#bleach men are so good and hard to draw)

[tiny-sugar-dove]

IHweek 2025 (D1: Waiting)

[gaywizardzone]

deliriously in love with your dgm fanart. i stumbled into a full course buffet. exquisite, splendid, 10/10 no notes. do you have any DGM fic recs, bc i have suitcases full of DGM recs,

ok first of all thank you so much!! dgm is i think the thing i've drawn the most fanart for in my life cumulatively? in many bursts of insanity over the years. lol. so i have a lot of fun drawing it and i'm very honored that you like what i've made so much. also re: your other ask my worstie and collaborator ozwuv and i are working on it together since you sent it to both of us (we made a joint google doc to combine our perspectives lol) so the answer might not come from me but you'll get one!

second of all i am kind of an old livejournal era hag in terms of my taste in fanfiction in general and my history with this series in particular, so there are exactly three things in here that are less than a decade old and two of them are from 2016. naturally this means that a lot of it is now divergent with some details of how the plot and characterization and etc has actually gone (sorry to everyone back in the day who thought kanda was looking for some missing sister or something. one truly could not have possibly seen all of that coming). that said they still hold up to me in terms of general character dynamics and being fun and well written and such. recommendations also depend on what you like! i will generally not put that much shipping in here because there aren't that many of those i've read and would recommend in the first place (no hate to our strong and beautiful yaoi warriors, i used to read nearly anything back in the day, it's just that not too much of it has stuck with me) but there are some things that are so iconic to me that i could not in good conscience not include them. lots of this is kanda-centric because i like him :) putting it all below the cut

Hard Living by metisket - the aforementioned ship fic that's too iconic not to include. changed my brain chemistry when i first read it many many years ago. i seriously considered making it the only thing i put on here for a second just for the bit. To Me this is actually such a classic that it transcends shipping. the humor is very sharp and funny and i'm so in love with the concept of dying young for them meaning getting old early first and having to deal with it all together. they're so damn hilarious. it should happen to them. it does in my dreams. it never will but in my head there will always be a world where it does <3 i love to draw fanart of them as old decrepit men at 35 and maybe i'll post some of it someday. obviously it was written pre-alma so you just have to accept that it's wildly inaccurate in that regard. anyway pretty much anything this author has written for dgm is really good, i will put a few more metisket favorites on this list but check it all out even if i didn't include it. also this particular one is the inspiration for my most favoritest kanda fic <3 below

Blooming From the Mud by zarinthel - this is not just me shilling fic by someone i know. i am an absolute kanda diehard and this is really THE fic for me in terms of like hitting all the things i love about him. zar number one kanda understander. incredibly funny and compelling i don't care if you don't know anything about bleach (i don't either i haven't read it since middle school) or that you haven't read the fic it's inspired by (though you should) or that it's unfinished. you all should and in fact must read it. kanda's life is both so sad and so hilarious because of how sad it is and his pov here is just so excellently funny because he really is such a funny individual. also not a slash fic though it does really highlight how close and kind of insane his and allen's relationship is in a way that i find extremely delightful and accurate and just wonderful. they make me sick (positive). really good. so if you're a non shipper but you care about them you should read it and if you're a shipper you will also certainly enjoy it anyway so you should read it. truly for everyone!

Chimera Obscurant by moonsheen - i tend to struggle with most kanda/alma fix-it fanwork i've encountered despite loving them dearly because i rarely feel like anyone evokes the way their relationship is both strong and a bit unsettling (at least to me) without swinging around into being too edgy (i fully admit i have not explored super deeply because i get frustrated easily so i'm sure there are things that would appeal to me that i'm missing). this is one of the very few things i've read for them that i've been like yes i think this is beginning to get at the kind of atmosphere i want to see. if i remember correctly this was written before kanda came back to drag allen into accepting support and friendship so i'm just like "oh whatever" about its incompatibility with that. fanwork for ongoing stuff truly creates divergent timelines in my head. anyway this is the most nsfw thing that will end up in here and it's not particularly explicit, but heads up that it is there in case you're averse to that

In his Heart by harukami - another kanda/alma but just kanda technically. i read this and was so delighted that i made a :D face in real life. i've assimilated this into my worldview like i think this is something he would do. he's crazy like that.

Economies of Scale by liketolaugh - last kanda and alma one but this one's here less for the romantic aspect and more because i'm so endeared by the idea of fresh out of the lab kanda being so angry and miserable but also completely blindsided by all the stuff there is in the world. ten year old who is learning about so many new animals. really funny and cute and sad.

siblings, probably by scarlet666 - this one's for the kanda and lenalee enthusiasts. the best friends lovers. i love them so dearly i put the level of energy people usually put into shipping into their bestie-isms so naturally this was for me. huge shoutout to this person for writing 20k words about them if nobody else in the world has my back i know they do. i have the memory of a goldfish and this is long enough that i can't really scan quickly to refresh my memory and make more detailed comments but i know it deserves a spot on here. my note from when i bookmarked it just reads AUGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH but i never leave a comment in that field at all usually so that speaks volumes i think. life is so beautiful sometimes. peace and love on planet earth <3

Welcome Home by metisket - for the rest of this list i am about to hit you with the metisket beam. the author whose work i most fondly remember from my youth by far, which means that's what's stuck with me and what half of my recs will be. i love this one dearly because i love a normal person perspective in insane anime settings type of fic and reever is so delightfully normal and longsuffering and also funny as hell. love how his relationship with komui is in this. not a ship fic and am not recommending it as such but it did make me in the back of my head go "komui/reever is almost like roy/riza without the war crimes for people who are cringefail mad scientist enthusiasts." sane responsible second in command type slash babysitter who is devotedly loyal to crazy irresponsible boss but also wants to kill him a little bit. they're so great to me

Growing Up by Accident by metisket - just so kanda and allen and the way their relationship is. having the exact same feelings about something but approaching it so differently that they want to attack each other. love them 4ever. the way metisket writes allen's internal voice is also delightful to me (like not JUST here but in general). he's so jaded and funny. probably my favorite allen to read out of anyone who writes him ever. and kanda is always just so...kanda.......<3

Sand Castle by metisket - (smiles and blood leaks from the side of my mouth) i love you allen walker. i love this look at allen's growth pre-series from cross' perspective and how he managed to become the hilarious twisted convoluted wonderful little freak that he is. allen is so.....everything to me truly i would never have it any other way. really kind of darkly funny but also like agonizingly emotional. delightful

Mask and Mirror by metisket - love this take on what the inside of lavi's head is like, and also the way all the character dynamics shine through even in such a short thing, they're all so wonderfully cute and funny. the sense of humor is really great. lenalee didn't even make a real appearance but even the brief mention of how she and kanda are had me giggling.

in the circus series by metisket - certified classic. i love timcanpy pov and this whole thing is just so emblematic of my fond memories of old dgm fanworks. i love anything that highlights the way they're all just so immensely fucked up to the point that it's actually incredibly absurd and funny. i'm pretty sure metisket's LJ has more mini outtakes from this series but i'm too lazy to dig through the dgm tag right now so i'll just link it so you can do it yourself if you're interested.

lastly if you're looking for someone to share your recs with you're free to! i am on a personal level picky as hell and my taste in styles and approaches to fanwork was forged in the livejournal mines and has not evolved with the times LOL but i also don't judge <3

[enormities-writes]

Thomas | Lemon (Bullet Train) x GN! Reader Part 1

Summary: After Lemon and reader have love at first sight, reader must navigate the scary bullet train and find Lemon. (Not very good at summaries sorry lol)

Warnings: Not edited, all warnings covered in the movie, kind of grumpy x sunshine?

Words: 2528

A/N: So we aren’t really told if the boba Lemon wants is those ones in a can or an actual boba drink but because of the can that knocks against the water bottle in the vending machine, I'm choosing to assume it is the Milk Bubble Tea that comes in those cans.

The POV switches between them so pls tell me if its weird or something

ANYWAYS, I’m so sorry for taking so long on this fic, some family things have come up and writing is a new territory for me. Sorry for the wait, hope you enjoy!

Part 1, Part 2

Masterlist

Please do not copy, translate, or repost any of my work. Thank you.

________________________

Lemons POV:

Neon lights glitter in the darkened sky at the train station, shimmering on vehicles, jewelry, and the reflection of people's eyes.

The air is slightly stale but clean, a cold feeling catching in the back of my throat. People bustle, their fabrics rustling as they bump into each other, in a hurry to get to their stop on time. Through the plethora of people, my eyes absentmindedly drift towards the person in front of the vending machine.

The almost overwhelming sounds of people talking, music playing, and the taps of feet moving became quieter and quieter. Almost as if it became fuzzy. It’s like when the sound is broke on an old Television. My fingertips have the feeling of the shock you felt when you would touched one of their screens. 

Numerous light reflectances dulled and faded away. However, in contradiction, the light around my person of concentration brightened, almost to the point that it burned.

It was as if they had their own outline. 

Their own halo.

“Oi, common, stop dilly dalli’an, we got work to do.” The voice Tan broke me out of the trance-like state. I felt my eyelids moved at an accelerated rate, trying to blink the dryness away from staring for so long, seeing the exasperated expression on Tangerine's face.

Snapping my head back in the direction of the person, I hoped to get just even a glimpse of them. Instead, I found an unoccupied space of concrete and emptiness in front of the aforementioned vending machine. Disappointment at not seeing the angel ran through my veins and I followed my brother through the crowd.

Y/ns POV:

The doors to the shiny metal machine open with a smooth mechanical clunk. People bustle out of the vehicle, bumping into passersby. My shoes briskly thump along the cart of the train. Looking at the piece of paper I got from the ticket lady, I scan along the cart for my seat. Finding the number and letter printed on it, I allow myself to bring my hefty bag toward it, my arms bending at the weight. 

After lugging my bags up to the overhead shelf, I let myself sink into the blue fabric of the bucket seat, the fabric brushing up against my arms as I get situated. Hearing a commotion in the aisle, I look up and see an altercation between a tall Japanese man and a train attendant. Taking the hard plastic of my earbuds out of my ear, I hear the last of a conversation with two men in suits up and across the aisle from me as well as the apologetic attendant, even though it looked like he ran into her. “-he fucking blind or something?” 

Glancing over, I see the back of the head of a man with combed brown hair, wearing an expensive brown jacket. The man across the table from him is the one my gaze is drawn to.

Dark soft skin and bleached blonde hair with the roots showing through. The small gold hoops through his ears gleam in the light, reflecting in the window of the slowly moving train. He has rich, shiny brown eyes and full velvety lips, which are accentuated by the rough dark hair of his beard and mustache. Drawing my eyes down, I see him in a matching brown jacket over a jean one and a light peachy-colored tie. 

The eyes I’d been focusing on a few seconds prior drift in my direction. I as quickly as possible snap my eyes downwards, my fingers tensely intertwining in a nervous action. Counting to ten in my head, I tentatively look back up to see him quipping at the man opposite him and pulling his jacket together.

Deciding to stop being a creep, I go on my phone and stick my earbud back into my ear, occasionally stealing a glance at the beautiful male down the carriage from me.

Deciding to crack open my can of bubble tea with the silver pull tab, I slurp down a sip and set it back on the table in front of me. Two big brown eyes glace in my direction at the sound. “Can’t believe I'm stuck with water.” The man gruffly mumbles. “Lemon, It’s a fucking drink, man up. Too sugary anyways.”

Looking up, I notice the duo have switched sides of the carriage and are now accompanied by a sleeping man in a washed-out pink hoodie, gray fuzzy jacket, and big hot pink glasses on his face.

I look down at my two cans and back up at the man who has a disappointed, unhappy-looking face. 

“Excuse me?” I try to keep my voice down but stick out my hand a little in hopes of catching his attention. My wish is granted when his whole body faces me, eyes and ears waiting for my reason for interruption. The one with the slicked-back hair turns his head in acknowledgment. 

The indents at the corners of my lips lift up in what I'm hoping is a comforting smile. “Um, the vending machine gave me two of these. I probably won't finish both anyway. Would you like to have it?” My voice tips up at the end in a question. I grasp the aluminum can in my hand and tilt it in his direction, watching his eyes sweep across it, scanning the label.

I can practically see his eyes brighten. The rich dark brown sparkling in the light outside of the train. His eyelids widen a fraction of an inch and his lips twitch into an almost smile.

From his reaction, I hopped up from my booth, my clothes rustling in the process, and stepped a few feet to set the can on his table with a thump.

Lemons POV:

Seeing the angel from outside sitting a few seats away is one thing. But the smile they give me warms my whole body. Like a heater of happiness and care comes in from my fingertips and leads to my core, making my mind stand still for a moment before I process their words and look down at the drink in their delicate hands. Recognizing the can I had wanted earlier in the day, I was shocked by the situation.

Before I can say anything, they stand and make their way to me. The clink of the drink on the table knocks me out of my stupor and I’m finally able to make sounds come out of my mouth and speak. “Thank you.” 

A bright, splitting smile graces their face, their teeth gleaming in the light. Their eyes squint from the force of their cheeks rising, long pretty eyelashes are perfectly framing them. Wrinkles are more prominent around their temple and mouth, but all the lines show, is how happy and cheerful they are.

“My name is Lemon. This is tangerine.” I gestured to my brother in front of me. Even though I hated the sound of the code names coming off my tongue, I had to use our aliases. I can hear in my head her asking ‘Like the fruit?’, I am just waiting for it to be uttered from their soft-looking lips.

“Oh! I love lemons! It’s so nice to meet you, I’m Y/n. And you’re welcome for the boba.” I’m stuck there for a second, my mind empty of how accepting they are of the silly names. Names that are so obviously fake, that everyone questions them without fail. Everyone except Y/n. They complimented them.

“I um.. I like your tie.” The expression on their face turns sheepish and they duck their head, looking at their shoes. Almost embarrassed in a way. As if they hadn’t meant to say it. And fuck me if I didn’t think it was the most adorable thing in the world.

“Thanks, love,” I utter, almost forgetting to reply, it comes out a few seconds later than necessary.

They pivot on their feet, swinging around in the direction of the table they were just sitting at. “Would you like a goldfish biscuit?” I would like to bash my head into this table, thanks. They turn their head and I internally thank myself for that stupid remark. 

As long as their face is in view, everything is worth the effort.

“Sure. Thank you.” That breathtaking smile again. All I can do is stare. Tangerine eventually gets the hint and hands them both packets, knowing full well neither he nor Lemon is going to eat them. 

They finally take their leave after all the delays. My eyes are locked on them the whole time, the dryness setting in.

“Oi bruv, stop starin’, it’s starting to get creepy.” A British accent breaks me from my trance, making my eyes blink a thousand a minute. After the stinging subsides, I divert my gaze to the blue eyes looking at me. One of his eyebrows is raised, mouth slightly agape in a confused expression. 

“Wasn’t staring, mate” My eyes roll to my right, upset that he caught onto my oogling. “I beg to fuckin differ! What would Thomas say, Lem?” The force of my head snapping back to him almost gives me whiplash, feeling almost dizzy. 

“Don’t you dare!” I gasped out, offended that he would even mention Thomas. How dare he-

After settling down, I took the tab of metal at the top of the can Y/n gave me and pulled it back, a loud cracking sound filling the air as it cracked into the aluminum. Bringing the beverage up to my lips, the sweet flavor filling my mouth. 

I can see Tan's eyes rolling, his lips set into a hard line, the arms covered in his jacket crossing and the fabric wrinkling, he's obviously effectively annoyed.

Thinking about the kind gesture of the drink I peek over, seeing them lay their head down on the gray table in front of them, taking a nap. Glancing down at the drink in my hand, I see the words ‘Brown Sugar’, my favorite flavor.

The drink is sweet. Like her.

Y/ns POV:

My eyes jolt open at the feeling of someone pushing me. I draw my gaze upwards and am greeted by a train attendant. 

Her hands grip my jacket, pulling me toward her with her eyes wide and wicked-looking. I instinctively kick my foot out, hitting her side with the force of pushing her back into the table behind her. 

Coughing is heard as the air is forced out of her lungs, her body slumping down onto the floor for a second. Seeing the opening in the aisle, I rush past the automatic doors, they efficiently open with a ‘slunk’. Pushing my body into the bathroom door, It falls open and I stumble in. Reorienting myself, I quickly close and lock the door frantically. 

I scramble backward to get as much space as I can between the door and me as if she could burst through it. “Bitch!” I hear a muffled shout of frustration and thudding on the metal, the flesh of her fists repeatedly hitting it. 

After a few seconds of my panicked breathing and her pounding, it stops and tiny thuds are heard, leading out and into another car.

“Fuck. Oh fuck fuck fuck. Oh my god! Okay! It’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna be okay.” I breathlessly whisper out, as if she can still hear me. I wheeze and sit down in the spacious bathroom. My arm pushes against some buttons on the wall and a jet of water violently hisses out of the toilet, hitting the wall in front of it and spraying aggressive streams everywhere.

I cover myself with my jacket, my arm lifting out in front of me as I turn to the red buttons on the wall, mashing my fist into them with a clacking sound as I beat the plastic. 

The water continues to soak my jacket, the color turning darker as it becomes saturated. The water slows to a stop, and all that can be heard is the in and out of panting and drops meeting the puddle on the floor. 

“Holy shit.” I gasp out into the echoey space. 

After metaphorically shitting my pants for a looong while and using the towels in the cupboard underneath the sink that was always stocked. My jacket is effectively sopping wet, I took it off a while ago, the crisp air hitting my damp skin, creating goose bumps. 

Sighing, I stand up and slowly click the lock on the bathroom door to the other side, peeking my head out, almost anticipating the sight of the attendant who attacked me. I haven’t heard the sound of walking or train doors opening in quite a while, and curious as to where everyone has gone. 

The coast is clear, only the spotless resting area and the luggage. Well, where some of the luggage used to be. All that resides there is the stainless steel of the shiny shelves. Not a personal item in sight. 

Where is everyone? Someone should have come by if I missed the last stop or something.

I decide to head in a random direction. Aimlessly wandering through the train cars, the pitter-patter of my feet becomes frantic and louder, ricocheting off the empty walls. The only thing I can hear. 

The windows display the beginning of a warm yellow, the sun still below the skyline but waiting for its time to fully be seen. Who knows how many hours have passed. 

I throw as many doors open as possible, trying to find any sense of a living being. A certain door wouldn’t budge from its position and I let my gaze drift down, a pink band with hot pink glistening plastic balls decorating the fabric. My eyebrows furrow, disoriented and puzzled, I undo the fastening, the band falling to the ground in a clatter. I let my fist wrap around the cool handle to the door and pull.

The door snaps open at my touch, and the handle loudly thwacks against the wall. A Japanese man sits in the corner, blood soaked through his clothes, but breathing nonetheless. 

The air is stolen from my lungs, not being able to take any more oxygen in, as if I was punched in the chest. What really makes me stop in my tracks is the large man slumped down on the floor. His hair is bleached-blonde, him wearing a jean jacket. His shirt has holes all over it. Bullet holes. Dark blood in his beard glints in the light, shiny and red. His full lips were now stained with the offending liquid.

My knees collapse underneath me, then hit the floor with a sickening smack, pain shooting down my legs. “L-Lemon?” 

My hands come up and push at his chest, waiting for the rhythmic beating to reach them. All I feel is his button-down. Red droplets around his collar match the suspenders hiked onto his shoulders.

I can’t control my hands, my whole body is shaking uncontrollably. My arms twitching back and forth. Cupping his large, warm cheeks in my hands, I choke out, “Lemon?”

“No. No no no no nonono” my panicky slurred mumbling filled the space, my tongue feeling heavy and dry. The nice man who I couldn’t manage to take my eyes off of the whole train ride. The one who was considerate enough to give me something in return for a stupid canned drink.

