her training to school her expression.

"It's not your job to make yer popsy happy. In fact, it's not your job to make any adult happy. Grown-ups shouldn't rely on their children for emotional regulation."

"Couldn't rely on you, either, could be?" You snicker. "Since you ran away."

"I left him because he was treatin' me like dirt," Harley says, a little more firm than necessary. "He's real good at drawin' you in, Punchline. Shows you an ounce of praise that makes you feel invincible, makes you wanna do anything he asks to get more of it."

Harley lets go of your hand to tuck a lock of emerald green hair behind your right ear, brushing gently against the shell. The edges are distorted, flatter than your left.

"He's also real good at draggin' you through the mud, makin' you feel like everything's your fault. Like you got no choice but to make it up t'him. Ya never wanna get on his bad side cause he really makes you feel it."

You tilt your head away from her hand, eyes dropping back down to the teddy bear Alfred gave you. You resume petting it, slightly faster and rougher than before. Harley makes a note.

"His anger's always more powerful than his joy, Punchline," she says, "but both of them are destructive. I wanna help ya break away from his cycle."

"No thanks," you say, "if I wanted to be a washed-up, third-rate party clown, I would!"

Harley feels a wave of pity for you. It's obvious you're just regurgitating your father's words back at her, and she's not surprised. Change doesn't happen overnight, especially not for you.

There's so much work to do, but Harley's not afraid. You may look and behave similarly to the Joker, but you're young and still impressionable and already starting to pull away from him without even realizing it.

"I can tell yer getting upset, and that's the last thing I want," she says, climbing to her feet, "so I think this is a good stopping point for today. But I'd really like to see you again. Would you be alright with that?"

You blow a raspberry at her, then cackle. Harley exhales sharply through her nose, giving you a fond smile, and pats your head as she steps past you and opens the cell door.

She can do this. She will do this. For you.

But, first thing's first.

"Brucie, you're kidding me with the furnishings! How's the richest man on the planet gonna put a kid in such a shitty room!? Don't look at me like that, mister. You brought me in t'do a job and I'm gonna do it right!!"

[simp-ly-writes]

Save Me

─────── · · How Could You Refuse? (pt.5)

Pairing: Jayce Talis x Shy!Assistant!Reader

─ · · SUMMARY: Jayce feels like he failed you, failed to truly do the good he wanted to for Piltover but with a taste for redemption, new and old faces appearing, and a war on the cusp of starting; he looks towards revenge as he battles with his original creation. You on the other hand? Well it appears everyone is out for your blood for one reason or another...

─ · · TAGS: female pronouns used, protective!Jayce (as in kills someone 😬), hurt/comfort and angst, blood, kissing, briefly mentioned nonconsensual touching, mentions of blood and death, reader is mentioned to have hair and is shorter than Jayce, S2: EP 1-7 spoilers! cliffhanger- to be continued.

─ · · MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 4,124

─ · · SERIES MASTERLIST

─ · · A/N: I so badly want to cut towards them being all cute and hot together 🫣 so freakin' bad but the angst before will make it feel that much better when it happens 😭

─────── · ·

─ · · Jayce tossed and turned in your bed last night, restless without the warmth of you beside him. He lived in your apartment, needing to feel that you were near when in actuality... he had no idea where you were...

─ · · When his mother visited him after the attack, she had to get enforcers to kick down your door to reach her son sitting amongst your blueprint covered floors doing his best to not let his tears stain your hard work.

"Jayce," Ximena Talis whispered, sitting down beside her son as he refused to look at her. "Tell me that I'm a bad person, that I failed, I lost myself, I am nothing." Ximena gasped, grasping on tightly, shaking her head and crying once feeling Jayce didn't move to hold her, just sat there.

"You are not lost, you are not nothing, you are my son, you are a leader-"

"Then why don't I feel like one?"

─────── · ·

─ · · Jayce stood a the front of the crowd standing alongside the remaining councillors, he was asked- was supposed to provide the speech yet he could not- not when he was the one that created this mess, not when he failed you.

─ · · Everyone watched as Mel slowly took to the stage, the microphone ringing before she cleared her throat. Tears welled in her eyes, catching in her throat but she persevered knowing that even though these words were hard to admit to herself, admit to the public, they needed to be heard. These people deserved to be remembered and as she looked down to Jayce, his eyes blank yet his outwards appearance still the perfect "golden boy" society expected of him.

But if you looked closer at the details of his outfit, you would find a wrinkled undershirt, a hair-tie of yours stretched around his wrist, and a spot of Viktor's blood on his boots he kept- forcing himself to remember what he had done.

Hearing a shuffling in the crowd, Jayce looked to see Vi and that young girl who had ran up to you both, the picture of what your future together could have looked life- Jayce felt sick. Blinking away tears as he watched the girl look around him to find you before turning up empty handed, she sobbed into her fathers shoulder and suddenly he felt thousands of eyes starring at him- shock and horror coating there features.

Jayce lowered his head as if to confirm their thoughts and not a sound could be heard as Mel continued her speech as everyone had yet another reason to grieve.

─────── · ·

─ · · You were shaking like a leaf in your spot, a gun pressed into your side. The whole cart-ride there the guard was playing with the safety, giggling every time you flinched 'so adorably.' They said you had the 'prettiest whimpers' the 'saddest, shiniest eyes' they had ever seen and what they all loved most of all? That you were Jayce's lover- his world. The perfect way at sticking it back on Piltover.

─ · · Another showed you the drawings they had planned for your corpse afterwards, your head on a stake so that 'Jayce could continue to admire you.' and you felt sick, you didn't want Jayce to see if you were gone, you prayed that they would just kill you in the Undercity, throwing your body into the bay without a hope of being found

─ · · "She would be a fun fuck, wouldn't she? Knees shaking, lips quivering, as you try and fit her-" you shut off your brain, ears ringing as you felt hands touch your waist that brought you back, "is your brain already going dumb? listen up." You wanted nothing more than to be in Jayce's comforting arms, to smell his aftershave in the mornings and be cuddled up by his desk by evening.

─ · · When you arrived at the venue, you were being ushered backstage and for the first time in your life, you hoped to be in the crowd, listening along. Mels speech was good but you had hoped Jayce would have been speaking at your funeral... perhaps that was a selfish thought of yours- wanting to hear your boyfriend speak in your final moments but that would be unfair to him

─ · · You stood still, hands bound behind your back and shackles around your feet. Your mouth was fixed shut with a metal mask, you closed your eyes taking in a deep breath to experience it slowly, listened to your heart beating and thought only about Jayce about every moment you loved and you were ready...

A scream sounded, you were used to the sound by now as your back got kicked falling into view of the crowd in front of Jayce. You could see him immediately stride forwards, grabbing an enforcers shotgun and taking aim before a figure emerged from behind a veil and the two exchanged shots. Mel was being forced off stage with the rest of the council members as you silently cried. There goes my peaceful death.

You tried to yell his name in mourning yet no sound escaped. You tried to get up yet a boot crushed your spine to the stage floor. Your hands stretched and grasped air, trying to reach out but never becoming successful.

You watched as Jayce was restrained, his muscles flexing as he tried to force himself out of the two mans grasps, he shouted your name over and over again, his voice becoming raspier by the minute. You could hear the chainsaw start as you were picked up by the hair on your head. "Are you ready Jayce? is everyone ready!" the voiced mocked, a drop of your blood spilling as Jayce growled and kicked, his eyes promised blood as Renni continued to speak, "your precious little love about to be all dead. But don't you worry my men had their fun with her before this, made sure she's truly going out with a bang! Don't you think it fair for killing my son? I get to take everything away from you in one fell swoop just like you did."

You knew their words about you to be untrue, just being used to dig into Jayce's heart but he took them as truth, watching you struggle, he wanted to kill, a part of you was also hurting for them, for their loss that you understood too well. Then suddenly, a red haired woman came into view holding Jayce's hammer as she swung it across their back, your kidnapper falling towards the crowd, towards Jayce. Your eyes went wide watching as Jayce's back was cut open alongside his shoulder, you gagged and gasped, hands shaking.

"Run... run!" the red haired woman yelled at you, slamming between your feet to split the shackles in two. Caitlyn waved her hand over, pointing towards an exist as you nodded your head and stumbled into a run. You turned your head to watch as Jayce yelled slamming a piece of scrap metal, bashing it against their skull- losing himself to the violence and you shivered.

─────── · ·

─ · · You were sitting in a medical tent, a guards hand shook as they hesitantly touched you, your eyes pleading that it was alright as they pulled the mask from your face and forced the restraints off your hands. You stretched out your jaw, twisting your wrists and testing your joints as they felt around your head and patched up your minor injuries... minor injuries. You thought back to Jayce's back and side but before you could ask, a freshly bandaged Jayce was stumbling towards you, the medical team rushing behind him, bandages in their arms and bags around their shoulders- worried but understanding once they saw you.

You could see as Caitlyn stood at the back, smiling and shaking her head with a scoff, "of course." Jayce held your face, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against your own. You felt his tears fall and stream down your own cheeks. You were hesitant to touch him seeing the blood dripping across his chest and the various wraps he wore. He pressed his lips against your own, "You're okay," he cried with a smile, "you're okay," he repeated, as if reminding himself you were real.

"Are you okay?" you asked, bringing a hand to touch his cheek. He stared up at you, "yes, I'm okay now. I'm okay." You nodded, unable to find words before gently removing your touch. "You have to finished getting treated, Jayce," you said in response to his pout before moving over on the table and offering him a seat. Jayce held your hand, watching the connection closely to ground himself as he got fixed up.

To your shock when you looked back up Mel and her mother Ambessa were now looking over you both. Mel's mother took a long look at you, analyzing you with disgust, "such a weak thing." You looked back down, gritting your teeth, and gripping Jayce's hand- forcing him to not say anything back.

─────── · ·

─ · · You and Jayce would sit and watch Viktor slowly healed yet as if the sight were too much for him at times, Jayce escaped to the forge. He had an endless pent up anger within him recently that you had never seen before- he wanted, craved revenge.

─ · · You sat in front of Viktor, taking notes by the hour to monitor his condition and heart rate. You gave up trying to track the arcane as it changed too quickly for you to keep up and all your journals had been filled by the first hour of your watching.

Your eyes grew heavy as you leaned on the desk in front of you, back feeling the moonlight as you closed your eyes until a grunt than a groan before a loud bang was heard and you bolted up from your seat to see... AN ALIVE VIKTOR?! You rush over to him, "Oh Viktor!" you cry out, "we're alive, we're okay," you sob to yourself gripping his cane before offering it to him.

"Jayce put you through this too?" Viktor asked, tone cold- angry as he looked you over. "No, no, no! I was kidnapped! Oh you must be cold and you really must eat too- I had no idea how to feed you!" you quickly explain rushing to grab your lab coat and offering it to your old lab partner. You listen to how his scoff echos as you take a cautious step backwards, allowing him space to dress, "Like being kidnapped is any better."

You shake your head with a smile, "what can I get you to eat?" you ask, turning back around before hugging a now clothes Viktor. His hand hover above your back, watching as Jayce stumbles into the room, looking at him and you in shock, tears welling in his eyes- "you're alive!" Jayce rejoices, coming over to join the hug.

"I'm not hungry I just feel a... pulse within me, regenerative but not unpleasant... you promised me... Jayce, that you would destroy the hexcore..." you take a step back, allowing the men to share their moment. You thought to have heard everything that happened in the lab, but this... this was all new information to you. You looked over at the wall Viktor emerged from, how to pulsed like an organic engine, you were tempted to look closer at it... touch it but just before you could, Viktor firmly grasped your wrist, "no... don't."

His words rattled in your skull as you held your head and whined. Viktor quickly let go, a part of him afraid as Jayce quickly ran over to you, checking if any of your wounds had reopened before looking back at Viktor, "I'm stepping down as councillor, we can all work together again. Where we belong all along!"

"I must go now Jayce," Viktor looks down at you, eyes filled with sorrow, "I was supposed to be dead but now... now I must figure out what I must do... alone."

"Do you think its easy? To leave when your whole city looks to you for salvation? To cling to principles when you think your girl and best friend are dead?! You were dying in my arms- she nearly got her head chopped off? I NEVER ASKED FOR THIS! and all you can think to do is walk away and leave?!" Jayce yells, his heart tearing just as it was healing. You bring a chair over, falling into it, not finding the strength in yourself anymore to plead. You just look up to Viktor, watching as his eyes shift in change as you blink your own, thinking to be seeing things, please, take care of yourself, is all you silently ask him.

He does not respond, turning his back, "goodbye." Is all Viktor says, the sound of his cane becoming quieter as he walks down the hall. Jayce looks to where Viktor once stood before turning to you, "I-if you are unsure about anything, just leave me now... I-I rather it all happen at once."

"Jayce," you whisper, standing and quickly striding over to the man holding his head and brushing the hair that falls into his eyes, I never did book that haircut. "I love you, I'm not leaving, I promise, at least not willingly," you try and joke as Jayce lets out a breathy laugh, just leaning into your touch, "thank you."

─────── · ·

─ · · You and Jayce silently clean up the laboratory yet decide to keep Viktor's desk as is.. maybe he will return after some time, you reassure yourself. Standing up on a ladder, Jayce supports the bottom, closely watching as put up another box into storage before picking you up on the way down and settling you on your feet and pulling you in for a kiss.

You smile into it, both giving each other this brief little moment of happiness as the kettle clicks off, you both had agreed to pull an all-nighter for old times sake but by the sounds of screws loosening and some whisper shouting coming up from between the floorboards. Jayce was shoving you behind himself and picking up his hammer.

"Jayce, you're injured!" you whisper-shouted angrily, placing a hand on his hip, trying to pull him back. He glared at you form over his shoulder, "like I would allow you to be taken away from me again," he huffs before turning back around, the end of his hammer shifting your hip so that you are entirely covered by his frame.

"SHHH!" the unknown voice sounds before a tiny head pops-up from the vent cover. The room turns blue as Jayce takes aim and your eyes close, hands covering your ears in preparation before feeling Jayce's hammer slam back down onto the floor. You place your hands on his hips, peering your head around cautious before seeing... the Professor and a young man? looking back at you.

"Professor!" you jump out from behind Jayce, swatting his hand away as he tries to reel you back in before you fall to your knees and welcome him in for a hug. "Its a wonder to see you again!" you smile widely, the Professor returns the short hug before giving you a smile then glaring at Jayce, "What in the devils name has gotten into you!" He points an accusatory finger towards your boyfriend as you stand and laugh.

Jayce gives you an unimpressed look, his palm opening, asking you to return to his side yet you don't return right away, crossing your arms with a mocking glare as he returns a truthful one. "Love that you have my side, babe," Jayce says in a dry tone, "Now why the hell are you two breaking into my lab? and who is he?" he questions.

The boy in question looks up at Jayce before settling on you and offers a wink that has you turning back to Jayce's side between his hammer and hip. "T-this is my new pupil Ekko... Ekko meet my former pupil Jayce and the very brilliant assistant (name)." You all share a nod.

"I apologize for the intrusion," the Professor continues to speak, looking between you and Jayce with curiosity. "I also always knew that you two would work out." It's now your time to scoff, "Hmm, sure you did prof." you begin leaning against Jayce's hammer, "Just like how you tried to marry me and Viktor during my first week." Jayce tenses remembering seeing you in the halls with Viktor when he had just started and before you two began working with one another.

─ · · Ekko continues to stare hard at you as if trying to pick you apart. Jayce and the Professor began their own discussion as you and Ekko shared a silent one, "Hey! Stop giving my girl the eyes," Jayce warned, kissing your cheek in an outwards display. You blinked- looking away, following Jayce's touch as he lead you back to your chairs and pulled you into his lap before presenting a cup of tea for you.

─ · · When the sample gets presented, you both jump to your feet taking your positions as you sit beside the microscope, journal ready and tool bag in your lap. You both smile at one another as Jayce reads you back what he's seeing, flipping through the pages you find your trials on plants when trying to help Viktor, your heart lurches in your chest.

You tap with your finger on a negative box from the results, looking at one another with a wince yet equal curiosity. "How is this here and there?" Jayce mumbles, scratching at his chin while looking at you, "Maybe its something to do with Viktor," you respond in a whisper, eyes searching one another's.

"Are they always like this?" Ekko whispers his questions as the Professor hums thinking back. "For the most part... yes."

"Sooo... whats the verdict?" Ekko addresses the group as you hop down from the desk, taking a look through the microscope. Jayce begins to explain Viktor's hypothesis of wild runes as you run back over to the storage and take out the books Viktor used.

"Sooo, you pissed the arcane off?" Ekko cuts Jayce off. Spinning around in a spare chair. "Well every action sparks a reaction~" Heimerdinger sings before spilling over your tool bag and starts cursing himself out, you giggle, helping to pick up the spill.

"SO! when's the wedding, I'm getting old you know," he asks, handing you the tools. You shake your head, "I don't think either of us have the room on our plates for that plus we've only been officially dating for a year-"

"WHAT! So this entire time you both have not been together?" you shush him before your shoulders sag, "Thats what I've been saying!" Jayce calls from across the room before conversation returns back to seriousness. "If this is affecting the underground then..."

"...the gates," you both whisper before looking up at one another. "Let me come with you and-" Jayce holds you against his chest, his answer firm, "no, stay here and find out if Viktor had anything else on the subject... I'll take them both down." You hesitate, hands resting on his chest, feeling his heartbeat.

"Be sure to come back," you press your head against his heart. He places a hand on your lower back, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, "I will. I promise."

─────── · ·

─ · · You watch as Jayce softly closes the door as you take to the shelves and look under the floorboards, you tare apart the lab in a deep search before hearing a rumble. Dust falls off the highest shelves as you take a few steps back and pause. The rumbling gets louder as you look towards the test gemstones all clattering in their storage casing. You gasp in horror as some start to rise, the room being painted in blue as you duck underneath a table, bracing your head between your knees. What have we done?

─ · · By the time he dust settles, a dozen enforcers have you pinned to the floor alongside a red guard. You shake and try and roll yourself away with no use. Ambessa stands before you, crouching down to pick up your head with a glare, her daughter was so close to having this city under her grasp... if only you were out of the picture. "You are to be put in trial and jailed for endangering the lives of innocence by experimenting with Hextech to the public. Yet you will provide me with answers and results, do you hear me, girl?" You feel yourself getting pick up by your neck, you choke and gasp for air as you feet dangle, you don't want to agree to her terms and yet, how could you refuse? - Jayce, please, forgive me. You nod and take a gasp of breath back, falling to your knees, hands delicately reaching up to your neck with a sob.

─────── · ·

─ · · When Jayce got consumed by the wild rune he was slammed into a dark Piltover and injured, staggering to his feet, he swayed in the foggy depths before seeing a dozen distant figures turning away from him, he called out receiving no response.

His already torn shoulder screaming out in pain, he did not have the strength to pick up his hammer as he stumbled after what he thought to have just saw. Horror and grief shocked his features as he fell into the arms of a screaming face, one that resembled you. He fell backwards, crawling on his hands and feet. no, no, no! This can't be real, Jayce begged, hands gripping into the earth, burying underneath his fingertips.

He stood, walking up closer yet you changed appearances, now a husk of an ivory sculpture- its neck craning to lean into his shoulder just as you would... the lifeless, faceless figure stared through him. An overwhelming sickness erupted from his guts as he hunched over coughing, stumbling towards a mountains edge to overlook what remained of the city before him and a glowing light in the distance.

─ · · Jayce ran back for his hammer, dragging it along with himself as he took to the streets, his head swung back and forth seeing shadows move, he saw that little girl again, this time she jumped for his neck as he swung back with a grunt, his shoulder giving out as he tipped back and fell... but all he could feel was air, see the sky becoming more distance and then... complete darkness

─ · · When Jayce had reawakened, every bone in his body felt cracked, every muscle bruise so much so it hurt to breath as he forced himself to roll over. Pressing a fist to his mouth to keep him from exposing his guts. He yelled up to the cave ceiling, water dripped to his forehead, he cried while treating his wounds, stumbling as he tried to climb but ultimately failed.

─ · · Jayce felt as his hair and beard grew out, his clothes ripped and tore. He had to dismantle his hammer, fingers bleeding from the sharp metal parts within that now scared his hands in order to fix his leg. Jayce swore to see you the longer he stayed in that ravine, saw you calling out to him above in the shadows. He felt your touch in his sleep, pretended to lay right next to you as the fire embers died part way through.

─ · · Time was lost to the man, he couldn't even recognize his reflection, he talked to a ghost of you in his mind, climb, fine me, please. I need you, you called out to him as he looked up and gritted his teeth. Please, Jayce, you begged as he gripped his hair covering his ears with a yell. PLEASE!

─ · · Day by day, ledge by ledge, Jayce climbed up from the chasm and using the remaining handle of his hammer, he forced himself back up into the light, I'm coming darling, I'm coming, he told himself like a mantra to keep himself somewhat sane. The only thought driving his every step forward without rest or water was the thought of your warm embrace, your lips against his, your laugh in his ear.

He made a promise to you and he was going to keep it.

─────── · ·

─ · · JAYCE TALIS TAGLIST: @sseleniaa @sunshiines-stuff @kiromiix @todorokishoe24 @w2momo @m-arj-1 @reid490

─ · · A/N: jayce stormin' in there all hot, sweaty and bothered afterwards AHHHHH the brainrot is intense rn that i'm attempting my first long-form smut fic in the next chapter...

─ · · SERIES MASTERLIST

[jilyandbambi]

Everything about how Coach Ben's Trial plays out just makes me feel so sad and devastated for all of them. I can't even hate them for what they did or are about to do. They're just kids, man.

Shauna is grieving and angry and postpartum and scared, and she's got nowhere to put any of that except onto Ben, the grown up--who didn't burn the cabin down but who did turn away from her when she needed him most. It's a powerful thing when you're that age and angry/sad/frustrated about everything (bc you're a kid) and to have a safe adult to be pissed at: an adult who cares but isn't perfect (no one is, and you're a kid so you're still learning to accept this), who let you down right at the exact moment you needed them to be the Grown Up with all the answers, and maybe their fuck up was only one of 254884113 things going wrong in your life at that point but you're 17--old enough to know that adults don't have all the answers and young enough that it still feels like they should, and when they don't, that's their fault too.

It's irrational, immature, and dangerous (Thy name is Shauna Shipman), which is what kids are, and what each of these kids are, to varying degrees; and why Shauna gets her way in the end.

It isn't their coach's fault that their plane crashed, that they starved for months, that they resorted to eating their team captain, that they let Javi drown so they could gut him and eat him, that Shauna's baby was stillborn, or that their cabin burned down. But they're kids and everything is awful and in between all the awful the adult in the room dropped the ball when they needed him, and now the trauma, and guilt, and shame, and pain, and rage has to go somewhere, and Coach Ben is a more tangible target than an invisible wilderness god. It doesn't matter that he clearly didn't set the fire and doesn't wish them any harm, the lie is too convenient.

If Coach Ben set the cabin on fire, Mari doesn't have to own up to the fact that she didn't tell the truth when she got back to camp, that she let the others continue thinking their coach was out there still hunting them.

If Coach Ben set the cabin on fire, there's no need for Travis to rock the boat and stand up for the only other person besides himself to be as disgusted and horrified at what the others did to his little brother.

If Coach Ben set the cabin on fire, Van (the only other person besides Shauna and Melissa to vote Guilty every time) doesn't have to worry about the others taking a second look at what her sleepwalking girlfriend could have been doing the night of.

If Coach Ben didn't set the cabin on fire, Tai might have to poke deeper at Van's insistence on his guilt despite all evidence to the contrary, and she might not like the answer. Add to that, if Coach Ben is innocent, then Nat was right to keep what she knew from the rest of them and Tai was wrong to collude with Shauna to her call her out in front of everyone, and maybe that makes Nat a better choice of leader than Tai would've been after all.

If the wilderness says Coach Ben set the cabin on fire, then maybe it's finally starting to speak to Lottie again, maybe she hasn't completely lost her connection to it after all.

And it's so, so fucked up because beneath all of them rallying behind this cruel, vengeful, childish decision to blame Coach Ben anyway is an understandable desire to have a say in all the uncertainty and turmoil that's taken over their lives by this point. That adolescent need for control--not just over your environment but your emotions, especially the negative ones--can make kids living in the best circumstances lash out. Here, with everything the Yellowjackets have been through and have already done, it was always going to have the worst possible outcome. And watching it all play out as an adult is just--ughhhhh. Heartbreaking.

Because that adolescent turmoil that makes you an angry freakshow who lashes out at the right people at the wrong times, or (more often than not) the wrong people at the wrong times--sometimes knowingly? That's normal. This is the time to be that way. You're supposed to have the space to get it all out and grow past it.

But the Yellowjackets don't and won't, and it'll ruin them, especially the ones that make it out alive.

Yeah, Shauna, taking your rage and grief out on Coach Ben feels good to you now; taking any action, even if it's clearly the wrong one, feels powerful and right in the moment, but it won't last. The rest of you lemmings letting her have her way for your own reasons feel justified for now, but that won't last either. By the time the full weight of what you've done hits you, it'll be too late. When the regret comes you won't know how to face it and you never will, and so you'll be stuck. You'll be 17 and haunted at 20 and 30 and 45, still getting in your own way and not realizing it until it's too late. You'll get older but you'll never grow up, and you'll never understand why.

[siddyyyyyyyy]

You're Only Sixteen

wc: ~3.6k

summary: child soldier joins task force 141 part FOUR; one, two, three; five

warnings: discussion of abusive military camp, description of anxiety, some violence, (grieving), nightmares

a/n: this is getting really interesting now and I'm trying my best to keep the story entertaining and logical... hope you enjoy it!

Briefing room, 15:21, two days before the mission.

The new plan of the mission is projected on the white wall in front of you all, with Price standing beside it while everyone listens. He goes over the plan and explains who would be doing what, making sure he gets the message across. Laswell stands beside him, arms behind her back, as she nods along and adds information occasionally.

»This needs to go as smoothly as possible. No mistakes, no slip-ups, no nothing.«

Price starts, glancing over everyone before he gestures to the plan on the wall, continuing with explaining.

»We will be raiding an abusive military camp for children, takiing the kids to a safe place, and taking the bastards who are responsible for this with us. This is underage children we are talking about. Innocent souls, who are forced to get trained and sent on unnecessary dangerous missions. We’ll make sure the people behind it learn their lesson.«

Laswell looks around the small group, spotting you immediately. Her gaze is cold, but she doesn’t seem to be the type to throw glares without reason. She seems even tense. You’re aware she works for the CIA, doing most of the research and planning for the mission the team goes to eventually. Maybe that’s why she is staring at you, not used to a new member in the task force. But then again, she shouldn’t feel like that, considering how professional she must be.

»Camp is located in Urzikstan, Riyazabbi. It’s where Farah grew up, so she’ll be helping us out on it.«

Finally, she averts her eyes from you and clicks to the next slide of the small power point, presenting a map of Urzikstan with red scribbles on it. You listen intently to the whole briefing, growing more and more sick on the inside. Standing beside Ghost by the table, you can only hope no one notices your growing anxiety.

»To be more exact, in the Old Town, near the Low Town. Farah will be leading our way for the mission, making sure the children get escorted safely. Your mission is to get the bad guys.« She switches to another slide, a planned-out map from the base of the camp, »Most of them should be on the top floor, as well as the documents we need to find out what other stuff they’re hiding… and get the evidence.«

You take a deep breath looking at the map, feeling your stomach churn. Laswell steps away, leaning her hands on the table as she glances around the team once more.

»Gaz and Price will be paired up to keep watch and take out the guards. Soap, Ghost you both will storm in and clear the building out, sparing the children inside.«

She straightens her back and looks over you again, continuing with telling each their role for the upcoming mission.

»You’ll be with Farah, behind Ghost and Soap. Focus on escorting the children from the outside.«

Gaz glances at you from across the table, noticing your paleness. He keeps his eyes on you for a moment before he looks back to the power point, studying the map and listening to the rest of the briefing.

Ghost on your side notices your shift as well, nudging you lightly against your shoulder. You finally snap back, glancing up at him, almost disoriented. He gives you a questioning look, Price interrupting the exchange.

»Any questions?«

Ghost, the twat he is, nods and mentions towards you.

»Ya seem like you know something. Explain?«

Meanwhile, you’re still processing what the mission is about, your heart pounding in your chest and mind racing.

The small group watches you, slightly concerned about your sudden silence. It’s not unusual you are more reserved, but now it seems different. Price shifts on his feet, crossing his arms over his chest, and calls out your name.

»That’s my camp.«

You spit out bluntly, granting a shocked look from each. Laswell exchanges a look with Price giving a small nod. The silence in the briefing room is deafening, making you hear your own pulse in your ears.

»Holy shite...« Soap grumbles under his breath, making you exhale slowly to calm yourself down.

Captain Price shifts again, taking a step towards you as he holds up one hand.

»Now, I know this will be difficult for you, but I believe you are strong and capable enough to handle it, and even more.«

He motivates you, trying not to scare you off and reassure you. Suddenly it’s very tight in the room; everyone stares at you and makes you feel pressured. What are you supposed to do? Should you go along with the mission or call it quits after everything? You finally thought you could escape your camp and never see the commanders or the other soldiers again. What if you fail everyone and lose everything again?