The one with the big eyes that twinkled in the light. With big, full, round cheeks that adorably lifted wherever he smiled. His smile that would light up the whole room. The one people so rarely saw.

The one who now slumped against the wall, covered in blood.

[ashortdropandasuddenstop]

James sighed through his nose, a long-suffering exhale as the Joker basked in his own impossibility like it was some great achievement. “Why shouldn’t you be?” James repeated, lips pressing into a thin line. “Because most people find ‘impossible’ a nuisance, not a virtue.” He gave the clown a sharp look, but it was wasted on him. The Joker wasn’t most people—he reveled in being an enigma, and frankly, James wasn’t sure if that was something to admire or just endure.

James barely reacted as the Joker trailed his fingers along his clothing, his smug little smirk daring him to respond. “Then again, you seem endlessly entertained,” James muttered, watching the way those green eyes roamed his face. The intensity of them, the way they glowed with anticipation, made James wary. The clown wasn’t just looking forward to the shopping trip—he was looking forward to the fight, the back-and-forth, the game of it all.

But the Joker was also perceptive, annoyingly so, and the moment James’s guard slipped at the mention of his father, the clown latched onto it like a dog with a bone. James’s jaw clenched. “Don't really believe that's any of your business,” he said sharply, steering the clown away from the store and onto the street. But Joker was grinning, already peeling away layers James hadn’t meant to expose. James met the Joker’s gaze, unflinching. “You didn’t hit a nerve,” he said coolly, clearly a lie. “But if you did, I’d strongly advise against poking at it.” His voice was even, but there was an unspoken warning beneath it, something firm and final.

Then, the Joker grinned up at him, fingers tugging lightly at his shirt. James scowled at the words, rolling his eyes as he pried the bleached hands off of him. “Break your neck? Tempting, but I’d rather not deal with the mess that would make.”

His grip on the Joker’s arm didn’t loosen as they stepped out into the cool Gotham air, but the Joker’s expression shifted—his voice laced with something sharper, colder. The clown had picked up on the slight crack in his exterior, and he wasn’t going to let it go.

They walked down the sidewalk, the Joker’s sing-song questioning filling the air as James guided them toward their destination. The vampire scoffed at the accusation, shaking his head. “Yes, I kill,” he admitted without hesitation. “But I kill when I need to, not for sport. Not because it’s fun.” His grip on the Joker’s wrist loosened slightly, but his gaze remained firm.

“And I certainly don’t kill men who are just doing their jobs. I don’t kill for the sake of chaos or amusement. I don’t kill because it fills some twisted void inside me. I kill when I’m hungry. That’s the difference.” He turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing as he regarded the Joker. “You wouldn’t understand it, because there’s no rhyme or reason to what you do. But I have rules. And one of those rules is that men who work hard, men who have a duty to fulfill for the good of society, are not my prey.”

Duty. It had been drilled into him since childhood. It was what had defined his life before he’d become what he was. It had been a chain around his neck, a weight on his shoulders—but despite it all, he still believed in it. He had to less he be nothing more than a monster.

His grip on the Joker’s arm tightened again briefly as they moved through the streets. “That man in the store? He has a duty to perform. You don’t shoot men like that,” James said firmly. “If you want to shoot someone, pick someone who deserves it.” He turned his head slightly, glancing at the Joker from the corner of his eye. “I imagine you don’t have much trouble finding those sorts of people in Gotham.”

As they neared Gotham’s most extravagant dress shop, James didn’t slow his pace, his grip on the Joker’s arm firm and unyielding. The bell above the door chimed as he pushed the clown inside, drawing a few startled looks from the shop attendants. The store was filled with delicate fabrics, shimmering gowns, and walls lined with tailored women's suits fit for Gotham’s elite. The contrast between the pristine elegance of the boutique and the wild, chaotic presence of the Joker was almost comical. Almost. James barely gave him a moment to revel in the absurdity before steering him toward a row of mannequins draped in deep reds and royal blues. “Pick something and make it quick,” James muttered, low enough that only the Joker could hear.

The shop’s associates, a group of well-dressed women, hovered near the counters, their eyes wide with barely concealed fear. One clutched a measuring tape to her chest as if it might shield her from whatever chaos the Joker could unleash. None of them dared to approach, their gazes flickering between the grinning madman and the imposing vampire escorting him.

"Why shouldn't i be?" The clown can't get over how much he likes to hear those words come out of James mouth. Being impossible probably isn't a compliment for most people, but the Joker preferred being impossible. He believes it's charming. "Why i always find myself endearing," Sadly the madman isn't lying either. He does consider himself endearing, which isn't the case most of the times.

"Of course it'll be beautiful," Tender smiles graces his mouth between the Joker's touching his clothing. Green irises drifting back to his face when he begin speaking to him once again. He will make sure the both of them will be entertained alright.

The Joker doesn't flinch or move, he just keeps his eyes glued on him when James slightly leans in his personal space. Now, this, now this has the clown blushing again. He won't ever admit but certain people stopping his evil plans, and keeping him from killing someone. God, and especially with authority like this. He adores it secretly.

"Oh! You beautiful man," He grins contentedly, bleached hands yanking at his shirt lightly. "Keep talking like that, and I'll have ya' break my neck,"

"Oh!" His eyes expands because he spots the brief change in James demeanor. "Did i hit a nerve there, hunny?" He. smiles up at him. It's laced with something undeniably cold. The Joker willingly let the other lead him out of the store.

"I thought you were a murderer? " He walks down the sidewalk, heading to Gotham's clothes shop. "Now you care 'bout people I'm confused?"

[nymphoheretic]

Nymph: more bleach men incoming! This time Gin Ichimaru!

Synopsis: You’ve been a brat to your husband long enough, so now Gin has to punish you.

Warnings: Gin has a Kansai dialect, Brat Tamer!Gin, spoilers for Gin’s eyes, impact play, spanking, Gin calls the reader “Angel”, implied sex

Word Count: 1.1k

Pairing: Gin Ichimaru x f!reader

Tags: @tokyometronetwork @linpunny @sailewhoremoon @bizarrebankai @blueparadis

You know better than to test Gin’s patience for long. Your husband is always so unusually calm about things. His fox-faced look never seems to leave his face no matter how hard you try to brat to him. He would just smile down at you and hold one long, slender finger to his lips. You had simply thought that he would forget about it like he always does.

But you were wrong. Oh so wrong.

Coming home one day, tired from work. You had hoped Gin had already run you a relaxing bath, but was met with him sitting on the bed, his normally closed eyes open to show a sliver of those chilling blue irises. You swallowed dryly. Gin never opens his eyes unless it was something serious. “Gin...” Your voice was a soft whisper as you locked eyes with him.

Gin spreads his legs and pats his right thigh. “C’mere, Angel.” His tone was low and left no room for you to say “no.” “Strip out those clothes, too.” He watches as your throat bobs as you swallow again. Icy blue eyes never once leaving yours as you slowly remove your clothing. “Ah, leave the heels on, dear.” He coos as he crooks that single finger at you.

You nervously shuffle over to where he was sitting on the edge of the bed. As you move closer to him you could see the plastic paddle that rests next to him. “G-Gin...” You whimper out. It’s been so long since he has given you a punishment that the mere sight of the toy intimidates you. “I’m sorry for being a brat.”

A soft chuckle leaves him as his smile returns, his eyes closing once more. “I know, angel. But I’ve let ya’ go long enough without a punishment. Fourty-five times in fact.”

Your eyes widen. Was...was that everytime he would silently shush you for your behavior? You didn't think he actually kept count. Oh who were you kidding? This was your husband, Gin. He was always just a few steps ahead of you. With a dry swallow when he crooks his finger at you, beckoning you to bend over his knee, you move closer to him. “Please?” You try again to plead with him.

“Angel.” His voice was quiet, low, and stern. You were going to get your spankings and you were going to enjoy them. Once you were close, he gently wraps his long fingers around your delicate wrist and pulls you down over his lap. His smile was back on his lips as his fingers ghosts over the curve of your rear. “Such pretty skin and I get ta make it red.” His fingers lightly trace over your pussy lips, feeling you jump in surpise before he reaches for the paddle. “Count them, fer me, pretty. And don’t make a mistake.”

You knew not to brace yourself for the first impact of the plastic against your skin, but Gin never gave any warning as to when he would bring it down on your flesh. You flinch when the paddle strikes you and quickly count the first smack. By the twenty-fifth strike, the pain turns into pleasure and you let out a lewd sounding moan each time Gin would spank you.

Gin stops for a moment, his fingers tracing over the redden marks on your thighs and plump rear. Each strike was perfectly aimed and he demonstrates perfect control over his strength. “My my, are ya gettin’ turned on from this?” He glides his fingers through your soaked folds, spreading them apart to watch the strings of your arousal drip down them. “This is supposed ta be a punishment.”

He looks down at you, his smile still never leaving his lips as he tilts his head. “I’m waiting fer an answer, Angel.” The paddle cracks against your skin lightly yet still firm enough to draw another keening moan from your supple lips.

“ ‘m sorry, Gin. It feels so good though” You babble out, lifting your hips for more of the “punishment.” You whine when he takes too long. There were still ten left. “Baby...please? I need it. I’ve been such a brat to you.”

Gin’s lips spread further, his eyes crinckling just a bit as his sadistic tendencies begin to rise. “Ya need it? Then this isn’t a punishment anymore.” He traces his fingers down one thigh, the rough pads gliding over the soft flesh and up the other. His other hand grabs the paddle once more. “Maybe I should put more strength inta these last ten, yeah?”

Before you could even reply back, he raises the plastic high above his head and smacks it soundly against the back of your thighs. You let out a piercing cry from the shock of how much stronger than impact was against our skin. The flesh was throbbing as the pain settled in. Tears pooled in your eyes as the pain spread from your nerves.

He smacks the paddle against you in a quick series, stopping just before the last one. “My, you’re still getting so wet from even this?” Gin dipped his fingers back into the sticky pool of slick that gathers at your entrance. He spreads your juices over the back of your thighs and rear before bringing his soaked fingertips to his mouth. “Hmm...sweet. Just like dried persimmons.” Gin opens his eyes, showing those crystal blue irises that never fail to entrance you when you look into them.

“One more ta go, pretty Angel.” He lifts the paddle once more, only to drop it when it nears your flesh and his hand makes contact. Gin grabs a handful and begin to knead the flesh firmly. “Fourty-five.” He moves his hand to your hair and pulls you up so that you were straddling his lap. Gin pulls you down to meet his lips in a greedy kiss. “Ya did so well fer me. Taking yer punishment.” He feels your wetness seep through his clothing, leaving a damp spot on the crotch of his trousers. “I suppose I should fuck you now, hmm? How does that sound, Angel?”

You eagerly nod your head as you grind down on the bulge you felt growing harder underneath you. “Please, Gin. I need you so badly.” You let out a squeak when he suddenly reversed your positions, his pants already down to his knees to free his erection as he pressed your thighs to your chest. You cry out when he rubs the head of his cock through your slick folds.

Gin coos down at you as he slides inside with one smooth thrust, his heavy balls tapping lightly at the redden flesh of your ass. “Who am I ta deny my pretty little angel?”

[azdoine]

THE FLESH IS WILLING

So there’s this bit back in the Fullbringer arc, after Ichigo has lost all of his spiritual powers and become a human again, where he’s being a stubborn shonen protagonist and getting chewed out for it:

Jackie takes a pretty straightforward stance on the providence of the body: “you have to remember that you, as a mortal, are now more vulnerable than the discarnate spirit you used to be.” Likewise for the behavior of the Shinigami of the Gotei 13, who never once fight in a Gigai if they can help it, always preferring to evacuate their false bodies and fight in spiritual form.

The takeaway, for a lot of readers, is that human bodies are dumb and limiting in the Bleach universe, and life in the human world is just the tutorial before you get to the good stuff - that being a spirit is strictly superior to fleshly embodiment, and condescending to take on a physical human form is just one more way Shinigami have to hide their true power in their dealings with the world of the living.

And this is an easy conclusion to reach! Certainly it seems that it has to be correct on some abstract level; the human form isn’t godly, we’re all viscerally familiar with the hard limitations of our own bodies (and the way Shinigami seemingly rise above them).

More than that, the mere prospect of life after death intuitively demands some level of mind-body dualism, insisting upon a spiritual essence which transcends the confines of the flesh. One is reminded of Foucault’s bit on embodiment:

"My body - it is the place without recourse to which I am condemned. And actually I think that it is against this body (as if to erase it) that all these utopias have come into being. Utopia is a place outside all places, but it is a place where I will have a body without body, a body that will be beautiful, limpid, transparent, luminous, speedy, colossal in its power, infinite in its duration. Untethered, invisible, protected - always transfigured. The first utopia, the one most deeply rooted in the hearts of men, is precisely the utopia of an incorporeal body.

"But perhaps the most obstinate, the most powerful of those utopias with which we erase the sad topology of the body, has been, since the beginning of Western history, supplied to us by the great myth of the soul."

Engaging stuff, right. You see Ichigo cavorting around as something different from his friends, a soul existing without relation to a body, and are tempted to imagine that he is something more sublime than they are, a self severed from all material trappings and conditions - and that’s how we ended up with a scene chock full of weirdly suicidality-coded fanfiction about how liberating it is to die and be reborn. (All of which is to say nothing of the lovably cheesy Sandman-ass fics where trans!Ichigo discovers that his body turns cisgender in the afterlife.)

But as compelling as the line of thought is, is this assessment of the situation actually accurate?

Any Headline With A Question Mark Can Be Answered By The Word ‘No’

Seriously, you can deflate this fantasy with two pages:

Each time Ichigo draws upon his power and overreaches, it has the exact same deleterious effect upon his corpus, irrespective of whether he’s embodied as a mortal human or a Shinigami at the time. Much is made of how Fullbringers have to train their bodies to handle and sustain their strength, but this isn’t unique to the mortal condition - even Shinigami have to train their bodies to reach their full potential, and their bodies aren’t uniquely suited to channeling spiritual strength in a way that those of humans are not.

(No indication is ever given, for example, that Urahara’s Reishi Henkan-Ki will have any effect on the abilities of Chad, Orihime, & Uryu - only that the conversion of their bodies into souls will allow them to enter Soul Society. IOW, we can infer that spirit body conversion is the equivalent of wearing a Gigai to better fit in the living world.)

But surely the form you take as a discarnate spirit at least expresses something about yourself, right? If your soul is a reflection of who you really are, that would explain why some members of the Gotei 13 are straddling the uncanny valley - the transubstantiation of your self-image would obviate the need for body modification and fashion!

Except no, that’s not how souls work, either. Because Komamura isn’t actually a furry, Kurotsuchi still has to apply his juggalo makeup manually, and this line of thought can go in some really fucking troubling directions if you try and work through all its potential implications.

(All of this is why Shinigami are such ardent tool-users and why they’re prone to subsidizing so much mad science, you see - their technological development helps to compensate for the natural puissance they lack, and then technological self-modification is the only path for the iconoclasts among them to shuck off their limitations.)

We know from Yoruichi vs. Askin that the spiritual realms contain analogues to kishi particles:

And Aizen informs us all of the way back in Soul Society that a Gigai - a false corpse, a physical vessel to be inhabited by a spiritual being - is itself made of spiritual particles!

Between the demands of serialization and his initial uncertainty about the ultimate direction Bleach’s cosmology would take, I think Kubo was - understandably - somewhat inconsistent in his presentation of spiritual physics. Nonetheless, I believe we can infer that the distinction between ‘reishi’ and ‘kishi’ doesn’t strictly exist. Bleach very much mixes Eastern and Western thought in the melting pot of its aesthetics, but its cosmology is primarily inspired by Japanese Buddhism, and the wheel of reincarnation doesn’t draw an absolute distinction between ‘physical’ and ‘spiritual’ realms. Materiality is relative, and ultimately only phenomenal.

To temporize: dying and becoming a soul, rather than representing a dis-incarnation, should more properly be thought of as another form of re-incarnation. When Kubo refers to a soul in the abstract, it’s almost always with the word konpaku (魂魄), a compound term with kanji that refer both to a higher ethereal soul (which transcends the body) and a lower corporeal soul (which is still conjoined to a body) - if you’re familiar with the Chinese concept of the Hun & Po souls, that’s the etymological root here. On other occasions, Kubo will use the concept of a reitai spirit body (霊体), or use the kanji for the higher soul alone, such as with reference to the Gikon that can displace a soul from the body.

Mind-body dualism is still in play, essentially, it’s just one level of abstraction higher than you expect it to be. Every time a person dies, only their higher soul and personality - the Kon soul - leaves their body after death. Then, circumstances independently conspire to re-embody that fully immaterial spirit within a completely new material vessel. (And yes, this sounds nuts, but that’s just how reincarnation works! Not to mention that Bleach’s cosmology is artificial; if it otherwise strains your suspension of disbelief, consider that this underlying alignment of cause and effect was deliberately built into the domain of the Godhead.)

So the difference between the ordinary human body and the spirit reitai is solely that one is made of kishi and the other is made of reishi.

Now I’ll start asserting shit: on a chemical and physical level, reishi and kishi are identical to one another. For purposes of embodying a soul, reishi and kishi are very likely identical to one another. What actually sets them apart is going to be their planar properties, their disjunction - perhaps artificially - into separate realms of existence.

Just like humans most naturally abide in the human world,

And Shinigami and Plus souls most naturally abide in Soul Society,

And Hollows most naturally abide in Hueco Mundo,

A physical particle most naturally abides in the realm of existence which corresponds to its underlying spiritual aspect - we might even think of this aspect as a reiatsu charge, though I’m inclined to visualize it more generally as a position in the configuration space of all possible realms. (‘Realms’ in the Samsaric sense, that is, at the intersection of indexical location and subjective psychological experience.) 

What we call ‘kishi’ is only a special case of matter: it is a particle which conforms to the reiatsu aspect of human beings, spirits who are themselves defined by their karmic attachments, their ‘chains of fate’. What we call a Shinigami’s ‘reitai’ is only a special case of matter: it is made of particles which conform to his reiatsu aspect as a cosmic balancer. Neither are sufficient to constitute the utopian body.

And yet,

There is perhaps one other natural form of reishi which would suffice…

The human body is the principal actor in all utopias. After all, isn’t one of the oldest utopias about which men have told themselves stories the dream of an immense and inordinate body that could devour space and master the world?

To wear a mask, to put on makeup, to tattoo oneself, is to place the body into another space. They usher it into a space that does not take place in the world directly. They make of this body a fragment of imaginary space, which will communicate with the universe of divinities, or with the universe of the other, where one will be taken by the gods.

[secondhand-trash]

Put a Ring on It

A/N: I started it with the intention of writing a thirst post but it ended up being 1.7k of pure fluff lmao

Pairing: Miya Atsumu x reader

Description: Miya Atsumu had a thing for wearing rings.

Word count: 1772

-

Miya Atsumu had a thing for wearing rings.

Maybe it was how he thought that they made his hands looked bigger, or how the accents never failed to draw even more attention to his slender fingers. Likely, it was just the way how most teenage boys went through a phase of wanting to look stylish and edgy without really bothering to look into having an actual style of their own, resulting in him halting a baggy t-shirt, cargo pants and an unnecessary amount of rings as the peak of men’s fashion. You had your own thoughts on how he was so determined to slip a ring or two into whatever he was wearing whenever he was out of his uniform. You made fun of his sense of fashion none stop, pointing to his bleached hair that has faded from the gold it was supposed to be into a sharp yellow and cheap chunky jewelry as the main culprit.

“You look like a delinquent who smokes cheap cigarettes in parks after school.”