»Ye knew about this?« Soap’s agitated voice rings through the room, slicing right through the soft tone of the captain.

»At first, no one knew, Soap. We couldn’t have known if it wasn’t in her file.«

»Of course, it wasn’t.« He scoffs, his tone growing more exasperated. Price shoots him a warning glare before he focusses back on you.

»You need to stay strong for this one. We need you for this mission, both for your strength and knowledge. You are a strong asset to us.«

He explains calmly, turning more towards you as he does. Price could go on about why he thinks you are perfect for this mission, but the rest of the team needs to process it themselves and consider his words. It’s true; because of your own experience from the camp it makes it easier to gain more intel on the whole organisation. On the other hand, this feels like they ask too much. There’s no way you’ll go back there to save the others.

Laswell breaks the visible tension in the room and speaks up, keeping her calm.

»This is important for everyone; however, I do think you need to get the chance to choose yourself. Do you want to join the mission?«

The question hangs heavy in the air, making you almost overwhelmed with it. After several tension-filled seconds, you have decided it.

»Yes. I will join on the mission.«

She nods back in acknowledgement, taking a small step back from the table. Somehow, the tension in the room leaves slowly, as does your pounding in your chest. You realise how serious and difficult this will be, already feeling like this will take years off your lifespan. Maybe that was exaggerated, but that’s literally how it feels right now.

You’ve never seen Soap so distressed before, even now when he has calmed down and wears an uneasy expression on his face. It’s your own, choice and you chose to actually participate in that difficult mission. There’s nothing they can do but work alongside you.

----

The briefing is over, and now it is time to prepare for the upcoming mission, needing to prepare some bags since this requires travelling to get to Urzikstan.

You feel a big hand on your shoulder, which makes you look to your right, seeing Ghost like before.

»Wanna feed Riley?« A firm squeeze is felt on your shoulde before he lets go, waiting on your answer. You simply nod, finally getting out of your distracted stare.

Soon enough, you find yourself in his office with Riley munching off from your palm again. She is calmer today, as if sensing something might be wrong or someone’s mood is down. Ghost is sitting next to the K9, silently petting her back before speaking up.

»What actually happened in that camp?«

His cold gaze is fixated on you, but not with the usual cold-hearted eyes. There seems to be an underlying understanding behind them as he studies you.

»Like…« you trail off, considering what he might want to know, »the abusive training or the raid missions?«

»How ‘bout we start at the beginnin’?«

You nod slightly, watching Riley lick your palm clean while you think of how to start talking about your past. Eventually, you start talking about the separation from your parents, the big explosion that came with, and how rough the soldiers were with children like you. About the endless training back then. The torturous amount of hours spent with nothing but improving yourself with elder commanders criticising and correcting every minor mistake. The nights spent training by yourself until morning, just for the seniors to ruin every single thing. Then you go on about the missions, mostly telling him about your own and briefly explaining the system to him.

»We were grouped into classes by our skills. The lower you are, the more likely you’ll have to go on a suicide mission. I was high class, meaning I was mostly either a sniper or went to raids. And doing night patrol.«

He listens intently, almost as if he tries to commit every word said to memory. Ghost lets you talk, not interrupting you a single time as you open up. Riley licks at your hand the whole time, making you try to swat your hand away from her, but she keeps nuzzling her nose against your hands.

»They said it’s to ‘protect our country and make our loved ones proud‘, but after a while I also noticed how much bullshit they’re trying to sell us. Once I got here, I started to realise how wrong the camp was. It feels like they robbed everything from me.«

You stare at Riley as you talk, trying to get back into the right lane and not let your emotions take over. Riley is still trying to lick at your hands but gave up and just rests her jaw in your two hands, occasionally looking at you as you speak.

»There wasn’t really anything different to do but train and fight. We would get punished or sent away if we made too many mistakes or misbehaved. God forbid we tried to escape.«

You finally pet Riley’s head carefully in your hands, being mindful not to put too much pressure on her and gently trying out how far you can go with her. She continues to sit calmly in front of you, letting you do your thing on her.

Ghost listens and glances down at his dog as well, noticing how fast you got used to her already. He shifts and speaks up, your words staying in his mind.

»Sure was hell of a shit ‘ole. But, you’re sure you will get revenge on them with us?«

He asks again, making sure if you didn’t just agree on the mission, because you felt like you had to, in front of them. You nod in response confidently, being sure nothing bad will happen with them by your side.

»I’m sure I can do it.« Ghost nods back in response, glad to see a positive attitude from you. Riley opened her mouth again, making her tongue stick out and breath louder. You let go of her head and glance to Ghost, noticing his eyes crinkle underneath his mask. Or that could be you imagining things also. He gets off the ground, and you follow shortly after, looking down to the friendly K9. She stares right back at you, her ears up and tail waggling slightly from side to side. You give her a final rub on her head before exiting his office, returning back into your own bunk to prepare for the training.

----

Training hall, 16:00, two days before the mission

You‘re glad you are all training today, needing to get your mind off everything that was discussed earlier. While warming your muscles up, Soap and Gaz join finally too, also ready for the sparring. This time, you‘d need to spar with Ghost, having been sparring with mostly Soap before. He gets ready in the stance, muscles tense and knees lightly bent. Ghost tells you to strike first, which you do shortly later.

The round begins with you attacking him to his side, but he is quick to counterattack with a punch of his own. And that punch sure was powerful. Is he trying to maul you? Going on, it‘s an exchange of attacks and counterttacks, blocked hits, and dodged kicks. To be completely honest, it‘s fun sparring with Ghost. He is not holding back, making it clear he is going to teach you something while training. And in reality, Ghost is indeed trying to prepare you more for the long mission in just two days. There is an underlying fear in him that he won‘t be admitting to anyone.

Focus still being on the mission, you‘re having a hard time keeping up with him. Thinking about the camp, the rude commanders and needing to rescue your comrades from the camp… It is getting a lot in your head. That‘s why sparring right now is such a good distraction, but obviously, it is not doing much at the moment.

Meanwhile, Ghost doesn‘t understand how you can be so quick and keep up with his strong attacks, trying to analyse your movements and figure your weak point out. After a few more moments, though, you already figured out his own. His left knee is weak, however, kicking against him is mostly a trap, as he takes the opportunity to yank on your ankle and make you fall. Obviously you didn‘t fall. Just stumbled.

Gaz watches as he takes a small break with Soap, seeing you both being cheeky fighters. Both trying to hit the other‘s weak points as much as possible. Both looking very focused on the task.

»Who do ye think will win?« Soap questions beside him, also watchig your sparring round.

»Hard to tell… they still seem full of energy.« Gaz mumbles back, focused on watching the fight go on. There‘s a moment of silence before Soap speaks up again.

»Wanna bet?« Gaz groans quietly and side-eyes his teammate, having lost the last bet with him just last week.

At the same time, you are both pretty much sparring like before. But it is getting harder to focus on the task again, while your mind is in a completely different world. It‘s gotten to a point where you‘re blocking a lot of hits and mostly taking them while having a hard time striking back. At the same time, you are too stubborn to give up just yet. The mission and all the thoughts about your camp are making you think rational and making you overwork. A sudden wave of frustration washes over you, and Ghost isn‘t that strong of an opponent anymore.

With a strong kick to his side, he has no chance to trick you again before you land a series of punches to his chest area. He huffs and grunts, trying to dodge them but with no luck. Your attacks are stronger now, making Ghost stumble back and block a few of your punches. The sudden action doesn‘t go missed by him at all, it makes him wonder where it all came from. It seemed like you were giving up a second ago, but now you‘re coming back stronger.

Wherever it came from, isn‘t as important for now. The skin at your knuckles is red again, and your expression is dark. He quickly realises and feels the need to step in. With you being so out of the wind from the meeting is something he knows all too well.

He launches forward, but instead of striking an attack, he wraps his large arms around you tightly, forcing himself to bite back a grunt at your attempt to punch him again. The hug is tighter than any hug you‘ve received, but you also didn‘t get many hugs before.

There‘s an instant halt in your movements and you simply freeze, having no idea how this just happened. Being in someone else‘s arms is something you haven‘t experienced a lot. And this doesn‘t certainly feel soothing, but also not forceful either.

»You‘re pushing yourself. Stop that.«

He gruffly tells you and finally lets go, looking over your face. You don‘t say much, just staring back at him and finally exhaling the breath you didn‘t realise you held in. Gaz and Soap exchange a look but don‘t say anything, continuing to spar together while keeping an eye on you both.

Finally, his words sank in, and you nodded in response. »Sorry, I won‘t.« You mumble back, earning a rather sceptical look from him. He just gives you a small grunt in response and mentions for you to strike in again.

For the rest of the training session, it is just Ghost grounding you and making sure you don‘t get lost in your thoughts again. Which surprisingly helps, but also gets exhausting after some while. The other pair just goes on with their own sparring match, eventually fighting like two cats who hate each other, and mostly fighting on the floor, both too stubborn to end the fight.

Eventually, Ghost finally decides to cut you some slack, as well as for the other two teammates, who beat the shit out of the other the entire time. Showertime before dinner, finally getting to some kind of rest before it is time to pack some stuff for the deployment into Urzikstan.

After the quick shower, you head to the mess hall and run into Ghost on the way. Thank God, he has the Capri Sun already and hands it to you. But not without saying something too.

»You fought well today. But you seemed distracted.« It‘s a gentle demand to spill the beans, but this doesn‘t seem like something you should talk about in the first place. It doesn‘t seem important enough. You simply shrug, looking to the Caprie Sun in your hands. Cherry flavoured.

»I was just somewhere else. The camp… the meeting just made me distracted.«

You answer back, cringing secretly at yourself for saying too much. But to your surprise, he doesn‘t even react to your words and studies you briefly.

»Wanna talk about it? I can listen.«

To no one‘s surprise, you deny the offer, even when you trust Ghost a lot by now. The only thing you want now, is some semi-warm cantine food and the sweet drink in your hands.

----

Packing an extra bag for Urzikstan wasn‘t as confusing as it may seem, but maybe nine pocket knifes are just enough to keep you safe. Fou of them are regular pocket knifes everyone else has, the other five being various ones, you either got or found somewhere. The biggest one is about the size of your whole hand with the blade out, also your favourite one by far. You found it somewhere in a desert during a solo mission.

Next, is your small sketchbook, of course. And your pencil, that needs to be sharpened again. The most important item goes deep into the smaller bag, making sure it won‘t get lost by any means. A polaroid picture of yourself and another girl, together, smiling. The sun is low, casting a warm and soft tint to everything, making you both look even more stunning.

Then, of course, some dog treats you stole from Ghost‘s office for Riley, since he mentioned taking the K9 on the mission. You are actually a little surprised that he didn‘t notice you sneaking some into your pocket while feeding Riley and explaining your camp to Ghost.

Finally it‘s all settled and you are ready for bed. Once again, it takes up some time to fall asleep, the mission still heavy in mind. But you get to it after approximately two hours.

You wake up to your mother screaming for you, the air feeling thick and loaded. The sharp pain around your wrists are a reminder of the ties around them, keeping you from escaping as your ankles are tied together as well; connected to the other set of children that are now taking hostage. Another yell before a sharp thud grabs your attention, looking over to where you think your mother just screamed from. The first instinct is to scream for her and beg, feeling the steady rise of panic and anxiety going up in you terrifyingly fast. Soon, it‘s nothing but a sea of screams around you, while you are the quietest one. But you are screaming your lungs out, why are you so quiet?

A sudden white light breaks out, blinding both your sight and sounds around you. The surprise doesn‘t last long, as all you can make out is darkness and disoriented voices, talking in unintelligible words over each other. It feels like something is trying to suck you out of the ground, but you‘re trying to fight it, eventually getting shocked with light hitting your face yet again. It‘s softer this time, but it quickly turns into a big, dark cloud of smoke.

Breathing is getting harder again, but before you know it, there is someone helping you up and guiding you somewhere firmly. Looking to your right, you see a familiar face again, and all your worries seem to disappear for a brief moment. The girl beside you is helping you get away from the explosion as fast as possible, suddenly realising why this feels so familiar and real.

Waking up with cold sweat yet again in an ungodly hour has happened before. Sighing out, you focus on calming your racing heart down before you can attempt to fall asleep once more. Actually, no, you won‘t be attempting to sleep tonight. Not after a flashback like this one.

a/n: the next part will be out probably by next week, please be patient.... but I can assure you, the next part is going to be awesome-sauce. You'll get to experience Farah Kari-

Hope you enjoyed it!

[estellan0vella]

The Romantic Trials and Tribulations of Han Peter Jisung: H.JS Han Jisung x fem!reader (College AU)

WC: 19.3K

CW: Panic Attacks and Anxiety, Sexual Harassment and Assault Attempt, Violence and Physical Assault, Jisung falls fast and hard, Discussion of mental health issues, Language barrier difficulties (reader is Brazilian-Korean), Jisung is a yapper, strangers to lovers, CurlySung with a little manbun General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist

The living room is a mess of blankets, snack wrappers, and bodies sprawled across the couch and floor. You’re wedged between Chan-hee and Kevin as the bluish glow of Twilight plays on the TV. You barely even care about the movie, half-listening as Edward broods over Bella while the real entertainment unfolds in front of you.

Juyeon and Jacob are wrestling like their lives depend on it, grunting and cursing as they roll across the floor, limbs flailing. The cause of their battle? A single, lonely piece of kimbap sitting on the coffee table, the last remnant of the meal you cooked earlier. 

“You two are fucking ridiculous,” Chan-hee says, shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “It’s one piece of kimbap.”

“It’s the last piece,” Juyeon grunts, trying to pin Jacob’s arm behind his back. “And Y/N made it. That makes it sacred."

Kevin throws his head back with a dramatic sigh. “Just fucking split it.”

“No,” Juyeon and Jacob yell at the same time, their voices muffled as they continue to struggle.

Kevin rolls his eyes and throws a popcorn kernel at them. It bounces off Jacob’s head. “You guys are fucking exhausting.”

Jacob finally manages to wriggle free, lunging for the kimbap, but Juyeon is quicker. He snatches it up, shoving it into his mouth before Jacob can stop him. 

Jacob lets out a horrified gasp, flopping onto the floor like he’s just been stabbed. “You’re dead to me,” he mutters, face buried in the carpet.

Juyeon chews triumphantly. “Worth it.”

Kevin claps his hands together. “Okay, children, now that that fucking disaster is over, tomorrow, movie marathon?”

You shift uncomfortably, tucking your hands into the sleeves of your jumper. “I... um... I can’t,” you mumble, your Portuguese accent thick as you struggle to piece the sentence together. “I, uh, plans with Minho.”

Chan-hee’s head snaps toward you so fast you think he might get whiplash. “Excuse me?!”

Kevin gasps, clutching his chest like you just personally betrayed him and you sink further into the couch. “He, um, needs help, with, uh study. Marine life.”

Chan-hee stares at you, utterly scandalized. “We’re not even classed as your best friends, are we?”

Your eyes widen in panic. “You are! You are! Just different. I know Minho longer. Like, um,  since I born longer.”

Jacob, Juyeon, and Kevin all let out dramatic gasps, clutching at each other like the revelation is too much to bear. Juyeon strokes Jacob’s hair like he’s comforting a grieving widow. “We’ll get through this,” he murmurs.

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “You all are dramatic.”

Kevin leans in, grinning. “Remember how he threatened us when you moved in?”

Everyone falls silent for a moment. Then, as if on cue, they all shudder.

“Oh, fuck,” Juyeon mutters.

“I still have nightmares,” Jacob adds.

Chan-hee rubs his arms like he’s suddenly cold. “He didn’t even have to yell. Just stared at us with that fucking psychotic look, like he was planning where to hide our bodies.”

Kevin nods solemnly. “Yeah. That was terrifying.” He turns back to you. “So what are the plans for you and Mr. Murder Stare?”

You hesitate, already regretting saying anything. “Um, going to frat house. Meeting his, uh, friends.”

The room falls dead silent before Kevin and Chan-hee both let out twin gasps of pure horror.

Jacob scrambles to his feet. “We need the sage.”

“Now,” Chan-hee agrees, already digging through the mess of the coffee table.

Juyeon stands, nodding gravely. “I’ll get the lighter.”

You blink in confusion. “Uh, what?”

Kevin grabs your shoulders, shaking you slightly. “Y/N, you’re stepping into Alpha Phi territory. That place is cursed.”

“They’re demons,” Chan-hee adds. “We have to cleanse you before you go in.”

Jacob returns with a bundle of sage, holding it like it’s a weapon. Juyeon flicks the lighter open, flame dancing.

You sigh. There’s no arguing with them when they get like this. “Okay. Do... whatever.”

Kevin grins. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

Chan-hee waves his hands dramatically. “Everyone, gather around! We must protect our dear Y/N from the hellfire she is about to walk into.”

Juyeon lights the sage, the scent of burning herbs filling the air. Jacob starts humming some kind of ominous chant, waving his hands in circles.

Chan-hee presses a hand to your forehead. “Be gone, evil spirits of Alpha Phi! May the ghost of marine biology protect you!”

Kevin stifles a laugh as he moves behind you, making a cross over your back with the sage. “We anoint you with the power of sanity, so you do not lose yourself among the testosterone-ridden fiends.”

Juyeon walks in circles around you, waving the sage like a priest performing an exorcism. Jacob throws popcorn in the air like it’s holy water.

You sit there, letting them do whatever the fuck this is, fingers playing with the hem of your jumper. Your face is warm, a mix of embarrassment and amusement bubbling up as they take it all way too seriously.

Kevin finally steps back, nodding in satisfaction. “Alright. She’s protected.”

Jacob pats your head. “If you feel possessed, let us know.”

You shake your head, exhaling slowly. Your anxiety is still there, humming beneath your skin, but they always make things feel a little lighter. Even if they’re fucking insane.

Chan-hee flops back onto the couch. “Now, let’s finish this fucking movie. And someone make more kimbap before Jacob kills Juyeon.”

Minho stands in the middle of the Alpha Phi frat house living room, a spatula in his hand, smacking it against his palm with slow, deliberate force. The rhythmic sound echoes through the space, a sharp snap against his skin, a warning. He doesn’t say anything at first, just lets the repeated slap of silicone against flesh set the tone.

Hyunjin, sprawled half-asleep on the couch with his buzzed head resting against a pillow, blinks sluggishly. “What the fuck is going on?”

Minho lets the spatula land one more time, tilting his head slightly. “All of you have a chance to live past tomorrow as long as you listen to what I say right now.”

Seungmin leans forward from his spot in the armchair, adjusting his glasses. “The fuck does that mean?”

Minho finally stops hitting his palm and plants the spatula against his hip. “My best friend is coming over tomorrow afternoon.”

Chan looks up and sighs, tossing his phone onto the coffee table. “Min, you have people over all the time. We literally hear you fucking them. So what if you’re fucking your best friend?”

Minho freezes. A visible shudder runs through him before he lets out the most guttural, agonized gag. His entire body convulses, and he violently dry heaves, doubling over, hands on his knees. The sound is disgusting like he’s about to vomit all over the carpet.

“Dude, what the fuck-”

Felix, who has been sitting quietly on the couch with Jisung nestled between his legs, presses his lips together, watching with faint amusement as Minho continues to gag like he’s choking on pure horror.

Jisung, still fidgeting with his cube while Felix braids tiny sections of his hair and shoves random clips into it, looks up. “That was a really strong reaction. We should unpack that.”

Minho abruptly straightens, eyes burning with rage. He strides over to Chan and smacks him across the shoulder with the spatula. Hard.

“Ow, what the fuck?!”

Minho smacks him again. “This is not like that, you absolute fuckhead!” Another smack. “She’s my best friend. Only a friend.” Smack. “And everyone here knows I prefer cock anyway!” Smack, smack, smack.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Minho!”

Minho finally relents, shaking the spatula at the rest of them. “She’s coming over because I have a marine life portion of my veterinary science course, and she studies marine biology and she has crippling anxiety.”

Seungmin gestures lazily to Jisung. “He also has crippling anxiety.”

Jisung, still on the floor, barely looks up, too focused on clicking his cube back and forth as Felix continues to mess with his hair, now twisting the strands into uneven sections and securing them with tiny hair ties.

Jisung hums. “Yeah, but mine makes me hyper as fuck. I can’t sit still. I can’t stop talking. My brain is like a YouTube autoplay button that someone forgot to turn off.”

Minho exhales sharply, running a hand through his honey-blonde hair. “Exactly. You and her have very different presentations of anxiety. You’re a chihuahua on crack cocaine.”

Jisung grins. “Aww, thanks.”

Minho ignores him. “She can’t talk to new people. I have to do that for her. If I don’t, she just shuts down.”

Felix frowns. “Are you sure bringing her here is a good idea?”

Minho presses the spatula against his palm again. “No, which is why I am giving you all this talk now and why all of you shall have the fear of Minho put in you.”

Jisung glances up, blinking. “Isn’t the saying fear of God?”

Minho points a finger upwards. “God, if you believe, is up there.” He slowly lowers the finger and points directly at Jisung. “I am right here. Much, much closer.”

Seungmin smirks. “Yeah, because Satan came to earth and took on the name Lee Minho.”

Minho shrugs. “Maybe. Now, listen the fuck up. She doesn’t like loud noises or sudden loud noises. They make her panic, so being quiet is fucking necessary.” He stops and turns to glare at Chan, Changbin, and Hyunjin. “So all three of you stay the fuck out of the kitchen. No fire alarms.”

Chan scowls. “Hey-”

“No.” Minho raises the spatula again. “I swear to god, if that fire alarm goes off, I will fucking end you.”

Changbin groans. “That was one time.”

“One time my ass. You nearly burned the whole fucking kitchen down.”

Hyunjin throws his hands up. “Okay, yeah, that was bad, but-”

“Do you want to die?”

“No.”

“Then stay the fuck out of the kitchen.”

Felix squeezes Jisung’s pec absentmindedly as he glances up at Minho. “So basically, we just have to be on our best behaviour?”

Minho tilts his head, considering. “No. You all need to know the consequences of fucking up.”

Seungmin sighs. “Here we go.”

Minho cracks his neck. Then, slowly, he levels his gaze at Chan first. “If you say anything that makes her uncomfortable, I will personally drag you by your stupid curly head of hair and drown you in the fucking toilet.”

Chan raises an eyebrow. “That seems excessive.”

Minho ignores him and moves to Changbin. “If you yell near her, I will rip out your vocal cords with my bare hands and string them up like decorations.”

Changbin snorts. “Creative.”

Next, Hyunjin. “If you scare her in any way, I will take that ugly fucking buzzcut of yours and carve a smiley face into the back of your head with my pocket knife.”

Hyunjin gasps, hand flying to his hair. “Bitch!”

Felix is next. “If you touch her without permission, I will break all ten of your fingers and then feed them to you.”

Felix pouts. “I wouldn’t touch her-”

Minho moves on. “Seungmin.”

Seungmin sighs dramatically. “Let me guess. If I insult her, you’ll shove my head into the oven?”

Minho shrugs. “Actually, I was thinking of locking you in the laundry room and filling it with spiders, but the oven is a solid alternative.”

Lastly, Jeongin. Minho crosses his arms. “If you do anything stupid, I will throw your entire fucking sewing machine out the window.”

Jeongin gasps, clutching his chest. “That’s fucked up.”

“Wait a second.” Chan gestures vaguely at the group. “You didn’t threaten Jisung.”

Minho turns to Jisung, who looks up from his fidget cube with curious eyes. “I will take your consoles,” Minho says. “And then I will gently tuck you into bed, and I will make you take a nap if you scare her with your rambling.”

“That’s fucking favouritism!” 

“What the fuck?!” 

“Are you kidding me?” 

Jisung sputters, eyes wide. “No, wait, that’s not favouritism! I hate naps more than anything!”

Felix ruffles his hair, snickering. “Aww, poor baby.”

Jisung flails. “No, seriously, I fucking hate naps! I’d rather be waterboarded!”

Minho smirks. “Sucks to suck, buddy.”

Jisung groans, collapsing against Felix’s legs. “I fucking hate this house.”

Minho lets the chaos settle for a moment, rolling his shoulders before fixing them all with another pointed look. The spatula, still firm in his grip, smacks against his palm once more. It’s almost a reflex at this point.

“Also, there’s something else you need to know,” he says, his tone measured, but firm enough that it silences the lingering murmurs of complaint about favouritism. “Her Korean is very broken. She spent most of her life in Brazil. Technically, her first language is Korean, but she has spoken Portuguese for so long that she’s basically relearning the language now. She’s got a strong accent, and sometimes it takes her a few seconds to translate. She also uses her hands a lot when she talks, she gestures to try and figure out what she’s trying to say.”

Felix immediately nods. “Oh, yeah. I get that.” His fingers absentmindedly smooth down one of Jisung’s messy little braids. “I did the same thing when I moved here. It’s fucking hard. Your brain works twice as much trying to make sure you don’t sound like an idiot.”

Jisung perks up. “Oh! I was like that when I lived in Malaysia! Learning Malay was fucking hard, dude.” He clicks his fidget cube rapidly, his knee bouncing as the energy spikes in his chest. “Like, okay, so, I was already speaking English and Korean, right? But then I get thrown into this whole new language, and it’s like- fuck- what’s the word? Overload! Yeah, like, my brain was constantly buffering. And then when I finally got used to Malay, I had to start learning Mandarin too because everyone around me spoke it, and let me tell you, the tonal shit? A fucking nightmare.”

Changbin nudges Jeongin. “He’s going off.”

Jeongin smirks. “It’s kinda impressive how his mouth can keep up with his brain.”

Jisung barely pauses to breathe. “Oh, and don’t even get me started on writing! The characters, the sentence structure, the grammar, it’s a whole fucking process. Sometimes I’ll write something and realize I mixed up three languages in one sentence, and I have no idea how the fuck it happened. And then, like, my brain is just constantly flipping between them, and-”

Minho sighs. “Come on, Ji. We’ll get you some decaffeinated tea to wind you down, and I’ll sort out that mess on your head before Felix ruins your hair permanently.”

Jisung bounces to his feet instantly, almost knocking over the coffee table in the process. “Okay!” He scurries after Minho like an excited puppy, his fidget cube still clicking away in his hand.

Once they’re in the kitchen, Minho flips the light to a lower setting, the glow dimming into something softer. Jisung’s energy is still at its peak, but Minho knows the drill.

Jisung plops himself onto the counter, swinging his legs. “You know, I’ve been thinking about trying boxing more seriously. Not just for cardio, but like, an actual thing.” His fingers drum against his thighs. “Like, you know how we go to the gym and spar sometimes? What if I did that, but, like, a couple more times a week?”

Minho grabs the kettle and starts filling it with water. “Try the tea first.” He sets it on the stove, turning to face Jisung with a raised brow. “If you can sit through one sensory video without bouncing off the fucking walls, we’ll talk about increasing your gym time.”

Jisung narrows his eyes. “You drive a hard bargain.” He twists his fidget cube in his palm, considering. “What video?”

Minho leans against the counter. “One of those animated ones.”

Jisung claps his hands. “I love those. My favourite is when they change faces, and I’m like, ‘Aww, smiley peas,’ and then they switch, and I’m like, ‘Awww, smiley banana!’ And when they line up like a rainbow? Fucking art.”

Minho just shakes his head, amused, as he sets a mug on the counter. He brews the tea, setting it in front of Jisung before pulling out his phone to queue up a video. The screen fills with soft, satisfying animations, fruits and vegetables bouncing, colours shifting in rhythm with calm background music.

Jisung picks up his mug, blowing on the tea before taking a cautious sip. His shoulders drop slightly as the warmth spreads through him, the combination of the video and the drink working its magic.

Minho stands behind him, carefully undoing the mess Felix created in his hair. His fingers work gently, untangling knots and loosening the haphazard braids.

“You let him get really carried away this time,” Minho murmurs, combing his fingers through Jisung’s hair.

Jisung hums, watching as the fruit on screen morphs into another shape. “He likes playing with it. And honestly? It feels kinda nice.”

Minho chuckles. “You’re such a fucking cat.”

Jisung shrugs. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

The kitchen is quiet for a few minutes, the only sounds being the soft music from the video and the occasional sip from Jisung’s tea. His knee still bounces, but slower now. The energy isn’t gone, but it’s settled, softened around the edges.

Minho finishes untangling the last braid and smooths his hands over Jisung’s hair. “There. Good as new.”

Jisung sighs dramatically. “You’re the best, Min. Seriously. What would I do without you?”

Minho smirks, tossing the fidget cube back to him. “Probably combust.”

Jisung catches it easily, already clicking it again. “Yeah. Probably.”

The summer heat clings to your skin as you step up the worn stone steps leading to the Alpha Phi frat house. The sun hangs high, casting long shadows against the pavement, and your fingers twitch against the chain strap of your black quilted shoulder bag. Your silver anxiety rings spin under your thumb, a nervous habit you can’t seem to break.

You inhale deeply, adjusting your fitted black cropped turtleneck, the fabric snug against your torso while your wide-leg grey trousers billow softly with each movement. The material is light, breathable, but you still feel the weight of your own nerves pressing against your chest.

You reach the front door, hesitating for only a second before pressing the doorbell. Your eyes widen as Love Me Like This by NMIXX rings out at full volume, echoing across the porch and probably into the street. 

Before you can fully process the absurdity, the door swings open, and Minho is standing there, smirking. The sight of him eases something tight in your chest.

His eyes flick to your expression, the slight tension in your posture, and his smirk softens into something gentler. "Hey," he says, and before you can overthink it, he pulls you into a hug.

You let yourself relax for just a second, your face pressing briefly against his shoulder. The familiar warmth of him is grounding, and when he pulls back, you manage a small smile.

"How have you been?" he asks, watching as your fingers fidget with the strap of your bag.

You hesitate for a moment, translating in your head before answering. "I got project partner," you say slowly, your Korean clumsy, the sentence structure awkward. "Beom-Seok. He, uh, he is something."

Minho’s eyes narrow instantly. "Need me to fight him?"

Your eyes widen, shaking your head quickly. "No! No!"

Minho just exhales, giving you a look. "You ready?"

You nod.

"You don’t have to speak if you don’t want to, okay?" His voice is quieter now, just for you. "I’ll just tell you their names, and then we’ll head up to my room."

Another nod and Minho steps back, motioning for you to enter. You toe off your white Converse at the doorway, leaving you in your black ankle socks, and step inside. The air is cooler, the scent of something vaguely fried lingering in the space.

Then, suddenly, seven heads appear from the living room doorway, stacked on top of each other like a fucking totem pole of nosy idiots.

Minho groans. "Are you fucking serious?"

The heads remain stacked. A curious, synchronized tilt. You instinctively step slightly behind Minho, peeking out cautiously.

Minho gestures vaguely at the group. "Y/N, meet Chan, Changbin, Hyunjin, Felix, Jisung, Jeongin, and Seungmin." He points them out one by one.

You nod, heart pounding, and manage, "Nice to meet you."

The accent is unmistakable, thick and foreign, the syllables slow as you carefully piece them together. The words don’t flow naturally, each one feeling like a small mountain to climb.

You glance at Minho, silently asking if you said it right and he nods approvingly. "You got it. Pronunciation was great."

Felix grins. "Super impressive. It took me way longer when I was learning Korean."

"Oh!" Jisung practically vibrates where he stands. "That’s so cool! You’re, like, bilingual. Or trilingual? Do you speak anything else? Because that’s fucking sick. Oh, right, I should introduce myself properly. Han Jisung, at your service. Investigative journalism major, criminal psych minor. Also part-time nuisance, full-time genius. And, like, I totally get the whole language struggle thing. I lived in Malaysia for a while, right? So I had to learn Malay, and it was so fucking hard, like, the sentence structure? The way verbs change? Fucking insane. And then I came back here, and my Korean was rusty as shit, so I had to relearn a bunch-"

"Jesus Christ, someone stop him," Seungmin mutters.

Chan sighs, reaching out to slap a hand over Jisung’s mouth and Jisung nods in thanks, eyes still buzzing with energy.

Minho sighs, shaking his head. "Let’s go," he murmurs to you, leading you away from the mess and up the stairs.

The sound of the others talking fades as you follow Minho to his room, the walls lined with posters and books, a desk cluttered but organized in a way only he would understand. The scent of fresh laundry lingers, familiar and oddly comforting.

You glance at him, hesitating before saying, "Jisung is cute."

"He’s single, you know. You could get that chronically anxious dick."

Your foot immediately swings out, colliding with his shin and Minho yelps, stumbling back, clutching his leg dramatically. "You little-"

Before he can finish, you snatch a magazine from his desk and swat him over the head.

He wails. "Violence!"

You huff, crossing your arms and Minho groans, rubbing his shin. "Fine. No more comments about Jisung’s dick. Jesus."

You glare for a second longer before tossing the magazine back onto his desk.

Minho exhales, shaking his head. "You and your fucking kicks."

A small smile tugs at the corner of your lips.

He notices but doesn’t say anything, just nudges your arm lightly.

"Come on," he says. "Let’s actually study before we end up talking about Jisung’s fucking anxiety again."

You nod, settling onto the floor with him, feeling just a little less on edge.

As soon as Minho and you disappear upstairs, Jisung spins around dramatically, clutching his chest like he’s been physically struck. His eyes are wide, sparkling with something unhinged, and his mouth falls open as if he’s about to recite the most poetic sonnet of his life.

“Love at first sight,” he breathes, staggering slightly as if the sheer weight of his emotions is too much to bear. 

Jeongin’s head snaps toward him so fast it looks like he might get whiplash. “Minho’s friend?!”

Jisung nods rapidly, his whole body vibrating like an over-caffeinated bobblehead. “Yes! Yes! Yes! Minho’s friend! The most beautiful creature to ever grace this filthy frat house! The embodiment of grace, of elegance, of shyness so devastating it makes my heart fucking ache! The little peek from behind him? The way she barely spoke but when she did, the accent, Jeongin! The fucking accent!”

Changbin stares at him, horrified. “Do you have a fucking death wish? Do you want to die? Because that’s exactly what’s going to happen if you try to pull anything with Minho’s best friend.”

Chan squints at Jisung like he’s just grown a second head. “Jisung, I know you’re mentally ill, but are you fucking insane?!”

Jisung throws his arms in the air, his fidget cube clattering onto the couch. “I can’t control it! My heart! It’s not mine anymore! It now beats for her! She had a halo, I swear to god! A halo! And a sexy accent! And she studies marine biology! Marine biology, Chan! Do you know how much I know about ocean life?! Too much! An unhealthy amount! I have years of marine documentary knowledge just rotting in my brain, waiting for the perfect moment to be used, and this is it! This is my moment!”

Seungmin pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is the worst thing you’ve ever said.”

Jisung, completely unfazed, keeps going. “Did you see her?! Did you see how fucking delicate she was? Like a little fairy? Like, holy fuck, I swear I saw wings. All quiet and pretty and soft, like a book character that just came to life. Like, I know she’s shy, and I know she has anxiety, but holy shit, that just makes her even more unreal. Like, I have anxiety, but it makes me feel like a coked-up raccoon, she has anxiety, and it makes her look like a fragile porcelain doll that I want to protect with my life! It’s a different kind of anxiety! It’s the kind of anxiety that makes my soul yearn-”

Seungmin groans. “You need to be medicated.”

Changbin shakes his head. “No, he needs a fucking lobotomy.”

Jisung keeps talking like he doesn’t even hear them. “And her outfit? The black turtleneck, the wide-leg trousers? That’s the kind of effortless fashion that’s just unfair. Like, she could’ve worn a trash bag, and she still would’ve looked like an ethereal being that descended from the heavens just to ruin my life! And the way she held her bag? Like, the little fiddling with the strap? That was the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my entire existence, and I watch baby animal compilations at least once a day!”

“Shut him the fuck up,” Hyunjin mutters.

Chan doesn’t even hesitate. He lunges forward, smacking Jisung upside the head.

Jisung yelps, but he barely stops talking. “-and don’t even get me started on her rings, because holy shit, there’s something about silver jewellery that just does something to me, and- ow, what the fuck, Chan-”

Hyunjin joins in, smacking the other side of Jisung’s head. “Shut the fuck up!”

Jisung shrieks, ducking as Changbin swings at him next and Changbin finally gets him, jabbing him in the ribs. “MINHO IS GOING TO FUCKING MURDER YOU.”

Felix, watching the absolute carnage unfold, simply tilts his head. “I think it’s sweet.”

Jisung gasps dramatically, clutching Felix’s wrist like he’s just been given a lifeline. “Thank you, Felix! Someone here actually appreciates romance.” He composes himself, straightening his spine. “I need a plan.”

Felix nods solemnly. “First, you need a sword to defend yourself against Minho.”

Jisung nods back, equally serious. “Right. A sword.”

Changbin gapes at them. “Are you two fucking dumb? A sword?! Against Minho?! He’ll just take it from you and stab you with it!”

Jisung waves a hand. “Details, details.” He places a hand over his heart again. “I am willing to risk it all for love.”

Felix tilts his head. “Honestly? If Minho were to let anyone here date his friend, it’d probably be Jisung.”

Jisung’s eyes widen. Slowly, a grin spreads across his face. “Gentlemen, welcome to the romantic trials and tribulations of Han Peter Jisung.”

The quiet room is a sanctuary. A place where the hum of voices, the constant shuffle of students, the relentless buzz of the outside world all fade into the background. It’s one of the few spaces on campus where only a handful of students have access, those who need silence, those who require a place to breathe.

You exhale slowly, adjusting the volume on your laptop as the Korean narration of the marine biology documentary plays quietly. The Portuguese subtitles flicker at the bottom of the screen, your eyes following each word carefully. It’s the best way you’ve found to strengthen your Korean, forcing your brain to process both languages at once.

Your fingers toy with the anxiety rings on your hands, silver bands spinning as you jot down notes in your notebook. The documentary covers coral ecosystems, the way the reefs function as an underwater city teeming with life. You’re completely engrossed until the door opens.

Jisung stands in the doorway, holding up his access pass like he’s proving he has a reason to be here. His fitted black zip-up jacket hugs his frame, the high neck zipped up just below his chin, and his light-wash, wide-leg denim jeans hang loosely over his black combat boots. There’s something effortlessly cool about him, but the nervous energy buzzing around him makes him feel more approachable.

His expression is open, a small smile tugging at his lips. He doesn’t look like he’s here to disturb the quiet, though his very presence carries an air of movement, of something constantly in motion. He hesitates just slightly, eyes flickering toward the empty seat next to you.

“Can I sit with you?”

You nod and Jisung’s smile widens as he settles into the chair beside you, leaning in just enough to peek at your laptop screen. “Ooh, I love that documentary. They’re talking about coral life, right?”

You nod again, fingers still fidgeting with the rings on your hand.

Jisung glances at the screen again, tilting his head slightly. “Can I watch with you?”

Another nod. He seems completely unbothered by your silence, instead resting his arms on the table as he scans the subtitles. After a second, he furrows his brows. “What language are the subtitles?”

You hesitate for a moment, mentally piecing together the sentence before speaking. “Uh, Portuguese? Is that how you say?”

Jisung hums thoughtfully. “Close. You put too much emphasis on the initial consonant and not enough on the vowel.”

“Oh.” You repeat the word, trying to correct it.

Jisung grins. “Yeah, you got it.”

You smile, just a little.

He doesn’t seem to expect you to talk much, which is a relief. Instead, he starts filling the silence with easy chatter, his voice animated but careful, slow enough that you can follow along. 

“I love marine biology documentaries. I mean, I love all documentaries, but marine life is especially cool. Did you know octopuses can change colour not just to blend in, but also based on their mood? Like, they literally express emotions through their skin. That’s insane. And don’t even get me started on mimic octopuses. They can literally impersonate other sea creatures. Like, full-on cosplay. They can pretend to be sea snakes, lionfish, crabs. It’s like if I just shapeshifted into Minho whenever I wanted to scare someone.”

You do know. You know everything he’s saying, but you let him talk. Jisung watches your expression as he continues, testing how much you understand. If you look even slightly lost, he slows down, repeats certain words, and if that doesn’t work, he pulls out his phone, opening a translator app and speaking directly into it.

You blink in surprise when the app suddenly speaks in Portuguese, perfectly clear and easy to understand. 

Jisung grins. “I use it a lot. Seoul has a ton of tourists, and I like helping people if they need it.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just nod again.

He keeps going, keeping his voice soft so he doesn’t disrupt the quiet of the room. “Also, jellyfish? Some of them are basically immortal, like, they just revert back to their younger form and start their life cycle over. Which is kinda cool, but also terrifying because imagine if humans could do that? Like, if you hit eighty and just decided to turn back into a baby instead of dying. That’s some horror movie shit.”

Your lips twitch, amusement flickering across your face.

Jisung notices immediately, his grin widening. “Oh, I saw that. I made you smile. That’s a win for me.”

Jisung leans back slightly, staring at the screen as the documentary shifts to a segment about symbiotic relationships in the ocean. “Oh, clownfish and anemones! Classic duo. Everyone thinks of Finding Nemo, but the wild part is that clownfish can actually change sex. If the dominant female in the group dies, the largest male will turn into a female to take her place. Like, full biological transformation. That’s commitment.”

“You know lots.”

Jisung shrugs, fidgeting slightly with the sleeve of his jacket. “I get hyper-fixated on stuff sometimes. Documentaries are my comfort zone.”

You understand that more than he realizes.

Jisung tilts his head. “You’re really quiet.”

Your fingers twist the rings on your hand. “I do not know what to say.”

“That’s okay. I talk enough for both of us.”

You huff a quiet laugh, and Jisung grins like he just won something.

The documentary continues playing, but you find yourself paying more attention to Jisung’s presence beside you. He’s restless, always moving in some way, bouncing his knee, tapping his fingers, adjusting the zipper of his jacket. But it doesn’t feel disruptive. It feels natural.

He doesn’t press you to talk, doesn’t expect you to meet him at his energy level. He just exists beside you, comfortable in his own whirlwind of movement, and for the first time in a while, you don’t feel the pressure to shrink yourself down.

Maybe, just maybe, Jisung isn’t as overwhelming as you first thought.

Jisung practically explodes into Felix’s room, the door swinging open with such force that it bounces off the wall. Felix, who had been comfortably hunched over his gaming setup, lets out a startled noise, nearly dropping his controller.

“The fuck, Jisung?” Felix huffs, yanking off his headset.

“I spent time with Y/N today!”

That gets Felix’s attention. Immediately, he pauses his game and spins in his chair, his full focus now on Jisung. “Oh?”

Jisung nods so violently that his hair flops in his face, his excitement barely contained. “We were in one of the quiet rooms. Just me and her, no interruptions, just vibes. And we watched a documentary. A marine biology documentary. Felix, do you understand how fucking insane that is?!”

Felix smirks, leaning back in his chair. “Oh, yeah. Wild.”

Jisung is undeterred, pacing the small space as he gestures wildly. “She looked so pretty, man. Like, she was just sitting there, watching the documentary, and I swear to god, she has this ethereal kind of presence. Like, you know when the light hits someone just right and they look all angelic and shit? That was her. She was wearing this really nice fitted bodysuit, deep V-neck, and I am a man, Felix, I noticed, and those high-waisted jeans? Fucking criminal. The way they fit her-"

Felix bursts out laughing, shaking his head. “Jesus, you’re gone, dude.”

“I am!” Jisung agrees, throwing his arms up. “And the jewellery, her little silver rings? I think I ascended when she started fidgeting with them. It’s so fucking cute! Like, she was just sitting there, all focused, twirling the chain around her fingers like some kind of shy goddess-”

Felix raises a hand. “Okay, Romeo, calm the fuck down.”

Jisung stops abruptly, inhaling deeply before exhaling all at once. Felix watches him for a moment before grinning. “Well, it seems like your hyper fixation on documentaries finally did something for you.”

Jisung nods rapidly, his whole body vibrating with agreement. “I know, right?! It’s like the universe finally aligned like this was the moment my excessive knowledge of marine biology was meant for! She didn’t even get annoyed when I rambled. She let me talk! And you know how people usually get all ‘Jisung, shut the fuck up’ when I start going off? She didn’t do that! She just listened! Like an angel! Like the patron saint of patience and marine ecosystems!”

Felix snickers, tilting his head. “So what’s the plan, loverboy?”

Jisung's face splits into a mischievous grin. He dramatically claps his hands together, rubbing them like a cartoon villain. “I have a plan,” 

Felix raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“I’m going to write a journalism article on investigating the effects of plastic on aquatic life. And then I’m going to ask Y/N to help me.”

Felix stares at him for a second before bursting out laughing. “That’s actually smart.”

Jisung grins, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. “I know! She’s literally a marine biology major, Felix. This is perfect! It’s academic, it’s something I genuinely care about, and it means I’ll get to spend more time with her!”

Felix shakes his head, still grinning. “Damn, you’re really in deep, huh?”

Jisung groans dramatically, flopping onto Felix’s bed. “Felix, I am drowning. And you know what? I don’t want a fucking lifeboat. I’m just gonna let the ocean of my emotions consume me.”

Felix rolls his eyes. “Alright, Shakespeare, go get started on your research before you combust.”

Jisung sits up instantly, determination burning in his eyes. “You’re right. I need to prepare. This has to be perfect.”

Felix watches as Jisung scrambles to his feet, already pulling out his phone, probably to start researching on the way to his room.

As he reaches the doorway, Jisung pauses. Then he turns back, pointing dramatically at Felix. “Operation Love at High Tide is officially in motion.”

Felix groans. “I fucking hate you.”

Jisung just grins and bolts down the hallway, already mumbling excitedly to himself.

The quiet room is a refuge against the relentless heatwave. The campus feels suffocating, the humidity pressing in from all sides, and your body always feels heavier when it’s this hot, like the warmth drags your energy down until your limbs are sluggish, your mind slower to process. It doesn’t help that Beom-Seok has been more unbearable than usual, his usual annoying flirtations escalating into excessive physical contact, hands lingering far too long on your wrist, your shoulder, even the small of your back. The moment you’d managed to shake him, you’d practically sprinted to the quiet room, seeking out the air conditioning and solitude.

The cool air soothes the tension in your body as you sit at the table, your laptop open in front of you, an article on turtles and microplastics affecting their breeding cycles displayed on the screen. 

Your green maxi skirt pools around your legs as you shift, the material soft against your skin. The white crochet halter top breathes easily in the heat, and the bandana keeping your hair back prevents it from sticking to your skin.

The door swings open and Jisung steps inside. His white Nirvana graphic tee is slightly oversized, hanging loose over his camouflage cargo pants, and his white chunky sneakers make soft thuds against the floor as he moves toward you. A white bandana keeps his hair out of his face, but a few strands still manage to escape, framing his features.

He places his bag on the chair across from you before sliding one of the cups in his hands toward you. “Hey,” he says, his tone easy, familiar. “Figured you’d need this.”

You blink at the iced latte in front of you, condensation already beading on the plastic. Your fingers brush against the cold surface as you hesitate, glancing up at him.

Jisung grins. “I figured you’d want something iced since, you know, death heat.”

Your lips part, struggling for a second to form the right words. “Oh. Uh, thanks.”

Jisung waves a hand, plopping down across from you and taking a sip of his own iced americano. “Don’t judge the outfit, okay? I’m running out of clean clothes because I’m sweating through everything in this fucking heatwave. I think my laundry basket is actually mocking me at this point.”

You tilt your head slightly, glancing at his shirt and pants. “You.. look fine.”

Jisung grins. “See, this is why I like you and I need your help.”

You glance at him, waiting.

“I chose to do a journalism article on investigating the effects of plastic on aquatic life,” he announces, pulling his notebooks from his backpack. “And I thought, you know who can help me? Y/N.”

Your eyebrows raise slightly as he slides his notes toward you. The pages are chaotic, a mess of hurried writing, crossed-out sentences, and doodles.

Jisung rubs the back of his neck. “It’s, uh, not much. And not factual enough. Which is why I desperately need your help.”

You pull the notebook closer, your eyes scanning the pages. You have to read slowly, taking your time to process the Korean and translate it in your head. But as you go through his notes, something becomes increasingly clear, there’s barely anything about plastics and aquatic life. Instead, it’s filled with scattered thoughts, personal opinions, and elaborate doodles of sea creatures.

You pause, a small smile tugging at your lips as you read one of the notes scrawled in the middle of the page. 

Male dolphins should be cancelled. Make a #MeToo movement for female dolphins at a later date.

A quiet laugh escapes before you can stop it. Jisung immediately perks up. “Oh my god, I made you laugh. That means you got to that part, huh?”

You glance at him, still amused. “Male… dolphins?”

Jisung groans, throwing his head back. “They’re rapists, Y/N! It’s awful! I was doing some research, and it turns out they have fucking gangs where they kidnap female dolphins and force them to mate. And it gets worse! They also hump humans! There are actual recorded incidents of people getting harassed by fucking dolphins! Like, imagine going on a nice vacation, swimming in the ocean, and then bam! Sexual assault by a dolphin! I trusted them! We all trusted them!”

You already know all of this. But you let him talk.

“And the thing is, everyone thinks dolphins are these cute, friendly ocean puppies, but no! They’re fucking menaces! And you know what else? They kill for fun! They’ll just murder baby porpoises for no fucking reason! They don’t even eat them, they just do it! Like some serial killer shit! If dolphins had access to land, they’d probably be running underground crime rings or some mafia bullshit.”

You sip your latte, watching him with mild amusement and Jisung slams his notebook shut. “I’m sorry, I just needed to get that off my chest.”

You nod solemnly. “I get.”

Jisung exhales deeply, slumping forward onto the table. “So. Are you gonna help me fix my article so it actually has, you know, real information?”

“Yes. I help.”

Jisung beams. “You’re the best.”

You tap your pen against Jisung’s notebook, eyeing the chaotic scrawl of words and sketches, a mix of actual research and unhinged commentary about marine life. Your fingers twitch slightly as you resist the urge to cross out half of what’s written and start from scratch. 

“You need more, um, fact? More, uh, sources. Not just, your, uh,” You wave a hand vaguely at the dolphin rant section.

Jisung snickers but nods, tapping his fingers against his iced americano. “Yeah, okay, fair. I might have gotten a little carried away.”

You tilt your laptop toward him, opening the article you had been reading before he arrived. The page is filled with data, references, and case studies on how microplastics affect the reproductive cycles of sea turtles. 

“This...” You hesitate, searching for the word before sighing and resorting to miming. You point at the screen, then gesture with your fingers like you’re flipping through pages of a book.

Jisung immediately brightens. “Oh! Research! Like, actual academic sources?”

You nod quickly. “Yes! That.”

Jisung scoots closer, eyes scanning the article as he sips his drink. “Okay, this is actually sick. Sea turtles getting fucked over by microplastics? Not sick. But the amount of data here? Sick.” He tilts his head, reading. “Wait, so the microplastics don’t just mess with their digestion, they actually affect temperature-dependent sex determination?”

“Yes. Uh, how to say...” You gesture vaguely in the air, thinking. “More heat, more...” You pause, then trace the outline of a turtle shell with your fingers.

Jisung watches, amused but also genuinely interested. “More heat makes more turtles?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, no. More, uh, female?”

“Oh shit, it skews the ratio?”

“Yes!” You smile slightly, relieved he understands. “More heat, more female. Less male.”

Jisung whistles, rubbing his chin. “So they’re basically just making future generations completely unbalanced because of plastic. Yeah, okay, I definitely need to fix this shit.” He flips through his own pages, groaning as he lands on yet another doodle of a very muscular crab holding a knife. “Jesus, past Jisung, what the fuck were you on?”

You can’t help but laugh quietly. Jisung hears it and grins, immediately encouraged. “Alright, let’s really get to work. What other sources should I be using?”

You start scrolling, pulling up more articles, explaining them in slow, broken Korean while he listens attentively, nodding along. He asks questions, some smart, some absolutely ridiculous, but he cares, and that alone makes it easier to keep going.

Then, suddenly, you hear it. Beom-Seok’s voice.

Your fingers immediately tighten around your anxiety rings, your whole body going rigid as your stomach twists itself into knots. You hear him somewhere outside, laughing loudly, his voice carrying through the hall. It’s too much, too familiar, and you really don’t want to deal with him right now.

You turn quickly to Jisung, your voice low, urgent. “I... not here.”

Jisung frowns slightly, looking at you properly for the first time. His energy settles just enough for him to catch the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers tremble slightly as you twist your rings over and over again.

Jisung doesn’t ask questions, he just nods without hesitation. And then, because he is Jisung, he immediately hypes himself up like he’s about to walk into a literal fight. He bounces up on the balls of his feet, shaking out his arms, taking a quick sip of his americano before setting it down like he’s getting into the zone. Then, without warning, he starts throwing quick jabs in the air, shaking his head like he’s about to step into a boxing ring.

You stare at him, blinking until he catches your expression and grins. “What? Minho says I gotta be ready at all times. I could get jumped. You never know.”

Beom-Seok’s voice is closer now, just outside the room. Jisung straightens up, rolls his shoulders, and swings the door open like a bouncer checking for ID. He leans against the frame, immediately raising an eyebrow.

“Pass?” he asks, voice flat.

Beom-Seok blinks at him. “What?”

Jisung gestures vaguely toward the quiet room. “This is a pass-only room, dude. You got one?”

Beom-Seok frowns. “I’m not trying to come in. I’m looking for Y/N.”

“Well, it’s just me and my mental health issues in here.”

Beom-Seok blinks again. “What?”

“You know, it’s actually crazy how much people underestimate the importance of mental health rooms. Like, did you know that excessive stimulation can literally fry your nervous system? It’s actually fucked up. And people assume that just because I’m loud, I don’t get overwhelmed, but oh-ho, my guy, let me tell you-”

Beom-Seok’s brows knit together. “I just-”

“-sometimes the only thing keeping me from absolutely losing my shit is a fidget cube. A fidget cube. Can you imagine? The fragile balance of my entire existence depends on the smooth rotation of a tiny plastic fucking cube. And you know what else is fucked up? The government. But we don’t have time to get into that-”

Beom-Seok’s jaw tightens. “I just want to know where-”

“-and speaking of time, isn’t it wild how time perception changes depending on emotional states? Like, when you’re having fun, time moves fast as fuck, but when you’re stuck in a boring ass conversation-” he gestures vaguely at Beom-Seok “-it’s like time stops completely. Scientists have theories about it, but honestly, my personal belief is that it’s all a simulation, and we’re just pawns in a very elaborate-”

Beom-Seok stares at him like he’s just grown a second head. “Are you on something?”

“I am simply powered by caffeine and anxiety!”

Beom-Seok clenches his jaw, clearly trying to decide whether or not it’s even worth engaging anymore. “Look, just tell Y/N I’m looking for her.”

Jisung tilts his head. “Oh, yeah, sure. I’ll get right on that.”

Beom-Seok stares at him for another few seconds, then exhales sharply, shaking his head as he turns to walk away and Jisung grins to himself, watching him leave before slowly shutting the door.

You peek out from behind the table, shoulders still tight, but relief creeping in. “He... gone?”

Jisung nods proudly. “Yup! He stood no chance against my greatest weapon, insufferable energy.”

You exhale, tension draining from your muscles. “Thank you.”

Jisung flops back into his chair, sipping his iced americano like he didn’t just mentally exhaust another human being into leaving. “Anytime. Now, let’s get back to fixing my disaster of an article.”

Two weeks have passed, and the quiet room has become a routine, a ritual. Every day, you and Jisung escape here, seeking the crisp relief of the air conditioning while the outside world suffocates under the relentless heatwave. The afternoons stretch into evenings, iced coffee sweating against plastic cups, the hum of your laptops a constant background noise.

You’ve been meaning to start Jisung’s article. Really. It’s just that every time he sits down, notebook open, laptop glowing, he gets distracted. It always starts small, he’ll see something in the news while opening his browser or remember something halfway through a sip of his coffee, and suddenly, the conversation veers.

Today is no different.

Jisung leans back in his chair, his sleeveless white top clinging to his skin in the summer heat. His broad chest stretches the fabric in a way that should be illegal, and a black bandana keeps his hair back, but a few strands have escaped, curling against his forehead, and he’s tied part of it in a little bun at the back of his head to stop it from touching his neck.

He’s halfway through an enthusiastic retelling of a Princess Diana documentary, gesturing animatedly with his iced americano in one hand.

You sit across from him, quietly sipping your iced latte. The cream-coloured cropped blouse you’re wearing ties just below your breasts, the billowy sleeves falling loosely over your arms. Your blue maxi skirt pools over your crossed legs, the soft fabric cooling against your skin. A matching blue bandana keeps your hair back, two strands framing your face.

Jisung doesn’t need you to speak. He never does. He just talks, and you listen. And you like it.

“The wildest part? The fucking conspiracy theories. Like, okay. I love a good conspiracy. Did aliens build the pyramids? Maybe. But the amount of people who think MI6 had her killed? The theories actually make sense, which is the fucked-up part. The Royal Family hated her, and suddenly she dies in a crash with zero CCTV footage from the tunnel?”

You blink at him, processing his rant. “You think she was, um, killed?”

“I mean. It wouldn’t surprise me.”

You shake your head slightly, sipping your coffee. “You watch many, uh, true crime?”

Jisung snorts. “Too much. Documentaries, podcasts, YouTube deep dives, all of it.” He takes another sip of his coffee. “You ever watch that one on, uh, what’s his face, Ted Bundy?”

You nod slowly. “Yes. Many...” You search for the word, frowning before miming a camera with your hands. “Many, uh, films?”

Jisung grins. “Movies! Yeah, yeah, there’s been a shit ton.” He leans forward, resting his chin in his hand. “You like true crime?”

You hesitate. “Sometimes.”

Jisung hums, tapping his fingers against his coffee cup. “Fair. It’s fascinating but also terrifying.”