You sniggered when he let out an offended ‘huh’. His chunky silver rings that had obnoxiously prominent carvings on the side brushed dug into the gap between your fingers as he squeezed your hand tighter when he snapped towards your direction. Your free hand, the one that wasn’t in a lock hold by his ring clad one, reached out to brush away his side-swooped bangs. His hair was fried from the boxed bleach he used regularly but as a side perk, the dryness did add to the volume of his hair.

He stood there still as you carefully pushed his hair back, his upper body leaning towards your direction just a little so you didn’t have to struggle to reach him despite his initial protests. You were messing with his hair and he was looking at you, only at you, with his fingers still linked with yours even though you always complained about his rings making it hard for you to hold his hand.

You finally pulled back and your gaze dropped from his bangs to his eyes. Your heart skipped a beat when you met his eyes and they were full of you.

You cursed your weak heart for its sudden moment of swooning when he stood back up straight and his ring scratched against the inside of your finger.

You sighed, “You are so lucky you have a nice face so that people will be too caught up to notice how you dressed.”

Atsumu pretended he couldn’t hear the second half of the sentence and decided to focus on how you said he had a nice face instead.

But then you graduated from high school and he slowly started dressing less like a disastrous teenage boy and more like a proper adult. That athlete money did him well and he was finally able to dress the way he wanted to dress without having to turn into a questionable direction because of monetary limits. The baggy pants were gone from his closet, replaced with pants that actually fit his body and elevate things instead of holding back the visual upper hand he was supposed to have because of his physiques. He finally stopped bleaching his own hair after your many years of nagging but you nearly lost your composure when he showed up in front of your door to pick you up with his new hair for the first time.

“I got the stylist to trim my bangs for me,” he said as he ran his hand through the curl sitting at the side of his forehead and you gulped when you realised that his hair was soft enough for fingers to go through them with ease now, “I’m still trying to get used to not having things over my eye.”

“Oh?” you replied, your voice breathy as you tried to calm down your sea of thoughts at the sight of your boyfriend’s new look. 

You were aware that he was good looking, but everything that he was not born with used to be questionable so it balanced things out. Now he was wearing tight-fitted jeans that made his legs look even more toned as if it was even possible, with a white t-shirt that was tugged in loosely. He had a blazer on too, probably because you made him take you somewhere nice in celebration of his first VLeague cheque, but at this point you were almost certain he had that thing on just to drive you insane. 

And his hair, his god damn windswept fluffy no longer bright yellow hair.

“Do you think I should grow it longer?” he asked as he rubbed the tip of his bangs between the pads of his finger. The silver that sat at the bottom of his digits contrasted starkly with the pale gold and it finally dawned upon you that he stopped wearing the cheap rings you used to make fun of him for a while ago. 

Oh dear, now he was actually hot.

“No,” you blurted out, “it looks nicer this way.”

"You think so?” he asked as you forced your legs to move past your door before shutting it behind your back firmly. You had to force yourself to go out before the urge to make him come in could win, or else you would most certainly end up doing things that would make you miss your reservation.

And you had been excited to leech off of his athlete money.

“Yes, yes I do think so,” you said as you grabbed his hand to pull him along with you. 

You groaned in satisfaction when you realised his new rings did not stop you from sliding your fingers between his like the old ones did.

You started having fewer objections towards his choice of accessaries after his general fashion sense shifted for the better. You even started liking the rings after a while, crediting it to him opting for designs with more simplicity. You liked the way the metal was already warm from his heat when he put his hand on your thigh out of nowhere because he was bored, or when he was at the driver’s seat and the pad of his finger drummed against your skin steadily as he waited for the lights to change. The warmth of his hand always brought you security and he was well aware that nothing called your attention to him like it did. You were not even sure if he was aware, but he had a habit of toying with his rings whenever you were neglecting him because you had your attention on something else. The band he was playing with always ended up off his finger and up yours when you were least expecting it, the feeling of his calloused finger holding your hand as he slid it down always managed to call your gaze back to him.

‘What a child,’ you chuckled to yourself when he looked at you innocently like he could not be having any hidden thoughts, his hand still holding onto yours as he held the ring that was too large for your finger from falling down.

So being the child he was, who always couldn’t fathom the thought of letting you leave his side and was equally eager to let the world know he wasn’t leaving yours, it did not surprise you at all when you were tidying up your drawers one day to find a velvet box tugged all the way back into his sock drawer.

You had a feeling it was exactly what you thought it was, and you laughed at the image of him trying to find somewhere to hide it in the house while you were not around.

Of course, leave it up to Miya Atsumu to hide a ring at the back of his sock drawer because he thought it was the one place you wouldn’t look into unless you were left with no choice.

You giggled to yourself and closed the drawer, letting the box stayed right where it was.

You weren’t looking. You wanted to, but you weren’t. Because you knew he would whine to no end if you didn’t look as surprised as he wanted you to be when he finally showed it to you for real.

He still had no clue that you already knew it was coming when he got down on one knee and took the box out of his pocket with shaky hands. He cried when you said yes and you cried when he started crying, even though you had already rehearsed in your head for a million times on how you would say yes ever since you saw the velvet box inside of his sock drawer. 

He was still sobbing when he realised he needed to get up from the ground, wiping his tears away on the sleeve of his very expensive blazer before clumsily taking the ring out of the box to put it on your finger. Miya Atsumu was an ugly crier through and through and you finally admitted to yourself that you were a whipped fool when you still wanted to kiss his stupid face even though his eyes were swollen and he missed your finger a few times before finally getting the ring in.

“Now we match,” he said with a hiccup, laughing but sounding like he was about to break down into another round of tears as soon as the chuckle left his mouth, “you can’t make fun of my rings anymore.”

He was so dumb, and you felt like crying again when he took out an identical ring from his pocket and put it on his own hand. Who the hell does that? You wanted to laugh at him but you couldn’t, because you knew you would start sobbing again if you do that.

“You’re an idiot,” you said, grabbing his hand to steady him because he was shaking and you were sure he might just drop the ring if he kept fidgeting.

He sniffled, grinning ear to ear through his tears when he saw the ring that sat on your finger.

“So?” he said, happily holding your hand in his to look at how perfectly it fits, the rings and your hands, “You can’t get rid of me now, I got the ring to prove it.”

You huffed, but couldn’t stop yourself from smiling when he rubbed his fingers along his engagement ring like he was making sure that it was still there.

You decided that it would be your favourite ring of his until you get to put the wedding band onto his finger yourself.

[r473n]

@bleachsmutfest I'll go first!

Blog Name: @r473n

Masterlist link and link to ao3

When did you start writing fan fiction?

Wrote a few things as a teen but never published. The got back into it two years ago for Good Omens

When did you start writing Bleach fan fiction?

Last summer

What got you into writing fan fiction in general?

The need to push my fictional men's heads together to make them kiss.

Do you write smut?:

YESSSSSSS!! It's my fav thing to write!

Favourite Kinks to write (if you write smut):

CNC 👀, dom/sub, degradation, praise kink, impact play, orgasm control... imma stop cos I could go on forever

Least favourite kinks to write: (will write them but don't like them):

Breeding kink (although I gotta say I have an idea buzzing around in my head for a Komamura x reader breeding/knotting kink...), cum play, large age gaps

Will never write these kinks:

I don't think I'd ever not write a kink, if it suits the character I can get into anything

Favourite Characters to write:

Mayuri Kurotsuchi and Kenpachi Zaraki of course! But I've also enjoyed writing Unohana and might have a wip for a wlw with Isane... 👀

Any characters you would not write?:

Underage characters, even aged up I just cannot, sorry.

Link one of your favourite Bleach fic you have written:

Kurotsuchi’s miscalculation

Why is that fic your favourite?:

Because it was my first ever long fic where I published as I went which meant I didn't have an ending nor "everything under control".

And because I cringed so hard writing it, hated every scene, felt stupid and ridiculous and I still published it. And I'm proud of me 🥹

Do you currently take requests?:

I would love to but I'm so insecure that the idea of disappointing whoever asks would stop me from ever finishing.

If someone sends me a request (I have one for a continuation of Covert Desires which made me really happy!!) I'll do my best to honour it but I'm not brave enough to encourage it.

Favorite Bleach quote:

"I loathe perfection! If something is perfect, then there is nothing left. There is no room for imagination. // For scientists such as ourselves, perfection only brings despair. It is our job to create things more wonderful than anything before them, but never to obtain perfection."

Favorite color:

Midnight blue

Choice of beverage when you are in writing mode:

Coffee all day, every day

If comfortable, share some of your struggles as a writer:

Verbal diarrhoea - I tend to overexplain and overdescribe, exacerbated by the fact that English isn't my first language, so I'm never sure if I make sense, so I try to overcompensate with more words. Like I just did.

And... Excessive perfectionism that keeps me in a loop - 'he picked up the cup.' No, no, 'he lifted the cup.' Nah, 'he grabbed the cup with his hand'... 'He held the cup in his hand?' Ahahsgagahhajajajjanamalal IT DOESN'T MATTER JUST FINISH THE SENTENCE

Any word of advice you want to share with new writers who have yet to publish something but are shy/scared?:

Do it scared, do it anyway!

Also, in writing as in drawing, start with a sketch, an idea, then add detail, colour, background and so on.

When inspiration is flowing don't pause it to focus on format, let the words flow, you can add depth afterwards!

A message to your readers?:

I love every one of you so much!!

I never imagined anyone would read anything I wrote, let alone enjoy it. I'm so thankful for every like, every kudo, every comment. You keep me going, make me smile, I get the biggest thrill when I get a notification.

I appreciate you all so much, you don't know how much your support means to me 💙💙💙

Let's introduce our amazing writers who constantly feed us well and keep this fandom going! Everyday I will feature a writer on this blog so we can celebrate them! 🩷

Rules: Either copy and paste this into a new post and tag bleachsmutfest2025 OR reblog and tag @bleachsmutfest within that post.

Remember, reblogging this post and tagging it with bleachsmutfest2025 won't show up on search. It must be an original new post or you will have to tag my blog! Thank you!!!

Blog Name:

Masterlist link or link to ao3 etc:

When did you start writing fan fiction?

When did you start writing Bleach fan fiction?

What got you into writing fan fiction in general?

Do you write smut?

Favourite Kinks to write (if you write smut):

Least favourite kinks to write: (will write them but don't like them)

Will never write these kinks:

Favourite Characters to write:

Any characters you would not write?

Link one of your favourite Bleach fic you have written:

Why is that fic your favourite?

Do you currently take requests?

Favorite Bleach quote:

Favorite color:

Choice of beverage when you are in writing mode:

If comfortable, share some of your struggles as a writer:

Any word of advice you want to share with new writers who have yet to publish something but are shy/scared?

A message to your readers?

[wincore]

atlas | kim dongyoung

pairing: doyoung x reader

words: 15.4k

summary: kim doyoung has a lot of titles. student body president, music club president, favourite student of every professor who’s blessed enough to have him. in other words, he’s not your type and never will be. at least he’s a good kisser.

or, you feel the weight of the world on your shoulders and you do not know how to hold things as delicate as glass.

genre: college au, fwb au, hurt/comfort, angst, some fluff 

warnings: very suggestive content, making out, language, smoking, alcohol, mentions of sex under influence, me being pretentious,,

prompt: anonymous said: slippery + doyoung + "you can rely on me, you know." from the first dialogue link! LOVE YOU ❤️

song rec(s): playlist here !

a/n: yes it’s me experimenting out of my comfort zone again. yes you are required by law to listen to keshi while reading this hahahaha anyway writing this was painful. <3 (aka today i tried writing very complex human emotions and failed again. classic.)

In the beginning, there was no beginning. Ergo, this isn’t really a thing.

You shouldn’t be thinking of summer in Introduction to Latin. You are a good (perhaps great, if your ego allows) student after all. Here you are, though, listening to the ticking of the clock and wondering if you sigh loud enough, you won’t have to construct another sentence with the word for ‘death’. You pause to tell yourself that you shouldn’t be thinking of summer out of class either. Unremarkable; that's what it was and you don’t like unremarkable things.

When two people end up alone together, there’s not much to make of. 

“You know,” he had said, locking eyes. “We should get out of here.”

“And then what?”

“Fuck.”

So here’s the thing: this isn’t and won’t be a thing.

Doyoung has never been subtle when drunk, you found out, and he’s not as gentle as he looks. You flip the page of your notebook absentmindedly. You don’t like where your thoughts are going; the clinking of ice against glass rings in your ears again. It’s been far too long (one whole month) and you’re craving a bit of fun. You may forget yourself but you’re reaching your fingertips a little too far to call him again. More excuses pop up. See, in your world of perfection, there’s a hierarchy of things; men rank rather low. 

(Fun doesn’t.)

Here’s another thing: you forget yourself quite often. You know very well that you’re the one who continued this not-thing and now you’re daydreaming of Kim Doyoung in class hours. 

And under grey bed sheets with a tired smile, Doyoung is hard to forget. 

It was a party, it always is. That time, however, was the first party of the year Doyoung and you happened to be attending at the same time. You can’t remember who hosted it—the frat probably—but it was at a bar called the ‘The Meeting Place’ which had too many people you didn’t care about. Doyoung was there, in his laid-back glory, and you were drawn in far too easily. Being single did not help your case—and the alcohol certainly didn’t. You’re not sure if it was the gentle touches against your wrist or quick words that left his mouth or the attractive all-black get-up. All you know is that it was your mouth against his by the end of the night in a small booth, hot and impatient. Once, twice, thrice and you didn’t even need parties anymore. 

It’s not like you weren’t aware of what you were doing; it’s just that you were quick to give in—like you didn’t want to resist in the first place. And now, summer smells like Doyoung’s perfume. 

The first night had given Mr. Student Body President a near-stroke. You weren’t the type to sleep with strange (semi-acquainted) men at parties either so the morning had been full of awkward explanations to each other till you’d kissed him to shut him up (much like in a disgusting romantic comedy, minus the feelings) and somehow, it worked. He didn’t refuse and if you recall, he’d eventually pulled you closer by the waist.

You huff, twirling your pen. He’d never admit it.

You didn’t kiss so sloppily after that, unless it was to make out against a wall or while fumbling with the keys to your apartment. The lack of alcohol can bring wonders. You were a little surprised that he’d agreed—he is the Doyoung you’ve known since freshman year after all; blunt, rude, cares more for his grades than he’d ever for you. How laughable. He’s almost the same as you.

Here’s one last thing: Kim Doyoung is not and cannot be your type. 

You had the same part-time job in your second semester at a local fast food joint, and to summarize, your interactions were less than friendly. You can’t possibly count the number of times he yelled at you for trivial mistakes, and the number of times you sent angry, clipped sentences his way. So, yes, neither of you have told anyone—just acting friendly got you enough eyebrow raises.  If there’s anything worse than contradicting yourself almost directly, it’s having to explain that to your friends. So, you kept it a secret and so did he, for his own reasons.

You massage your forehead. If you think any more of this during class hours, you’re going to have to classify this as a terrible, terrible problem; like you don’t have enough already. You tune in to the lecture again, hoping it drowns out the rest of your thoughts. 

You tap your pen against the desk till you’re asked to stop by the professor. There goes your last resort. It isn’t the first time, but you breathe a sigh of relief at the hands of the clock. Casual means casual—you know it better than anyone. Maybe it would be easier if you could be more open about it. But you can’t. Your own problems aside, Doyoung would kill you if his reputation went down, even a nick. Men like that are so difficult, you curse to yourself. 

You run into Ten in the hallways, brightening at his absurdly wide grin. In fact, you haven’t seen him remotely upset since freshman year, when he couldn’t join the dance club, not because he failed the audition but because he mixed up the dates and missed it entirely. (It’s okay; he got in the next year.)

“Guess what!” he yells before you’re even in conversation range.

“What?” you yell back.

“No, guess,” he says, when you’re close enough.

You roll your eyes. “You scored a date?”

Ten deadpans. “No. I don’t even want one.”

“Loser.”

“No, you.”

“How clever.”

Ten flicks your forehead with no provocation whatsoever, making you yelp in pain. After a minute of cursing on your part, he squishes your cheeks to bring you back to reality—like he wasn’t the cause. You bite your lip to keep yourself from scowling. His hair is still light brown from the bleach, and you fix his bangs out of habit; your dumb friends are all you have at the end of the day. You sigh. They all lean on you unwittingly.

“Anyway, the news? I’m not guessing anything else,” you warn, taking a sip of your coffee.

“Well,” he draws out the syllable. “I heard- know you’re into the smart type. You know, student council kinda guys? So…”

You choke, the coffee leaving your mouth just as quick as it entered.

“Who told you that?” The laugh that leaves your mouth is forced and certainly fake but it’s the best you can do.

Ten rolls her eyes, still smiling. “I was thinking if you would be interested in a certain Park Hyungmin.”

Oh. Student body vice-president. He’s most definitely your type, with a gifted body and equally strong academic prowess—not to mention perfectly maintained tan skin and the most radiant smile you’ve ever seen in your life. 

“Oh, yeah, he’s hot,” you nod in agreement. “What do you want me to do with him?”

“He likes you. Like, totally has the hots for you. And I owe him so please help me out here.”

You furrow your brows, heaving a deep sigh.

“You...want me to go on a date with him?” you ask. 

You can oblige. Park Hyungmin is the hottest dude on campus (probably). It’s a win-win situation—in fact, it’s even better. A certain bitter taste finds itself in your mouth. It must be the coffee. You swallow it. 

“Yeah.”

And the deal’s done.

It was casual commitment, like most things you do for fun. You don’t think much of it, and the thought takes its final bow when you run into Doyoung himself.

Well, sort of.

You turn heel when he appears in your line of sight, pretending to fix your hair against a damn wall. You aren’t quite ready to face him yet, considering the coffee hasn’t kicked in—it’s not healthy how much you depend on it. Dependence is different, however, from consciously drowning yourself in it. 

See, Doyoung is anything but tolerable without a few shots of vodka. Or after sex. Or when he’s mumbling in his sleep. And you can’t erase any of those scenes. This is you trying to save yourself (and Doyoung) from embarrassment and a whole lot of explanation.

His coat looks expensive and you’d rather he had it on instead of on his arm. The tucked-in sweater and pants combo accentuates the line of his waist and the colour—you wonder where he found a teal so fitting—looks serene in the crowd. He’s wearing his glasses though, looking a little less put together than usual. Still, no one seems to notice and he continues to explain something to his group of friends.

God forbid you find Doyoung attractive during daytime.

His lips are chapped but pink as ever, the hair messed up by either the wind or his friends—you should stop staring by now. You give in. You’ll text him to book a hotel room tonight.

Sometimes you wonder how he has that large a friend circle, and always, the question answers itself. Eloquence, wit and regrettably, good looks—what does he lack? Maybe if he lost the habit to nag people around fifty-six times a day, he’d be the perfect man.  

An arm slings over your shoulder, punting the soul right out of your body.

“Fuck, Johnny, don’t do that,” you hiss, placing your hand over your chest involuntarily. 

The head of the photography club apparently spends his time terrorizing everyone he remotely knows. You make a foul expression but iIt’s not like he ever minds your scowling. He says he’s had enough practice from teasing Doyoung (and you’ll admit, it’s the only time you feel sorry for him). You were certain Doyoung would have filed him for harassment sometime in sophomore year. 

“What are you even looking at?” Johnny asks, raising an eyebrow at the plain offwhite expanse of the wall in front of you.

You feel hot at the neck. “I was fixing my hair.”

“In front of a wall?”

You click your tongue. “Do you not have class?”

“Oh, don’t be so quick to send me off.” He places a hand over his chest in mock hurt, fingers stretched delicately. 