You nod in agreement, twisting one of your silver rings absentmindedly. There’s a comfortable silence between you, the low hum of the air conditioning filling the space.

Then, finally, you clear your throat. “You... should start, uh, making, um...” You pause, struggling to piece the sentence together before settling on the easiest way to say it. “Mind... maps?”

Jisung tilts his head, thinking. “Mindmaps?”

You nod. “To, um... build... up main parts?” You frown, thinking harder before miming connecting dots in the air. “Like, um... break... break research?”

Jisung watches your hands, his grin growing. “Ohhh, I get it! Like, use a research paper, break it into sections, and then use those small ideas to flow into the full article?”

You exhale in relief, nodding. “Yes! That.”

Jisung beams. “Fuck yeah. That makes so much sense.” He immediately unzips his bag, pulling out highlighters, notebooks, his laptop, and a ridiculous number of coloured pens. “We’re about to make this shit art.”

You shake your head but smile, watching as he spreads out his supplies.

He flips open a blank page in his notebook, tapping a pen against his lip. “Okay, so first, we pick a research paper, right? Which one should we use?”

You pull your laptop closer, scrolling through the saved articles. After a few seconds, you tilt the screen toward him. “This? It, um, good?”

Jisung leans in, scanning the page. “Microplastics and their impact on marine food chains. Yeah, okay, this is perfect.” He cracks his knuckles, grabbing a green highlighter. “Let’s fucking go.”

You both start working, reading through the paper and breaking it down into simple ideas. Jisung is surprisingly focused when he wants to be, humming softly as he underlines key points and draws messy bubbles around main topics.

You glance at his notebook and immediately stifle a laugh. His mindmap is chaos. Some sections are neatly labelled, others have tiny doodles next to them. You spot a tiny, angry-looking jellyfish wearing sunglasses in the corner.

Jisung catches you looking and grins. “What? He’s a cool motherfucker.”

You shake your head, laughing softly.

Jisung taps his pen against the page, thinking. “I don’t want this to be a boring-ass report, though. If people wanted to read a report, they’d just read the research paper.”

You tilt your head. “So... add, um, your, uh,” You pause, struggling before pointing at him. “You.”

Jisung blinks. “Me?”

You nod. “You... is funny.”

Jisung beams. “Fuck yeah, I am. How's this?”

His first attempt at a joke is scrawled across the page in slightly uneven handwriting:

Microplastics: because just fucking up the land wasn’t enough, we had to ruin the ocean too.

He glances up, waiting. You blink at the words, considering them for a moment before tilting your head slightly. “It good,” you say carefully. “But, maybe, shorter?”

Jisung grins, flipping the page to rewrite it. “Alright, alright, let me work my comedic genius.” He mutters to himself as he rewords it, scribbling out different variations before nodding to himself and showing you the final version.

Microplastics: land pollution wasn’t enough, so we said fuck it, let’s poison fish too.

You huff out a quiet laugh, nodding. Jisung’s grin stretches wider. “Yes! Okay, that one stays.”

He gets back to work, tossing out different one-liners for various sections of his article. Some make you roll your eyes. Some are so bad you just stare at him until he groans and crosses them out himself. But the ones that make you actually laugh? Those, he keeps.

For the section on the ocean’s rising temperatures, he jots down: The ocean is getting hotter, and not in a sexy way.

You giggle at that one, covering your mouth, and Jisung fist pumps. “See? This is why I need you. You’re my official bullshit detector.”

Another one, for the way microplastics are now showing up in human bodies: Congratulations, you’re now 30% water and 5% plastic. We’re all just one step away from becoming living Barbie dolls.

You snort, shaking your head, and Jisung beams as he underlines it.

Then he gets to the part about dolphins. His eyes light up mischievously, and before you can even process what’s happening, he scribbles down: Male dolphins: proof that even the ocean has predatory men.

You laugh, really laugh, a full-bodied, breathy noise that catches even you by surprise. Jisung gasps, pressing a dramatic hand to his chest. “I knew it! I fucking knew that one would land.”

You shake your head, still smiling. “It... good.”

Jisung grins, practically bouncing in his seat as he scribbles more notes. His energy fills the room, easy and contagious, and for once, you don’t feel overwhelmed by it.

Then there’s a knock at the door. Your stomach drops. You don’t need to hear the voice to know who it is. Jisung groans before standing up and making his way to the door. He swings it open just enough to poke his head out, squinting dramatically at whoever is standing outside.

“You again?”

Beom-Seok stands there, brows furrowed in frustration. “Where’s Y/N?”

Jisung lets out a long, suffering sigh and leans against the doorframe. “Ahh, here we go again. The saga of men who can’t take a fucking hint continues.”

Beom-Seok frowns. “What?”

Jisung ignores him completely, launching straight into another one of his infamous rants. “You know what I don’t understand? Clingy men. Like, bro, why do some guys act like GPS trackers with fucking attachment issues? Like, what happened? Did your parents not hug you enough as a kid? Do you need therapy? A pet? A hobby? Why are some dudes so allergic to leaving women the fuck alone?”

Beom-Seok sighs, visibly annoyed. “I just need to-”

“Oh, no, I get it,” Jisung continues, nodding like he’s solving a true crime case. “You’re one of those guys who thinks ‘no’ means ‘convince me,’ huh? Like, ‘Oh, she’s just playing hard to get.’ Nah, my guy. You are the game, and it’s called Leave Her the Fuck Alone Simulator 3000.”

Beom-Seok exhales sharply, jaw clenching. “Is she in there or not?”

Jisung grins, tilting his head. “Hmmm, mystery. The suspense. The drama. What will happen next? Will the creepy guy take a fucking hint, or will he continue embarrassing himself? Stay tuned for the next episode of No One Wants You Here.”

Beom-Seok’s patience is clearly thinning. “Look-”

Jisung keeps going, undeterred. “Also, fun fact? If you keep showing up like this, it stops being persistence and starts being a fucking horror movie. ‘Oh, but I just wanna talk to her’, okay, Michael Myers, then why the fuck are you showing up like an unwanted jump scare? Ever heard of a text? A call? A restraining order?”

Beom-Seok glares at him now. “I don’t even know you.”

Jisung gasps, fake-offended. “And yet,” he says, placing a hand over his heart, “I already know so much about you. The fact that you have the personality of a wet napkin? That’s one. The fact that your hair looks like it was cut by a blindfolded five-year-old? That’s two. And three, the fact that you’re still standing here after I’ve made it so fucking clear that you’re not wanted?” He clicks his tongue. “Tragic.”

Beom-Seok looks about two seconds away from punching him. “Just tell Y/N I was looking for her.”

Jisung raises his brows. “Yeah, I could do that. But I won’t.”

Beom-Seok exhales sharply, shaking his head before finally walking away.

Jisung watches him go, then slams the door shut with a triumphant grin. He turns back to you, flexing dramatically. “And that’s how you fend off unwanted male attention, my dear Y/N.”

You exhale, the tension in your body finally easing. “Thank you.”

Jisung waves a hand. “Anytime.” He plops back into his seat, cracking his knuckles. “Now, let’s get back to roasting the ocean’s biggest predators. And no, I don’t mean sharks. I mean dolphins.”

You shake your head, amused, as Jisung dives right back into his notebook, ready to turn his article into something only he could write.

The quiet room is supposed to be safe. The air conditioning hums steadily as you sit at the table, legs crossed beneath your flowing green maxi skirt, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the edges of your brown cropped blouse, the billowy sleeves soft against your skin. The green bandana holds your hair back, keeping the damp strands from sticking to your forehead.

You don’t move when the door opens, assuming it’s Jisung coming in with his usual chaotic energy, maybe a new documentary to ramble about, maybe another iced coffee for you without you even asking.

"You’ve been avoiding me."

Your entire body goes rigid. The voice is not Jisung’s. You slowly turn your head, dread clawing up your throat as you see Beom-Seok standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

Your chair scrapes against the floor as you stand up abruptly, backing away without thinking. Your breath comes quicker now, panic settling under your skin, making your hands shake as you clutch the edge of the table like it’s a lifeline.

Beom-Seok steps inside, closing the door behind him. "It’s not very nice of you," 

He moves toward you, and before you can react, his hand clamps around your wrist, yanking you forward. You stumble, colliding against his chest, the sudden proximity making bile rise in your throat.

"You keep running away. That’s not fair, Y/N. I just want to talk."

His other hand reaches for the tie of your blouse, fingers grazing the fabric. The panic spikes in your chest as you struggle, twisting in his hold. 

"Let go," 

His fingers pull at your blouse, yanking, and the thin fabric tears with a sharp rip. Something in you snaps. You shove at him, hands pushing against his chest, his shoulders, anywhere to get him off of you. His grip doesn’t loosen, and when he leans in, trying to press his mouth against yours, your instincts take over.

You slam your forehead into his nose. Beom-Seok shouts, jerking back in shock, and in that split second, you kick him in the shin as hard as you possibly can. He stumbles, cursing, and you don’t waste a second.

You run. Your feet pound against the floor as you sprint down the hallway, gripping your skirt in one hand to keep from tripping, the other clutching your torn blouse to your chest. Your heart is a drum against your ribs, your breaths sharp and panicked, your vision blurring at the edges.

You don’t stop. You don’t look back. Then, suddenly, you crash into something solid.

Arms wrap around you instinctively as you collide with a warm, broad chest, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. Your fingers tighten into the fabric of a ribbed beige top, your body trembling violently as you cling to the person holding you.

Jisung. His hands steady you, one firm around your waist, the other reaching up to cradle the back of your head.

"Woah, hey, hey, hey," he says, his voice instantly softer than you’ve ever heard it. "What’s going on?"

His body tenses. His gaze flickers to the torn fabric of your blouse, to the way you’re holding it together, to the sheer terror in your wide, unfocused eyes.

Jisung exhales slowly, his grip on you tightening. "Y/N," he murmurs, his voice carefully even, like he’s trying not to scare you more.

But you can’t breathe.  The world is closing in, the hallway spinning, your own heartbeat too loud in your ears. Your chest locks up, your breaths coming in short, frantic gasps, but no air fills your lungs. You grip Jisung tighter, burying your face against him as your entire body trembles violently.

"You gotta breathe, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice low, reassuring. "You're gonna have a panic attack if you don’t breathe."

You can’t. Your gasps turn desperate, your fingers clutching at him like he’s the only thing tethering you to reality.

Jisung  moves carefully, slowly lowering the both of you to the ground until he’s sitting with his back against the wall, keeping you curled up against his chest. His arms stay wrapped around you, one hand stroking your back, the other still resting against the back of your head.

"It’s okay," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. "I got you. I got you."

Your breaths are still erratic, your chest rising and falling too fast, your body shaking.

Jisung gently shushes you, his hand running up and down your back in soothing motions. "I know, I know," he murmurs. "It’s okay. Just breathe with me, okay? Just try."

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to focus on the steady warmth of his body, the way he’s grounding you, holding you together when you feel like you’re going to break apart.

Jisung keeps rocking you slightly, his voice constant, whispering to you, not expecting you to respond, not forcing you to speak. "You’re safe," he murmurs. "I promise. You’re safe now."

Your gasps start to slow, just barely, as you cling to his voice, to the soft, steady sound of it.

"You’re not alone, I got you."

The frat house is an absolute mess. The portable air conditioning unit hums pathetically in the middle of the living room, barely offering any relief against the oppressive heatwave that refuses to let up. The seven shirtless men sprawled around the space are nothing short of miserable.

"This is fucking unbearable," Chan groans, tilting his head back against the couch, eyes closed. Sweat glistens on his skin, his black gym shorts clinging to his thighs. "I feel like I’m melting into the furniture."

"You are melting into the furniture," Jeongin mutters, sprawled out on the floor in front of the AC like a starfish. "You’re going to leave a sweat imprint."

"Shut the fuck up, it’s so hot," Changbin huffs, lying next to Jeongin, arms crossed over his bare chest. "I swear to god, if I hear the words heatwave one more time, I’m punching something."

Felix, leaning against the arm of the couch, lazily fans himself with an old magazine. "It’s so hot my freckles feel like they’re melting off."

Hyunjin, draped across the other couch with his arm over his eyes, groans dramatically. "If I have to move, I’m going to die."

Seungmin shifts slightly, sitting on the coffee table with his elbows on his knees. "I don’t get how some people actually like summer. It’s stupid hot, everything’s sticky, and I’m constantly questioning whether I’m sweating or just wet from the fucking air."

Minho lets out an exhausted sigh. "If we don’t get rain soon, I’m going to start sacrificing you guys to the gods."

The front door swings open and Jisung walks in, and he’s carrying you on his back, your handbag slung over his shoulder alongside his own backpack. His arms are locked under your thighs, holding you securely, and you’re clinging to him.

Jisung crouches slightly, letting you slide off his back, but you don’t step away. You stay close, lingering just behind him, your blouse still torn, the fabric clutched tightly to your chest. Your shoulders are tense, and your eyes remain downcast, your whole body wound up like a tightly coiled spring.

Minho raises an eyebrow. "Since when did you two know each other?"

Jisung clears his throat, adjusting your bag on his shoulder. "Uh, so, she’s been helping me with an investigative journalism assignment, but I was on my way to meet her, and she came running out of the quiet room. It took me a while to calm her down, but I still don’t know what happened."

You shift slightly, still half-hidden behind Jisung. Your fingers twist the fabric of your blouse, your throat tightening. "He… grab me. And he try to-" You pause, struggling, before tapping your lips. "What’s... word?"

Jisung’s entire body goes rigid.

"And he uh..." You gesture to your blouse, still torn, still exposing your shoulder. Your voice is small, but you keep going. "So I uh..." You tap your forehead lightly, then point to Jisung’s nose. "And then I kick. Hard."

"Who?"

You glance up at Jisung, hesitating, and he furrows his brows, realization dawning. "Oh. Oh fuck." He snaps his fingers. "That guy, right? The one who kept showing up? The one that wouldn’t fucking leave? I knew something was off with him. Knew it. You can always tell when a guy’s got that weird creep energy, you know? Like, why do some dudes think persistence is charming? It’s not! It’s fucking terrifying! If a girl isn’t responding, that doesn’t mean try harder, it means back the fuck off! Like, holy shit, it’s not a fucking game, and-"

"Jisung," Minho cuts in, voice low, controlled. "Who?"

You swallow hard. "My project partner. Beom-Seok."

Minho doesn’t speak. He just stands, movements slow and deliberate, walking toward the door. He grabs his shoes. Then his T-shirt. "Are you going to be okay with Jisung?"

You nod hesitantly, still pressed close to Jisung. "Jisung is nice."

Minho nods, something flickering in his eyes. A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips for just a second, he’s glad you’re branching out, that you’re letting someone else in.

Jeongin moves first, rolling his shoulders as he grabs his sneakers. Seungmin follows, cracking his knuckles. Chan and Changbin exchange a glance before moving toward the door without a word. 

Felix ties his hair back, jaw tense. "Where is he?"

Chan pulls his t-shirt over his head. "We’ll find him."

Minho turns to you, stepping forward. His hands are warm as they settle gently on your shoulders, then move up to cup your face. He studies you for a moment, taking in every detail, your trembling fingers, the way your eyes are still wet, the tension in your jaw.

Then he pulls you into a hug. His chin rests on top of your head, and one of his hands gently smooths over your hair, grounding you.

"I’m gonna go fight that fucker, okay? We’re all gonna beat him up. He’ll never come near you again."

You nod against his chest, gripping the back of his shirt and Minho squeezes your shoulders once more before pulling back, his gaze lingering on you for just a second longer. Then he turns on his heel and walks out the door and the others follow.

As soon as the door closes, Jisung leads you into the kitchen, the overhead light flickering slightly before settling into a dull glow. He gestures toward the cabinets, already reaching for a couple of glasses. "Tea? Coffee? Booze?"

You hesitate for a second, rolling the options around in your head before mumbling, "Cachaca?"

Jisung pauses, blinking at you. "Cachaca? I think we have some somewhere. Minho drinks it."

You nod quickly, trying to explain. "Yes, I-" You wave your hand through the air in a dramatic swoosh motion, trying to find the right word.

Jisung watches, grinning. "Posted it?"

"Yes! Posted! Woosh! From Brazil!"

Jisung laughs, shaking his head as he moves toward one of the higher cabinets, standing on his tiptoes slightly as he rummages through the bottles. "Damn, so we’ve got imported liquor in this frat house? Fancy as fuck."

You shift slightly, still holding your torn blouse together, the fabric damp against your skin. Jisung glances at you out of the corner of his eye before setting the bottle down and walking over to the chair and grabbing a jacket. Without a word, he drapes it over your shoulders. It’s too big, warm from his body heat, and the fabric instantly makes you feel safer.

Your fingers automatically slip into the pockets out of instinct and they brush against something inside. You pull out two tickets, frowning slightly as you inspect them. COEX Aquarium. Gangnam. Next week.

Jisung freezes mid-pour, eyes flickering between you and the tickets. "Oh. Uh-" He rubs the back of his neck. "Forget about those."

You glance up at him, raising an eyebrow. "Why?"

He exhales, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I was gonna ask you to go with me. Like, on a date. But after, you know, that dickhead, I figured you might not want to go on a date right now."

You shake your head immediately, gripping the tickets slightly tighter. "No, no," you insist, struggling to find the right words. "You are... very nice. Not bad like Beom-Seok. "I would like date with you. You are nice. You no care I am bad at Korean. You are good man, Jisung."

Jisung watches you for a long moment, unreadable, before he exhales through his nose. "Don’t feel forced-"

"I no feel forced," you interrupt, shaking your head more firmly this time. "I, uh, would like to go on date with you."

Jisung studies you for a second longer before he breaks into a grin. "Great!" Then he pauses, tilting his head. "So, to summarize what just happened here, you asked me on a date that I paid for?"

You nod, smiling slightly and Jisung snorts. "Okay, well, can’t complain, can I?" He slides a glass of cachaca toward you, ice clinking against the sides before he takes a sip of his own.

The alcohol burns, sharp and familiar as it settles in your chest and Jisung hums contentedly before his eyes light up with an idea. 

"Ooh, wait. Let me show you these videos I like watching. It’s animated dancing fruit and vegetables, there’s one where they dance to Pink Venom."

Jisung pulls his phone out, quickly typing before angling the screen toward you. The video starts playing, a hyper-stylized animated sequence of little fruit characters, their bodies bouncing to the beat of BLACKPINK’s Pink Venom. Tiny, grinning strawberries spin in circles. A smug-looking banana moonwalks across the screen. The entire thing is completely ridiculous.

You stare at it for a long moment before letting out a small, breathy laugh.

Jisung grins, leaning closer. "It's art."

You shake your head, but you keep watching, sipping your drink. Jisung rests his chin in his hand, his smile lazy and content as he watches you instead of the screen.

For the first time all night, the weight pressing on your chest feels just a little bit lighter.

Minho is lying on his back on Jisung’s bed, one arm draped over his forehead, the other resting on his stomach, a small ice pack balanced over his bruised knuckles. His tank top sticks slightly to his skin from the humidity, and his legs are stretched out in a pair of loose gym shorts. He’s tired but he’s also satisfied, his body still thrumming with the remnants of adrenaline from earlier.

Minho cracks an eye open just in time to see Jisung slip out of bed and cross the room to his closet. “What the fuck are you doing?” Minho mutters, shifting slightly to sit up.

Jisung doesn’t answer. Instead, he rummages through his closet, pushing aside sneakers, stacks of manga, and a box labelled Jisung’s Hoard (DO NOT TOUCH, CHANGBIN I MEAN IT) before finally pulling out a riot shield.

Minho stares as Jisung holds it up in front of his body, gripping the handle tightly, his head barely peeking over the top.

“I’m going on a date with Y/N next week,” Jisung announces and then, as if expecting immediate violence, he ducks behind the shield. 

Minho blinks slowly, then sighs. “You’re such a dumbass.”

“Okay, listen, before you say anything, or hit anything, just think for a second, okay? I didn’t plan for it to happen like this, I was gonna ask her in a cute way, but then she found the tickets in my pocket and technically she asked me first so if anything you should be mad at her, actually, wait, no, don’t be mad at her, I take that back, that would be bad, I mean-"

Minho pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jisung.”

"-okay but I swear I'm not a creep, I was gonna take her anyway just as a friend, you know I love aquariums, but then she found them and she wanted to go and she said I’m nice and not a bad man, which was very validating by the way-”

“Jisung.”

“-and I promise I’m gonna be good to her, I’m not gonna fuck around, I mean, I barely date to begin with because most people are annoying and I have trust issues but she’s-”

“Jisung.”

"-different, you know she’s different, you’ve known her forever, I’ve only known her a few weeks and I already know she’s different, she doesn’t make me shut up and she lets me ramble and do you know how rare that is, do you know how many people tell me to just shut the fuck up and-"

Minho exhales loudly. “Jisung.”

Jisung freezes, peeking out from behind the shield.

Minho stares at him for a long moment before shrugging. “Okay.”

Jisung blinks. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” Minho shrugs again, shifting slightly as he repositions the ice pack over his knuckles.

Jisung stays behind the riot shield, just in case and Minho watches him for a second before sighing. “Did you buy that just to break the news to me?”

Jisung straightens slightly, still gripping the shield. “No, I bought it because I thought it’d look cool. But it’s multi-purpose.” He pauses, then reaches into his closet again, pulling out a fucking katana.

Still behind the shield, Jisung holds up the sword. “This is what I actually bought to tell you the news.”

Minho stares at the blade, unimpressed and Jisung wiggles it slightly. “It’s fake, but it looks real enough that I hoped you’d piss your pants.”

Minho snorts. “Idiot.”

Jisung carefully sets the katana down but does not lower the shield. He eyes Minho warily. “You’re really not gonna attack me?”

“No.”

Jisung narrows his eyes. “Why?”

Minho rolls his shoulders, exhaling slowly. “If it were Hyunjin or Jeongin, I’d attack. But not you.”

Jisung frowns. “Why?”

“They’re sluts.”

“What the fuck kind of logic is that?”

“They’d hump and dump, and you wouldn’t,” Minho explains simply. “You care about people’s feelings too much”

Jisung stares. “That’s the nicest and most backhanded thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Minho smirks. “You know I’m right.”

Jisung sighs, finally lowering the shield slightly. “Yeah, okay, fair.” He crosses his arms. “Jeongin always says I’m scared of women, and that’s why I don’t hump and dump.”

Minho snickers. “He’s a little shit.”

“Women don’t scare me. Well, some do. But not Y/N.”

Minho hums, watching him carefully. “You like her.”

Jisung huffs. “No shit.”

Minho doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reaches for a pillow.

Jisung sees it and his eyes widen. Minho moves fast, throwing the pillow straight at Jisung’s head. Jisung screeches, throwing the shield up again just in time. The pillow bounces off with a dramatic thump, landing on the floor as Jisung stumbles slightly under the weight of the shield.

Minho smirks. “Just had to do something about it.”

Jisung groans, collapsing onto the bed with the shield still in his arms. “I fucking knew you were gonna do something.”

Minho just chuckles, settling back against the pillows as Jisung exhales, staring up at the ceiling, his heart still racing. He knows Minho isn’t mad, but still, he wasn’t about to risk it. Slowly, his fingers trace the edge of the shield, his mind drifting. He really does like you. And for once, he’s not scared of what that means.

Minho stands in front of your closet, arms crossed, eyes scanning your clothes with the kind of focus most people would reserve for a life-or-death situation. You stand beside him, fingers twisting the silver anxiety rings on your hands, your stomach already tight with nerves.

"It’s 10 a.m. You’re meeting Jisung at 1 p.m. That gives us three hours to pick out an outfit and get you ready, more than enough time. And I’ve even factored in an extra hour for me to give you a calming talk so you don’t freak the fuck out."

You let out a slow breath, nodding and Minho hums, his sharp eyes darting over the options in your closet. "It’s still a fucking heatwave, so you need something light."

He pulls out a black mini-dress with contrasting white trim on the straps. The fabric is soft, the cut simple but flattering, barely reaching mid-thigh. He holds it up against you, tilting his head as he assesses.

You glance at the dress, then back at Minho, nodding in approval. Minho tosses the dress onto your bed before moving to your shoe rack. He crouches, tapping his chin before grabbing a pair of white sneakers and a pair of mid-calf socks. 

"You’ll be walking around COEX, so these are practical," he explains. "And they go with the dress. Simple, clean."

Next, he steps over to your collection of bags, brows furrowing in concentration before he selects a small white handbag. He holds it out, nodding in satisfaction. "Done. Outfit complete. Go put it on."

You take everything and hurry into your bathroom, closing the door behind you. Your hands shake slightly as you set the clothes down on the counter, taking a deep breath to steady yourself.

You change quickly, pulling the dress over your head, smoothing the fabric down over your hips. The material is soft against your skin, breathable and perfect for the oppressive heat outside. You slip on the socks and sneakers, then glance at yourself in the mirror.

The dress is cute, simple but flattering. The white trim adds a soft contrast, and the sneakers keep the whole look casual enough that you don’t feel overdressed.

You step back into your room and Minho turns, eyes scanning you up and down. He nods, satisfied. "It’s perfect. Heatwave suitable, cute, and kind of casual sexy." He gestures toward your vanity. "Now, hair and makeup."

You hesitate, shifting slightly. "I... thought you would no like.... me and Jisung uh date." 

Minho exhales, shaking his head. "I’m protective, not possessive," he says simply. "You can date whoever you like. But if Jisung makes you upset, I will have to de-limb him."

You stare at him for a second before letting out a small, breathy laugh and Minho smirks, nudging you toward your seat in front of the mirror. "Oh, and you need to do my makeup. I have a date with Chan later."

"Chan?"

Minho shrugs, a smirk playing on his lips as he stands behind you, eyes narrowing slightly as he surveys your face through the mirror. He tilts his head, assessing, before reaching for your makeup bag. "Alright, let’s get this done quickly. You need something light and natural, nothing too heavy in this disgusting-ass heatwave."

You nod, sitting still as Minho gets to work. His movements are practiced, efficient, the result of years of perfecting his own makeup routine and frequently doing yours. He applies a light layer of foundation, blending it in effortlessly with a sponge, making sure it evens out your complexion without feeling cakey.

"Close your eyes," he mutters, already reaching for a soft brown eyeshadow. 

You stay still, your fingers twisting your silver rings as Minho moves on to your brows, quickly filling them in with light strokes. His touch is gentle but firm, his expression focused as he works.

"Okay, look up," he instructs. He holds your chin lightly as he swipes a small coat of mascara on your lashes, careful not to smudge it. "You need to be able to survive the day without looking like a raccoon."

You hum softly in agreement, your hands still gripping the hem of your dress nervously.

Minho sighs as he picks up a lip tint. "Relax, Jesus," he mutters, swiping the colour onto your lips. "Jisung isn’t gonna sacrifice you at the aquarium. Now, hair."

He quickly gathers your hair into his hands, pulling it up into a loose, messy bun at the crown of your head. He leaves a few strands out to frame your face, stepping back to examine his work.

"Perfect," he announces, smoothing his hands over your shoulders. "Alright, my turn. Make me hot."

He flops down into the chair, legs spread lazily, watching as you pick up his makeup bag. You pull out a primer first, dabbing a small amount onto his skin.

Minho smirks. "If you make me too pretty, Chan won’t be able to control himself."

You shake your head, smiling slightly as you begin blending his foundation. His skin is already annoyingly smooth, so it doesn’t take much work.

As you carefully contour his cheekbones, you pause, tilting your head. "You no tell me you like Chan."

Minho exhales through his nose, amused. "I didn’t know until I sucked his dick. I’ll know if I love him once I’ve fucked him."

You shake your head, suppressing a laugh as you pick up the highlighter. "You uh, top?"

Minho stares at you. "Yes, duh."

You furrow your brows, concentrating as you sweep highlighter over the bridge of his nose. "No duh. I think you uh, take? How you say?"

Minho tilts his head. "Sub? Bottom? Take it up the ass?"

You nod. "Yes?"

Minho sighs dramatically. "Oh, my sweet best friend who peed on me when she was one and traumatized four-year-old Minho, no, I do not bottom."

You pause mid-swipe, blinking. "What?"

Minho leans forward slightly, voice dropping into a dramatic whisper. "I was four years old, four, and I thought, hey, let me be helpful, let me change the baby’s diaper. And what did you do? You fucking pissed on me. My soul left my body that day."

You stare at him, trying so hard not to laugh. "I... sorry?"

Minho rolls his eyes, but his lips twitch in amusement. "You should be. You ruined my childhood."

You shake your head as you move on to his under-eye makeup, carefully blending out the concealer. "Your nose is so nice."

Minho smirks. "I know."

You roll your eyes, but your fingers are careful as you set his makeup, making sure everything looks smooth. Finally, you swipe a light layer of lip balm onto his lips before sitting back.

"Done."

Minho stands, inspecting himself in the mirror. He tilts his head, humming in approval. "Damn, I do look hot."

You smile slightly, proud of your work.

Then Minho turns to you, expression softening. "Okay," he says, his voice quieter. "Now, listen to me."

You inhale deeply, already nervous.

Minho gently takes your shoulders, turning you to face him. "You look amazing," he says firmly. "And you are amazing. Jisung’s gonna have the best fucking time today because he gets to be with you."

You chew on your lip, your fingers twitching. "I nervous."

"I know," Minho says. "And that’s fine. But this is Jisung we’re talking about. He already adores you, okay? He’s not expecting anything, he’s just excited to spend time with you. You don’t have to be perfect."

You exhale shakily, nodding and Minho squeezes your shoulders. "You got this," he murmurs. "And if anything happens, you call me. Okay?"

You nod again, a little more sure this time.

Minho smiles. "Now, go make that idiot fall even harder for you."

And somehow, you feel like maybe, you can.

The subway station is already busy when you arrive, the hum of conversations, the echoing chime of announcements, and the distant screech of a train pulling in filling the underground air. The sheer amount of people swarming around makes your stomach tighten, anxiety curling in your chest like a tightly wound spring.

Then you spot Jisung leaning against a pillar, hands in the pockets of his light-wash baggy jeans, oversized black graphic sweatshirt swallowing his frame in an effortlessly casual way and his black beret-style cap sits low over his forehead, round-framed glasses perched on his nose. A long silver chain dangles from his neck, catching the dim subway lighting as he shifts.

The moment he sees you, his entire face lights up. "Y/N!"

You relax slightly, just at the sight of him as he bounces toward you, taking a moment to look you over. "Damn," he says, exaggeratedly adjusting his glasses like he’s inspecting you. "You look cute as fuck."

You smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "Thank you."

Jisung grins before offering his arm dramatically. "Shall we, my lady?"

You huff out a small laugh before slipping your hand into the crook of his arm. Together, you make your way onto the subway platform, the train pulling in just as you reach the edge.

Once inside, it’s crowded. You tense slightly, pressing yourself closer to Jisung as bodies push around you. He notices instantly, shifting so that his arm is wrapped securely around your waist. His other hand reaches up, grabbing the overhead handle for balance.

"Hold on to me," he murmurs, his voice light but reassuring.

You don’t hesitate, wrapping your arms around his torso. His sweatshirt is soft against your skin, his scent a mix of fabric softener and something warm and familiar.

Jisung hums. "Sorry about the subway situation. I tried to learn to drive last year, but my instructor suffered a mental breakdown and quit driving forever after my fourth lesson when I ran over a fox and then crashed into a tree."

You blink up at him. "What?"

Jisung nods solemnly. "Tragic, really. Do you wanna hear the full horror story?"

You hesitate, but the subway is already moving, and focusing on him instead of the cramped space seems far better. You nod.

Jisung grins. "Okay, buckle up, lesson one was already a shitshow. So, I get into the driver’s seat, right? I think I’m ready. My instructor is like, 'Okay, we’re just gonna gently ease onto the road,' and I’m like, got it. So, what do I do? I fucking floor it. Almost ran over an old lady in the crosswalk."

"Jisung!"

"My instructor screamed so loud that I thought she was gonna pass out. She made me pull over and just sat there for like five minutes, staring into the void. I had to keep apologizing while she processed the fact that she almost died."

You shake your head, biting back a smile. "Next lesson?"

Jisung smirks. "Lesson two. So, I get back in the car. I think, okay, this time I’ll be normal. But then, turns out, I have a horrible habit of mistaking the gas for the brake. So, we’re in a parking lot, right? Just doing slow practice. My instructor’s feeling confident, she’s like, ‘Okay, let’s try reversing into a spot.’ I try. Instead of gently backing in, I fucking slam the gas. The car flies backwards. Hits a fucking shopping cart. Cart goes flying, hits another car, sets off the alarm. Instructor? Sobbing."

"No."

Jisung nods dramatically. "Oh yes. The store manager comes out, asks if everything’s okay, and my instructor’s just sitting there with her head in her hands, whispering, ‘Why me?’ I thought she was gonna quit right then."

You laugh softly, shaking your head. "Lesson three?"

Jisung sighs. "Lesson three was almost normal. Except, I kept forgetting the difference between the turn signal and the windshield wipers. So, every time I tried to turn, I just aggressively turned the wipers on instead. It was sunny as fuck outside. My instructor started twitching every time I reached for the controls."

You giggle, gripping onto him a little tighter as the subway car rocks. "Okay, last lesson?"

Jisung exhales dramatically. "Lesson four. The one that ended it all. So. We’re driving down this quiet-ass street, everything seems fine. I’m focused, I’m chill, I’m not hitting the gas like an idiot. And then it happens."

You furrow your brows. "What happens?"

Jisung presses his lips together. "I see something dart out from the trees. I think it’s a cat. But no. It’s a fox." 

Your eyes widen. "You hit a fox?"

"I hit the fuck out of that fox."

You gasp, hands tightening slightly on his sweatshirt. "What happened?"

Jisung shakes his head, as if still haunted. "It was so bad. The fox bounced off the windshield. Like, full-on ragdoll mode. There was blood everywhere. And the worst part? Chunks of it got stuck in the grill of the car."

"Jisung!"

"I KNOW!" He throws his head back. "The instructor screams, I panic, I swerve, and guess what? Straight into a fucking tree."

"You crash the car?"

Jisung groans. "Yes. The airbag fucking explodes in my face. I’m sitting there, stunned as shit, and my instructor? She gets out of the car. She walks away. Doesn’t even look at me. Just leaves."

You stare at him. "She quit?"

"Forever!" Jisung throws up his hands. "She sent me a fucking text later, saying she was retiring and that driving was too stressful."

You laugh, covering your mouth. "You bad at driving."

Jisung sighs dramatically, hugging you a little closer. "Yeah. So this is why we’re taking the subway."

You shake your head, still giggling as the train rattles toward Gangnam. Jisung holds onto the overhead handle, keeping you steady against him, his warmth pressing against you in the cramped space.

And somehow, even with the overwhelming noise and the sheer number of people around you, you don’t feel as anxious anymore. Not with Jisung’s arm wrapped securely around you, his voice filling the space between you with ridiculous stories and endless laughter.

The entrance to the COEX Aquarium is bright and bustling, the cool air inside a welcome contrast to the oppressive heat outside. The faint scent of saltwater fills the air, mixed with the clean sterility of glass and metal. People shuffle through the check-in, collecting tickets and brochures, voices overlapping in excited chatter.

Jisung immediately makes a beeline for the check-in counter, grabbing a map from the stand with an eager grin. His round glasses slide slightly down his nose as he reads, and he absentmindedly pushes them up with a knuckle.

“Alright,” he announces, flipping the map dramatically. “So, the tour goes in this order: Rainbow Lounge, then the Story of Korean Fish, Fish in Wonderland, Amazonia World, Marine Touch Lab, Mangrove and Beach, Living Reef Gallery, Ocean Kingdom, Marine Mammal Village, Deep Blue Square, Deep Blue Sea Tunnel, Garden of Jellyfish, Penguin's Playground, and then, boom, gift shop.”

You nod, gripping the strap of your handbag, feeling the smooth material under your fingers as a grounding technique. "Sounds… good."

Jisung grins, tucking the map into his back pocket before reaching for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours effortlessly. "Let's go," he says, tugging you forward. "I need you to tell me all the facts about the creatures, and then I'll tell you my superior facts."

You blink up at him, slightly startled by the warmth of his palm against yours, but his excitement is contagious, and it helps ease the lingering anxiety in your chest. You nod again, squeezing his hand slightly in agreement.

The first exhibit is the Rainbow Lounge, a room bathed in soft blue lighting with massive curved tanks lining the walls. Inside, schools of vibrantly coloured fish glide through the water, their scales shimmering under the lights, reflecting hues of red, yellow, blue, and green. The effect is mesmerizing as if stepping into an underwater dream.

Jisung whistles, eyes wide as he presses closer to the glass. "Damn. This looks like a gay fish nightclub."

You huff out a small laugh, stepping beside him. Your gaze follows the movements of the fish, recognizing different species instantly. You point at a particularly bright fish with long, flowing fins. "That… is uh, people call it Dory fish."

Jisung nods, grinning. "Ahh, Finding Nemo’s sidekick. Got it."

You gesture to another fish with a striking pink-and-purple gradient. "This is… fairy wrasse," you continue, carefully picking your words. "Males... uh.." You pause, miming a size difference with your hands.

Jisung furrows his brows before gasping. "Oh! Males grow bigger?"

You nod, relieved. "Yes! And change colour. When, they, uh," You gesture vaguely, trying to think of the right word.

Jisung tilts his head, thinking, then smirks. "When they’re horny?"

"No!" You swat at his arm, making him laugh. "When they... grow. Mature."

"Uh-huh, sure," Jisung teases, wiggling his eyebrows. "They hit fish puberty."

You shake your head, but your lips twitch slightly in amusement. You move on, pointing at another group of fish with iridescent scales. "These... are neon tetras. They live in... big groups. Uh, shoals." You glance at Jisung to make sure he understands.

He nods enthusiastically. "Yeah! They gotta stick together so they don’t get eaten."

You point at another fish, gesturing with your fingers in a sharp motion. "This one has teeth. It... bite."

Jisung leans in, squinting. "Wait, what?" His voice drops to a whisper. "Biting fish? In the gay nightclub?"

You nod. "Yes. It bite."

Jisung gasps dramatically. "A fish biter? In this economy?" He shakes his head in mock disappointment. "Truly, there are no safe spaces left."

You press your lips together, holding back a laugh. Jisung’s amusement grows as he watches you struggle. "You want to laugh," he accuses playfully. "I see it."

You shake your head quickly, but the small smile on your face gives you away.

Jisung leans against the glass, watching the fish swim in rhythmic patterns. "Okay, my turn for facts," he says, clearing his throat. "Did you know that clownfish are all born male, but if the dominant female dies, the biggest male turns into a female?"

You nod, already knowing this, but you let him continue.

Jisung grins, clearly proud of himself. "Which means that in Finding Nemo, Marlin should’ve turned into a girl and married Dory. Disney lied to us."

You shake your head, amused, as he moves on to another fact. "Oh! Also, parrotfish sleep in their own mucus bubble to protect themselves from predators. Like, they literally spit out a cocoon of snot and sleep inside it. Which is both disgusting and kind of genius."

You nod again, already aware of this, but you enjoy watching him talk. His enthusiasm is infectious, and the way he gestures with his free hand while keeping the other firmly wrapped around yours makes something warm settle in your chest.

Jisung glances at you. "Wait, you already knew that, didn’t you?"

You hesitate, then nod sheepishly and Jisung groans dramatically, flopping against the railing. "Ugh. My documentary knowledge is nothing compared to yours."

You shake your head quickly. "No! It… good."

He lifts his head, narrowing his eyes playfully. "Good, but not great."

You hesitate before nodding again, lips twitching. "Yes."

Jisung gasps, clutching his chest. "You wound me."

You giggle, and Jisung grins, clearly pleased. "Fine, I’ll just keep going until I say something you don’t know."

The entrance to Ocean Kingdom is dimly lit, designed to mimic the deep sea, where only beams of artificial blue light filter through the massive tanks lining the walls. The air is noticeably cooler here, the faint hum of filtration systems and the rhythmic sound of water bubbling creating a serene atmosphere. The exhibit is all sleek glass, towering tanks filled with sharks gliding effortlessly through the water, their movements smooth and eerily silent.

Jisung stops dead in his tracks, gripping your hand tightly. "Holy shit," he breathes. His round glasses reflect the light from the water, his eyes wide with pure, unfiltered excitement. "Okay, this is so fucking cool. I love sharks."

You nod, stepping closer to the thick glass. A massive sand tiger shark swims past, its long, jagged teeth permanently exposed, giving it an almost menacing grin. The blacktip reef sharks follow close behind, their streamlined bodies sleek and agile as they weave through the artificial coral structures.

You glance at Jisung. "You like sharks?"

Jisung nods so aggressively his beret nearly slips off. "Like? Like?! I fucking adore sharks. They’re so misunderstood. They get all this bad press because of Jaws and dumbasses who think every shark is out here just waiting to eat people."

You smile slightly, pressing your hand against the glass as a hammerhead shark swims by. "Sharks, no like eat people."

Jisung gasps, gripping your arm. "See?! You get it!"

You nod, as you point at the hammerhead, then gesture with your hands to show the width of its oddly shaped head. "This is... hammerhead. Their head... is like..." You pause, miming a wide sweep with your hands.

Jisung watches your hands, nodding in encouragement. "Uh-huh, yeah, like a...?"

You think for a moment before snapping your fingers. "Like radar! It... help them find fish in sand."

Jisung’s jaw drops. "They scan the ocean floor?! That’s fucking insane."

"Yes! They sense, uh..." You pause, struggling for the right word, then tap your fingertips together in quick succession.

Jisung immediately jumps in, eyes lighting up. "Movement?"

You beam, nodding quickly. "Yes! Movement! In sand!"

Jisung watches as another hammerhead glides by. "Damn. That’s fucking metal."

You step closer to another tank, pointing at a whitetip reef shark resting on the bottom. "This shark no need to swim."

Jisung blinks. "Wait, what?"

You nod. "Most sharks need swim to breathe. This one can stop."

Jisung looks at the shark in shock. "So it just vibes? Like, it can just take a fucking nap?"

You smile, nodding. "Yes. Nap shark."

Jisung clutches his chest dramatically. "That’s so fucking unfair. If I stop breathing, I die. But this bitch? Just chilling at the bottom of the ocean? That’s some bullshit."

You giggle, and Jisung grins, clearly pleased with himself.

Then it’s his turn. "Okay, my turn for shark facts," he announces, straightening his posture.

You nod, waiting.

Jisung points at a nurse shark in one of the smaller tanks. "Did you know sharks have been around for over 400 million years? That’s older than dinosaurs. Like, these motherfuckers have been thriving while whole-ass species got wiped out."

You nod, already knowing this, but pretending you don’t so he’ll keep rambling. "Wow..."

Jisung puffs up proudly. "Yeah. And get this, sharks have a sixth sense. Like, actual superpowers. They can detect electric fields in the water, which is how they hunt shit hiding under the sand. Like, everything gives off tiny little electric signals, even beating hearts. Sharks can fucking sense it. They’re like ocean assassins!"

You nod again, listening as he moves on to his next fact.

"Oh! And their skin? It’s not smooth. It’s covered in tiny scales called dermal denticles, which literally means ‘skin teeth.’ If you rub a shark one way, it’s smooth, but the other way? It’s like sandpaper. Imagine having fucking teeth all over your body."

You hum, feigning deep thought. "Weird…"

Jisung nods enthusiastically. "Right? And get this, sharks can go into a frenzy when they smell blood. But it’s not like in the movies where they just attack randomly. They’re just curious. They check shit out first. They’re not mindless killers."

You already know this, but you nod seriously, making him feel like the smartest person in the world. "Smart shark."

Jisung grins, squeezing your hand slightly. "Exactly! They’re smart as fuck."

He pauses, watching as a massive tiger shark swims past. The stripes on its body stand out even under the dim lighting. Jisung leans in slightly. "Wait, isn’t that the one that eats everything?"

You nod. "Tiger shark. It eat… uh…" You pause, struggling for the right word. "It eat… anything. Trash. Uh…" You mime throwing something.

"Oh shit, like actual garbage?"

You nod. "Yes! Tires, license plate… even chair!"

Jisung gapes at you. "A fucking chair?"

You nod again. "Yes. It eat… no care. Just… eat."

Jisung stares at the tiger shark with newfound respect. "Honestly? Same."

You giggle, and Jisung grins at you before suddenly tilting his head in thought. "Oh, I have a question," he says. "So, I lived in Malaysia for a bit, right? And had to learn to speak a bit of Malay. Even when speaking Malay, I always thought in Korean first. So, do you think in Portuguese and then translate?"

Your eyes widen slightly. You nod slowly. "Yes… is very… hard. Head… always busy."

Jisung hums in understanding, rubbing circles on the back of your hand with his thumb. "Damn, Y/N, your brain must be on fire 24/7."

You huff a small laugh, nodding. "Sometimes… yes."

Jisung watches you for a moment before giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. "Well, for what it’s worth, you speak Korean really well. Like, way better than I would if I tried to learn Portuguese."

"Thank you."

Jisung grins, nudging your shoulder lightly. "You’re welcome, smart girl."

The Penguin Playground is colder than the rest of the aquarium, the temperature-controlled environment mimicking the frigid conditions of the Antarctic. A light mist hangs in the air, condensation forming on the glass of the massive enclosures where dozens of penguins waddle, dive, and swim with surprising grace. The sound of their squawking fills the room, along with the occasional splash of water as they torpedo through the pool.

Jisung practically vibrates with excitement beside you, his grip on your hand tightening as he tugs you closer to the glass. "Ooh, okay, listen, I watched a whole-ass documentary on penguins last night, so I have so many facts."

You nod, already smiling as he gears up for another intense ramble.

Jisung clears his throat dramatically. "Okay, first of all, people always think penguins are these cute, loyal, fluffy little bastards but no. These motherfuckers are ruthless. Did you know that some penguins fucking cheat on their mates?"

You blink up at him, feigning shock. "Cheat?"

"YES!" Jisung exclaims, eyes wide. "Like, they have ‘mating pairs’ and whatever, but some penguins just go around fucking other penguins on the side. Like, dead-ass homewrecking each other’s little ice nests."

You huff a small laugh, nodding as if this is the most shocking news you’ve ever heard. "Bad penguins."

"Right?" Jisung scoffs, shaking his head. "And it gets worse. You know how they give their mates those cute little pebbles, right? Like, oh, here’s a stone, I love you, let’s build a nest together?"

You nod.

Jisung grips your shoulders. "Some of them fucking STEAL the pebbles."

Your mouth drops open. "No."

"YES!" Jisung exclaims, pointing aggressively at the penguins behind the glass. "Some of these sneaky little bitches literally go around stealing the best pebbles from other nests instead of looking for their own. Just straight-up robbery. And you wanna know why? Because the best pebbles get you the best mates. It’s like fucking gold-digging but in the penguin world."

You shake your head, barely holding in your giggles. "Scammers."

"THEY ARE!" Jisung throws his hands up. "They’re fucking criminals! And you know what else? Some of these thieving motherfuckers actually TRADE the stolen pebbles for sex."

Your eyes widen as you process that. "Trade?"

"TRADE!" Jisung yells, clearly outraged. "Like, ‘Oh, you want this really nice rock? That’ll cost you one fuck.’" He turns to the glass, pointing at the penguins. "Who taught them capitalism?!"

You snort, covering your mouth with your hand as laughter shakes your shoulders.

"And listen, if you thought that was the worst of it, let me tell you about their shit habits, literally. Did you know penguins fart? Like, a lot?"

You tilt your head, feigning curiosity. "Fart?"

"So much fucking farting."

You press your lips together, pretending to be intrigued. "Why?"

Jisung smirks, adjusting his glasses dramatically. "Because of their diet, my dear Y/N. These little tuxedo-wearing menaces eat so much fucking krill and fish that their guts are basically fermentation chambers. They store gas like it’s a fucking science experiment, and then, boom, stinky ass farts."

You shake your head, covering your face with your hands as you giggle.

Jisung leans in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "And it gets worse."

You peek up at him through your fingers. "Worse?"

"Yes." Jisung nods grimly. "Because penguins, my dear Y/N, shit with force. These little bastards don’t just poop. They launch that shit. Like, projectile diarrhoea. Scientists actually did a study to measure how far a penguin can fire its own crap."

You stare at him, struggling to keep a straight face. "Really?"

"Really!" Jisung nods eagerly. "The average launch distance of a penguin’s explosive diarrhoea is about 1.3 meters. That’s like, over four feet of straight-up shit cannon."

You can’t hold it in anymore, you burst out laughing, doubling over slightly as your shoulders shake. Jisung beams, clearly thrilled that he got you to laugh.

"And," Jisung continues, clearly on a roll now, "if you thought we have it bad with public restrooms, imagine being a fucking penguin scientist. These poor fuckers have to sit around in a frozen hellscape, measuring how far penguin shit flies for the sake of science. Imagine going to college and getting a degree, only to end up with a job where you’re literally dodging high-speed bird turds in the fucking Antarctic."

You gasp for air between giggles, clutching your stomach. "Jisung!"

Jisung grins. "What? It’s true! Imagine coming home after work and someone’s like, ‘Hey, what do you do for a living?’ and you just have to be like, ‘Oh, you know, just penguin poop physics.’"

You wipe at your eyes, shaking your head as you finally manage to compose yourself. "That is so sad."

Jisung nods solemnly. "Rest in peace to all the penguin poop researchers." He sighs dramatically. "They were the real ones."

You giggle again, looking back at the penguins. Some are waddling around, pecking at the ice, others diving smoothly into the water, their little bodies streamlined and graceful despite how ridiculous they look on land.

Jisung nudges your arm. "You still think they’re cute?"

You nod without hesitation. "Yes."

Jisung sighs, shaking his head. "Even knowing they’re cheating, thieving, rock-trading, shit-launching criminals?"

You smile. "Yes."

Jisung grins. "Yeah, me too."

You both stand there for a moment, just watching the penguins in comfortable silence. Then Jisung gently tugs on your hand. "C’mon, let’s go buy unnecessary amounts of shit from the gift shop."

The sun is still brutal when you and Jisung step out of the COEX Aquarium, but the heat doesn’t seem as oppressive after the hours spent in the cool, dimly lit exhibits. The matching turtle plush keychains you both bought at the gift shop swing slightly with each step, yours hanging off the strap of your handbag, and Jisung’s clipped to a belt loop on his oversized jeans.

He’d insisted on matching, grinning like a maniac as he dramatically held up the two keychains side by side, saying, "Look, they’re like us, one is shy and the other talks too much."

Jisung stretches, groaning as he rolls his shoulders. "Okay, so what now?" he asks, tilting his head to squint at you behind his round glasses. His hair is slightly messy from wearing his beret all day, but he hasn’t put it back on, letting the slight breeze cool him off. "The date can’t end here. We could go to a cafe or get bubble tea, I am starving. Like, actually starving. I thought the penguins might’ve tasted nice with some rice back there."

You wrinkle your nose, playfully nudging his side. "Jisung!"

"What?!" Jisung grins, rubbing his stomach dramatically. "It’s their fault for being so plump and round! If we were in a survival situation, you’d consider it too."

You shake your head, holding back a laugh. "No. Bad."

Jisung groans. "Fine, fine, I’ll find food that isn’t a penguin." He turns to you expectantly. "So? What do you wanna eat?"

You hesitate, thinking. "We could... go get... cheesecake? Is that how you say?"

Jisung gasps.

You blink at him in confusion. "What-"

"You are a dream woman," he interrupts, placing both hands on his chest as if he’s just been blessed by the universe. "Cheesecake is my fucking favourite. That’s it. That’s the final straw. You have to be my girlfriend now."

You freeze slightly, your brain stumbling over the last word. "Girlfriend?"

Jisung blinks at you before realization dawns. "Oh. Right. You don’t..." He pauses before trying again. "You know? Girlfriend?"

You still look lost, trying to piece it together, so Jisung immediately jumps into action.

He clutches his chest dramatically, swaying like he’s about to faint. "Oh, my love," he sighs, reaching for you as if in a tragic romance drama. "I cannot live without you!"

You blink, watching him curiously and Jisung moves on to the next demonstration, pressing his hands together in the shape of a heart and wiggling his eyebrows. "You know? Love. Romance. Heart-fluttering moments."

You tilt your head slightly, still not entirely sure what he means.

Jisung groans, then escalates immediately. He mimes sex. Your eyes widen as he thrusts his hips dramatically, makes an obscene hand gesture, and moans loudly, loud enough that people turn to stare.

"JISUNG!" you gasp as you smack his arm.

He just laughs. "Now you get it!"

You cover your face with your hands, still mortified. "Yes! I get! I get!"

Jisung snickers, nudging you playfully. "So? You gonna be my girlfriend or what?"

You peek at him through your fingers. "You like me?"

Jisung scoffs. "Duh." He reaches out, gently pulling your hands away from your face so you’ll look at him. "Of course I like you. You’re amazing. You’re smart as hell, you let me ramble for hours, you listen to my dumbass facts, and you even pretend to be impressed even though you already know everything. That’s some top-tier girlfriend material shit right there."

You stare at him, taking in his sincerity and Jisung watches you expectantly, still holding your hands. "So? What do you think?"

You hesitate, feeling your heart pound a little too hard. Then, slowly, you nod. "I like you too."

Jisung grins, squeezing your hands. "Fucking finally," he sighs dramatically. "Alright, now that we’re officially dating, I’m taking my hot girlfriend to get cheesecake."

You giggle softly, letting him pull you along as the heat of the summer sun bears down on the city. But somehow, despite the heatwave, despite the sweat sticking to your skin, being with Jisung makes everything feel lighter.

The frat house is dimly lit when you and Jisung step inside, the air slightly cooler than the humid streets outside. It’s quiet for once, which is rare for a house full of chaotic men, but you assume most of them are either out or recovering from whatever questionable decisions they made last night.

Jisung, however, is still buzzing with energy. He kicks off his shoes, dragging you inside excitedly. “Okay, okay, you need to see my realm,” he announces, gripping your wrist as he starts leading you toward the stairs. “It’s like fucking Mary Poppins’ bag, but a room. I buy so much random shit that I never use. It’s basically a museum of bad financial decisions.”

You raise a curious eyebrow but let him pull you along, his excitement infectious. The stairs creak under your steps as you both make your way up, and Jisung keeps talking, gesturing wildly. “Honestly, I don’t even know half the shit I own. Sometimes I open a drawer and it’s like, oh, hello, cursed object I forgot about.”

You giggle, shaking your head as he finally stops in front of his door. He turns to you dramatically, gripping the handle. “Prepare yourself,” he warns, wiggling his eyebrows. “This is not just a room. This is an experience.”

With that, he swings open the door.

The first thing you notice is that Jisung was not exaggerating. His room is a chaotic explosion of random shit. Posters cover the walls, some of them normal, bands, movies, anime, while others are questionable choices, like a framed photo of Shrek in a Renaissance-style painting.

There are plushies stacked in one corner, a full arcade joystick setup next to his desk, multiple fidget cubes scattered on his nightstand, and an entire shelf dedicated to random collectables. A rubber chicken, a Funko Pop of Michael Scott from The Office, a tiny golden Buddha, and what looks like an actual taxidermied frog playing a tiny violin.

You step inside cautiously, glancing around. "You buy a lot."

Jisung grins proudly, kicking some clothes out of the way. “I know, right? It’s fucking awesome.”

He immediately starts pointing things out, launching into the backstory of every ridiculous item.

“This,” he says, grabbing a tiny, handheld fan from his desk, “was supposed to save my life during this heatwave, but it barely blows any air, so now it just sits here collecting dust like a useless piece of shit.”

You hum, pretending to be deeply fascinated.

He grabs a remote-controlled car next. “Bought this because I thought it would be funny to terrorize the frat house, but then Changbin fucking stepped on it, so now it just drives in circles forever.”

You nod, clearly taking notes on his terrible purchasing habits. Then he picks up a weirdly realistic-looking pigeon figurine.

You blink at it. "Pigeon?"

Jisung grins, shaking the bird at you. “YES. I bought this because I read somewhere that pigeons are government spies, and I thought it would be hilarious to keep one as a double agent.”

You narrow your eyes at him. "You believe that?"

Jisung shrugs. "I mean, not really, but the possibility is funny as fuck.”

You shake your head, barely holding in your laughter as you continue looking around. Then your eyes land on something big and ominous leaning against the wall. A riot shield.

You point at it. "Why?"

Jisung follows your gaze, then laughs, walking over to grab it. “Ohhh, this thing? Yeah, okay, so it looked really fucking cool when I bought it, but then I just never used it. It sat in my closet for months.”

You tilt your head. "But you use?"

Jisung nods dramatically. "Yes, it finally proved useful when I told Minho we were going on a date. I used it to protect myself from his wrath."

Your eyes widen slightly. "Minho hit you?"

Jisung grins. “No, but I wasn’t about to take my chances.”

Then, without warning, he reaches under his bed and pulls out something even more ridiculous, a realistic-looking katana.

Your mouth drops open slightly. "A sword?!"

Jisung nods, holding it up with a completely serious expression. “This, my dear Y/N, is what I actually bought to protect myself against Minho.”

You blink at him, then glance at the sword again. "It real?"

Jisung snickers. “No, it’s fake but it looks real enough to make Minho hesitate for like, two seconds.”

You shake your head, amused but not surprised. Then Jisung suddenly gasps, eyes lighting up. "OH! You need a stone!"

You tilt your head. "Stone?"

Jisung nods enthusiastically. "Like penguins, right? They give each other stones to say, I like you, let’s build a nest, let’s be criminals together.”

You nod, playing along, and Jisung immediately dives into his desk drawer, rummaging through random junk until he finally pulls out a small pebble. He holds it up proudly before walking back over and placing it gently into your palm.

You stare at it, warmth spreading in your chest. "My stone?"

Jisung nods. "Your stone."

You turn it over in your fingers, rubbing the smooth surface before looking back up at him. "You give me nest?"