To your dismay, the rest of his friends gather around giving you happy greetings—greetings only carefree college boys are capable of delivering. To your further dismay, Kim Doyoung arches an eyebrow at you, the same way he does on nights you’re doing things less than appropriate to think of in broad daylight.

“Hey, Doyoung, don’t you have anything to say? Or were you too drunk to remember?”

You bite down on your lip a little too hard. Doyoung, on the other hand, looks like he’s just seen God, stammering out a “what?” nevertheless.

“Weren’t you supposed to buy (name) a drink for driving you home that night?”

“Right,” he says, clearing his throat.

Oh, he’s bought you a drink enough times. Summer has waned but whatever thread you tied around your wrists hasn’t. Right now, your guess is that Doyoung has been ensnared in the common ritual for college boys to walk around campus and declare their friend is single just to embarrass him (or by some miracle, score him a date).

Everything, apart from the way you look at Doyoung, feels like a charade. You shake your head with a quick laugh, smacking Johnny in the arm and pay your condolences to Doyoung—keep it light. You’re good at it, or pretending you’re good at it, at the very least.

Doyoung’s gaze on you lingers for a moment and then you breathe. You’re going to be late for class—you offer the classic excuse and you’re out of there. In a way, it’s exciting. You’ve always wanted to have a secret relationship, even if this isn’t a real one. 

Doyoung is like the summer breeze, and you’d like for him to stay that way.

The next time you grace each other’s presence is when Doyoung’s tongue is in your mouth and his hands are running up under your shirt. 

He’s quite a pretty sight—messy hair, red lips and rosy cheeks. He moans into the kiss as he has quite a few times now and there’s the lovers’ high running through either of your minds. When he presses his lips to your neck, a soft restrained sound escapes you, not quite prepared for the sting of electricity through your skin. He moves to your collarbone and shoulders and then even lower, hands gripping your waist tight. The walls do not have ears here; these hotels are cheap but they’re built for privacy and maybe you’ll let yourself believe for once that you can belong to someone.

“Why did you text me in the middle of the goddamn night?” he mutters against the base of your neck.

“You want reasons now?” you whisper, hands running through his hair.

Doyoung has pretty fingers, pressing at the right places and prettier eyes that look at you with something akin to, dare you say it, love. He kisses you like he hasn’t had enough; and it makes you feel important.

He’s even better when he’s annoyed.

You wake up at around five in the morning. Propping yourself up on one arm, you take a moment to look at your partner. It’s easy to make out the line of his nose against the pillow, and if you focus, you can see his lashes against his cheek and his dark mop of hair clinging to his forehead. However gentle the moonlight is, it is kindest on a lover. 

Funny.

Too tired to sneak out, you go back to sleep.

“All I’m saying is that you have too much coffee,” Doyoung complains, slipping on his loose black sweatshirt. “It can’t be good for your health.”

You shake your head, scrolling through your phone as you lay on your belly. You’ve seen this view enough times—his back to you and sitting at the opposite edge of the bed, his incessant complaints and opinions about something that happened recently, running his hand through his hair when he sighs. You press on the calendar app and type in a note labeled ‘x’. Keeping tabs isn’t a bad thing; especially if you like order. Spending too many nights with someone is going to land you in trouble. That said, if you could trap love in a bottle, you would.

“You taste like coffee,” Doyoung adds with reddening ears.

Sometimes, it’s easy to ignore what he says if you listen to the sound of his voice instead. You sit up, scooting closer as Doyoung shoots you an alarmed look. He’s so cute like this; something about all the painted fences he puts up around him makes you want to lean in closer.

“So,” you poke his side. “How many relationships have you been in? Proper ones.”

“Three,” he answers, to your surprise.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “That’s more than I’ve been in!”

Doyoung furrows his. “How many have you been in?”

“One.”

He seems equally surprised but doesn’t probe further. After all, the price sticker that spells ‘youth’ clings to his forehead just as it clings to yours. 

“How many people have you fucked?” you ask suddenly, enjoying the visible flush across his neck.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he notes, flicking your forehead.

“Ow!” You place your palm against your forehead. “Okay, I get it, you have nothing to brag about.”

He shakes his head, an exasperated sigh leaving him. “I just don’t think you have to know. I like privacy.”

“Wait.” You gasp. “Don’t tell me- That night- don’t tell me you were a virgin—”

Doyoung squishes your cheeks between his thumb and forefinger, a laugh erupting from your mouth. 

“Who’s a virgin?”

Nothing about this, you find yourself realizing, is complicated. It’s easy, gentle, natural, like a breath of fresh air—everything but complicated. Even under dim lights and within the depths of night, Doyoung is warm and uncomplicated. His chest, his hands, his lips—they are warm, as are his words. 

But Doyoung is a fucking fairytale.  

Even after these few months, all you know about him, in the definitive format, is that he plays the keys for more hours than he sleeps. What he does for fun, what his classes are, how he became student body president—you could play guessing games all night.

“Do your friends know where you spend your nights?” you ask, leaning back against the pillows.

“They know what I’m doing, not who I’m with,” he responds, running his fingers through his hair.

You purse your lips. It’s nothing hurtful but you don’t like the hush-hush in his tone.

“Why not?”

“Because this is a secret,” he responds as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Do you want them to know?”

He’s right.

“Ah, whatever,” you mutter, a stream of curses following when your elbow collides hard with the edge of the bedside table. 

“Your mouth is filthy.” He looks away to his phone. “I don’t swear as much.”

“Well, of course it is. I had your—”

Doyoung presses his palm against your lips with a tired sigh. “Please. Don’t speak. For the sake of my sanity.”

You smile under his hand and he returns it; and the November morning warms up.

“Where were you last night?”

You were expecting the question. Areum is the worst possible candidate for a roommate if you want some privacy. You don’t think she ever sleeps; sometimes, you wonder if she even showers because all she does is stare at her laptop screen and adjust her designs. Her lips are always chapped and her hair is always in a simple low ponytail but somehow still messy. You’ve never met someone so exhausted yet so full of life at the same time.

“Who were you with last night?” Eunji yells from the bathroom, before the two of them laugh.

You knew you shouldn’t have stayed the morning. You have the nosiest roommates anyone could (not) ask for. But they’re still your friends, you tell yourself begrudgingly. You would tell them about Doyoung if it weren’t for Eunji’s big mouth and Areum’s lack of common sense. And if it weren’t for the inherent comfort of privacy.

(Some part of you wants to keep him to yourself. You don’t care about student council president Doyoung or his friend group’s everything-regulator Doyoung or always-has-his-shit-together Doyoung. The one in your bed is the most loving.)

Areum adjusts her glasses, narrowing her eyes at you. “So? Any answer?”

You break out of your daydream at her voice, feeling a flush creep up your neck.

“I don’t have to explain anything,” you retort, snatching the coffee she brewed from the tabletop. “It was a Friday night and the two of you like Netflix more than me.”

“That’s mine,” Areum mumbles out a weak complaint.

“But don’t go out alone,” Eunji whines. “It can’t be safe.”

You laugh. “You know me. I don’t do anything too dangerous. Besides, you guys have that tracker app.”

They shrug, offering you a thin smile. A part of you is happy that they trust you but another part wonders what it would be like to be worried over. Maybe getting nagged isn’t so bad. 

You take a sip of Areum’s coffee and almost spit it out right back. 

“Did you add salt?” you ask, wiping at your mouth and hoping the taste disappears.

“Uh.” A reply so intelligent, you wonder if she ever pays attention to anything she's doing. 

You take a moment (a few), sigh (several times) and make your way to the shelves. Grumbling, you make her a proper cup of coffee before you leave.

Classes don’t wait for you (even if you think they should) and the world doesn’t wait for you (again, you think it should wait for people) so you’ve made it a point to understand the whole deal about rules. If everyone followed the rules, it would be quite a pretty scene; messing up is only valid if it’s done prettily. You laugh at the thought. That’s near impossible. The bus ride to the campus consists of music and thoughts of bleak tomorrows—an average commute for college kids, you think. You sure hope you aren’t alone in this.

Doyoung smiles at you in the hallway today, and despite your best efforts, it makes your day smell a little fresher.

Your day: classes, coffee break, classes, complaining with Ten, assignments, ‘me’ time. For someone who pretends to be laid back, you use your planner as though for survival. There’s no sticky notes or colourful sketches (except on occasion); just good old fashioned to-do lists and a calendar marked with time you’ve spent on productivity. Every day is a list to be completed. If people call routine a man-made cage, instinct is the biological cage. You’d rather be in control of the cage you’re in. You’d rather be in control of yourself. It’s scary otherwise.

So you know how to get the job done—it’s ingrained into you the same way you would place your hands over your ears at loud sounds, or the way you would run to your bed in the dark after switching off the lights.

It never occurs to you that the reason your world is so perfect is a sad one.

Sometime next month, it’s going to snow. Not yet though, and it’s still too cold.

The inside of the cafe helps the slightest, the heaters situated far back from where you sit. Christmas decorations are up already and the combination of red and green meshes delightfully into the form of an aching headache. The wood paneling on the walls are worn at the corners, the garlands hardly covering them, and the barista behind the counter seems as gloomy as the decorations are bright. You wouldn’t be noticing all of this if you weren’t stuck in one position.

You lean your cheek further into your palm and sigh, only this time Ten asks you to, quote, ‘shut the fuck up’.

He pulls up his sleeve and reaches for another pencil. His cryptic process continues, as it has been for the past half an hour and you feel yourself getting impatient, trying to not bounce your leg and get another bout of quibbling from your half-mad artist friend. You don’t usually run low on patience; but Ten has a special pass to test drive it.

“How much lon—”

“Shh!” He hushes you quickly. You can’t remember why you agreed to being his portrait study subject but you sure as hell regret it.

Around fifteen minutes later, you take a (permitted) breath. You have neither the energy nor the neck strength to glare at Ten but you make sure to show your displeasure by snatching the cookies from the table with a particularly sour look. He gets up and pushes you to the side of the small worn-out couch offered by the equally small booth.

“God, that chair was uncomfortable. My butt is frozen solid,” he lets you know, and you roll your eyes.

“You know, if we weren’t friends in high school, I would never be friends with you,” you state.

Ten tilts his head to the side, a mocking pout over his lips. “I would die without you, (name). Really.”

You smack his arm and he yelps, smacking your arm right back. The sound attracts some attention and giggles, and you make a gagging gesture to let them know you are in way or form in a relationship. The low-volume music changes to something with a more distinguishable beat, the sound of doors opening and closing almost every two minutes accompanying. Arriving on time is an accomplishment, especially arriving before rush hour on Fridays at the only decent cafe on campus, but both of your classes end early and there is no way you aren’t taking advantage of that. Leaving, however, is mostly done when you’re being glared at by the waiters and waitresses.

“Doyoung asked about you,” Ten says, all of a sudden. “Kim Doyoung.”

You try to not show concern, but raise an eyebrow. “What? So? He’s not my type or anything.”

You bite your tongue. That was too quick a response, too obvious. Your cheeks grow hot. Ten doesn't say anything, however, and for a moment, you think you’re in safe waters. 

“Are you guys… into each other or not?”

You cough, trying to show your surprise at something so outrageous. “Why would you think that? Does he look like someone who dates around?”

“Actually, he’s been on quite a few dates.”

“No way.”

You know that. He’s told you about it before, in vague references, but you know about them nonetheless.

“Isn’t one student council guy enough?” you mumble. “Why are we talking about Doyoung?”

He shrugs, a familiar feline smile on his face. “Just asking. He talks about you sometimes. Actually, we forced it out of him but whatever.”

You shake your head. “You’re all terrible.”

“You seem to like him though.”

“Who said that?”

Ten sighs, ignoring your question. “If you guys are dating—”

“We’re not.”

“—or fucking—”

“Ten.”

“—you should learn a thing or two about him. The guy’s not as annoying as he looks. Or stuck-up. He’s really nice but don’t tell him I said that.”

“I know that,” you snap, feeling warm at the neck all of a sudden. “I know him.”

“Oh, you do? Tell me what his hobbies are then. Or his major. Or the clubs he’s in, apart from the student council.”

“He- He likes to sing and he’s- he’s—god, what is this? An interrogation? I’m not going to meet his mom for dinner.”

Ten gives you an ‘I knew it’ look before leaning his elbow onto the table. “You’re sleeping with a guy you don’t know anything about. Serial killers would love you.”

You massage your forehead. “Look, I know he’s a good guy, okay? And he’s sweet- and- and—wait a minute. Oh my god, you tricked me.”

Ten lets out a snort. “Hey. Okay, look, the other guys might be dumb as shit but I have, you know, a working set of eyes. I can tell. It’s not that hard.”

You grumble but the cat’s out of the bag anyway. You should’ve known Ten would figure it out—he’s a nosy little shit, and he’s been that way since high school.

“Whatever. As long as Doyoung doesn’t start panicking about his tarnished reputation or whatever.”

“Oh, I think he’s desperate to let everyone know.”

“To you, Ten, everything seems obvious. It’s annoying.” You mess up his hair.

“No, I mean, I thought you were dating.”

“Well, we’re not.”

Ten shrugs. 

“And I don’t like him,” you add. “I like the- the thing that’s going on because there’s no feelings attached.”

He looks somewhat pained, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed, but doesn’t respond to your explanation. “Can I ask for a favour?”

“No.”

Ten sighs. “Come on. You didn’t even hear me out.”

“You’re going to say something stupid. Or insulting.”

“It’s neither, promise.”

You run your hand through your hair, breathing shallow. “Fine. I don’t have to agree though.”

Ten purses his lips. “It’d be better if you did.”

You hum in response, biting into the cookie and trying to ignore the glare from the nearby waitress. It’s about time you left anyway.

“Get to know him, dude. Don’t break his heart.”

“What?”

“Just kidding. There’s a party tonight. Hosted by yours truly. Finally moved out of that stinky dorm room. Bring over some friends but not more than three. And lend me some money for a juicebox.”

“That’s a lot,” you mutter. “You ask for a lot of favours.”

“Oh, speaking of which, Hyungmin—”

“He already asked me out on a date. Am I supposed to say no? You never mentioned he has such an attractive voice.”

“Oh, I’m not telling you to not go on that date. You have to, actually. I’m going to be in a lot of trouble otherwise.”

“That sounds good to me.”

“Shut up. I’m not done speaking.”

You roll your eyes.

“But if you didn’t, I could draw some conclusions.”

“What am I, your chemistry experiment now?”

“Well, you and Doyoung seem to be—”

“Don’t complete that sentence.”

“I was going to say something funny.” 

Ten flashes you a blinding smile and you sigh. By now, you’re about to get kicked out of here so you stand up discreetly while he packs up his stuff. You hug your jacket close to you as soon as you leave, shivering at the evening breeze. The sky is inky, but with a faint sort of ink—deep blue and light, all at once. From the crowd, you can tell classes just got over for quite a few people, eclectic chatter filling up the street.

“Fine. I’ll bring Eunji,” you tell Ten after some contemplation. “And whoever else responds to my text first. Areum never leaves the room. You know that.”

“Thanks, (name)!” he messes up your hair. “I would give you a kiss but someone will end up punching my pretty face.”

You furrow your brows. “Well, you’re not my type anyway.”

“I’m too good for you,” he responds in a sing-song manner, waving at you before running off and disappearing into the university crowd.

There’s always a sort of buzz in the air you can’t quite describe at college parties.

Even if this is a relatively small one, you feel an oncoming headache the moment you enter Ten’s new apartment, which you’re sure had a ‘no parties’ rule in the rental contract. You spot Kun, Ten’s roommate from the dorms and he flashes you a quick smile in greeting before he’s swept up by a doting crowd. Apparently, a cute guy in animal sciences is rare and it makes him rather popular.

Eunji disappears from your side the moment she spots Johnny, and the number of eye rolls you’ve given her haven’t warned her off him yet. You suppose it takes heartbreak to change a person. Sighing, you make your way to the kitchen only to be greeted with the strange sight of Yuta trying to balance Jaehyun on his back so they can imitate some anime formation and back out immediately. Living room, it is, despite its populous space. (You don’t really want to think of bedrooms right now.)

The apartment is quite big for what Ten told you the rent was. The hallway to the two bedrooms is narrow but you suppose something has to be sacrificed for space. You furrow your eyebrows at the two bedroom doors. Ten never said he was getting a roommate. You shrug it off, sitting down on the rather stiff couch. The lack of furniture, apart from the couch and a coffee table, makes the place look even larger and people sparse. You like the beige walls; Ten’s always loved warmer colours but something makes you think he’s going to be ruining them in a few days with garish green paint before he comes crying about that to you.

“Hey.”

You look up to the familiar voice, heart rising to your throat.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Doyoung remarks before sitting down beside you and offering you a cup of god-knows-what.

“I don’t take drinks from strange men,” you say, biting down your smile and crossing your arms.

“If you didn’t take drinks from strange men, we wouldn’t be fu—”

“Doyoung!” you hiss before looking at him with careful suspicion. “Are you drunk?”

“No. A little bit. Not enough.”

You sigh. “How will you get home now?”

“I live here, idiot.”

“You’re- You’re Ten’s roommate?” you sputter.

“Yeah. New one,” he responds. “He used to live across our room in the dorms, I can’t believe I actually agreed to this.”

“I can’t believe it either. I’ve seen cats and dogs friendlier with each other than the two of you.”

Doyoung laughs. “He’s surprisingly one of the better people to room with. I’d rather eat my own blanket than room with Yuta again.”

You laugh at his irked expression, eyebrows furrowed so cutely. The line of his brow bone to nose to lips, it seems a little too perfect to belong to someone. He relaxes his shoulders a little, leaning back on the couch as he looks somewhat lost in thought. (“You think too much,” you’d told him once. “And you think too little.”) If only that were true, you smile to yourself.

“Are you sure you can hold parties here?” you as when the music suddenly rises in volume.

“Well, it said student-friendly,” Doyoung responds, looking visibly disturbed. “Not sure if I want to test the limits of that so early.”

There’s a pause, filled in with loud pop music. You don’t think Ten, your dear introvert, would have agreed to such a party but there’s a chance Johnny or Jaehyun had something to do with this. You don’t know who to suspect when it comes to their group of friends.

“I still can’t believe you’re rooming with Ten.” You look at Doyoung.

“Well, that makes, what, eleven of us, I guess?”

You laugh, feeling conscious all of sudden. Maybe you should listen to Ten’s advice.

“Doyoung,” you call, looking at the cup in your hands a little too passionately. “What’s your major?”

He looks at you with eyes widened ever so slightly, and a pause over his lips.

“Linguistics,” he answers.

“Oh. You said something about it once,” you mumble, recalling something vague about an assignment of his. “You know mine?”

“Yeah,” he answers, eyes cast on his watch.

“Well, that makes me feel a little guilty,” you mumble as softly as you can.

“You should be,” he says. “You never listen to anything I say.”

You scoff. “You just complain most of the time.”

“Really now?”

“Yes,” you snap, looking away.

You look back again when you hear the sound of Doyoung’s laugh, a distinct brightness in it. Sometimes, you wonder if you really are as awful as you’ve made yourself be.

“You’re cute,” he says. “No wonder everyone is so in love with you.”

For a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you.

“Everyone?” you laugh. You don’t care about everyone. It’s burdensome.

“Everyone. They hate you too, by the way.” He smiles to himself. “Heard you’re going on a date with that dimwit. Hyungmin.”

You feel a sudden discomfort in your being. Taking a sip of the drink, you try to shake it off as best as you can. 

“Yeah, I- I don’t think I’ll go,” you say, waving it off. 

Why are you lying? You left it hanging on a maybe. Part of you wants to tell Doyoung; he is your friend after all and you tell friends stuff like this. The other part tells you this is cheating; lying and pretending everything is okay—it feels like cheating. 