Jisung grins. “Hell yeah, I give you a nest. We’re in this together now.”

You giggle, gripping the stone a little tighter.

Jisung watches you for a moment, his smile softening. Then, before you can process it, he steps closer, tilting his head slightly as he studies your face. There’s a pause, a moment of quiet anticipation, before he leans in, his hand gently cupping your cheek as his lips press against yours.

The kiss is warm, deep, and unmistakably Jisung, a little eager, a little messy, but so full of feeling that your chest tightens. His lips move against yours with a slow, deliberate pressure, as if he’s been waiting for this, as if he’s been thinking about this moment for longer than he’d ever admit.

His free hand finds your waist, fingers curling slightly against your dress as he pulls you in, his body flush against yours. You feel the slight tremble in his hands, the way his heart races against your own, and you melt into him, pressing up on your toes to kiss him back with just as much uncertainty and want.

When he finally pulls away, his breath is uneven, his forehead resting lightly against yours. He exhales a soft, breathy laugh, his grip on your waist loosening just slightly.

"Well, I guess the romantic trials and tribulations of Han Peter Jisung paid off."

And you laugh, because, somehow, it feels like the truest thing in the world.

Requested by Anon

Han Jisung Taglist: @puppymsworld

General Taglist: @nightmarenyxx @velvetmoonlght @annafee_bou @mlink64 @intoanothermind @furfoxsake22 @daaaph-lol @tirena1 @yu-winchester @cristy-101 @puppymsworld

Proofread by the one, the only, the lovely @hwangjoanna (who has a Squid Game SKZ AU which you should all go and show some love

Dividers by: @enchanthings-a

Curlysung as a result of this poll

Please like, reblog and comment as I researched so much for this story, I researched aquariums in seoul and went on a deep dive on the CEOX aquarium website and all attractions mentioned are attractions that exist at CEOX aquarium and I also did so much research on marine biology, so much

[starkglory]

Empty eyes | Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: Dean doesn't take Charlie's death too well and because of the Mark of Cain affecting him, he tells you things that will regret.

Warnings: moc!Dean Winchester, Dean being a dick, minor mentions of injury, swearing, ANGST, major character's death

Pairing: Dean Winchester × reader

Featuring: Sam Winchester

Word count: 2,3k

We watched in agony as Charlie's body, wrapped around a white sheet, burned in the flames. This should never have happened to her kind soul. She died so we could save Dean. I couldn't help but feel guilty; my heart ached because I lost a friend, again. I knew Sam felt the same. We both asked Charlie for help with the Book of the Damned, and we both lied to Dean about the book being destroyed. Now it was too late to make things right. Memories flashed through my eyes, making me tear up. I remembered when she helped us with the Dick situation, or when I taught her some hunter-kind-of-tricks. How happy she was and wouldn't stop thanking me. She didn't deserve this, anyone but her.

“Charlie,” Sam started, grabbing my and probably Dean's attention. “We are gonna miss you. You're the best.” He stopped when his voice cracked, and now I was sure he felt far worse than me because looking back, he suggested not telling Dean about the Book of the Damned not being destroyed, which I didn't agree with at first. But seeing Dean, my Dean, slowly fade away right in front of my eyes changed my opinion. Maybe it was selfish, me and Sam both were. But we couldn't let Dean become something he fears, a Monster. We couldn't lose another person, another family member, but we didn't realize who we were putting in danger on this path.

“We love you, Charlie, and I'm so sorry,” I said, blinking through tears.

“Shut up,” Dean said coldly, making Sam and me look at him. “You got her killed. You don't get to apologize.” He continued.

“Dean-“ Sam started, but Dean cut him off.

“You too, you two are the reason she is dead,” he said, not taking his eyes off the flames.

“We were trying to help you,” I said, still looking at him.

“I didn't need help,” he said bitterly. "I told you to leave it alone.”

“What were we supposed to do, just watch you die?” Sam asked, not letting me be the only one receiving the cold tone from his older brother.

“The mark isn't gonna kill me.”

“Maybe not, but when it's done with you, you won't be you anymore,” I stated. “Dean, you're all we got. So of course we were gonna fight for you because that's what we do,” I said softly.

“Yeah, she's right, we had a shot-“ Sam was cut off again by Dean.

“Yeah, you had a shot. Charlie is dead.” He finally turned his head to look at me and his brother, who was standing next to me. His dark emerald eyes bore into mine, and I couldn't recognize them. Never have I ever seen him look at me with those eyes. Because no matter how much crap we went through, he always made sure I was fine, and his eyes held nothing but sweetness and, on most occasions, worry. “Nice shot.”

“Are you even listening to me? You think I'm ever gonna forgive myself for that?!” I snapped, not being able to keep my voice down anymore. He is grieving, but so am I. If I could, I would trade places with her.

“You know what I think,” he started, still with the same voice tone. “I think it should be you up there and not her.”

I felt my heart break for the hundredth time today. I parted my lips, not taking my teary eyes off him, which clearly showed how hurt I was. Sam let out a small gasp and widened his eyes after he heard Dean's words, clearly not expecting his brother to go that far.

I knew he blamed me, probably even more than Sam. But knowing that he wanted me dead hurt more than any physical torture I've experienced.

Sam called his name, still shocked after what he heard, but his brother just walked away, breaking my heart more and more.

—————

It has been a week since I lost Charlie, since I lost my Dean. He has been searching for the Stynes ever since but has been having a bit of trouble finding their location. So meanwhile, he went on a few solo hunts. He hasn't said a word to me and to Sam, just a few like ‘buy some beers’ ‘did you find anything about the Stynes’.

He found another hunt for today and was packing his bag in his own room. We both haven't stepped in our shared room ever since the accident, which meant we weren't even sleeping on the same bed. I'm done with being ignored, so I knocked on his door and opened it without waiting for any response. He didn't even turn around, probably knowing it was me.

“Dean,” I called his name, not even knowing what I wanna talk about, but getting him to look at me was the first step. “Dean,” I called, this time louder, and when he still didn't turn around, I walked towards him and grabbed his arm. “Alright, I'm done. When will you finally stop ignoring me?!”

He looked at my hand, which was grabbing his arm, and slowly turned around, finally looking at my face. “I'm not ignoring you, I just don't want to talk to you or be near you,” he said bitterly, pulling his arm away and reaching for his door.

“Dean, you know you're not the only one who lost someone, okay? And believe me, I know it's my fault she's gone, and I'll never forgive myself for that. But, god, you're practically killing me. I miss you,” I said desperately, waiting for something in his eyes to change, waiting for him to embrace me in his strong arms, but... Nothing. His eyes didn't even hold hatred anymore, just emptiness.

“I don't know what you expect me to say, ‘I'm sorry you were so stupid’ ‘I'm sorry you got another person killed off’ ‘I'm sorry you're so fucking useless’ Huh?! Is that what you want me to say? You want me to feel sorry for you?!” he yelled, showing the anger and darkness in his eyes while he harshly slammed me to the wall, making me whimper slightly. His words cut deep into my skin, but I tried my best to ignore them, knowing this Dean wasn't really my Dean.

“I want you to understand, I want you to know that I'm sorry. I want you to tell me that we're gonna go through this like we always do,” I said softly, looking deeply into his eyes, trying to crack him.

He let out a dark chuckle and grasped my shoulders, lowering his head to be on the same height level with me. “You want me to tell you that we're gonna go through this? Well, baby, in that way, I'd be a big liar.”

“Dean, me and Sam, we are so close to saving you. Please, just don't let the mark control you,” I begged, feeling small under his touch.

“I don't want nor need you two saving me, and believe me, at this very moment, I'm trying to not let the mark control me, so don't provoke me,” he whispered against my ear, sending shivers down my spine.

"I thought you trusted me.”

“Well, that trust was destroyed when you got someone who was like a sister to me killed. Have you ever noticed how many innocent people died because you were being too stupid?” he said harshly.

"We all have made mistakes, Dean," I said, as I thought about the hunts where innocent people died, and I couldn't save them. I didn't want Dean to know how much his words were affecting me, but, god, I felt like a crumpled paper.

“Seems like that's the only thing you ever do,” he smirked, letting his eyes fall on the floor again before looking up at my eyes again. “Tell me, how does it feel knowing you don't mean anything to anybody and you're just a burden in our lives? How does it feel knowing nobody loves you?”

That's it. That was the punch line to make me break into tears.

“Y-you love me, you said that before.”

“You know I lie to get laid,” he said, smirking, proud of his response.

My heart was racing more and more, and I felt nauseous.

“Dean, please-“

“You're nothing, do you hear me? Nothing!” he grabbed my cheeks harshly. “Your existence doesn't matter. You.don't.matter.” he said, spitting the words out before letting me go. He took his bag and walked out of the room, not even glancing at me. I slid down the wall as I started sobbing silently.

Then I heard a buzz from my phone.

New message from Sammy:

“Y/N, Dean just said he found a hunt, probably three to four werewolves, and he told me to go with him. I was really surprised but didn't question him. I think he's getting better. I'll also talk to him on the road. Next time, he'll definitely ask you too, just like old times. Don't stay up and don't worry; we got this :) love you.”

He asked Sam to go, but not me. If he hadn't told me that he hated me a few minutes ago, I'd think he was worried. But if it was really 3 or 4 werewolves, there's nothing to be worried about. He just wants to stay away from me. He told me I was a burden to them; he'll probably throw me out of the bunker soon.

Dark thoughts ran through my mind, and suddenly a rush of anxiety ran through me. What if there were more than a few werewolves? What if they get hurt? What if Dean hates me even more?

I checked Sam's message again and saw that he sent me the address of where the werewolves' location is and where the hunt would probably take place. I quickly rushed to my room, grabbed my car keys, and went to drive to the location.

—————

I was hiding behind some of the trees in the forest, watching as each of the boys fought one werewolf, two already dead ones on the floor.

Everything seemed good so far; I mean, their guns were on the floor, but they were fighting each werewolf single handed and there was no need for me to make my presence known. The boys were winning as always. And that's when I realized they don't really need me in their life. I knew the words that came out of Dean's mouth tonight weren't really Dean's, my Dean. But he was somehow right; before I became the hunter I am today, I made many mistakes. Some were small, and some led to people getting hurt or even killed. I also put their lives in danger multiple times because I was being reckless. Finding the demons that killed my parents blinded my vision. I was ready to get back to the bunker when I saw both of the werewolves giving up until I noticed something.

A werewolf close to Sam's back, and it seemed like none of the brothers noticed him. I searched for my gun but remembered I forgot it in the backseat of my car. I cursed under my breath and did the only thing possible right now to save Sam. I couldn't let Dean lose another person, especially his brother, who I knew meant the world to him. I couldn't put him through something like that again when there's a chance to save the younger Winchester.

So I ran towards Sam, trying my best to not slip because of the woods on the floor. The Werewolf was close, and nobody noticed him. I'm not the only stupid one after all. The boys turned their heads to me for a slight second, surprised at my presence, but didn't stop fighting the other werewolves.

Until I pushed Sam away from the werewolf he was fighting onto the floor. He seemed confused at first, until he saw it. I assumed Dean did too but couldn't be too sure since he was behind me. I let out an agonizing scream when the werewolf grazed his claws into my stomach and the other one, which Sam was fighting before, grazed his claws into my back before my lifeless body fell on the floor. Dean didn't hesitate more seconds before getting his gun from the floor and shooting all the werewolves.

I was bleeding like a waterfall from my body and my mouth. But the good thing is-

I didn't feel any pain, or anything in that matter…

Dean Winchester’s Pov:

No no no.

This can't be happening.

It's all a nightmare, just another stupid nightmare.

I heard Sam's crying voice telling the love of my life, his best friend, to wake up, holding her torn apart body in his arms, asking her why she pushed him away. But there was no answer.

It's a nightmare happening in real life.

Her beautiful y/e/c are open but so empty, unrecognizable.

I stood over her body, not being able to move from my spot.

There is so much blood everywhere.

Her blood.

This is hell.

No, I’ve been to hell and it's worse than hell.

I started tearing up more and more, reality hitting me more every second.

I let out an angry scream and fell on my knees when I remembered my last words to her.

“You're nothing, do you hear me? Nothing! Your existence doesn't matter. You.don't.matter.”

She wasn't nothing, she was my everything.

She mattered, she was the reason I kept going, now she's gone and it's all my fault.

All my fault.

All of the words I said came back to me, making my chest hurt.

As I knelt beside her lifeless body, surrounded by the aftermath of our shattered world, I whisper into the silent abyss, "I'm sorry, Y/N. I'm so sorry."

And deep down I felt the Mark laughing…

[fastcardotmp3]

athena + maddie; 1k words

"Did Bobby ever tell you much about my brother Daniel?"

Athena looks up, a flicker of a thing, before her gaze trains back on the pot of coffee she pours out into two matching mugs.

"I know he passed when you were young," Athena says, sliding one of the mugs across the island to where Maddie sits on a stool, but staying standing on her side as she lifts her own to her lips. "I know Buck didn't know about him until a few years ago."

Maddie wraps her hands around her mug and watches the steam, nods as though centering herself, and offers a melancholy smile as she lifts her eyes.

"My parents didn't want to talk about him after he died," she says. "They didn't want me to bring him up."

"That must have been very difficult."

Athena has known Maddie Buckley for quite some time, now. She has seen her through terrible things and Maddie's voice has been the guiding force to see Athena through the same.

She's a tough woman, but a woman whose toughness presents much differently than Athena's own. Maddie is unapologetically emotional in ways Athena has always been terrified of being, worried for the sort of weakness with which it would mark her.

They are both resourceful women, Athena knows this, but the resources into which they dip when they need to support themselves through the pull of a vitriolic gravity are simply different.

A For Sale sign sits in the front yard of this house built from ash and Maddie Buckley sits at the counter because she just felt like stopping by but Athena isn't sure she's ready for Maddie's version of strength. Not sure if she's ready to abandon her own.

"It was difficult," Maddie admits like a simpler thing than Athena knows it to be. "I wasn't allowed to grieve my brother. They would get-- If I even hinted at trying to talk about him, they would get so upset and I would feel so guilty for it."

"It's a lot for a child to carry," Athena breathes, because she has known Maddie for many years, and even the version of this woman she knew still on the run feels nearly childlike compared to the one she looks at before her now.

"It's a lot for anyone to carry," Maddie tells her: pointed, but gentle.

If nothing else, it drags a dry chuckle out of Athena's lungs.

If nothing else, it creates the illusion of laughter.

"I knew you weren't just stopping by for my coffee," she smiles at Maddie with a sidelong look over the lip of her mug.

Maddie shrugs. "It's good coffee either way," she says. "But you're right. I do have a point."

A faux sheepishness to it that Athena can see right through, that Maddie doesn't seem bothered by the transparency of. She's not ashamed to be here, poking at Athena's grief.

There's something refreshing about that, in spite of the rest which her presence brings to the front.

"Go on ahead," Athena motions broadly with a sweep of her hand and Maddie leans further into the counter, closing some of the distance between them.

"I know that I can't begin to understand what you're going through and I know I'm probably the last person you ever want to try and relate to with how everything played out," Maddie speaks aloud that which has been crumbling away bit by bit, with each passing day that a group photo--family photo-- has sat on the side table in an empty, echoing living room.

She is Chimney's wife, this woman. She, perhaps, was served more than anyone in Bobby's sacrifice.

Athena has been angry at Chimney. She has looked at him and seen everything she lost. She has resented him for living when Bobby didn't.

But Maddie?

Maddie has been a source of something Athena hasn't known much of in her life. Jealousy.

Her partner came home to her. She gets to go home to her partner, still.

She's right, really, that Athena does not care to relate to her, even as she's finding her stumbling way out of that pit of despair and rage which this blossoming young family instills within her.

"But I also know..." Maddie continues, all that emotion right on her face, "I know that no one wants to speak his name around you right now. I know it probably feels like playing a game of taboo, that if you talk about him, you'll only make them all feel guilty. But, Athena, what if that's the trick? I already feel guilty."

A burst of something wet and hurting bubbles out of Athena, teary like a sob but sharp like a laugh. Maddie pushes onwards with the kind of pull at her lips which somehow encompasses all the complexity of feeling in the kitchen with them. Big, brown eyes like reflections of the unspoken parts of this conversation.

"I didn't start healing from losing Daniel until I was an adult because I wasn't given the space to. My parents still haven't, I don't think, because they don't want that space," she says hoarsely. "And I don't want that for you. I want you to have the chance to feel it out loud without feeling like a burden. I don't want you to feel like you have to hide from it for our sake."

"So you'd rather I make it your burden, then?" Athena asks, coffee long forgotten and something about the tension, the release of it, making the room feel warmer than it has since that last morning when it held him. Not in an entirely pleasant way, but not the opposite either.

And Maddie Buckley is tough. She has been through the wringer.

She takes it all on board differently that Athena does, but she takes it.

"Athena," she breathes, "Whether you let me help you or not, I already am. At least make it worth something."

Tears claw their way down Athena's cheeks.

Perhaps they can share in this show of strength.

[myownwholewildworld]

veni, vidi, victus sum (a "per aspera ad astra" drabble)

main masterlist | series masterlist | read on ao3 pairing: marcus acacius x emperor's daughter!reader. summary: marcus returns from war with the worst news possible. a/n: considering that i started this story here by posting the end first... may i interest you in how it all started? c: i appreciate comments and reblogs, they make me happy knowing that people enjoy my writing <3 take care x warnings: 18+, mdni. pure angst because i don't know any better. death of a secondary character. w/c: 2.3k

July, 106 AD

Marcus’ right hand shook uncontrollably. So much so, he had to wrap his left around the opposite wrist and squeeze as hard as he could, hoping to stop the tremor that suddenly took hold of his muscles and soul.

He hadn't even had time to wash off the mud and sweat. Nor to process everything that had happened in the last few days. Once his mission was done and dusted, only then and in the privacy of his own company, would he give himself permission to break down. He would be a terrible General if he let himself be dominated by emotion at such important moment for the Empire.

Returning from Dacia after an intense campaign, Marcus had been at the head of the Roman column that would carry out the offensive towards the east of the Dacian capital, Sarmizegetusa, while General Atticus, his inseparable friend to whom he would have blindly entrusted his life, and son-in-law to Emperor Traianus, led the battle towards the center of the town.

That week the Empire had annexed a new region that would bring great wealth. But Marcus, personally, had lost much more than what he truly had gained. Lady Justice had spoken, letting the balance tip completely in favour of collective Roman rule and not his personal one.

Marcus walked between the marble columns of a secluded hallway in the Domus Flavia, the public area of ​​the Imperial Palace on Palatine Hill, as if he was an umbra. He put one foot in front of the other automatically, his mind on a land more than six hundred Roman miles away.

The siege of the Dacian capital to the east had been especially bloody. The enemy had presented a good strategy; the thread of many souls being skewed by the Parcae on both fronts. Among them, that of his own son, Augustus. At eighteen years old, he had been a great military promise, the best candidate to one day replace his father.

If Marcus closed his eyes, he could still remember Augustus’ warm, battered body in his arms. His empty orbs, observing the infinite, reflected the horror of his last seconds in this world. A thick and rudimentary pilum protruding from his chest was a macabre picture Marcus would have trouble forgetting. Its tip so sharp, it had pierced through the segmented lorica with ease, embedding itself in his heart, blood still gushing out.

By the time Marcus’ knees hit the ground by Augustus’ side, Pluto had already claimed his son to join His ranks. The bloodshed had continued to unfold around him, a maddening dance of swords, as if the world had not just stopped —as if Marcus had not just lost the only reason that kept him standing.

His reality had just sunk into the blackest misery and the rest of humanity was there, present yet impassive, blind to his pain.

But there had been no time to grieve — not there, during the darkest hour.

An enemy sword hovered over him, and he had to react.

When the battle died down and his soldiers celebrated the victory, Marcus dragged the corpse of his only son to the edge of some oleanders, where he managed to dig a hole with the help of his gladius and his own fingers.

Time was of the essence, which prevented him from laying Augustus to rest following the rituals of the Roman religion. He could only place a bronze coin over Augustus' mouth as payment to Charon, the ferryman of the Underworld, before throwing dirt on him. He then had composed himself as best he could, letting the General's façade fall on his face, and headed east, unaware that his friend Atticus had suffered a similar end.

On one day alone, he had lost two of the most important people in his life.

His mind returned to the present. From his right hand hung the decapitated head of Decebalus, already so decomposed that there was no blood left inside. The coward had tried to escape to Ranisstorum and, in his last desperate moments, committed suicide when Marcus and another officer, Tiberius Maximus, were hunting him down.

Finding his enemy defeated by his own demons was an anticlimactic moment, given the events of the previous days. Tiberius circumambulated towards Sarmizegetusa again, while Marcus and his legion, along with Atticus’, returned to Rome.

He was defeated, physically and mentally. Marcus just wanted to finish that damned mission and return to his villa. An empty one, devoid of a family he once revered.

In the blink of an eye, he found himself in the throne room, with Emperor Traianus staring at him, a sardonic smile painting his lips. After placing the head of Decebalus at the feet of the Emperor, he gave his last report of war. When the time came to deliver the news that his son-in-law, General Atticus, had perished in battle, the smile faded from Traianus’ face. That would be a hard blow to recover from.

Marcus explained the details that had been entrusted to him, omitting the death of his firstborn and ending with the fact that Atticus’ legion was carrying his corpse through the streets of Rome at that very moment, heading to the basilica of the Domus Flavia to begin with the funeral rites.

At least one of the two would have proper burial.

He said goodbye with deferential courtesy and shuffled out of there. He still had one last assignment: to inform the wife of General Atticus and daughter of the Emperor, you.

With heavy feet, Marcus ambled towards the most private wing of the Palace, the Domus Augustana. One of the maids guided him through the unfamiliar corridors, leaving him in front of a basin raised on a half column. Marcus took the hint, realising that there was still dirt—and specks of dried blood—embedded in his face. He did as he was asked, drying his skin with a linen cloth, before resuming his pace.

Finally, they stopped in front of double doors, and the maid knocked.

A minute later, they swung open.

Steeling himself for what was to come, Marcus bowed his aching back, keeping his eyes on the expensive stone that lined the floor.

“Domina mea (my lady),” he greeted you with deference.

Keeping busy while worry stalked the back of your mind was a colossal task. One you should have been used to by now, but it was nonetheless nerve-wracking.

Having to wait around until you heard news from your husband was not how you wanted to spend your days, but for love you had to. For Rome, you had to. Your husband, Resius Atticus, was your father’s most trusted ally, which meant he was kept away from you for long nights.

You flicked through the pages of the shabby parchment, its ink slowly fading with the passage of time. Finding yourself reading the same paragraph again, you decided to put it aside. You curled up on the chaise lounge, hugging your knees as the sun filtered through the slit window — a ray of sunshine kissing your skin, leaving a warm trail.

Closing your eyes, you revelled in the rare moment of quiet, of peace, a smile lingering on the corners of your mouth.

A knock on the door swept the instant away, and then your heart fluttered uncontrollably.

Today was the day when Resius was meant to return. To his duties in the court, but also to you. You looked forward to settling back into a routine with him, lazy afternoons spent by the private gardens, talking sweet nothings to each other. Despite the years spent by his side, you didn’t tire of him, of your unbreakable relationship.

So, when you swung the double doors open with a pearly smile tugging at your lips, you did not expect to see your husband’s best friend instead.

Your heart suddenly stopped in your chest, swelling to an uncomfortable point. It stretched, a crawling feeling tearing your skin apart from the inside out.

Widened eyes, they locked on his, searching for answers and finding none. Marcus wore an impassible expression, but the way he averted his glassy eyes told you everything you needed to know.

This could only mean one thing. Your worst nightmare taking form, escaping from your dreams and filtering into reality.

Still shocked, you saw the server scurrying away, leaving you alone with the General — but not your General.

“May I come in, Augusta (Imperial Princess)?” his soft voice broke through your blocked eardrums.

Jarred, you nodded, stepping aside to let Acacius in.

You stood there, numb and confounded, your brain trying to find another reason for General Acacius’ visit.

“Please, let us sit down,” Acacius spoke gently, a firm hand on the small of your back guiding you towards the chaise lounge.

This truly felt like a dream, ethereal and foggy, something your vivid imagination had come up with during an unrequited afternoon nap. That had to be it, because this could not be it. You still had a thousand lives to live besides Resius — you had prayed to the Gods for his safe return and they never failed you.

Under Acacius’ direction, you sat down, the pillow underneath giving way to the weight of both of you.

“Domina mea, I regret to be the bearer of bad news. General Atticus perished at the mercy of a Dacian sword, defending two of his fallen soldiers from certain death,” his words shook your system, the numbness taking hold of all your being.

Silence lingered, and you both sat there with eyes fixed on nothing.

This just wasn’t real, couldn’t be. You refused to register such cruel information, shaking your head to unhear what had been spoken aloud.

“No, you have to be wrong, Acacius. I am sure you are,” you finally replied, eyes looking for his tired orbs. A hand flew to one of his resting on his knee, squeezing it tight. “You are wrong. This must be some twisted joke.”

Acacius’ sight did not lie though. You could see the pain emanating from his eyes, the utter bareness they exuded. With pursed lips, he just stared at you, his free hand hovering over yours on his knee until he stroked it warmly.

“I am truly sorry, Domina mea. I… I wish I was lying,” his voice faltered momentarily. “I lament not having been by his side. Had I been, I would have gladly traded my life for his. I would have…”

Acacius did not finish the sentence, because the wail that tore through your throat interrupted him. A fresh wound split your chest in half, all emotions pouring out in a sudden burst. Tears welled up, blurring your vision, and you clutched at your chest, your lungs shrinking with your heart. A burning sensation filled you and then deserted you, leaving you empty, cold — broken.

Losing Resius was a death sentence to your heart, to your soul. To all you were and would be. Life would not—could not—be the same if he was no longer brightening it for you. Hope was no longer your companion, the easy happiness that usually shimmered within you all gone with the blow of a few simple words.

Something crawled inside you, twisting and twitching and breaking and consuming. Something dark, something sad, something shattered. Grief suffocated your heart. This was not pain, this was torment. Living hell.

The raw intensity of it all clouded your mind. Your fractured soul looking for a chink of solace, wanting to cling onto a sliver of hope. Before thinking, you let go of the dam of your emotions, sobs flooding your mouth, as you turned around and hugged Acacius.

Little did it matter the blood and dirt on his worn armour, you needed the comfort of a friendly shoulder. Acacius would understand your pain, the suffering that crushed your soul, because he had also lost his best friend. The two of them had been inseparable for decades — you both had lost someone important that day. He would understand. You knew he did.

Threading your arms around his shoulders, you cried your sorrow in the crook of his neck, kind palms rubbing your back, commending your pain to leave your body. So, you wept until your eyes were bloodshot, until they itched and dried like a river during the worst drought of the century. Trickles of tears stained your cheeks, lashes clumping together under the heaviness of tearful dew.

Time was lost to the dragging pain, and only when Acacius’ hands stroked your shoulders, did you venture a look in his direction, leaning back. The naked expression on his face told you how much agony he carried. The soreness his eyes distilled was on par with yours.

“I am sorry for your loss too,” you offered your condolences. After all, he had lost his best friend. “I trust that your son Augustus found his way back home safe.”

Before their departure, Acacius and his son had paid you both a visit, a meal shared at night between old friends’ jests and company. You remembered Augustus’ enthusiasm to make his father proud on their first campaign together. How Acacius had looked at his heir with adulation and pride — the apple of his eyes. Acacius’ wife had died during childbirth, which had only reinforced the close relationship between father and son.

A feeble smile loitered on his mouth, a brief nod putting your mind at ease. Neither of you needed more suffering tonight.

“He is resting now,” was his succinct reply.

But Acacius always was, so his reassurance soothed your soul a little.

At least Acacius and his son had made it out alive.

[forestclan-clangen]

MOON 12 (Part 1)

<< FIRST | < PREVIOUS |

To everyone's shock, Talontooth goes missing. They call out to him in the early morning - but he's gone. Iciclepool is particularly upset about this, having mentored the warrior. She thought that after years of seeing this process, she would get used to it. She doesn't. She barely avoids prolonged grief with the help of Hopechase.

(Iciclepool, deputy, female, 68 moons. Ambitious.) (Hopechase, warrior, female, 94 moons. Playful)

---

Iciclepool thought she was free from this. When Lakestar was gone, she thought for once, just once, perhaps things would be okay. Deep in her heart, she knew that wasn't true. She knew the law of the woods. She knew that she would have to see adult cats die again.

When Talontooth wasn't found in camp the night Windfur and Shiverpaw returned from the Half-Moon Dome, when the sun rose in the morning and he hadn't returned, the Clan had to accept that he was gone.

She thought that after years of seeing that process, she would be used to it. She wasn't.

She taught Talontooth everything she knew to stay alive. She thought that she had done everything to make sure that he would live a long life. Grow strong, mentor another cat, perhaps have a family of his own, if he was inclined to it.

Why? Why him? Out of all the cats -

Iciclepool could barely say anything at his funeral rites. The only thing she could say was a pitiful apology. She felt everyone's eyes on her pelt and it hurt.