“Oh.” He looks lost before he focuses on you. “Why not?”

“Why do you care?” you ask, trying desperately to calm the uprising in your chest.

He stays quiet for a few seconds and then shrugs, looking away from you. It makes you feel a little guilty to dismiss the situation so quickly, another item to add to your troubles. You sigh.

“Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, it’s okay. You’re right.” You can see his Adam's apple bob up and down.

“I’m not,” you say. “I’m wrong. I really didn’t mean it.”

He looks at you all at once, his gaze so gentle that it makes you think he wants to kiss you, or do something equally affectionate. Instead he sighs, downing whatever’s left of his drink before a wash of sudden looseness does away with the tension in his body.

“You have any more questions for me?” he asks, smiling. “What's it like to be student body president—or, or what instruments can I play? My favourite animal? Colour?”

You smile back. “What is your favourite animal?”

“I don’t have one. Don’t like them. Unless it’s a soft toy.”

“No way. You’re lying.”

“Now, I answer your questions and you call me a liar? Makes me a little hesitant to answer the next.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, next then. Why didn’t you join the frat? All your friends are in it.”

“Hurts my ego.”

You laugh. He’s still probably an honorary member. There is no way he’s apart from friends for too long with all those feelings of fraternity he has, no matter what he says. It’s the same as you. Affection leads nowhere though; just to short-lived moments of comfort.

You realize, through the course of the night, that you never asked. How he got into the student council, what his classes are, what he does for fun—you never asked. It’s almost like you didn’t want to know. 

How sad, you muse to yourself, to be this way. To be so wrapped up in your own problems that you fail to see people around you. Pity, however, isn’t something to feel at a party. You talk with Doyoung for the rest of the night till the sound of his voice makes you feel certain ghosts of butterflies, and till you have to take Eunji home before she does something she regrets. This is what it really means to have the price tag of ‘youth’ strung across you perhaps—when you feel old and immature all at once, and in between, when you feel nothing at all.

Doyoung is too old to mistake love. Or too young. 

Labels don’t define anything, especially when it comes to relationships—so even if he calls it love, whispers it to himself at midnight when he’s sitting alone on his bed while his friends are passed out drunk on the floor, it is empty. And then there’s you. The heat of your skin, the curse of your smile and that cheeky laugh you do to get on his nerves. He wants all of it and he’s not ashamed—but he’d be a liar to say he can shout it to the whole world. He’s not that kind of man, and what is his can remain his without the rest of the world prying its damn fingers in. The first night, no, the second—third? He can’t remember which night it was but something pent up in him exploded and he didn’t try to control it for once.

“Ow,” he mutters.

His throat burns from the whiskey. He hates drinking alone but you’re either asleep or with friends and he can’t think of anyone else but you. He tugs at the turtleneck collar, getting uncomfortable by the minute, and then proceeds to take off his coat.

For a moment, he considers getting back to the living room. There were more than enough people with lingering touches against his shoulder and longing gazes—they’re not you. He leans back onto his bed. Another hour and everyone will be gone; why did he even let them hold a party in the first place? Parties just remind him of you—he takes a whiff and smells summer and lemon vodka all of a sudden. A deep sigh leaves his lips.

You might not seem to find yourself especially sad, but Doyoung finds something oddly touching about you. Maybe it’s the way you say his name, he muses, like you’re desperately trying to fill the gaps. But it can’t be him in particular, of course—it’s a lover, any lover.

He hates long nights, just as he hates winter but lately, they haven’t been feeling too cold. Isn’t it ridiculous the way he’s running after you? Doyoung was never meant for this. It’s fucking pathetic and it makes him want to tear all his hair out but there he is, still and quiet in the same place. A certain agony makes its way through him. His hands are freezing and yet his insides are burning—nothing makes sense and right now, he doesn’t want it to. He presses his cold hands to the warmth of his cheeks and a laugh erupts from his mouth.

He must be going crazy to laugh like this in an empty room. The car lights from the window travel slowly from wall to ceiling, the only thing moving in the stagnant of his room.

Inevitably, he thinks of the end. It should come quick; in fact, he’s never been one to do this. He’s always been someone to get attached to people. He doesn’t know how the end will come because this shouldn’t have begun in the first place.

Doyoung’s out of breath.

“Crazy bastard,” he mumbles to himself, followed by a groan when he lifts his head up. As if on cue, the door opens and shuts with a bang. Ten walks in looking drowsy, running his hand through his hair with a disgruntled face.

“I hate to say this,” he slurs. “But you’re right. We can’t have extra furniture and parties. Gotta choose one.”

Ten lays down flat on the bed. “I vote out that ugly ass clock you bought. Why do we need it? We have phones and laptops.”

“It was a gift,” Doyoung mutters.

“Oh. Uh. Actually, someone already, uh—”

“Leave it. We’ll talk about that in the morning.” 

Doyoung massages his forehead, groaning at the pain when Ten suddenly decides he’s all up for cuddling. 

“Ew,” he says, scooting away from Ten. “Get away from me.”

“You don’t mean that,” Ten whines, trying very hard to pull Doyoung into a hug. Of course, his attempts are blocked by Doyoung’s palm against his forehead.

After a few more seconds of trying, Ten huffs and turns away, crossing his arms. “I don’t like you anyway.”

“I know,” Doyoung mutters.

Ten erupts into laughter, sounding more like a psychopath than a close friend of his.

“You do that every time you like someone?” he asks in between fits.

Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “I just said—okay, yeah. Whatever.”

There’s a much needed silence and Doyoung wonders if he can just fall asleep without kicking Ten out.

“You should tell (name),” Ten says all of a sudden, Doyoung’s heart stopping at your name.

“What?” he whispers.

Ten looks at him as though he’s talking to a particularly stupid child. It makes Doyoung scowl but there’s too much alcohol in his system to know if he really means it.

“You don’t- you’re- everyone in this goddamn building knows,” Ten explains, exasperated. “Jaehyun knows, and he’s the densest kid I’ve ever met. God, if you like (name), go for it.”

Doyoung blushes so deep, he considers pressing his palms to his cheeks again. He thinks for the next few moments. Ah well, if they had to find out, he’s glad he didn’t have to declare it himself.

“Whatever, just ask (name) out. It can’t be that complicated.”

Except it is. You don’t have to spell it out for him—he knows the way you feel. The two of you only ever wanted one thing out of this. But if there’s something Doyoung isn’t good at, it’s keeping his mouth shut. He wonders how many times he let it slip, wonders if you even care enough to notice. God, it’s starting to sound pitiful for him.

“Ten. How much did you drink?” Doyoung asks, raising his head.

“Nothing. None. I’m not drunk.” Ten shrugs. “Just sleepy.”

A ‘wow’ is all Doyoung can respond with. He still isn’t quite finished figuring out what sort of horrific planet Ten stumbled from. A notification ding distracts him from kicking Ten off his bed and he has half a mind to toss it onto the bedside table but it’s still half. He softens almost immediately.

It’s a text from you: a ‘u’ followed by a smiley face and then a meme he can’t quite read through hazy eyes. He finds himself smiling anyway and sends a barrage of emojis, whatever he finds because he likes the way you get annoyed at them. Sighing, he decides that’s enough. He’s not in the right state of mind for conversation.

Doyoung shuts his phone off, attempts to push Ten off the bed one last time before closing his eyes and dozing off.

Not every day is meant to be fun—you know that in your twenties—but it’s still somewhat disappointing to have bad days. Like youth is meant to give you some sort of happiness daily. That’s what they make it sound like.

You groan, rubbing at your back. Sitting at your study desk for so long does not have good long term effects. At least, your temporary, meaningless assignments are done. You scowl at the text on your laptop screen; the more you look at it, the more you hate it and so, you shut it off. It’s not like your pissy professor is going to be impressed by anything you do. However, you like the orderly certainty of schoolwork.

Break time consists of guilt and sugary snacks. You’re done with most everything and you suppose leaving the final review of things to a later date can’t hurt. In fact, it sounds rather appeasing. A few more moments pass in making a decision.

You get dressed. The apartment feels eerie all alone, and you’re sure as hell not going to spend the rest of your evening here. You shiver, quickly striding out the front door and locking it before taking out your phone.

People misunderstand winter. Winter is only the end of things; and sometimes, the beginning. It isn’t cruel or crushing, it’s just taking its course. However, you have a tendency to blame seasons for all that happen in it. For instance, you shouldn’t be missing summer when you really miss the first night with Doyoung. 

He picks up after calling thrice. You wonder what he’s even up to, if Saturday evenings are also booked full for such a guy.

“Why do you take so long to pick up?” you complain. “Do you not get days off?”

“I’m busy,” he hisses. 

Something’s wrong.

You pause, unsure what to do. It’s not his voice but the one in the background that catches your attention. 

Inviting him somewhere. 

Rather sensually.

Your ears feel hot and you drop the call. Of course. Of fucking course. You’re the idiot thinking it was a thing. This whole thing is casual—feeling sorry wasn’t in the contract. Fucking around was.

It’s not like you’ll be heartbroken by something like this. Of course not. Of course. Doyoung and you never had a beginning so there isn’t an end, really. It’s fine. It’s fine. You take a deep breath and browse through your phone. With the onset of Christmas holidays, you have around three options left. Ten (yikes), Jaehyun (no way) or the latest addition, Hyungmin.

Well, you’re dressed. You have to go somewhere. And your statement about Hyungmin being the hottest guy on campus still stands.

You send two texts to the boy before deciding that’s apparently enough time waiting. He picks up after a few rings, voice groggy from what you assume to be a late afternoon nap.

“You up for a drink?” You cut to the point.

“Uh? Oh, uh, now? I am, of course- I just need—”

“Twenty minutes. I’ll text you the address.”

Nothing cheers you up like your favourite bar. Or friends. Or people who respond to calls.

Hongdae is as busy as ever. You knew the bar would be packed but not this packed. Still, you managed to grab a seat at the bar table. With the oncoming night, the smell is just going to get worse—so there’s nothing wrong with treating yourself to some lemon vodka (and its refreshing scent).

Hyungmin arrives exactly four minutes early, and the mussed up hair makes you think he must have been in a hurry. For what, you can’t be sure. 

You can still see the inklings of Hongdae nightlights on his hair right before he enters, and in the fallacy of that moment, you think it’s going to be Doyoung. You sigh. This isn’t the time for that.

“Sorry,” you say, gesturing to the bar table. “All the tables were booked.”

“No, no,” he responds quickly. “I actually prefer it here.”

He’s tall, not that it’s the first time you’re noticing, but even when he’s sitting, he’s at least two heads taller than you are. His shoulders are accentuated by the mocha coat, no doubt part of the latest trend this winter. As a fashion student, he hits the mark and more. 

For a moment, you feel bad for knowing his major. Ten let it slip about him and yet still, you feel guilty for remembering it. You’re not supposed to go into unnecessary detail about people that don’t matter. Does he matter? 

“Surprised you could make it,” you joke half-heartedly. “Aren’t you lot always busy with something?”

He laughs. “The student council? Oh, we’re busy alright.”

Busy. Right.

“What about you? Aren’t you part of like three different clubs?”

“So what kind of busy?” you ask, ignoring his question. You’re part of two, now that you left the music club last semester. It’s not like small talk matters though.

“Uh,” he hesitates. “You know- attend meetings and events, coordinate committee work, supervise stuff, etcetera etcetera. So busy, yeah.”

“Busy on Saturdays too?” you ask, before thanking the bartender for the drinks.

“Yeah, I guess. Doyoung has it worse than me honestly. Even now, he has to take care of stuff because of me. Hah…”

You gulp down your drink making Hyungmin raise an eyebrow in concern. “Stuff? Because of you?”

“Yeah.” Hyungmin scratches the back of his head. “He’s with the girls.”

“Girls?” you ask, playing with the glass. You’re starting to feel annoyed, red lining your vision.

“Yeah.” He makes no notion of clarifying his statement.  

“Must be quite the president,” you say, resting your cheek against your palm.

“Oh, he’s a nightmare.” Hyungmin laughs. “He has to control everything.”

You try to mask your scoff. You know what he can be like when you’re working beside him. 

“Oh, and the guy has no sense of humour,” Hyungmin laughs, the sound easy on the ears.

You blink.

“I think he’s funny,” you say quickly. You swear you have no idea why you sound so defensive.

He hums in response and you consider biting your tongue, telling him you’re only here for one thing and forgetting the uncomfortable churning of feelings inside your chest.

“Forget I- I’m a little confused today.” 

Is that an acceptable explanation? You can’t think straight enough to decide. The silence on Hyungmin’s part, however, worries you. The crowd around you fills in for the next few moments as your companion seems to debate something with himself.

“Look, I know you and Doyoung are… I don’t know, something.”

You huff in irked amusement. “God, does everyone seem to know?”

“Not until late actually.” Hyungmin takes a gulp. “He’s been acting weird. Doyoung.” 

You look away, breathing shallow. You don’t like it, the way things seem to be getting out of hand. All this time, the world seemed to be in the palm of your hand and now, it’s spilling everywhere; the sand in the hourglass is already up to your knees and you don’t know what happens when it fills.

“Do you actually like him?” he asks, leaning back just a little. You know where this is going. “Are you guys dating?”

“No,” you respond, checking your watch.

“Oh.”

There’s a moment’s hesitation in him but you’ve seen that look before. You know that look.

“Then we can- uh- we can—”

“Fuck?” you ask.

He gulps. “I mean, you can say no any time—”

You pull him by the collar and kiss him, hard enough to melt away your hovering thoughts. He kisses like you expect him to, not how you want him to. You know this sort, and somehow, that makes you feel comfortable. Knowing what you’re getting into is easing but it doesn’t lessen the weight of it.

It’s sickening. The way you’re pretending it’s Doyoung.

Hyungmin pulls apart, panting heavily. “Oh, okay.”

“Tell me you drove here.” 

He holds up his car keys in response.

You’re not the type to sleep with strange (semi-acquainted) men, but it’s better than falling in love with them.

So you follow a lover to a hotel room and try to feel something. Some time, when he’s kissing you against the hotel room walls, he pulls apart and asks, “You’re thinking of someone else, aren’t you?”

You know the answer; it just won’t leave your lips.

“It’s okay,” he says with a weak smile, “Let’s just have fun.”

And every time his mouth was on yours, every time you saw stars, you felt the ghost of Doyoung and his haunting touches. It was strange and unfair and unlike you—or at least, unlike the you that you built over the past few years. You feel as though you’ve misplaced something—like something was supposed to be there when you reached out but instead, it was empty space.

The night ends as it should and you leave right before dawn with an apology text you couldn’t put half your heart into.

Most winter nights, you wake up with pain so profound, it’s seeping into your bones.

It never made sense. You never tried to make sense of it. So you let the aches push you down by the shoulders, lodge itself into your neck and back; and you tell yourself, it must be what you deserve. It’s cold and you’re walking barefoot on frozen ground.

You gasp. The weight of who you are and who you have to be—it has its knee on the back of your neck, shoving you into the damp earth. There’s no particular reason to it; it makes it seem as though it’s insignificant. Unimportant. Irrelevant. But that’s the problem—the weight of the world on your shoulders makes no sense. Whose world are you even carrying? Whose approval are you trying to win? You scramble to get up, messing up your bedsheets in the process, and pull your blanket around you. Your own warmth surrounds you and it makes no difference. You frown.

You remember your phone call with your mom, and your lips tremble. You shouldn’t have told her about how crappy your finals went but it slipped. You tried to explain that you did work for them, that you gave it your best but sometimes things don’t work out. She didn’t have to say it out loud for you to hear her thoughts. 

You’re disappointing. 

You wipe at your eyes, feeling annoyed at the emotion. If you could let the ground swallow you whole, you would. In a heartbeat. You don’t even know what you’re doing most of the days despite that pretty planner of yours.

You get out of bed, pull on your cardigan beside the bed and grab your lighter and pack. The tiny balcony makes for a great smoking spot and while you would scold any of your friends for committing to this, you do it yourself. Hypocrite.

For all you try to shove into yourself—hobbies, student clubs, actual clubbing, friends—the more you feel less than enough, as if everything just vanishes into thin air inside you. As if you aren’t enough and never will be. You play by the rules and you lose, you break the rules and you lose. 

Maybe it’s because you let yourself be filled by the intricacies of other people that they like you. And thus, you cannot stop for fear of loneliness.

Just as you’re feeling crushed again, you picture Doyoung against your back, placing his nose in the crook of your neck—something he has never done—and you wonder why it helps. 

Sucking in air too fast, you cough. You shouldn’t have let it go on for so long.

It was fun—harmless fun. You shouldn’t even be thinking of taking a step in some other direction. You’re friends, barely, but you like where you are. If Doyoung was that important, you wouldn’t be going about this all backwards. You sigh, though it comes out jagged. The room is quiet and that’s the way it should be at four a.m, of course, but you crave music all of a sudden. Doyoung and you are just a temporary fix; and you let that thought relax you.

When you think of his chin on your shoulder, however, it feels feather light.

“Why are we doing this?” you ask. 

The atmosphere is warm and toasty, just like you expect it to be in a bakery with light pink doors and a collection of plastic potted plants on display. The decorations aren’t an eyesore here and somehow, it makes you feel better. It’s a little far but you decide it’s worth it.

Doyoung shrugs, sipping his hot chocolate. “It’s Christmas, and we’re both here.”

Your eyes follow the hanging lights over the counter, wrapped in pine tree stickers and eventually to the neat display of a ‘Season’s Greetings’ menu, the contents of which are currently at your table. A Christmas song by some singer who’s been popular lately plays, tunes light and dancing. You hate the end of the year solely because of the extra pressure January brings. Nothing you can’t handle, of course. Nothing you can’t handle.

You sigh. It’s been a little difficult lately.

“Doyoung, really, why are we doing this?” you ask, genuinely curious.

“Are you- uh- are you not enjoying this? I could—”

“No! No, it’s not that. I feel better, actually.” You bite your tongue almost immediately after. It’s not like he’s supposed to know the sort of hell week you’re having. A poorly received term paper, finals that weren’t up to your expectations, crippling loneliness without friends and, oh, the self-doubt—you are at the lowest you can be in college. The only sweetener right now is in the hot chocolate and the way Doyoung’s looking at you. 

You feel something close to guilt.

“Good.” He smiles. “You seemed… You seemed a little down.”

The sliver of warmth between your ribs makes you think this is unreal. It feels uneasy to be so affected by someone but you let it slide, turning back to your hot chocolate.

“Why didn’t you go home this time?” you ask, sipping your drink.

“Oh, I didn't really want to face my parents,” he says before leaning. “Didn’t do too well this semester. And my brother’s going to be there with all his achievements.”

You chuckle in disbelief. “You don’t like your brother?”

“I love him to bits. Just can’t stand my mom’s nagging when he’s around.”

“That’s rich coming from you.” You cross your arms, smiling triumphantly. You feel like children squabbling but it’s so lighthearted, you want to laugh.

Doyoung raises a pointed finger, about to retort but nothing comes out. He puts his hand down.

“I guess you’re right.”

You shake your head. “I’m sure she’s proud of you too.”

“I know that,” he says, laughing. “Of course she is. I don’t keep myself busy for nothing.”

You gulp, a sudden sourness rising at the base of your tongue. 

“Busy, huh? Didn’t know spending saturday evenings with girls also counted as busy,” you mutter against the cup, half-hoping he doesn’t hear you.

“What?” There’s a perplexed look across his face.

You wave your hand in dismissal. “Oh don’t mind me.”

“Are you talking about me giving a tour to the fresher girls?” Doyoung leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Hyungmin does that usually but Mr Man was sore from soccer practice and Friday fucking.” 

You blink. “Fresher… girls?”

“What, did you think I was at a brothel?” Doyoung laughs in amusement.

You feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. “No! No, of course not.”

You wave your hands about for a few more seconds, trying to come up with an explanation. This makes things rather embarrassing.

“Sorry,” you say finally. “I jumped to conclusions.”

Doyoung laughs, rather deep and heartily, and you wonder if your apology really did sound as stupid to him as it did to you. 

“You do that a lot,” he notes.

“Thanks,” you quip, cutting the pastry with your fork a little too forcefully. His laugh follows. (You hate it so much. It sounds like pure adoration.)

The next few moments consist of scrolling through your phones (because Doyoung says his ‘mouth hurts from talking to you’) and you would’ve been in a better state of mind if everyone wasn’t posting pre-Christmas photos with their families. 

“You know they’re opening that park. What’s it called- Winter Wonderland or something. You said you wanted to visit.”

You look up at Doyoung amused.

“Let’s be honest. You want to be in bed, Doyoung,” you say. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I care,” he answers, looking at you with his doe eyes. “About you. You sulk when you’re upset.”

“I don’t sulk,” you reply but your smile is obvious when you exit the cafe. 

It’s like a date. The more you think of it that way, the more it makes you smile.

The evening is perfect—orange and pink and loving and happy. Doyoung trails behind you as you tread over the sidewalk with cheeky remarks about his speed.

“I’m in the track club, you know?” he huffs, finally tired of your jabs.

“As what, the start point?”

A fake, sarcastic laugh leaves him. “I wouldn’t get to see you if I walked ahead.”

You feel warmth creep up your face. You mumble, “that’s cheesy.” It’s too weak though, and it goes unheard. 

For the first time, you notice his eyes are a little like yours in what they reflect. You love them. 

So this is where the crowd went. The amusement park, or whatever you call it, is buzzing with a faint sort of excitement, mostly in the children that didn’t get to go on a vacation elsewhere. It’s quite the wonderland though so you can’t see them complaining.

“Do you think they’ll kick us out if we make out on the Ferris wheel?” you ask, smiling at Doyoung.

“I’m not making out with you on the Ferris wheel,” he replies, making a face.

You do end up making out on the Ferris wheel, and you get butterflies from it. It’s like a teenage dream but Doyoung looks even better. You pass on the cotton candy because frankly, you’ve had enough of sweet things. You sit at the frozen wooden seat, hoping it warms up while Doyoung brings the two of you some fries.

Your phone buzzes with a notification. Your eyes light up at the mail from your professor. You had turned in the term paper three days ago, weeks ahead of schedule and were particularly proud of the way it turned out. 

You look at the email and zero in on the word ‘redo’.

Your shoulders sag immediately. You spent four weeks on that—and it’s not good enough? You search frantically for how it could have gone wrong and come up with none. That’s not supposed to happen. Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong. The week’s exhaustion swallows you up again.

When Doyoung returns, he looks at you concerned before quickly setting the fries on the table.

“(name). Is something wrong?”

“Huh?” Your voice sounds so weak and squeaky, you feel embarrassed. It’s embarrassing that after all these years, you still don’t know how to handle failure. 

Because it’s not supposed to happen. You tell yourself that over and over and it makes things worse.

You feel dirty, underneath all that dust and crumbled rock dangling in your hair. Whatever rests on your shoulders is cracking and collapsing, and you’re pushing in the wrong direction to make sure it all stays up. 

He reaches out his hand but you avoid it.

“No,” you mutter, weakly shaking your head.

You rub at your nose and eyes, hoping you can hide behind your forearms. Doyoung shouldn’t be seeing you like this, he doesn’t deserve to see you like this. You turn away from him, your palm gently pushing against the soft material of his shirt. 

Doyoung doesn’t move. Instead, he gently tugs on your wrist so you have no choice but to face him with your red-rimmed eyes. You’re not sure if it’s embarrassment or pity, but the concern in his eyes makes you cry harder. 

“You don’t have to do that,” he whispers. “You don’t have to find a place to cry.”

For the first time in adulthood, you learn what it’s like to lean your forehead against someone’s chest this way. Doyoung wraps his arms around you and the sound of his breathing soothes your near-erratic heart. 

“I worked really hard on it, you know?” you mumble against his chest. “My term paper.”

“I know,” he whispers.

Doyoung strokes your head delicately, fingers running through your hair with airy touches. Eventually, you let go of a final sigh and look up to his lips.

He seems surprised at the kiss but it’s all you can think of now. It’s gentler than usual and Doyoung moves cautiously though he seems to like it all the same. His arms feel comfortable around you. When he pulls apart, he looks at you yet still with careful concern.

“We can- we should stop if you want,” he says, and he means it. 

You shake your head. Night is creeping in overhead, deep and quiet and slow.

“I like you, Doyoung,” you say finally. “I really, really like you.”

Doyoung’s eyes widen, as though a rabbit wary of the traps it might set foot on but he eases into your touch almost immediately.

“I like… I like you too.” His lips waver but he looks away and takes a deep breath. “I like you so much.”

You smile and think that maybe everything is set right now, with his chin against your shoulder and your arms around him. 

Doyoung discards the jacket once you’re in your apartment, kissing you fuller now. Every other thought leaves you; you beg him to make you forget the rest of the world. The walls are comforting now that he’s here, and it’s warmer, hotter.

“Can we- Can we go a little slower?” you mumble, his arms still gentle when they wrap around your waist. He parts his lips from your neck to look at you momentarily before nodding.

You suddenly understand why he always makes you feel so good. There’s a certain fondness to his touch and warmth to his kisses. There’s no one quite like him, really.

“I love digging graves, especially if it’s my own,” you mutter against the pillow.

Doyoung laughs. “What did you do this time?”

“This time? Excuse me? Do you think I’m some sort of trouble child?”

“Hm. Let’s see. Yes.”

You pause. Why do you hesitate to tell him you slept with Hyungmin? It’s not like you were cheating—you weren’t dating Doyoung. Besides, that night with Hyungmin didn’t mean anything. A horrid feeling snakes around your throat, heavy and piercing. You resort to changing the topic.

“I’m… I took another course beyond my understanding.”

“That’s it?” he asks.

You nod.

No, no, no; it’s all backwards now and you don’t know how to reverse it.

Doyoung takes your hand in his, delicately and yet firm. His chest is against your back, bare and warm. When he presses his lips against your knuckles, the warmth that flushes through you makes you want to believe in something else entirely. You feel weak. 

A part of you argues that you feel honest—in a moment of clarity you don’t think you deserve. Neither vodka nor whiskey can make you this clear in the head; you struggle to breathe straight. How awful it is to feel warmth and not believe in it at the same time.  

“You can rely on me, you know?” he whispers.

The knot in your chest makes you want to cry.

You feel lonely and the opposite of it all at once. Doyoung is too much for you—too kind, too pretty and too true. He makes you realize too many things at once.

There are a few things in the world that can stifle loneliness. Like the notes Doyoung plays on the piano, like the songs he hums in the morning till you place open-mouthed kisses against his neck.

You realize, all of a sudden, that Doyoung really is your dearest friend.

And yet, you don’t think you deserve it. You’ve never loved, you believe, but you have. You don’t remember it well enough. The lovers’ touches you kept searching for led to this. Hypocrite. You wanted a lover’s touch and you rejected the love that came with it. What a complicated bundle of emotions. You weren’t always this way.

You loved your first cat when you were six, all the way till it died a warm death in your bed. You loved your mother even when she yelled at you for skipping your chores. You loved your middle school friends when you talked about comics and movies you saw for the first time. 

It’s hard to love the same way now.

You suppose sympathy needs a little backstory. Nothing is unconditional. 

It had all started when your heart had broken into two clean pieces. You put a bandaid on it and called it a day. No one taught you to ask for help.

Your friends know someone broke your heart; you tell them everything. Friends, friends—you wanted them so bad and yet, you keep them as far from you as you can. You pretend to be paper-thin and so shallow, sometimes you wonder if that’s all there is to you. But for all they know, they know next to nothing. It wasn’t just the aftermath of reckless puppy love. 

The first time your heart broke, it was watching your mother cry in the living room for a reason you didn’t understand. You wondered who committed the crime, who should be charged—and you found no one. A loveless marriage is cruel, yes, but you cannot point fingers. It isn’t just cruel; it’s infuriating.

The second time, the two pieces of your heart broke into a few more. It was a boy with an inviting smile and flags whose colour you couldn’t quite discern. They must have been red, but everything else was too—hearts, cheeks, lips, and the threads around your wrists. And eventually, he guided you to the conclusion that you are undeserving, unworthy, unloved. 

You were strong, however. It was easy to collapse on the bed and feel the weight of the world settling in, but you stood up again on shaking knees and you told yourself to have fun; you can have fun without feelings. You know better than to attach meaning to fun—you might hate insignificant things but it’s only fun if it’s pointless. You’re not letting go of this place you’ve worked so hard to arrive at, with all the shattered pieces in your hands.

It’s better to offer nothing at all than offer broken pieces.

“Can we stay like this?” Doyoung’s arms tighten around your waist, his breath shallow against your shoulder. “Just for a little bit.”

His voice is beautiful as always, but for a moment, it strikes you as sad.

Everything’s twisting up into knots and you are frantically running your fingers over them to straighten it all out. You know what it’s like to let things rot; and you are tired of it. Why can’t everything disappear for one moment? Why can’t you just let it be the two of you?

You sigh in response, nodding. 

“I might not know what’s happening in there,” he starts, drawing circles on your chest with his finger, touch comfortably light. “But…”

I’m here and I get it.

Is that what he wants to say? You don’t think you’ll get to know. You’re not exactly voicing yourself either. 

Stay the night. You want to say it but your lips are frozen.

Instead, you rub your thumb over the back of his hand, fitting into each other as perfect as a lie. You would tell him, you try to convince yourself, if you could say it with enough conviction. There’s no point to saying things that are half-meant, that are true but only just enough. You’re a coward.

And now, this has gotten complicated.

An end.

Tapping his pen against the desk, Doyoung grows increasingly annoyed. The council's next  meeting agenda isn’t going to finish writing itself but he can’t bring himself to either. Besides, Ten’s pacing outside his room is starting to get on his nerves.

“Ten!” he yells. “Can you quit it? You’re making too much noise.”

His disapproval is met with silence. For a moment, he spaces out and reflexively thinks of you, only to feel a confusing sort of emotion. It’s normal, he tells himself, and that it’ll sort itself out.

Doyoung feels like a glass box more often than not. If he breaks, who picks up the pieces? Who gets cuts all over their fingers?

‘Whoever breaks him’ should be the answer. But that’s wishful thinking. It’s not that simple. 

He’s so see-through that it’s painful. He used to tell Taeyong he’s wrong but he’s never been able to prove it. He is easy. It’s embarrassing.

But then again, part of him likes it when it comes to you. He likes it when you kiss him after a particularly heated disagreement, he likes when you get on his nerves just so he’d fuck you and most of all, he loves the push and pull. Fun is just that. He doesn’t know what he’d do if that heart of his he placed so gingerly into your palms falls and shatters.

The line between hate and love is thin; and he’s enjoying walking it too much.

He has nothing to offer but himself. He laughs at the thought and shakes his head. It’s somewhat dirty, and not just in the sexual sense.

“Ten!” he yells again. “Stop pacing!”

Getting up from his seat, he strides over to his door, swings it open and finds Ten scratching his head and glancing at his phone in repeated action. 

“Ten?”

He’s so in a trance that he hasn’t noticed Doyoung. He is the lovable sort of idiot if he ever chooses to be so. Most of the time though, he’s just a smartass.

“Oh, oh no, I’m a bad friend,” Ten mutters to himself, his pacing growing more restless. He scratches the back of his head, eyebrows furrowed and too inside his head to notice Doyoung. He wants to ask but something tells him he shouldn’t. 

Turns out, his apprehension isn’t strong enough these days. 

“Whose date did you crash?” Doyoung asks, more than annoyed already.

When Ten looks at him, Doyoung feels rather shriveled and freezes on the spot. Call it instinct but Doyoung respects fear and pain. Ten has a mixture of the two, amplified when he looks at Doyoung.

“Doyoung. Hey,” he says, trying to tone down the distress in his voice.

Doyoung still hasn’t recovered from the initial surprise of Ten looking that way.

“Did you fuck up? Did someone fuck up? Why do you look like that?”

Ten sits down on the small couch. “Long story… I guess. Too many details, you- you know? Just—”

“What the fuck happened?”

Ten still can’t look him in the eye. “The group chat’s a little…”

“Ten,” Doyoung snaps. “Cut the crap.”

“No, that’s- that’s what I’m- You’re going to be upset.”

Doyoung straightens, furrowing his brows. “I think I can fucking handle it.”

“You know that date I set up for (name) and Hyungmin?”

“You set that up?”

“(name) slept with Hyungmin.” 

Doyoung quietens. The silence seems to make Ten uncomfortable as he shifts in his seat, getting up when Doyoung speaks.

“So?”

Ten blinks. “You’re not upset?”

“Just what kind of loser do you think I am?” Doyoung mutters.

Glass shatters just that easily. Maybe he wanted you to shatter him. Maybe he was already cracking at the edges.

“Doyoung, you don’t have to—”

“Stop,” he exclaims a little louder than he intended. “Stop looking at me like that. I’m a grown man, I can handle shit like this.”

It still hurts though. You lied to him and he let you in. You lied to him. Doyoung sighs, returning to his room with a realization he should have had long ago. His night ends with more deleted drafts than he’s supposed to have and eventually, with increased discomfort, he delegates the job to Park Hyungmin himself with the excuse of sickness.

Doyoung does feel sick. He felt this way once, in highschool, but it had turned to red, hot anger ready to lash at anyone and everyone, spilling from his lips as easy as it was to breathe. And Doyoung can never feel that way towards you. He was different back then too, of course, but you—you’re unlike anyone he’s ever met. He loves the comfort of you, and something like that is hard to come by. 

He feels like laughing again but instead he finds tears on his cheeks. Silly boy, he can hear his mother tell him. You don’t give your heart to heartbreakers. 

So Doyoung falls asleep to the sound of upbeat music in his earphones, music he hates even just to pass the night. Morning will come and he will have to become stronger. Comfort is fleeting, after all.

With everything said and done, you know very well that if you were to tell someone you love them—genuinely, truly, from the heart—it would be Doyoung. It’s not a sudden realization, like the sky falling apart or a tidal wave crashing against the shore and sweeping away the city. It is like the gentle lapping of water, though, or the way the clouds change shape—natural and anything but alarming. You want to stare at it forever, and you want to believe that’s how it will be forever. 

“You told everyone we had sex?” Your voice is boiled to a shout. 

Hyungmin looks torn, lips moving but no explanation making its way out. “I- I told my friends, not everyone.”

“And you forgot that your friends talk? Everybody talks, Hyungmin, what were you thinking?”

He sighs before taking a step towards you. “Why are you so angry about it? As far as I remember, you had no trouble talking about whose pants you got into.”

You scoff. “With friends, not the whole campus.”

“That’s exactly what I did!” 

You cross your arms, feeling so upset you might cry and unsure as to why. You’re usually good at dealing with stuff like this, keeping things in the right place.

“It’s because of Doyoung, isn’t it?” 

You snap your head to Hyungmin. There’s a serene sort of look to him despite his unkempt appearance, and a look of understanding.

“I’m sorry. Really. But if you were so into him, you shouldn’t have called me that evening. It might not matter to me but…”

You broke his heart. All that devotion he had towards you led to this. 

“You’re right.” You choke on your words, leaning against the wall. “Fuck… Fucking…”

You turn around, making your way out of the hallway and hope the tears on your cheeks dry faster if you run.

You can’t remember the last time you ran. Your world didn’t need running from, it was right in the palm of your hands. Now that you look back, the world was always on your shoulders and heavy as it can be. Maybe you liked it—the weight. You could’ve shrugged it off any time; you didn’t need all those caging schedules or careful, elegant steps.

No. Atlas couldn’t shrug because his punishment was his existence. To have weight is to have meaning; and that is how you intended to live out your life.

Doyoung makes you see it differently. To love so fully even if it seems cautious—you, who has never loved at all, couldn’t comprehend it. And because he makes you see it differently, the box is now open and all hell is loose. 

For once, you don’t want to live in the world you crafted. You want more love, more hurt and you want to open the doors. You don’t mind hell if it’s for him.

You ring the bell to Doyoung and Ten’s apartment and pray the news hasn’t reached him yet. He said he was busy this weekend; maybe he was detached enough from his phone for once. You just want to be the person to tell him. It’s not a perfect apology otherwise.

Doyoung opens the door with pursed lips and cold eyes. There’s a sense of ease over his shoulders and arms but he won’t look at you and panic rises to your throat.

“We’re not fucking tonight, (name),” he says.

“That’s not- That’s not why I’m here.” Your voice is so meek, you wonder what happened.

Doyoung steps back, crossing his arms. He’s still looking at his feet and you feel the urge to reach for his face.

“I wanted to tell you- I… I just—”

“That you’re fucking other people?”

“God, Doyoung, stop with the fucking. I don’t care about that right now.”

“Really?” His voice is so sharp, it digs into your skin. “You were just in it for that. That’s the fun part in your stupid life, isn’t it?”

You feel a sharp pain in your nose and forehead. “You’re- Now that’s- Doyoung. I’m sorry. That’s what I wanted to say.”

“After—” His voice chokes up. “After everything is done? Stop with the excuses and face it for fuck’s sake. You aren’t made to fall in love. That’s why you dance around it all the time.”

Although he says that, he doesn’t sound angry. He sounds defeated.

“It’s not like you aren’t cautious,” you retort, throat feeling heavy. “You said it yourself- you don’t want to care too much.”

“I was wrong,” he says, voice hoarse. “I care about everything more than I’d like to admit. I care about you more than I’d like to admit.”

“The Hyungmin thing didn’t mean anything, okay? You were busy and—”

“So why did you lie?” He strains to not raise his voice. “Of course I knew our little thing didn’t mean shit to you. Why did you pretend it did? Last week, you said- you said—”

“Doyoung, last week- last week I- I wasn’t pretending, I swear.”

“You could’ve just saved yourself the trouble and the dignity.” A short, humorless laugh leaves him.

You feel your lips tremble, the explanation not quite made its way out yet. He looks so innocent like this, rabbit-like eyes watery and full of pain, pure the way they have always been. This is your mistake, isn’t it?

“Doyoung, please,” you manage to say. “That was wrong. I couldn’t clear up my head. Please don’t—”

“No. I was an idiot. Or you see me as one.” He frowns deeper, lips trembling. “I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t have. We shouldn’t have been at the same fucking party and I shouldn’t have drank so much. You’re- I’m not that kind of person.”

You bite down your lip. “What kind?”

Doyoung laughs, the sound raspy and empty. “The kind to not fall in love with you.”

It damn near breaks your heart to look at him. You have to say something, it shouldn’t end like this. You’re desperate and all you think is that you don’t want it to end at all.

“Please, I thought of you as a friend, that’s why—”

“And this is what you call being a friend?” he cuts you off.

You feel the sting in your eyes and nose, making you turn sharply to the side. You wish he’d just make you cry. It makes you feel the rancid guilt all the more.

“Make Hyungmin your friend for all I care. Let’s stop this.”

You stare at your feet, unable to respond. 

“You can have every boy in the world, (name). Don’t come to me.”

“Can you just stop talking about everyone else?” you yell, desperate. “Do I talk about your exes? Seungjae or- or what’s-her-name—” 

“That’s different!” He looks distraught, breathing heavily and with a painful red flush over his nose and cheeks. He runs his hand through his hair, tousling it further. “You lied to me, (name). You lied.”

Your cheeks are wet and the look that flashes over Doyoung makes you think he wants to step right out to you. He stays frozen in place, however, looking away to the side.