She buried herself in her nest, begging for roots to rise from the earth and swallow her too. Iciclepool denied his death. Raged against StarClan and the woods. Considered if maybe he had simply run away to the Twoleg cabins. Wallowed in despair. Repeat.

She could barely feel the gentle paw pressed against her back.

"...Icicle?"

Hopechase's gentle voice felt like daggers on her soul.

"...Hey." A dark pelt padded in front of her field of vision. Iciclepool continued to stare into space, even as Hopechase's blue eyes filled her vision. The dark molly said nothing as she simply stared into Iciclepool's eyes.

"...I'm sorry, Icicle. I know he meant a lot to you."

The white deputy felt the knife twist. She closed her eyes as she felt the bile rise in her throat. She said nothing.

Hopechase wordlessly rested her chin on Iciclepool's head, then began grooming her.

"Hope, please."

"Please what?"

"Please leave me alone."

"I will. But you haven't groomed yourself in two days. When you feel the strength to stand again, being mat-free will help."

"I don't…" Iciclepool started her retort, then trailed off defeatedly. There was no point. Arguing with Hopechase was an exercise in futility. She didn't argue back. She only listened, and did what she believed to be right. So, Iciclepool let her. She closed her eyes and allowed her to groom her and remove any compacting hair.

For a moment, she thought of one of the last times she spent with Cliffstep. She grieved. She wailed as all of her kits were gone, again. The woods, Lakestar - took everything from her. She couldn't hear herself over the voice of her own cries. And there lay Cliffstep next to her. Grooming her. Removing her mats. His work was gentle, but his muscles were tense the entire time, his face chiseled with burning intensity. He barely spoke for the next week. His ice blue eyes were soft around his loved ones. They sharpened with the ferocity of a lynx the very moment Lakestar or Chicoryglint crossed his path - cold and haunting.

He loved his family, so much. He loved her. He would've loved Talontooth. He would've -

Iciclepool's face curled into a snarl as she buried her face into Hopechase and wept.

She doesn't know how much time had passed until she found her emotions spiralling back down, going numb. The warm newleaf sun had started melting the snow. The sound of water dripping off the branches and the den walls outside played a soft melody.

"Iciclepool." Hopechase's voice was filled with love. "I'm going to help set patrols for you. Alright?"

Iciclepool just nodded. Hopechase blinked slowly, a passing thought crossing her gaze. Her tail tapped the floor pensively. Finally, it seemed like she made a choice, and her eyes softened.

"I love you, Iciclepool."

The white molly froze for a moment. She opened her eyes again, her copper gaze layered with an unknown feeling. Hopechase continued with the wisdom of many lives.

"I know that you know. My feelings aren't hidden. I know that right now, and maybe for a little while, the world will feel cruel, and empty. And that's alright. But I need you to know that you are loved." Hopechase pressed her nose against Iciclepool's forehead. "You still have family. You still have friends. And while today may be one of the worst days you will ever have, I am here to give you a groom, and take your tasks, and remind you that today, your world has not ended."

Iciclepool's voice was stuck in her throat as her eyes widened. She felt her pelt turn hot in shame and unbridled emotion, unable to mantle any thoughts to her mind.

Hopechase pulled back, and gave her a look that she had only seen from one other cat before in her life. "Please, grieve and pray to Cliffstep and Talontooth. Their eyes are watching you from StarClan. They love you, so much."

Iciclepool bit back a cry.

"And when you feel like you can laugh again," Hopechase continued. "Then you can tell me how you feel. Whichever way you do, I will still be your friend. And you will still be a lovely deputy," Hopechase let out a final purr of comfort before steadily padding outside the den.

Iciclepool, for the first time since she sat in her den, turned to watch Hopechase leave, and looked outside the warrior's den. For a moment, her mind was a storm of emotion.

Hopechase…really felt that way? And she would wait? Even seeing her as a useless heap of a deputy, weeping again at another lost child - is this really what she wanted?

And…did Iciclepool want her? Is that something her grief would even permit her to think about?

Talontooth wanted life as well. But you are here. And he is not.

Her guilt ravished whatever brief embers of contentment lit in her heart. She felt numb again.

And yet, she couldn't bring herself to turn back to face the wall again. Her eyes were frozen on the movement of the outside world - the one Hopechase wandered freely within.

For a moment, she watched. Her clanmates were still reeling from the hurt. Riversnow sat in the sun, her eyes following Cloudthunder's kits gently. Windfur approached her glumly, and said something to her. After a few moments of no movement, Riversnow nodded without looking up at him. Windfur seemed surprised, but grateful as he gave her an herb Iciclepool knew well - borage.

Morningspot stared at the cooking fire. Her eyes were void of meaning, as though her spirit was gone and her body was piloted by something else. Olive's yellowcough was recovering steadily - almost completely gone. The older molly wordlessly sat next to the younger, staring at the fire with her. It conveyed support that didn't need words.

And…under the shadow of the apprentice den was Shiverpaw. Her kit. Her eyes were empty. Windfur said that after their visit to the Dome, she was frantic. Dreading. She said something horrible was going to happen, and she didn't know what. Just that she was so, so afraid.

Iciclepool felt a rock in her belly. Her grief drowned under the waves of protectiveness and fear.

You still have family. You still have friends.

Hopechase's words echoed in her thoughts. She weakly pushed herself to her feet, and hissed as she stumbled. Her muscles wobbled in complaint.

How long…how long had she ignored Shiverpaw in her grief?

Her kit. Oh, her poor kit.

Iciclepool felt like the sun beaming at her pelt threatened to expose her suffering to the world. That…that didn't matter right now. She slowly padded towards her daughter. Her mind could only ever picture her as the poor kitten she found, shivering in a bush on a cool newleaf day. But her child was almost all grown up. A year old. Her child was here.

Shiverpaw heard Iciclepool's pawsteps, and her body tensed and straightened. Her cobalt blue eyes were wide, as though spooked by her mother's sudden appearance.

"O-Oh. Mom. I'm sorry, I…I was going to check on you," Shiverpaw stammered, her voice dry. "Did, um…I…I could give you a poppy seed, if that'll help with…"

Iciclepool said nothing. She wordlessly sat next to her child, her pelt brushing against hers. Shiverpaw looked at her with wide, sleep-deprived eyes.

The deputy gently brushed her tail against her daughter's back.

"...Speak to me, Shiver."

Shiverpaw slowly shook her head, until her expression broke and she buried her head into her mother's shoulder. She mewled pathetically.

"It's my fault. It's all my fault. All of it. All of it, all of it," she said between sobs.

"No, honey. No," Iciclepool said with a comforting purr rising in her throat. "Whatever StarClan said, a warning can come too late. You are not responsible for this."

"But I am. And it is. I should've never - I shouldn't have - " Shiverpaw continued to stumble before being reduced to a grief-stricken mess. Whatever words her daughter wanted to say, they couldn't find their perch.

So, she didn't push her. She decided to just be there for her daughter. She, too, had lost a friend.

---

Redstar and Hopechase cooperate to reinstate a past ForestClan festival - The First Bloom, which would occur in the next moon. Despite Redstar's grief, she tells herself that this will be good for the Clan. First Bloom focused on games, decorating the camp with local early-weeds and quick-growing plants, and paying respects to the prey they hunt.

(Redstar, leader, female, 70 moons. Strict.) (Hopechase, warrior, female, 94 moons. Playful.)

Windfur stumbles into a loner healer, named Bracken. She's only 9 moons old, and asks if he's seen a black tom - her littermate. Out of concern, he offers her advice on some of the local herbs, and offers her a place in the Clan. But Bracken refused, having heard rumors about Clan life and VERY adamant against it. Windfur burns with resentment over Lakestar's bloody legacy.

(Windfur, medicine cat, male, 26 moons. Lonesome) (Bracken, loner, female, 9 moons. Grumpy)

Deerkit and Cottonkit REALLY want to explore outside of camp, interested in the songs of birds they've never seen. Cottonkit comes up with a plan to sneak out with Deerkit, but Barleywave puts a stop to it. Barleywave thinks the kits aren't taking their safety seriously.

(Barleywave, warrior, male, 41 moons. Playful.) (Deerkit, kitten, female, 2 moons. Noisy) (Cottonkit, kitten, female, 2 moons. Fearless.)

Airkit prefers to spend time with his mother, Cloudthunder. Cloudthunder is somewhat concerned, but tries to engage with him anyway.

(Airkit, kitten, male, 2 moons. Polite.) (Cloudthunder, warrior, female, 45 moons. Adventurous)

Branchpaw brings fresh moss to replace Riversnow's bedding. Riversnow appreciates the effort Branchpaw has been putting in recently.

(Branchpaw, apprentice, female, 7 moons) (Riversnow, warrior, female, 61 moons)

Cloudthunder cooks Tree something soothing for their stomach. Tree thanks her profusely and offers a flirty compliment, which Cloudthunder seems receptive to.

(Tree, warrior, non-binary, 43 moons. Adventurous) (Cloudthunder, warrior, female, 45 moons. Adventurous.)

Barleywave tried to talk to Riversnow like Hopechase asked of him, really, he tried. But it was rather difficult to do when she kept not-so-subtly finding an excuse to leave whenever he approached her. Dejected, he gives up. She had no obligation to talk to him, right? He wasn't her mate. That was normal. Yep. He wasn't - nope. He wasn't sad at all. Sadness is for losers. He was TOTALLY FINE - [He was, in fact, not fine.]

(Barleywave, warrior, male, 41 moons. Playful) (Riversnow, warrior, female, 61 moons. Adventurous)

<PREVIOUS | NEXT>

[zombiigrll]

Hey! I saw you wanted request sooo how about reader, carl, and a couple other people go on a run to get stuff for negan, but on the run a herd comes. They can’t handle the herd so the reader distracts the herd but ends up getting lost. The rest of the group had to leave to avoid the herd and carl is broken up about it. Months pass and carl thinks reader is dead and grieves her until one day she shows back up at alexandria and they reunite!

──────────────────────────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

BACK FROM THE 'DEAD.' ⋆｡°✩ carl grimes x reader

.ᐟ WORD COUNT .ᐟ ⭑ 2.2K

꩜ .ᐟ WARNINGS ⭑ hurt to comfort, use of y/n, lineup (twd 7x1) mention, blood, gore, zombie apocalypse stuff, swearing, kissing !!

.ᐟ SUMMARY .ᐟ ⭑ you had gotten lost protecting your friends from a herd, and everyone thought you had died. that was until you arrived back at alexandria weeks later.

꩜ .ᐟ A/N .ᐟ ⭑ thank you SO MUCH for the request anon! i had so much fun writing this i hope you enjoy!! <3

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────────────────────────────

"y/n..." a familiar voice called. "wake up.." the voice was soft, and whoever's voice it belonged to was shoving you in an attempt to wake you up.

"mmm." you rolled over and covered the blanket over your head stubbornly.

"my dad says we have to go on a run. we have to get supplies for.. negan."

right. negan.

that got you to move the blanket off of your head and look back at the boy talking to you somberly.

carl was always so gentle with you, despite all that he was going through. he was there in the lineup with you, too. but afterwards, he was more worried how you felt than how he felt.

whenever you'd ask, he'd simply shrug it off, saying he's fine, or he's felt worse.

he brought up a hand to your sleepy face, moving a strand of hair from your face before resting his palm on your jaw.

"i know it sucks." he sighs, but he still smiles at you.

you sit up and rub your eyes, an exhausted groan leaving your mouth. "when do we have to leave?"

"whenever you're ready." he runs his hands through your hair, trying to comfort you.

"alright." you give him a quick kiss before standing up, stretching as you walk over to grab your clothes.

...

you, carl, rick, and aaron were all in a big truck, driving around to find some place that had even the slightest chance of supplies for the saviors. you were quiet the entire time, anxious thinking about the saviors and the lineup. you didn't want anything to happen to anyone in your group again. you'd make sure nothing happened.

carl was always watching you, making sure nothing happened to you. even during the lineup, he shouted when negan pointed his bat toward you. begging for him to stop messing with you. he almost got himself killed, and you weren't going to let that happen again.

"here, stop here." rick says, knocking on the outside of his door through the window.

aaron pulls to the side of the road, in front of an outdoor shopping outlet.

you hop out of the car, grabbing your backpack as you exit and you put it around to droop off of your shoulder. carl follows, getting out of the car right after.

aaron and rick walk steadily in front as the two of you trail behind them.

carl nudges your shoulder slightly, looking at you with a worried expression. "you doing alright?"

you nod, licking your lips in thought. "i'm doing good. are you doing alright?"

"it doesn't matter how i'm doing-"

"yes, it does, carl." you look at him, a serious expression plastered on your face. "don't keep brushing the question off. how are you doing?"

"...best i can in our situation." carl laughs, a bit awkwardly, surprised by your seriousness.

you look forward, continuing to walk. "you can talk to me, y'know."

carl looks at you confused as he catches back up to you. "sorry?"

"you can talk to me. it doesn't always have to be how i'm doing, what i'm going through. you're going through things, too."

carl silently nods, continuing to walk.

the four of you stop in front of two stores.

"you two can check out this side, me an' aaron will check out the other." rick points to you and carl, gesturing for you two to check the right side.

you and carl nod at each other and begin walking into the right side, looking at all the stores.

"which store do we check first?" you ask carl, looking around.

"here, this one." carl begins walking into a store, and you follow quickly behind.

you begin rummaging through the shelves, grabbing anything useful you can find. you huff loudly shaking your head. "this is stupid. this should be our stuff."

"i agree." carl nods, clearly equally as annoyed as you. "grab some things for yourself. we can hide them somewhere outside the walls."

you look up with a smile, immediately grabbing things more eagerly. carl laughs a bit at your reaction. how easy it is to make you happy, even on bad days like this.

the two of you finished up quickly in the store and began walking around, looking at all the different shops. there weren't many on your guys' side that were worth looking. there were lots of game shops, book stores.. things you guys would have to make time for on a separate run.

"do you think we're ready to go check in with rick?" you ask as you zip up your backpack, slinging it back over your shoulder.

"yeah, i think we got everything we can get over here." carl walks over to your side, grabbing your hand and interlocking your guys fingers together, smiling at you.

the two of you start making your way back over to the left side of the shopping center, looking around for aaron and rick.

but then, you heard growls. loud growls. and lots of them.

you look around for where the sound is coming from, but aaron and rick quickly run out of a store.

"do you two hear that?" aaron asks as he looks around.

"yes, where is it coming from?" you look around frantically with him, but then you spot something behind him.

walkers. a herd of them.

you point behind them and they look over. you pull out your gun quickly.

"they're right next to the car, we won't make it." rick shakes his head, pointing his gun to the walkers.

you look at them, then over at carl. his eyes were wide and he had his gun up, too, shaking.

you walk forward a bit, looking further into the herd. "...i'll distract them."

"what?!" carl whisper-yells, looking at you like you were insane. "fuck no. you're not-"

"i love you carl." you grab his face and give him a quick kiss. "i'm not letting you guys die. not like this."

you start running, gun in hand pointing to the herd and shooting at them.

"please, wait- y/n!" carl yells, but you're too far away for him to catch up.

you pull out your knife and begin stabbing the walkers close to you, their rotten blood splattering onto your clothes.

they were surrounding you, but you slashed at them as fast as you could, occasionally pulling your gun out to shoot them.

"no, no!" you hear carl yell. you turn your head and see rick pulling him into the car.

he was crying.

when you paused to turn around, you noticed that the walkers stopped paying attention to you. and when you looked down, you noticed you covered- drenched- in blood. you knew that most of it was walker blood, but you were worried some of it could be yours, too.

you didn't have any idea on where to go. you were stuck, letting the walkers roam past you. and the car was already long gone by now.

so, you pretended to be a walker. it was insane, but it worked. you walked back to the mall and quickly shoved yourself into one of the stores.

"oh, god.." you cried, setting the back of your head on the wall and dragging yourself down along it.

you looked down at your bloodstained hands. you were trembling. you were experiencing a fear you had never felt before.

"am i bit?" you spoke to yourself, rolling your sleeves up and trying to wipe away the blood on your arms, despite your hands being covered in blood. you checked your waist, legs, arms, everything. no bites.

you sighed in relief, a hand on your heart as you caught your breath.

...

it had been weeks. you couldn't find alexandria, your memory of the way back getting lost somewhere in your panic from that herd. but you were still looking, determined to find alexandria. to find carl.

your hair was longer, your eyes were darker, you were dirty. you were lucky to have your backpack and that whole mall for the first couple of weeks.

but now, you were somewhere in the woods, aimlessly looking around for alexandria. despite the fact that everyone there had probably thought you were long gone, including carl. i mean, who survives being in the middle of a herd? you didn't think you would.

you were probably slowly going insane, all of the days without any social interaction were catching up to you. you'd frequently catch yourself dozing off, saying things to yourself trying to keep yourself stable.

but then, for the first time in forever, you heard a voice. it wasn't super familiar, but you recognized it. they were next to the road you saw that laid right next to the woods you were walking in.

you stepped out of the woods, and you instantly spotted michonne.

"who's there?" michonne called out, taking her sword out and pointing it towards you. you put your hands up as you step further out so she can see you. "...y/n?"

her voice went soft as she dropped her sword. she ran over to you, hugging you tightly.

"michonne.." your voice was hoarse after not speaking for weeks, but she could tell it was you.

"i thought you were dead.. everyone thought you were dead." she put her hands on your shoulders comfortingly.

"i thought i was, too." you laughed, tears forming in your eyes. "is.. is carl okay?"

"yes, he's okay." michonne nodded. "he's been talking about you a lot. he really misses you."

"how far is alexandria?" you asked with a smile. "i really need to see carl."

"it's back over this way. i haven't been walking long. i'll go ahead of you and get carl, you can surprise him." michonne smiles, picking up her sword and putting it back as she speaks.

"okay.." you nod. "what should i even say? am i just going to be like 'hey carl, i'm back from the 'dead,' sorry i made you grieve even thought i'm alive!' ..what if he's mad?"

"he'd never get mad at you. you know that." michonne pats your back. "alexandria is a straight shot this way. take some time to prepare yourself, i'll be on the other side with carl when you're ready."

you nod and wave. right as she walks back, you sit down on the concreate road.

was this real? was all of this really happening? in the slim chance of you coming back, it actually happened.

you looked through your backpack quickly, remembering that you had a ton of comics that you and carl read when you guys were little. you pulled them out and put your backpack on again, walking in the direction of alexandria, bracing yourself for whatever will happen.

michonne was right, it wasn't too far from where you had met her. you must've been walking for just around 5 minutes when you found the place. you looked up at the watch tower, spotting a figure with a very familiar sheriffs hat on top.

you stood in front of the gate, and the person in the watch tower yelled. "who are you?"

you were sure now that it was carl.

you raised your hands, unsure what to say. you knew he wouldn't recognize you, your clothes different and your hair messy.. you looked up from the corner of your eye and noticed michonne tapping his shoulder, and him disappearing.

the gates opened in front of you, and you saw carl and michonne standing there.

carl looked confused, that was until you looked up.

"hi." you muttered nervously.

"holy shit."

he ran up to you, bringing you into a hug that pushed you two to the ground, his hat falling down next to him.

you returned it, sobbing into his chest.

"i'm so... sorry.." you cried, trying to pull him impossibly closer.

he rested his head in the crook of your neck. "no, no.. don't be." his voice broke, making it clear he was crying with you. "i.. i love you, y/n. so much. i.. you're really here? you're alive?" he put his hands on your shoulders, quickly moving them up to your face, examining your features to make sure it was you.

"yes.." you smiled, tears flowing down your cheeks as you brought your hands up to his. "i'm real. i'm alive.."

he starts laughing, causing a few more tears to slip out of his eye. "how the hell did you survive being in the middle of a herd..?"

"i.. looked back at the car and i saw you. by then, i was covered in walker blood. somehow, my body stopping and smelling like walker guts made them confuse me with a walker... so i played along." you rubbed your thumb along carls hand as you nervously spoke.

he looked at you with a saddened expression, his brows furrowing as he takes you back into his arms. he lifts you up with him, grabbing his hat as he stands up and placing it back on top of his head. he looks down at you and smiles.

"i love you so much." he cries.

you had never really seen him cry before. not like this. he was being genuine.

"i love you so much, too." you cried with him, looking into his eyes happily.

you were happy. he was happy. despite everything, you were in each others arms finally, holding one another. you were supposed to be dead, but you lived. finally... with the only person you ever wanted to be with.

─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────────

[sunflowersteves]

you’re an addiction || m.o.

pairing || miguel o'hara x fem!afab!reader

summary || Everyone always thought Miguel was quiet and calculating, but you know him so much more differently.

author's notes || im so slutty for this man it's insane and I needed him to be soft

warnings || fluff, kinda emotionally constipated miguel, SMUT, praise kink, soft!dom, cockwarming, vaginal sex, unprotected sex [18+ only]

masterlist

“Baby,” Miguel’s eyes flickered from the screen of the computer to the wooded desk. He was trying real hard to concentrate—eyebrows furrowed and large frame standing tall.

“You need to sit still.” He said it so soft. He meant it to sound a bit more demanding, but how could he? You were sitting so good for him. 

Miguel wasn’t known for being a talker. Not really.

At the HQ, he barely uttered a word unless it was necessary. He had grown to like the quiet, empty space of silence. It seemed calming to him. It harnessed a full collection of him and his thoughts as they unraveled.

Until you. 

You were the one exception to the rule of silent Miguel. You were the light that speckled onto his stubborn, grieving heart. You were the cause and reason for every single curl of his lips as he watched you perform a mundane task.

He just couldn’t help himself around you. You dug up underneath his heart and made him want to spill every detail of his thoughts to you. He could never say no to you, either. It felt impossible to him when you bash your eyelashes prettily, and his heart palpitates against his chest. He is absolutely done for the minute you whisper his name softly in his ear.

Like, now. Miguel was supposed to be working on important briefing materials for a new mission. He was gathering evidence and needed to present it to the team in a couple of days.

You padded across the living room floors and sauntered your way into Miguel’s study. It was late. Impossibly late. You had woken up to an empty bed. Your hand had patted the mattress to find your husband, but he was nowhere to be found. You could never sleep without him, and if he was being honest, neither could he. 

“Miggy?” You called out. Your eyes flitted over Miguel, his broad frame hunching over the hologram computer. A pout had sprouted onto your lips because you figured he was nowhere near done.

“Hmm?” He says. His head didn’t even move from the work in front of him.

He could hear you make your way over to him, though. His lips couldn’t help but curl into a smile. 

Sometimes, he cherished nights like these. You would wake up in the middle of the night to find Miguel sitting in his study. You would wrap your arms around him, koala-like, and fall asleep on his lap. He would always smile as your mind dreamed of him—he knew from the small whispers of his name as sleep took over in full. 

“Can’t sleep without you.” You murmur.

He finally tears his eyes away to look at you. His heart thumped hard against his chest for what felt like the millionth time. Your pajamas hung loose onto your form as you rubbed one of your exhausted eyes.

He scooted the office chair back and tapped his thigh. “C’mere. I’ll be done soon, baby.”

You walked into his presence but didn’t sit just yet. “Promise?”

He breaks into a smile. “Promise.”

You climbed on top of his large thighs. You were straddling his waist and immediately enveloping him in a hug. Your cheeks were pressed up against his chest. If only you could see his smile now—practically beaming.

He scoots the chair back. He breathes in deeply to appreciate the feeling of your warmth radiating off onto him. You close your eyes, and he continues to do his work. His fingers pressed up against the holographic keyboard. He moved other components of the mission to the other—his eyes darting in concentration. 

You yawned against his chest and subconsciously pressed your cheek further into him. You thought about him.

You thought about the way his smile lights up when you walk into the room. You thought about the day he made pozole when you were sick. You thought about the way his body completely wrapped around yours with his broad frame. You thought about the way he held you in bed during the pretty, bright sunrise. You thought about how his hands groped the soft flesh of your thighs. You thought about the times he has left you dizzy from the kisses and bites to your neck. You thought about the way his cock left a burn from—

Now you got squirmy. So much so that, that was how he gave the initial scolding to keep you still. Even though it was soft, you knew when you needed to quit. Although, you couldn’t help it. Not when your mind eventually wandered off to the way his cock pounded into you this morning.

“I’m sorry, Miggy,” you lightly pouted. Your eyes were closed, and you were concentrating on Miguel’s heartbeat. You needed a distraction from thinking about how his cock always filled you up so fucking well.

His eyebrow lifted as he saw the split-second of mischief in your eyes before you closed them, but he still gave you the benefit of the doubt. “Oh, my sweet, sweet girl. Don’t be sorry.” Your fingers tightened around his shoulder. “I just need you to stay still, okay?”

You nodded, but you could feel the wetness leak onto your panties. With how thin your shorts were, your slick would eventually leak onto his thigh. You squeezed your eyes even tighter, but your attempt in keeping calm had already failed. 

You bit your lip as you watched the way his arms flexed from having to move around the hologram. Your pussy was fucking throbbing at this point, thinking about MiguelMiguelMiguel—

Then, he abruptly stopped. Your head lifted up from his chest in confusion, but he never said a word. He just raised you with one hand, and the other pulled down his sweatpants.

His cock sprang free, and he could’ve sworn he saw your eyes become slightly larger. The way his cock practically pulsated in his grip, always left you speechless. There was pre-cum that spilled against his tip, and you could see the vein that ran across the side of his shaft. It made your mouth water to no fucking end.

He gently sat you back down onto his lap. Your hands immediately went to caress the girth of his cock, but he snatches your hands in his.

He clicks his tongue. “You wanna be a good girl?”

Your mouth falls open, but you nod. “I do.” He looks unconvinced. So, you whine. “Please.”

There it is. He can’t help but smirk. “Since you can’t sit still, I’ll give you my cock.” His eyes locked with yours, and you looked almost excited. “But no moving, okay? Gotta be good for me.”

You’d take him in any which way and in any form. You wanted to smile in delight, but you knew the raise of his eyebrow would be an indication not to challenge him. Instead, you enthusiastically nod.

Satisfied, Miguel maneuvers your pajama shorts and underwear to the side with one of his talons—the fabric ripping slightly from the pure sharpness. 

His mouth drops open at the way your pussy glistens for him. “Oh, poor baby.” His finger teases your opening, causing you to gasp. “You just needed my cock, didn’t you?”

You wanted to cry out. You nodded, the desperation to feel him inside of you was becoming unbearable. “I need you, Miguel.” Your heart beat so loud across your chest that it was even hard to hear yourself. Everything felt hot and heavy—the air feeling thick.

Ever so slowly, he starts to let you sink down into his cock. You both moan from the euphoric sensations of being one with one another. “Fuckin’ tight.” He whispers, closing his eyes. "Eres mia."

He can feel the way you restrict around him, and he has to stop himself from thrusting up into you. All he needs is five more minutes, and then he would be completely done with work. He could be all yours for the rest of the night.

You whimper, “f-fill me up so good, miggy.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “Yeah? Am fuckin’ made for you, querida.”

He lets out a groan as your walls clenched around him from the statement alone. You could feel your juices start to leak down onto his balls. Soon, it would be his thighs.

He stares at the hologram once more, attempting to continue his work. Your head leans back against his chest once again. This time, though, you were filled to the brim. His cock stretched you just enough to let you see stars.

He was big. The fat tip of his cock was hitting your cervix as you barely bottomed out. The thought was starting to make you accidentally roll your hips.

Miguel bites his tongue as a moan threatens to escape. He tries to keep his composure because he knows that if he gives you one look, he's done for. He’ll give you exactly what you want because Miguel O’Hara can’t say no to you. You have him wrapped around your pretty finger.

“Bein’ so good, baby. Just a little longer.” If you weren’t already cock drunk and fantasying about how his cock makes you feel, you would have noticed the slur in his words.

His voice was deep and relaxed—the gruffness scratched against his throat. His words seemed fluid and almost combined into one. All he could think about was how wet you were—some of the slick was starting to drop onto your conjoined thighs. He could feel just how desperate you were, and your soft whimpers weren't helping. It was starting to make his head feel fuzzy. 

You nodded against him, but you weren’t listening. “Yes, Miguel.” It was just a habit for you. You wanted to be his good girl, and you are. You really, really are.

Your body jolts as his hand smacks the desk in front of him. It turns off the hologram, and you’re left with your mouth opening in shock.

“Fuck this.” He yells impatiently. “I can fucking feel how wet you are, querida. It’s driving me—driving me fucking insane.” His eyes lowered to see the expression on your face. It almost made him whimper.

Your gaze was fucked. You looked completely fucked out from the haze in your eyes and the way your lip wobbled. You looked like an absolute mess, and it was tearing Miguel up.

He could feel the wanton need to bury his cock even further inside of you—which wasn’t even possible at this point. An aching need to take care of you took over his thoughts and pushed against his chest. He needed you.

“Miguel.” You whimpered. It was as if that was the only thing your brain could come up with—him. You needed him just as much as he needed you.

He coos, “I’ve got you, baby. Fuck work. Those pieces of shit can wait.” His hands move to your waist and squeeze. “You’ve been such a good girl, baby. S-so fucking good for me.”