“Did you notice?” he asks softly. “Even once? How much I cared?”

You can’t answer, letting the tears drip down your face. It’s getting colder and colder. 

Doyoung bites down his lip before parting them. “All we did was have sex anyway. So please just- just leave.”

You take a long few moments but nod, hugging your coat closer and stepping out of his apartment. You think you hear Ten’s footsteps but it’s followed by the bang of a door—this is how it ends then.

The line between hate and love is thin; and you are deserving of neither.

You perfect your next semester’s academics, and the next. It still feels empty. You go out to drink with friends and return to a messy bed you sleep in alone. You smile as always and you laugh as always. No one asks you how you are as always. You never needed anyone to ask you how you are.

Ten tries but you push him away. You don’t need to drag in other people into a mess you made. He feels sorry for the whole thing but you tell him it was you that spilled the paint, Ten just handed a dash of it to you.

You were right. You don’t deserve Doyoung. At least, you made it so that you don’t deserve him. 

‘It’s better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all’—it still hurts.

Every day is part of a list again. You doodled in some of the pages, when you thought you were starting to fall in love. There’s only a skeleton of it left now. Soon, you’ll let it crumble to dust too. 

You tear apart the planner sometime after graduation and cry and curse at yourself for doing that. No one’s good at parting with things they care about. You’re no exception.

It’s December again. 

This place is a little strange to visit right after graduating, especially with the memories flashing you by. Johnny said he booked one of the private booths (“A senior’s treat!”) but you feel your steps growing hesitant when you reach the neon signs by the stairs. It spells ‘The Meeting Place’ and smells of cigarettes just like it did the first time.

You stop midway up the stairs. For a moment, you think of Doyoung sitting there and wonder if you’ll ever be able to talk to him again. If you had the chance now, would you take it?

Of course, you wouldn’t. There’s too much to be set right and you can’t do it.

There’s supposed to be the six of you. Johnny mentioned Ten and you know Eunji’s invited too. You saw Jaehyun on the way here, still a student. You sigh. It must be him, the one they failed to mention to you. Kim Doyoung. There’s no one quite like him.

You spot him first. Looking a little forlorn as he gazes absentmindedly to the side, he faces away from you and you get the inevitable urge to run away. It’s a funny feeling. 

Your stomach is churning. You don’t want him to see you. Ten babbles on about something to Johnny, smiling like he found candy while clearing his drawers. Eunji looks tired, leaning against Johnny’s shoulder and you wonder if she already drank more than enough shots.

“(name).”

You jump at Jaehyun’s voice from behind you. 

“Hey,” you respond, giving him a wide smile.

He hesitates. “Are you okay? Not that you don’t look okay- you look really good actually. I mean, are you and… you know okay?”

“I don’t think so, Jaehyun,” you say and make your way to the booth.

It’s a little cramped for the six of you and Doyoung gets up before you can even greet him. It’s not like you deserve it anyway but it tugs at the wound.

“I’m going to go take a drag,” he mutters.

“You don’t smoke,” you say, looking up.

He stares at you momentarily and you look away. You think Ten and Johnny glance at you with pity but you don’t really care. 

 “Can I come with you?” you ask, barely a whisper.

“Sure,” he says, to your surprise.

The smoking area is so small, you’re surprised it’s even there. A glass structure overlooking the neighbourhood, there’s barely any light within. The only thing nice is how warm it’s in there. 

Doyoung lights his cigarette and then offers to light yours. It’s quiet, the music from inside numbed to the cold doors. You really can’t take it. You stub the barely consumed cigarette and throw it into the bin.

You’d rather just stay quietly in his presence.

“You’re not smoking,” he notes.

“It’s a bad habit.” You look out through the glass.

Doyoung chuckles. “You were a collection of bad habits.”

“And good ones too,” you quip. “I was a perfect student. I was perfect in most everything actually.”

Doyoung’s smile widens. “You were. You certainly were.”

A few more moments pass in silence, your eyes traveling over the outside scenery which seems to be growing duller by the second. City lights have never felt fainter.

“It was an accident, right?” You say suddenly. “The whole thing? Us?”

Doyoung hums. “Yeah. I fell in love by accident.”

You smile weakly. “Right. I never got to apologize.”

“I loved you on purpose.”

You look up at him. There’s not a lot of people who say what they mean. He looks the same as he used to under your grey blankets, with a warm blush over his cheeks and kind, wide eyes. 

“You’re so damn pretty,” he murmurs, “even now.”

You scan his face for signs of lying.

“You’re drunk, aren’t you?” you ask finally. 

Doyoung blinks before easing into laughter. “You- You’re- You’re the same as ever.”

You let yourself crack a smile.

“Doyoung I- I really am sorry,” you say quietly. “And I did- do care for you.”

Doyoung stubs out his cigarette and discards it before looking you in the eye. You notice he’s wearing his favourite black turtleneck in the proximity, the grey plaid coat covering most of it. You really liked that look on him.

“I’m sorry,” you say once again. “I want you to know that. I didn’t want to hurt you and I promise I won’t ever do it again.”

You mean it. You’re never going to hold glass again. He doesn’t deserve it.

“That’s a problem,” he responds, breath mingling with yours. “I want you… I want you to hurt me. If you really do love me, I’ll take it.”

“Doyoung,” you whisper, turning away despite your whole body screaming at you to give in. “I meant it. I can’t hurt you.”

Doyoung cups your cheek with one hand, glancing at your lips for a moment.

“You’re warm,” he says.

He’s warmer.

“I want to kiss you,” he says.

You want to kiss him too.

“We went about this all wrong, didn’t we?” he asks.

“We did,” you answer, voice barely above a whisper. “I did.”

Doyoung pulls back. “Then let’s start again. I’m Kim Doyoung, I majored in linguistics. I was student council president and I made a mistake.”

You smile. “We don’t have to do that.”

Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “After all the trouble I went through to make a good introduction?”

The two of you laugh, and it gets warmer. 

“I’m (name),” you say. “I was a top student and I made a bigger mistake, Kim Doyoung.”

“Oh? I wonder what it was.”

“Kind of a long story.”

“I’ve got all the time for you.”

You smile and start. He responds with gentle kisses. You’re piecing your world back together again; but this time it’s feather-light and fits right in the palm of your hand. 

[forced-sissy-daughter]

Crissy’s Transformation Is Now Complete

Crissy’s mommy had a son, a disobedient, disrespectful 12 year-old son who shamed his mother with his bad behavior.

Finally, Mommy decided that enough was enough.

She would have a daughter instead.  And she would name her Crissy.

It started with mandatory trips to the beauty salon personally supervised by Crissy’s mother.

First, Mommy ordered all of her son’s body hair to be removed, leaving only a small, triangular pussy patch.   Crissy had a fit but Mommy was firm and resolute.

Then mother had Crissy’s long hair straightened, bleached, and styled like a proper girl.

Despite Crissy’s protests, her eyebrows were plucked and shaped provocatively, and she was given a full manicure and pedicure.

Finally, under his mother’s watchful eye, Crissy had to endure numerous ear piercings, a belly piercing, and a tongue piercing.

Crissy cried and cried but Mommy was immovable, insisting that this was for Crissy’s own good.

“After all, how else will you be able to attract a man, girl”?

When Crissy heard this, she cried even more and begged her mother to stop.

But Mommy was just getting started.

The next day Mommy took Crissy to a physician friend of hers who put Crissy on estrogen therapy and testosterone blockers.

Twice a day, Crissy had to endure heavy, intensive hormone injections to stimulate her transformation.

To add to Crissy’s humiliation, she was forced by her mother to administer these shots herself, quickly learning to reach around and give herself a shot in the behind.

With the concentrated, potent regimen prescribed by the doctor, the results followed quickly.

Soon Crissy’s hips began to widen, her waist began to narrow, her butt became full and round, and her breasts began to swell.

Crissy’s nipples also began to change, to darken, protrude, and become more sensitive.

Even more noticeable were the changes in Crissy’s skin which quickly became silky soft, creamy, and jiggly, with a delicious layer of fat just beneath the surface.

Of course, Crissy was quick to notice these many changes in her body and issue loud and vociferous protestations to her mother.

But Mommy was a pillar of strength and determination and Crissy’s objections fell on deaf ears.

“Someday you will want to marry, Crissy, and this is what men want.”

Over time, the intensive female hormones flooding Crissy’s body began to work their effect on her mind as well.

Crissy became more emotional.  Her feelings began to dominate her thoughts.  And her thoughts became more jumbled and confused.

Some days, Crissy would break into crying fits and outbursts for no apparent reason.  She found herself easily offended and hurt by the slightest criticism, sobbing uncontrollably without cause.

Worse yet, Crissy found that her determination and will to resist her mother began to weaken.

She hated herself for it, but she was powerless to reverse it.

When Mommy began to teach her new daughter how to dress and how to apply makeup, Crissy felt that she was more interested than she thought she should be.

Yes, her mother was right, the heavy black eyeliner, thick mascara, and eye shadow really did make her more beautiful.

And the tight, skimpy outfits Mommy suggested really did draw more attention to her figure.

Crissy kept wondering...

“What is wrong with me?”

“Why do I care so much about looking pretty”?

“Do my lips look full enough?”

“Will that cute boy who lives next door ever notice me?”

“Oh, my gosh, what am I thinking?”

Here is Crissy today, almost 36 months after her first trip to the salon.

Crissy is now 15 years old, going on 16.

Her hormone treatments and her pink chastity device have given Crissy a cute, little, tiny clitty that leaks creamy juices every time she thinks of a boy.

She lives every day with an ache deep in her loins, longing to be released, longing to be filled.

This morning, as she applies her makeup and gets dressed, she is daydreaming about her date later with her new boyfriend, Jerome.

“Will he kiss me hard on the lips and bury his tongue in my mouth like he did last time?”

“Will I get to suck his big, thick, gorgeous cock again?  Oh, I can’t wait”

“Will this be the day that he finally mounts me and fills me with his seed?”

“Can I get him to fall in love with me and propose?”

#forced sissy daughter #sissy daughter #daddy sissy #mommy sissy #forced feminization #male to female #boy to girl

[ultimatetrashyfanfic]

Non-despair AU! And ever since I watched that thirty minute anime clip with Nagito’s perspective on things, I’ve really liked the idea of him being buds with Kazuichi and Fuyuhiko. And Nagito openly talks about his past trauma on a plane so… what better way to bond than bonding over trauma? Anyway, I love these three so much. Also Komahina because I love them - Circle

(Also forgot to add this, sorry, but it’s on AO3 too) https://archiveofourown.org/works/33483538

Warning: descriptions of panic attacks, nausea, motion sickness, very mild vomiting (like barely any).

Fuyuhiko always thought Nagito was spouting a whole load of bullshit when he lamented about his talent being useless; he would’ve loved having Ultimate Luck right now.

“Haha! You got the short straw, Fuyuhiko!” Akane crowed. “Tough luck!”

“Wait, no! Can’t we do a best of three?”

“Somebody has to sit with them, man,” Nekomaru said. “You guys are already friends, it’ll be a great bonding experience.”

“I don’t want to bond with them in that situation. Because you all know it’ll be a shit show. That’s why we’re fucking doing this,” Fuyuhiko growled, glaring at each of his classmates in turn. Only two were missing, the pair who’d triggered this whole unfortunate drawing of straws in the first place.

“Why can’t you sit with them, Hajime? Nagito is always hanging off you anyway. And Kazuichi is your friend too,” Fuyuhiko said.

“I’m afraid I can’t, Fuyuhiko.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because I didn’t draw the short straw.”

“Go fuck yourself.” Fuyuhiko stomped away, his classmates’ laughter echoing behind him. This class trip was already more trouble than it was worth and it hadn’t even started. He was almost tempted to skip the plane journey with the rest of them and hop on a different flight to Novoselic, just to show them. It wasn’t like he needed Sonia to pay his way. But she’d been so enthusiastic about taking her friends to see her home country, and Fuyuhiko couldn’t think of any way to tell her without causing offence. He couldn’t really say he just didn’t want to be stuck babysitting Kazuichi and Nagito on a flight.

It wasn’t that Fuyuhiko didn’t like Kazuichi and Nagito. Sure, Kazuichi could be a real pain in the ass sometimes, and Nagito would go all weird and self-deprecating if you didn’t watch out, but Fuyuhiko still considered them close friends. But the flight to Novoselic was long. Kazuichi could get motion sickness on a fucking bicycle, and Nagito hadn’t set foot on a plane since his parents died on one right in front of his eyes. There was no way it could possibly go well. Fuyuhiko pictured hour after hour of Kazuichi puking and complaining and Nagito… well, he wasn’t sure what the hell Nagito would do. He’d never seen Nagito get flustered before. Hell, that was much more terrifying. He had to get out of this.

In the days before the trip, Fuyuhiko kept trying to convince his kinder classmates to take responsibility for at least one of the other men. “It’s gonna be impossible to help them both,” Fuyuhiko said. “It’ll be better for them if you help me.”

“You could sit between them,” Mahiru said. “And I’ve already promised Hiyoko I’ll sit with her. Sorry.”

Asking Twogami was a no-go too. “It’ll be more considerate to the other passengers if they’re both in one area,” he said. “To limit the disturbance if they become distressed.”

“I’m the one who’ll be feeling fucking distressed,” Fuyuhiko snapped.

Peko overheard, and came over at once. “I’ll take your burden, young master.”

“No, not you!” Fuyuhiko hated the whine in his tone - and he hated the smirk on Twogami’s face too. “You don’t have to do it. You sit with Gundham and pet his hamsters or something. I… I want you to be happy,” he mumbled, blushing fiercely.

Damn it. He could be as bad as Kazuichi sometimes.

There was no way to wriggle out of it. The morning of the trip dawned bright and sunny, and Fuyuhiko’s ticket set him directly between Kazuichi and Nagito. Fantastic.

At least check-in and security went by reasonably peacefully, the walk to their gate quiet. Only Akane and Nekomaru seemed to be properly awake this early in the day, and they stuck with each other. Fuyuhiko glanced at his two friends. Kazuichi still seemed half-asleep, curled on one of the uncomfortable chairs by the gate, watching the planes take off and land in the distance through the huge windows. Nagito was much more concerning. He was smiling brightly… but he didn’t look happy at all.

“Hey, Fuyuhiko, want to know how a plane engine works?” Kazuichi asked.

“No,” he said, but he sat down with a sigh as Kazuichi started talking anyway. He tuned out after a second, though Nagito looked like he was listening.

“Seeing you talk about your ultimate talent is so inspiring, Kazuichi,” Nagito said - and smiled. That weird smile again, desperate and strained.

“It’s nothing. I just think planes are interesting. From an engineering point of view. I really wish I didn’t have to fucking ride one,” Kazuichi groaned.

“Aha, I can’t help feeling apprehensive too. The last time I was on a flight, both my parents died.” Nagito spoke emotionlessly, as if reciting a shopping list, but that smile was still fixed on his face. “But it’s okay. That bad luck brought me a lot of good luck later on. You just have to have hope that things will work out.”

Kazuichi stared at him, mouth open. “Um. Okay. Sorry.” He caught Fuyuhiko’s eye and mouthed what the fuck? Fuyuhiko wasn’t sure if Kazuichi was just now hearing the story or if he was confused by Nagito’s weird behaviour. He shrugged helplessly.

There wasn’t much conversation after that. You couldn’t really carry on your casual chit-chat right after somebody brought up their dead parents. Fuyuhiko kept an eye on Nagito. He was bolt upright in his seat, his eyes staring straight ahead, hands clasped so tight in his lap his knuckles bleached white. With his pale hair and ashen face, he looked like all the blood had drained out of him completely.

Their flight number was called far too soon, and Fuyuhiko dragged his motley crew to the right aisle, pondering where to put everyone. Kazuichi should probably be on the end if he’d be passing vomit bags to some poor stewardess. Fuyuhiko needed to be in the middle, so that left Nagito by the window. He’d have to keep the shutter pulled down.

Hajime passed them on the way to his own seat, and stopped short when he saw Nagito’s face. He leaned right over Kazuichi and Fuyuhiko, ignoring their complaints and curses, and took Nagito’s hand. “Are you alright? You look… off.”

“Don’t worry about me, Hajime.”

“Your hands are clammy.”

“Ah, I’m sorry. How disgusting for you,” Nagito said, smiling. Always smiling.

“That’s not what I meant… Look, do you want to sit with me?”

“Can we move it along please?” somebody called irritably down the aisle.

“You’re holding up the line, Hajime. Don’t worry about me,” Nagito repeated. Hajime looked like he was worrying dreadfully, but he was forced to move along. Nagito clasped his hands again and fixed his gaze on the seat in front, smiling smiling smiling. It was freaking Fuyuhiko out. He looked like he was wearing a mask and his eyes were the only real part of him, swirling with turmoil.

“Hey.” Kazuichi nudged Fuyuhiko’s shoulder and whispered in his ear. “Are Hajime and Nagito… you know. A thing?”

“Mate, you told me you’ve seen them leave Hajime’s cabin together in the mornings.”

“They could just be having a sleepover. As bros.”

“I don’t think it’s that, Kazuichi.”

“Are you sure? ‘Cause I don’t want Hajime to get a new best friend,” Kazuichi said.

Fuyuhiko sighed. “I think you’re safe.”

There was a pause. Then another shoulder nudge a second later. “So Hajime and Nagito? Seriously? Am I the only person on my own in this class?” Kazuichi muttered.

Fuyuhiko was spared from responding by the flight attendants starting the safety briefing, demonstrating how to use the oxygen masks and the life jackets in case of emergency. He had to admit, it was pretty eerie to think that you could, however unlikely it may be, crash into the ocean or need extra oxygen to live long enough to get to land. He glanced over at Nagito nervously. His arms were now curled across his chest, hands gripping his elbows. His head was bent, a cloud of puffy hair hiding his face. Maybe that was for the best.

“Can you try not to puke as long as possible?” Fuyuhiko whispered to Kazuichi. “I feel like I might have a situation to deal with.”

“I’m never trying to puke,” Kazuichi said, but he seemed worried too, glancing past Fuyuhiko. “Hey, Nagito, you doing alright?”

“Don’t worry about me, Kazuichi,” Nagito said, eerily calmly.

“That’s not the same thing as saying you’re fine, is it?” Kazuichi whispered to Fuyuhiko.

“He’s clearly not fucking fine,” Fuyuhiko snapped.

“Should I ask Hajime to swap?” Kazuichi asked.

Fuyuhiko nodded, but before Kazuichi could even undo his seatbelt, the plane jerked and started reversing out of the gate. Fuyuhiko heard Nagito draw in his breath sharply - then he was the one fumbling for his seatbelt, standing unsteadily.

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Fuyuhiko yelled, catching onto the back of Nagito’s coat as he tried to clamber over the seats. “Sit down!”

“I’m afraid I need to get off,” Nagito said, voice still calm despite his frantic movements.

“It’s already moving, for God’s sake! Sit down before a flight attendant sees you!” It wasn’t hard to force Nagito back into his seat - he seemed light enough for a strong gust of wind to knock him over - and Souda hastily got the belt fastened again just as the plane rolled onto the runway.

“Okay. It’s fine. You’re fine,” Fuyuhiko gabbled, trying hard not to shout or swear or scream at all his classmates for making him deal with this. “Just sit still and… I dunno, plug your ears. The takeoff part is the worst.”

There was a cacophony of whirring as the engines roared to life and Fuyuhiko would be very grateful for all that noise in a second, because Nagito started to laugh. Dry, hysterical laughter, his eyes over-bright and manic, lips bared in that grisly parody of a smile.

“Has he lost his fucking mind?” Kazuichi asked, sounding genuinely frightened.