You yell out his name when he thrusts up into you. You could feel the way his cock pierced through every single part of you. “Miguel—f-fuck—”

His hands tightened around your waist before helping you grind against him. You could barely move, not with your mind reeling from the pleasures that send tingles down your spine.

"So fuckin' good for me, baby. You did so well." Miguel grits his teeth at the way his cock twitched inside of you, in and out of your wet pussy. "Jus' can't get enough of this pussy." 

You whined and whimpered—just as he continued to have you grind and thrust against him. “Please, Miguel. Please—” You were already so close. The tortuous waiting game that he played as his cock stretched you thin was starting to take its toll.

He could feel the way your walls spasmed against him—the way you tightened even more. He moaned against you. “Y-you can let go, pretty girl. You’ve been so fuckin good—”

One of his hands leaves your waist. His thumb pressed up against your swollen clit and swirled around your sticky wetness—the substance had pooled around the two of you so much that it made such a mess.

“F-fuck. Let go, baby. Give it to me. Fuckin’ give it to me.”

You scream out his name as his cock pounds into you again and again. Your cunt impossibly tightens around him, and your orgasm comes quickly as gush all over his aching cock.

The sweet sounds you made had sent him over the edge. He lets everything go right behind you and spills his thick, hot cum deep inside. “F-fuck, querida—fuck.” He wants to say your name over and over until it’s the only thing that can form on his tongue.

You collapsed against him with deep, tired breaths. Your eyelids wanted to slip closed and let the soft pillows of sleep take you whole.

Miguel smiles down at you and presses a kiss to your hair line then another to your cheek.

“Looks like it’s time for bed, hmm?” His finger swipes gently against your cheek. “Let’s get you all cleaned up first.”

You sighed against him, completely and utterly content. A wide smile was on your face. “Okay, Miggy.”

[bucketsofmonsters]

Deep Water - Part 4

cw: the ocean, animal carcasses, rotting, malnourishment, more tags to be added as the story continues

merman x fem reader

Word count: 3k

read on ao3

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

You woke up disoriented on an unfamiliar floor, the steady sounds of snoring filling your ears. 

You turned to see Finn, still fast asleep as you rose from your little spot on the floor. He was bundled up in blankets, his head just barely peeking out of them enough to breathe. 

You didn’t want to bother him. He’d done so much for you, the last thing you wanted to do was to disturb his rest. 

In your attempt to begin to get ready without disturbing him, you managed to get your feet tangled in the loose blankets below you and tumble back to the floor.

You quickly righted yourself just in time to see Finn begin to shift, waking fitfully. 

He groaned, eyes barely peeking open to look up at you. “Is… Oh. I forgot you were here.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

He tried to wave dismissively but in his half-asleep state, it looked more like he attempted to clumsily swat a fly out of the air.

He rose from the bed slowly, a little unsteady on his feet.  “I’ll find you some clothes.”

You took him in as he moved to the drawers beside the bed. He was a little scrawnier than the average man working on the docks and only a few inches taller than you, but still, you were sure that his clothes would fit you awkwardly, if at all. “You really don’t have to do that, my clothes are mostly dry now.”

“Nonsense, I have just the thing for you.”

And then he pulled out a dress, a practical one with reasonable skirts and allowance for movement. A dress you’d seen before. 

You reeled back a little as you asked, “Why do you have my sister’s clothes?”

It came out harsher than you’d intended it to. Maybe the shock was to blame, you weren’t certain. 

He deflated at your words, crumpling in on himself, his shoulders slumping as his face fell. 

“I should have told you,” he said, visibly mortified. “I know I should have. You just… you look just like her.”

The realization hit you instantly. “You two were…”

“I wasn’t trying to replace her,” he said, rushing in to cut you off. “I mean, I couldn’t replace her even if I did want to. It was just… it was nice to see you. I could almost pretend, just a little.”

The more he tried to justify it, the more your heart sank. “How long were you together?” you asked, your voice flat and distant.”

“Years. She was everything to me.” His voice was low and sad, sadness that you were sure was for her and not for you, standing betrayed in front of him. Why would it be for you? How selfish could you be?

You almost wished he’d yelled at you. Then maybe it wouldn’t make you feel so bad. He seemed devastated and apologetic and all the things he could be and yet now that you knew you could just tell. You could see him looking at you like you were her, with faux, unearned affection in his eyes behind the heartbreak. 

It made you furious. You wanted to throw something, to shout at him, to demand to be seen as a person, to be removed from her shadow. 

But he was grieving, just as you were. Probably more. 

The least you could to was be kind. 

So you gave him a half-hearted, soft pat on his shoulder and tried to paint as much sympathy accross your face as you could manage.

“You didn’t mean any harm,” you said, and you knew it was true. 

It still stung. 

And then you took the dress from his hands, his grip softening as you reached for it, and you left. 

You found an empty room to change in and went off to work as quickly as you could.

The next few weeks passed quickly, settling into an easy routine. Without Finn hovering over your shoulder as you worked, you were free to move quickly and mindlessly, doing your job exactly as intended and no more. 

You stopped by to see Simon almost every day. The days you couldn’t, held up late at the docks, he no longer threw a complete fit. There was huffing and pouting but he hadn’t kindaped you again and you considered that progress.

In fact, after the stunt he’d pulled, he seemed hesitant to even get near you, like even his presence was tainted now. He was more careful than he’d been, asking before he did anything. 

You supposed it was preferable over the alternative. 

You and Finn had grown distant. He was clearly trying to give you space but you couldn’t quite breach that gap and bring yourself to talk to him so instead you let him fade away, sharing quiet polite smiles when you saw one another and nothing more. Your only real friend here now gone. Other than your monster that you still caught glimpses of below the docks, no matter how many times you warned him that it was ill-advised.

You didn’t mind going to see him. There was very little understanding between you but it felt nice, having him so eager to meet with you every day, shifting uncomfortably in shallow water that he braved for you. 

It had been a bad day. 

Nothing had happened, not really, but that awful ship was back. Every time you saw it, a wave of nausea overtook you, brought back to you kicking and screaming on the deck, inhaling rain as you huffed in breaths. 

Finn had shot you a concerned look or two as he apparently read your nerves off your face, but he had kept his distance, respectful and stomach-churning. 

You wanted him to come check in on you, something he clearly wanted to do, but you still refused to go speak with him first. You couldn’t do it, couldn’t return to him like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, offering yourself as your sister’s replacement if he’d just speak to you.  

So instead, at the end of an awful day, you scurried off the docks to your spot, content that you’d at least get to see your siren. 

On the shore, where you usually sat, lay the tail end of a sea lion, bloody with bones sticking out, looking almost rotted.

You looked into the water to find amber eyes staring back at you, wide and expectant. 

You knew instantly he’d brought it here, though you couldn’t fathom why. It wasn’t a fresh kill, instead looking like it had been pulled off a beach somewhere where it’d washed up. 

A sense of shame flickered in his eyes, fighting back a grimance as you noticed it. 

“Do you want it?” he asked, head nodding towards the carcass.

“No,” you said, and he reeled back, not looking surprised but seeming upset all the same. 

“It’s the best I could do,” he said, eyes downcast. “I’ve been trying to find something better but I’m not built for this.”

His voice was tinged in a sense of bitterness and frustration and you wished you knew what he was talking about so you could comfort him. Or at least understand why he was upset. 

“Built for what? Why is this here?”

“It was supposed to be food,” he said with a huff. “I have nothing for you. I can’t provide you anything.”

“Provide me… You don’t need to provide for me, I can get my own food.”

“You shouldn’t have to. I want to… I want to show you I can keep you safe but I can’t. Couldn’t even keep you fed.”

As he spoke, you really took him in, sitting behind a rotting carcass that wasn’t fit for anyone to eat. 

What had he been eating if after weeks, this was the best he could bring you?

And then it struck you, the way he’d begun positioning himself in the shallows, stomach carefully down, arms in front of it, shifted away from you. 

“Come here,” you said, trying to keep your words soft. 

He looked like he was about to cry but he shifted forwards all the same. 

You fought back a gasp as he finally let you get a good look at him. 

He looked emaciated. Where soft, plump skin used to be, it instead had begun to pull taught over ribs that looked sharper than the human ribs you were accustomed to. 

With the new context, you could see it in his face too, his full cheeks beginning to bow in.

“What happened to you?” you asked, cursing yourself that you could have missed this, could have let him keep his distance and hide this from you so easily. 

“I’m not good at hunting,” he said, rufusing to meet your gaze. 

“You were fine before, what changed?”

He shifted and you could see a war waging inside his head, the conflict written accrosss his features. 

You waited, owing him patience at least. 

Finally, he seemed to come to a decision and he spoke, still sad and low but with a sense of finality rising behind it. 

“We’re not hunters, we’re not built for it. Not fast enough or sharp enough. We’re built to lure in prey but… you’re a person. If I hadn’t stopped to talk to you, you’d just be gone, drowned and devoured, and I wouldn’t even have known that it hurt, let alone… I can’t do it anymore,” his words had shifted from sad and low to frustrated and sharp. “I can’t hunt so I can’t eat fish but I can’t do it anymore. Every time I look at them I keep just seeing you.”

Tears pricked at the corner of your eyes at the thought that you had done this to him. The revelation that he’d been eating humans fell by the wayside at the sight of sad eyes on a gaunt face that used to be warm and soft.

And you couldn’t even do anything about it. You didn’t have the resources to get him fish, not after the measly few weeks you’d spent here. You had barely managed to find yourself lodgings in a grimy old inn, barely eating enough to keep up your strength. 

But you had to. You couldn’t just leave him to this, in this situation that you’d dragged him into when you’d gotten thrown off that ship. When on the worst day of your life, he saw easy prey in front of him and decided to be kind. 

And then an idea came to you. An awful idea, sure, but the only one you had. 

You muttered a quiet “wait here” before you stood up and sprinted back to the dock, knowing you had to catch him before he left. 

Finn’s face lit up when he saw you nearing him, relief pulling the tension out of his shoulders and bringing a soft smile to his face. 

You grabbed his hand and with a soft noise of confusion escaping him, you dragged him down to your isolated little spot on the beach. 

The whole time you pulled him along, as he followed you without question, you tried to think how to explain any of this to him. 

You kept moving as you wracked your brains, needing to solve this, needing to know it could be fixed, and you came up with nothing.  

Anything would be better than just bringing him in blind, a fact you realized seconds too late, arriving at your spot on the shore. 

You saw the panic in Simon’s eyes seconds before disaster hit. Right before Finn noticed him, he was being snatched into the water, pale arms hooked under his armpits, holding him down in the shallows. It seemed mainly like shock and confusion that kept Finn down. Submerged in deep water he wouldn’t stand a chance, but here, in the shallows, against a malnourished and emotional siren; he could’ve taken him easily.

But he didn’t, instead thrashing a little with eyes wide and he tried to take in the simultaneous facts that sirens were real and that one had just dragged him into the water. 

“He’s here to help, drop him,” you snapped, shooting a harsh look at Simon. 

“I didn’t even do anything wrong,” he said, a grouchy look crossing his face as he let Finn go, drifting nervously back into the water. You recognized it for what it was. He was preparing for his escape, just in case. 

You didn’t blame him for the instinct. To be honest, it was a good one. Blind trust like that in anyone could get him killed. 

You hoped this wouldn’t be one of those times. You hoped you’d prove him wrong. 

Your hand snapped out to grab Finn’s wrist as he tried to stagger away, eyes wide and frightened.

“Finn,” you said, keeping your voice measured and level. “This is Simon. He’s a friend.”

You didn't think you'd ever seen such panic and betrayal in his eyes, his face normally light and happy. He was breathing heavy, eyes darting between the two of you like he couldn't quite believe he wasn't about to get pulled back in.

Finn looked down at your hand encircling his wrist. He tested his strength against yours, almost pulling away before deciding to let you keep him there. Ever patient, he didn’t take the out, he didn't run. He waited, by your side, nervous but steady.

His breaths slowed, taking stock of Simon in the water.

You weren’t sure who looked more frighted, both sizing one another up, ready to bolt should the need arise. 

You left them to it, terrified that any sudden movement would shatter the tentative peace that was forming between them. 

He nodded slowly, eyes not moving from Simon, shivering slightly in newly wetted clothes. “And why exactly,” he began, eyes locked onto Simon, “did you want me to meet this friend of yours?”

“Um. So he wants to stop eating people,” you said, wincing as you heard yourself and the reality of what you'd just said sunk in.

“He eats people?” Finn asked, his voice spiking up in panic as his head whipped towards you.

“And he would like to stop. If we can’t help him, what do you think he’s going to start doing again?”

“It’s not my fault!” Simon huffed from the water. “The fish don’t hate you for eating them, why do you get to be mad at me?”

“The fish aren’t people,” Finn insisted, arms wrapping around himself as he shivered in the cold air. 

“And you aren’t sirens. I thought you were stupid anyway, like fish.”

“You thought we were like fish?”

Simon shrugged. “Not like fish. But the difference from you to fish is like the difference from you to me. Or… I thought so. We might have been wrong. I don’t know, I just eat.”

He seemed uncomfortable with having to explain himself, shifting in the water as he glanced at you every few seconds. 

It took a moment for you to realize what he was looking for. It was approval, you could see him searching for it in your eyes. 

You weren’t sure you could give it to him. Your stomach churned at his words but you could feel how earnest he was, could hear the confusion and distress in his voice.

He hadn’t thought he was doing anything wrong. Why would he? He was just doing what sirens had always done and now he wasn’t so sure about it any longer and his whole past was filled with deaths he didn’t know if he could justify anymore. 

How would you feel, you wondered, if you met a fish one day and that fish told you it was afraid? If it told you that it told stories to its young about your kind and how they’d snatch it up and cook it over an open flame. 

Would it be your fault? Would those deaths be on your conscience?

Would you ever have the presence of mind to see a fish, alone in strange waters, and save it? Could you even do what Simon had done, take that first step?

Your heart hurt for him, alone in his crisis, with no one to talk to about it. His only options were his kind that depended on these horrible deaths to survive and you. And his prey. 

Finn pulled you aside, far from out of Simon's earshot but it seemed to settle him a little bit to at least feign privacy. 

“What do you want me to do here?” Finn hissed.

“I want to help him. He saved my life and… and even if he didn't, is this not for the best? He wants to do better, we can't just not help him.”

He nodded, hesitant but willing. “Okay, so what now.”

“I don’t know. He can eat fish, we know that for sure. Maybe other food too? Do you think he can eat human food?”

Finn pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I don’t know. How would I know? I guess I can get him fish, we could sneak a couple out and buy some before we leave at night. Would that be enough?”

You shrugged. “I have no idea.”

He sighed. “Great."

“I’m sorry I dragged you into this, I just didn’t know anyone else I could go to.”

He gave you a soft smile. “It’s the least I could do. Now, I’m going to go scrounge something up, you keep your little siren company.”

You shot him one last grateful look before settling down on the beach, water lapping at your shoes. 

Simon pulled himself out of the water a bit, trying to get closer to you.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice barely audible over the sound of the waves. 

You took his hand from where it lay, shifting nervously over some rocks, and gave it a gentle squeeze. 

“I know.”

[wisecura]

Try the Priest

Suguru x f!reader

summary: Your best friend, Suguru Geto, has a warrant on his head. You hadn't heard from him since then, and you thought your friendship was as good as dead. So why is he on your front porch?

Warning: angst, spoilers, imposing Suguru

AN: So, I wanted to try something new. It’s not heavily proofread or flowy so please lemme know what you think. Not sure if I’ll continue with a part 2 yet

Someone you’d considered your friend.

Went to classes with. Assisted in missions with. Fought alongside—taking down a variety of curses. Patching each other up after particularly grueling missions. Sharing many late night hang out. Staying up late reading shitty quotes from your favorite terrible books. Laughing til your sides ached and tears pooled your eyes. Braiding his hair. Telling him secrets you’d never shared—not even with Satoru.

And it came with the territory.

Doing your best to pull him up from his down in the dumps energy. Noticing him sinking deeper into his mangled thoughts. Hugging him and telling him you were there for him if he ever needed. Begging him to just talk to you, and feeling utterly worthless when you couldn’t genuinely cheer him up. When it seemed he couldn’t confide in you. When it seemed he didn’t think of you the way you’d thought of him. Putting those feelings aside, because you couldn’t stand to see him so unhappy. Bringing him food when it seemed he just couldn’t remember to eat—long-since losing the urge. His mind lingering on the taste of each consumed curse. In his moments of hysteria, when he was curled up on your mattress—so lost and broken that you hardly recognized the man you once knew—he’d would finally confess those thoughts swirling in his mind.

Suguru Geto was someone you considered your best friend.

But you no longer recognized the man on the camera before you. The pale walls closing in on you. Photos strewn on corkboard. The man, you’d heard, slaughtered a village of people. assuming the leader role in an infamous cult. The same cult who incentivized Riko Armani’s death only months prior. You weren’t the only one absorbing this information, but it felt so personal. His betrayal. His defection. His indifference to you and the others.

But, more than anything, you’d felt so very guilty. The man you called your best friend—your closest friend, hadn’t relied on you in his darkest moments. Not really. You blamed yourself for this. For the deaths of hundreds. The look of pure agony on your second best friends face when he’d heard the news. Your lack of intervention when you’d seen him spiraling off the rocker. When he’d utter the word ‘filthy monkeys’ under his breath, like a broke record sputtering out. You been the only one around him during those times. When he’d lost all that weight, developing those dark circles on his normally handsome face. You had seen the signs, where even Satoru might not have. But you hadn’t thought he’d form an outlet like this. He’d lash out like this. You couldn't have known. They were both grieving in their own ways, after all.

‘—SUGURU GETO FLED. IN ACCORDANCE TO ARTICLE 9 OF THE JUJUTSU REGULATIONS, HE IS NOW CONSIDERED A CURSE USER AND SUBJECT-TO EXECUTION.’

You instinctively tune out the notice. Numbness seeping into your very fiber. The cold, frigid air of the underground cellar surrounding you. You’d never thought there’d be a day, not even in the deep recesses of your mind, that the righteous sweetheart, Suguru Geto, would be subject to an execution order. Let alone become the cause of hundred of innocent deaths, and the fear behind many. You desperately wanted to talk to him. Desperately wanted to see him again. Ask him if it was true. If it wasn’t a ploy to jerk the chains of the special grade sorcerers. But you were also hit with the small, yet so present, urge to ignore it. To pretend you hadn’t heard it and assume nothing was amiss. That this wasn’t actually happening. And that Suguru was lounging at your apartment, probably hogging the space of your couch. Taking over your bed space just to get on your nerves. Scavenging the snacks you secretly kept for him in your fridge. Or scrolling mindlessly through his phone at your kitchen table, teasingly asking you what took you so long to get back.

But that isn’t where you were. And that wasn’t what was going to happen. And Suguru Geto was a notorious murderer at large. He was as good as dead, along with those he now associates with.

In the months following, you…survived. You’d often have Satoru or Shoko over, they surprisingly took it better than you had. Satoru especially pain closer attention to your actions. Likely in response to missing all of the signs with Suguru. Or maybe because he knew just how close you two had been. You’d often zone out for days. Satoru would shovel spoonfuls of strawberry cake into your mouth, insisting that at least it was something. And at least you got your calories. You found yourself mistaking their presence, on more than one occasion, for Suguru’s. Which would lead to another breakdown that’d require fussing over. But you’ll give yourself credit here. You’d finally,after several long grueling months, set into your previous rhythm. You didn’t require as much maintenance—feeding and cleaning yourself. And you needed much less reassurance—no he wasn’t dead, yet.

Then you saw him. The shadow of a man that had been impersonating Suguru, was now restored to his full former glory. You’d almost thought you’d saw a ghost, opening the late night knocks like that. Standing right next to your pot of camellias, holding a few letters seemingly from your mailbox. A small grin crossing his face, as those eyes lit up oh-so-slightly at your appearance at the door.

Feeling far to nostalgic for comfort.

He looked good. Healthier. Stronger. You wanted to feel scared. Wanted your body to match your mind, to flee from this terror of a man that’s been causing you so much grief lately. But your body just didn’t respond to him that way. Refused to.

You felt a sigh of relief leave your lips, unwittingly, as you stared up into those purple eyes. You thought you’d never see those again. You thought the next time would be when he’d be lying on a steel table, draped in white linens. No—not again. Never alive.

“Suguru” you say to yourself, words nearly a whisper, with disbelief coating each syllable. He nods at you, his lips never dropping that eye capturing smile. “In the flesh.”

You stare at him for a moment, not sure how to react. Why was he here?

“What…what are you doing here?” Your voice strained, and though you didn’t want to admit it, you could feel the back of your throat well up slightly. You knew if you were t careful, you’d revert to the you from months before. You seemed to catch him off guard with your word, as he looked away, having the gal to come off shy.

“Can I come in?” After a second, you nod, peaking your head around the doorframe—your apartments walkway, not seeing a soul in sight. He stood firm as you come within touching distance of him, cautiously peering the corners, before taking a few steps aside to let him in.

As he steps through your front door, you’re left feeling…small. Unbearably so. He was always tall, but you’d never seen him so imposing. The Buddhist priest attire, though not entirely surprising, was so new. So different. And all the same, it made him much more intimidating. You continue stepping back a few paces as he makes his way inside, before he closes the door himself. He carries himself to your living room, your floor plan memorized. He’d been there—practically lived there—enough times in the years you’d known him.

This wasn’t a man you knew.

“Geto, you shouldn’t be here.” He gave small acknowledgement to the distinct line you drew in your words. You speech painfully formal, your tone a pressed politeness. The only hint of irritation showing in his shoulders and the way his smile tightened. Your name—your first name, fell from his lips in absolute familiarity. “Its been a while.”

You stare at him dumbfounded for a second, as he makes his way to your couch, settling in. As if you’d invited him in for an afternoon cup of tea. His energy took up the whole room, looking so out of place. He wasn’t stupid. He knew what he was doing.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“And yet, here I am.”

“Why—why are you here, Geto.”

His eye finally trail back to you at the sound of your voice spitting his last name out, so coldly. He’d been taking in the space, searching for changes in his surroundings. Searching for changes in you.

“I can’t just visit an old friend?” Your arms tighten around yourself in a self soothing gesture. Nails biting into your skin. You pull your gaze from him, not able to maintain the somewhat defiant stare.

“You can’t just show up unannounced. If they find you here—“

“Still worrying about me?”

“It’s dangerous for you to be here. Not for you. Not for me. You should g—“

“I missed you.”

The words stalled your thought process. The words ringing in the air, not settling properly. He wasn’t the Suguru you remember. He was entirely different. But those words still carried that familiar softness, the one he’d always reserved for you or Satoru. The ones that never failed to melt your heart, and make you cave.

“You…missed me?” The silence strung through the air. Buzzing. His grin grew at the hesitation through your voice. The confusion. He leaned back into the couch, taking a lax stance that didn’t fit the unwelcome atmosphere. Far too confident in your opinion.

“Of course I missed you. Did you think I wouldn’t?” As if he wasn’t a mass murderer. As if he hadn’t left you and Satoru.

“I…” you stalled again. Just what were you supposed to say to that? To him? After all this time.

“Why are you really here, Geto.”

“Suguru.” You stare at him, in disbelief, eyes narrowing. “It’s Suguru. Don’t act like you don’t know me anymore.” He’s saying this as if it were the most important thing in the world. Not the fact that he was a wanted man.

“I don’t know you. And I don’t know why you’re here. Leave before I-“

“Before you what? Kill me?” The words were a sharp taunt. He knew you wouldn’t. Knew you couldn’t. Your chest tightened at the thought, his words a blade pressed against your neck. You muttered out, “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

And, ignoring you, he persists. “You won’t though. Will you?” The challenge there. “That’s not who you are.”

“You don’t decide who I am.” You nearly hiss, “you of all people don’t get to walk in here, acting like nothing has changed. Like everything’s okay—like we’re okay.” His eyes darkened at your words, and his smile faded.

“I never said nothing has changed. But that doesn’t mean we can’t talk. After everything we’ve been through-“

“Everything we've been through?” His words felt so thoughtless at the time, not entirely realizing the provoking nature. You were practically shouting at this point. “You mean everything you walked away from? Everything you destroyed?”

He didn’t even flinch. His voice calm and firm, “I didn’t come back to argue. I came back to see you.”

“Why?” The word burst from your mouth, raw and sharpened with each emotion you’d felt since he’d left. The thoughts and feeling piling up by the second. His words inciting another to add to the pot. “Why me? After everything—after everyone—why did you come here?”

His eyes remained fixed on you for a moment. Your shouting hadn’t fazed him in the slightest. He’d had to have expected it. You’re almost panting, each nerve ending abuzz. Boarding on another mental breakdown.

When he finally did speak, his voice was lower. Almost hesitant. “Because you’re the only one I can’t leave behind.” You search his face, desperately searching for a hint of deception. Searching for a lie. But this man was never one for lying, at least he hadn’t been.

Your voice comes out a whisper, shaky and somewhat wound up, “That’s not fair. You don’t get to say that. Not after what you’ve done.” You could feel the build up behind your eyes. Red, hot, and unwitting. You held back as much as you could, showing him no weakness. But you’d already failed in that aspect. Much like how you failed in the ending of your friendship with him.

“I know it isn’t fair.” His voice about as soft and quiet as yours now. “But it’s the truth. I couldn’t do it. I tried.”

The room was much too suffocating. Your eyes much to hot. His confession hitting like a sucker punch to the jaw. The meaning behind his words, shallowly beneath the surface tension. But you wouldn’t be reaching for it. You felt so utterly worn—which is such a shame since you’d finally been getting back to a somewhat normal pace.

Here comes this man, crashing back in and challenging your every moral—your very being once again. You mustered up the courage—mustered up the strength to set him straight. To set yourself straight.

“You should go.” Barely audible. Yet the silence of the room reverberated each word, clearly. His eyes tried to catch your gaze, as you made it you mission to get him out of there as quickly as possible. Save that sanity.

“Do you really want me to?”

“Yes.” You respond immediately, but it sounded so hallow. Automated, at best. Even to you.

“Then tell me to leave. Tell me to get out of your life. Now. Tell me you don’t miss me. That you don’t want me here.”

Your throat tightened up, a lump forming that was impossible to swallow. Each line he gave, more abrasive than the last. You open your mouth ready to deal that final blow—reaffirm those words, but closed it again. He watched you closely, his expression unreadable. For the first time, you’re coming to terms with just how much you missed him. Just how deeply you cared for him. Your best friend. Your closest confidant. Your high school crush. Your everything. There was so much left unspoken between you two. Were you ready to throw it away? Would you lose your standing in the sorcerer world and be exiled too? Would you be okay with that?

“I thought so.” He said, a hint of satisfaction staining his tone. You try to ignore the tears threatening to spill over. The thoughts racing in your head. You physically pull away, your back finally to him. You can’t stand to see his face, let alone handle this situation right now.

You loved Suguru Geto. And it seemed he felt something for you.

Your back stayed to him. For a moment that stretched far too long, neither of you spoke a word. His last words were left floating in you’re head. Had it really been as hard for him to leave as it had been for you? You found the love for him deep below the anger and betrayal. But that didn’t mean you could act on it. It didn’t mean things weren’t different now.

Pulling you from your thoughts, you felt warmth at your back, before you had even felt his energy. Your breath hitched as his arms enveloped you. He was so close. Too close. Yet you couldn’t pull yourself away from the comforting gesture. You tilted you head back, hoping to catch the expression on his face, only to find those dark eyes already watching you. He was taller now. Much taller than before.

“Suguru, what are you doing?” Your voice trembling, much weaker than you wanted it to be. He didn't answer immediately, opting to watch you longer. His grip tightened around you, almost testing to see if you’d push him away. His head dipped to the shell of your ear, “Just…reminding myself.” Before settling into the crook of your shoulder. The hesitation was clear in his voice, making him sound much more…docile than a man that’d slaughtered an entire village or taken over a destructive religious cult. You almost felt yourself stiffen at the overly familiar contact.

His warm, earthy scent filled your lungs, encoating you in its sentimentality. You’d missed this too. You’d missed him. Your body settled for you, before you could pull from him. Before you could think of why you should be cautious around him. And the thought flowed from you lips before you could even process the desire to carry on this conversation with him. “Of what?”

“…That you’re real.” Your heart clenched painfully at his confession. You’d been wondering the same thing the second you saw him in your doorway.

This didn’t feel real. Maybe another nightmare featuring yours truly, maybe you could expect a ringing gunshot through the room. An astounding thud. Only to find him collapsed on the floor behind you, his blood soaking your pajamas.

His head dug deeper into the crook of your neck, almost nuzzling—as if he’d seen your thoughts. But he wasn’t aware just how much he’d put you through.

“Suguru…” you tried to sound firm, angry even—

“I know.”

You let out a sigh. Were you even angry anymore? Was this sadness flooding your chest? Sympathy? Love? Desperation?

“I know I don’t deserve this. But for a moment.” His voice even and constant, before breaking. “Please, for a moment let’s stay like this.”

come home