“You must really hate me, Fuyuhiko,” Nagito gasped. “To restrain me here… You must despise me.”

“I’m not restraining you!”

“Then let me off.” He locked eyes with Fuyuhiko and for a second the manic grin faded. “Please…”

The engines roared to a crescendo and the plane shot forward so quickly everyone was pinned to their seats with the force, zooming on and on until they could feel the entire structure lurch into the air. Kazuichi groaned softly, shutting his eyes, but Fuyuhiko was far more focused on Nagito. He had his eyes squeezed shut too, but his hand clamped hard onto Fuyuhiko’s arm. Really fucking hard. Shit, maybe Nagito wasn’t as weak as he looked. Fuyuhiko cursed as his terrified companion started digging his nails into his skin, actually drawing blood. The pain prompted Fuyuhiko to try prying the hand loose a little, but Nagito clamped on harder, carving several new scratches. Fuyuhiko didn’t dare attempt again; he’d get his arm cut to ribbons.

When the plane was flying high and the swirling, disoriented feeling had eased, Fuyuhiko checked on both men. Kazuichi had his head in his hands, but he gave a shaky thumbs up when Fuyuhiko prodded him.

“‘M okay,” he mumbled. “Got through takeoff. Gets better when it’s levelling out.”

“Right, good. Try to stay that way, yeah? I’ve got a lot to handle right now,” Fuyuhiko sighed. Nagito was still shredding his arm up, but he could feel one finger tapping for attention.

“What? What do you need? Please, no bullshit, Nagito. I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do,” Fuyuhiko said. He was practically yelling in his panic, and the people across the aisle turned to glare.

It was several seconds before Nagito could gather enough breath to speak. Fuyuhiko saw that awful smile stretch across his face again, like somebody had twisted his frown the wrong way round. “Aha, I’m sorry to trouble you, Fuyuhiko, but I think I might be having a panic attack.”

“What?” Fuyuhiko felt like he was going to have a panic attack too. “Why? What’s going on?”

“I can’t seem to catch my breath. And the cabin has been spinning for several minutes.”

“Jesus Christ! Why didn’t you say anything?” Fuyuhiko hurriedly pushed Nagito’s head down as far as it would go before it bumped the seat in front. “Fucking… think of things you can see or something? Shit, I don’t remember.”

“Five things you can see,” Kazuichi chimed in. “Is he really gonna pass out? Hajime is gonna kill us.”

“I’m gonna fucking kill him for leaving this shit to us! How stupid can you get?”

“Ahh, I’m such a nuisance. If I’d known I’d react in such a shameful way, I’d have been sure to take a seat away from all the Ultimates. Why are you taking care of someone like me?”

“Nagito, shut up, this isn’t your fault,” Fuyuhiko said shortly. “Stop babbling on about ultimates and do the panic attack thing. Listen to Kazuichi, he knows how to do it.”

Nagito did as he was told, working through the grounding techniques with Kazuichi while Fuyuhiko held onto his shoulders feeling helpless. Nagito was shaking so hard it was difficult not to drop him altogether. He didn’t pass out, but even after the grounding Nagito looked far from what you’d consider calm. He was grey-white when Fuyuhiko carefully hauled him back upright.

“Are you okay..?”

The smile came back, though it seemed a lot more tired than manic this time. “Ah… I don’t think so, Fuyuhiko.”

“Well. At least you’re honest. Can you tell me how you’re feeling? Physically, I mean. Clearly I see you’re fucked mentally. And please stop smiling like that, you’re creeping me out,” Fuyuhiko said.

Nagito finally released his grip on Fuyuhiko’s arm, his nails coated with blood. He bent forward slowly, carefully, like he was terrified any sudden movements would send him spiralling again, and let his elbows rest on his knees. “I still feel slightly lightheaded. And nauseous. I’d still like to get off.”

Fuyuhiko examined the long scratches on his arm, sighing and mopping the blood with his sleeve. “Well, you’d have a long drop if you tried to get off now. You should cut your damn fingernails too. I’m going to get Hajime.” He turned to Kazuichi. “Watch him for a minute, okay? I don’t fucking care about drawing the short straw anymore, I can’t handle this.” Fuyuhiko scrambled over Kazuichi’s lap into the aisle, ignoring the flight attendant yelling for him to remain in his seat until the seatbelt signs went off.

“Hey! What did you mean drawing the short straw?” Kazuichi called behind him. Fuyuhiko didn’t look back.

“Hajime!” Fuyuhiko yelled when he was still more than six aisles away from the startled man. “You’re swapping with me!” He lowered his voice when he reached Hajime’s seat, but only marginally. “I can’t handle this. I don’t know how you expected Komeada to react to this shit, but whatever you thought, it’s worse. Way fucking worse. And I can’t help him. So go fucking do it yourself.”

“Well, I was going to swap as soon as the seatbelt signs were off,” Hajime said pointedly.

“I don’t give a shit. Look at my arm! Your fucking boyfriend nearly ripped it off at the elbow.” Fuyuhiko brandished his scratched, bloodied arm, and Hajime looked genuinely shocked.

“Oh my God…” He stood up hastily, clinging to the seats in front as the plane was still slightly off-balance. “I’m sorry, Fuyuhiko. I didn’t expect him to panic so much. He never said anything much about it when I asked.”

“Yeah, well, no offence, Hajime, but you can be as thick as three short planks sometimes. So if he implied anything, I don’t doubt you missed it,” Fuyuhiko snapped, taking Hajime’s empty seat - next to Chiaki, thank goodness. She hadn’t even looked up from her Switch this whole time. Perfect.

“I have taken some offence…” Hajime mumbled, then turned to go back down the aisle, trying hard not to catch the eyes of the other passengers staring like they were all part of a circus act. He was pretty sure the whole class was going to get banned from this airline. Gundham had been in trouble already for taking his hamsters out of their little travelling cage - several times. He was insulted by the insistence of the staff that all pets had to be contained, both by their labelling of his hamsters as mere pets and from their implication that his dark devas could ever be contained.

Hajime followed the sounds of more disgruntled passengers to Nagito’s seat. He was in the middle now, hunched over one of those white sick bags, while Kazuichi awkwardly patted his back. He looked relieved to see Hajime, beckoning frantically. “Come help me! I think he’s gonna spew. Weird that it’s not me for once.”

Hajime sighed, struggling to shuffle past his friends to get to Nagito’s other side, squashed by the window. Nagito didn’t acknowledge him. Hajime could see he had his eyes closed, his face strangely calm and smooth, though his breathing was erratic.

“Hey, Nagito? You hearing me?” Hajime called, tapping the other man’s pale cheek.

“Did I drive Fuyuhiko away?” Nagito said, voice strained. “I’m not surprised. To bother the Ultimates with the problems of an insignificant nobody like me.”

“Dude, shut up,” Kazuichi groaned. “Nobody thinks that. Stop being so weird. Fuyuhiko just doesn’t know how to look after people.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to sit up? I doubt you’ll throw up, you wouldn’t eat anything this morning,” Hajime said.

At that exact moment, almost as if to pointedly prove him wrong, Nagito made a choked retching sound and ducked his head down further, cringing.

“Oookay. Or not. Um. You’re okay,” Hajime muttered, placing a wary hand on Nagito’s hair to keep it out of the way. It was strange hair; soft yet thick at the same time, and it poofed up determinedly no matter how many times Ibuki tried him out with different hairstyles.

The seatbelt signs were now off, so Kazuichi stood up hastily, trying to shield Nagito from the people hurrying up the aisle to the bathrooms. Hajime was grateful, but part of him wished he could switch places with Souda. He didn’t think he’d be having to coach Nagito through something so strangely intimate so soon into their… relationship? They’d never come out and actually said they were boyfriends, not even to each other, but their classmates seemed to think they were a couple.

As Nagito really hadn’t eaten much of anything all day, the actual vomiting didn’t last too long, but the dry heaving continued for several agonising minutes, and the nausea remained indefinitely. But Nagito felt safe to lift him head, his pale cheeks dusted with pink. He smiled shakily at Hajime. “How embarrassing. I caused a scene in front of all these people. You must be lamenting the day you set eyes on me.”

“Stop,” Hajime sighed, taking the soiled bag and handing it to Kazuichi.

“Hajime!” Souda squealed, hastily handing it off to a flight attendant, who offered a bottle of water for Nagito in response. Her smile didn’t slip once. Hajime was impressed by her poker face.

“Drink,” Hajime prompted, forcing the bottle into Nagito’s hands. “I want you to try eating something later too. You’re going to pass out.”

Kazuichi sat down again, glancing at Nagito. “You feeling… okay now? Like as okay as you can?”

Nagito took a long drink of water, eyes blank. Then he smiled again, that strange, forced smile. “I really am pathetic, aren’t I? Causing such a dramatic spectacle over something that happened years ago. I don’t deserve such attention from the Ultim-“

“Stop!” Hajime took Nagito’s face in his hands, forcing him to meet his eyes. Hajime thought he saw something flicker in them, some semblance of an honest emotion. “Nagito, can you please stop trying to act like you don’t have feelings. I know you’re scared. And you know what? It’s okay. It’s completely fucking normal to feel like this right now. I shouldn’t have left you. That was me being dense, and I’m sorry. But you can stop pretending. It’s just me here - and Kazuichi, but he’ll understand too. He’s scared of everything.”

“I am not!” Kazuichi cried, outraged.

Hajime didn’t break eye contact with Nagito, both breathing heavily. Nagito glared back at first, his face twisting into a scowl, but Hajime didn’t falter.

“Let me in,” Hajime muttered. “I know you, for God’s sake. You’re not gonna scare me off. It’s okay to need help. Please.”

Another silence for several long, tense seconds. Then - finally, amazingly - Nagito made a soft frustrated noise, lunged forwards and wound his arms around Hajime’s neck so tightly that for a second Hajime thought he’d messed up so badly Nagito was trying to throttle him.

“Hey, careful,” Hajime said, but his voice was gentle and he didn’t try to pry Nagito off. Nagito let his forehead rest on Hajime’s shoulder, his hair falling to shield his face completely. Hajime snaked his own arms awkwardly around Nagito’s slender waist. He could feel Nagito shaking, feel the warm puff of his breathing against his shoulder. The shaking never eased, but as time passed the breathing seemed to calm slightly.

Nagito didn’t speak as he clung to Hajime for dear life. Not a single word. But Hajime hadn’t really expected him to. This was already a degree of vulnerability that Nagito was completely unaccustomed to showing anyone, let alone his almost-boyfriend, his classmates and an entire plane full of strangers. It was a good place to start.

Kazuichi watched them slightly bitterly. “It’s alright for some. I wouldn’t mind someone to cuddle up to,” he muttered.

“That’s your other talent. Ultimate Third Wheel,” Hajime quipped.

Their row of seats was reasonably peaceful after that, though Hajime could hear the laughter and yelling from their classmates further back. He hoped the sensible members of the group could stop them causing too much trouble. Hajime couldn’t go tell them to knock it off himself; whenever he moved at all Nagito would tighten his grip.

He sat there, hour after hour, until he had to pry Nagito off him for a bathroom break. It wasn’t easy. Nagito fought him and clung on as much as he could, though Hajime explained he’d be back in five minutes.

“Look, cling onto Kazuichi while I go pee,” Hajime suggested. Kazuichi didn’t look overly enthusiastic about that idea, but he didn’t protest.

Nagito sighed. He slowly drew back his arms, and whispered three breathy little words into Hajime’s shirt before he went, perhaps the most raw, vulnerable words Hajime had ever heard Nagito say: “Please come back.”

“I will. Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured.

Nagito shifted shakily in his seat, turned to Kazuichi and lunged at him too, wrapping his arms around his neck. Kazuichi squealed and whined that he was being strangled, but he didn’t shove Nagito away. Hajime almost felt like they were new parents, passing their newborn between them: “I’ll hold him for a bit, you go to the loo.”

There was a queue for the tiny airplane bathrooms. Hajime stood impatiently, wriggling his cramped shoulders and rocking back on his heels; he was glad Nagito seemed to be trusting him more, but he was pretty stiff after sitting in the same position for hours.

Two women ahead of Hajime in the queue seemed to be having an animated discussion about something, and when Hajime caught the word “school” he started to listen properly.

“I don’t know what sort of school they come from, but they’re a strange bunch,” one lady hissed. “There’s an odd boy in the row ahead of me, one of that lot, who has a collections of rodents, all free from their cage! Running all over the seat trays! Well, that’s not very hygienic, is it? But when I told him as much, he gave me the most incredibly rude answer.”

“Young people have such foul mouths these days,” the other lady agreed.

“No, he wasn’t swearing. It was ever so strange, almost as if he was… well, you’ll think I sound silly. But it was like he was cursing me.”

It was a good job for Hajime that the toilet became available and the lady rushed inside, because he was biting his cheeks to contain his laughter. When he’d used the loo himself and gone back to release Kazuichi from Nagito’s vice grip, he recited the story for both of them.

Kazuichi laughed, poking Nagito gently. “There you are, Nagito. No need to worry. No matter how weird we are, we can always count on Gundham to be weirder.”

Nagito didn’t respond, but Hajime saw a hint of a smile - a real smile - on his lips before he buried his face in Hajime’s neck again.

[applsauss]

Östliche Helden | I

Description: Your grin is unabashed when you hear him shouting after you.

Fandom: Hetalia


Pairing: Human!Prussia (Gilbert Beilschmidt)/Reader

Word Count: 4k+

Warning(s): None.

Unsere Freundschaft mit der Sowjet-Union erzwingt den Frieden.

The words are printed on a sun-bleached poster featuring two working class men, one holding the red and gold banner of the Soviet Union, the other with a German flag with three stripes: one black, one red, one yellow. 

“Our friendship with the Soviet Union enforces peace,” you whisper to yourself. Staring at the smiling men, trying to read into their expressions, you pick at the peeling corners of the poster, then try to smooth them down. 

Behind you, through the window, the sky is aglow with a strong orange and dusty red that fades into pink. You’ve wasted the afternoon in an abandoned factory, with the small, portable radio Gilbert spent a fortune on tuned to a western station. The announcer is saying something about a concert, but you don’t hear him. The sun is setting. The wind drags its fingers through the trees.

Gilbert is sitting in the window, with one leg bent at the knee and propped up on the window sill, the other dangling against the outside of the building. He’s reading a book your brother gave to you about Frederick II, the greatest king of Prussia. You could never sit through it, but Gilbert hasn’t been able to put it down for the last two weeks. 

You hum lightly to yourself as a different, tinny voice advertises some household cleaning product, and continue to observe your boyfriend. His brow is furrowed in focus, eyes scanning each page with intent, and his platinum hair is painted red by the blazing sun buzzing behind him. You can’t help but stare at him, and then past him. 

The view from the window is framed by Gilbert’s body, and then by large, dark trees that inhale and exhale with the breeze. Behind the trees is a demolished industrial block, rubble left where it fell at the foot of the wall--then past that is the Berlin Wall, itself: nearly four meters tall, two thick, and with various layers of increasingly horrible deterrents running the length of the death strip. It is a grisly sight. 

Behind that though, lies true innovation and freedom. Sunlight bounces off the windows of pristine West Berlin as if to say Look! Look at what is here. Look at Germans like you--but not--as they live with American autos, French wine, and Italian designer bags.

The radio announcer’s voice cuts off, and then the guitar chords of the next song fade in, plucking at all of your drifting thoughts and drawing them back tight again. It is a song of freedom, the western stations like playing it because they know it can be heard even behind the Iron Curtain. You close your eyes and let the music take you away, swaying in rhythm. 

“I, I will be king,

And you, you will be queen.

Though nothing will drive them away,

We can beat them, just for one day,

We can be heroes, just for one day.”

You never listen to western radio in your house. It is silent except for when your father listens to a concert performance, or when your brother used to practice piano in the sitting room. Besides, your mother is frighteningly aware of the ears in the walls, and your father makes a point of socialising with people he suspects of being connected to the Stasi--probably in hopes of being recruited. It’s why you’ve been left alone, even after your Onkel took bolt cutters to the chain-link border fence at the Austrian-Hungarian border.

You hear your shoes scrape on the floor as you step side to side, getting more into the song, nodding your head and then you hear Gilbert snicker under his breath. You peak your eyes open to find him watching you. His book is closed, resting on the window sill, and he’s now sitting with his legs inside the building. You stop dancing, laugh, but the music continues on without you, the sound like an afterthought calling to you.

Gilbert leans forward, watching you with steady eyes, then pushes off the window sill to stand. He tilts his head for a moment, like he’s appraising the music, then begins to snap his fingers on beat, tapping his foot and bobbing his head.

You join him, shimmying, waggling your eyebrows and he snorts, then gets more into the song, shaking his hips and dramatically reaching up towards the ceiling, then closing his fist and dragging it down in front of him like the disco stars on TV.

Trying to upstage him, you click your heels together and start to do the twist, but the song’s chords are drawn out, and so the shuffling you’re doing is more for comedic effect than anything else.

You pause when you’re closest to the ground, then jerk your head up to catch Gilbert’s eyes in challenge. He lets out a breathy laugh, then changes tactics. Not one to be outdone, he throws his arms above his head and begins thrusting his hips in time with the drums, while training his expression to remain serious, smoldering, almost. You laugh.

“And you, you can be mean,

And I, I'll drink all the time,”

“ 'Cause we're lovers, and that is a fact,” he mouths the words dramatically, then winks and blows you a kiss, making you snicker again. “Yes, we're lovers, and that is that.”

Still thrusting his hips, he begins to make little hops towards you, dust from the floor kicking up around his feet. Grinning, you rise back up to both feet and meet him halfway, swinging your arms and stepping in time with the beat. 

When you finally meet each other, he reaches forward, smooshing your face between his hands, then ducks down to plant a silly, solid kiss to your lips. Your teeth clack, your nose presses hard into his cheek, and he laughs into your mouth, then quiets when you kiss him back. 

The music becomes less of something you hear, and more of something you feel thrumming in your heart, thrumming in Gilbert’s as it beats beneath your palm, and thrumming in the way you both sway side to side, caught up in the moment.

“Though nothing will keep us together,

We can steal time, just for one day.”

Gilbert sucks in a breath through his nose, kissing you earnestly, sincerely now, then pulls back slowly. His hands are cupping your face, thumb gently rubbing your cheek, and you’re humbled by the expression on his face, still painted in increasingly soft shades of red-pink. Affection blooms in your chest, warm like a candle, and spreads until you forget about the bite of the approaching evening. Almost overwhelmed, you pull his arms around you and lay your forehead on his shoulder, watching the West as the sun dips farther towards the horizon, as the sky begins to bleed the same red, the same damn Sowjetisch Rot, that paints their bloody flag.

You can hear him smiling in the way he breathes, feel it in the way he settles the weight of his arm over your shoulders and presses his face into your hair. You forget about school, you forget about the stress of your parents’ disapproval of Gilbert, of you, you forget about the future and you forget about the gottverdammte West. “Lieb’ dich, Liebchen,” he whispers into your hair.

The intimacy scares you. You think about pinching the soft fat on his stomach and twisting like you would a bottlecap to relieve some of the carbonated tension that’s filled the space, the tender moment buzzing around the two of you, surrounding you with its quiet intensity. The sudden thought makes you laugh, and you settle farther into his embrace instead, letting yourself sink into this feeling despite the fear for once. “Lieb’ dich, doch. You’re my favourite, you know.” 

You somehow both see it coming and are taken by complete surprise when he pinches the meat of your arm and twists enough for it to smart.

“Ow-a!” You shove him off you and he stumbles back over a piece of broken furniture, snickering. You huff, dust your pants off, and try to glare at him, but you can’t bring yourself to be all that annoyed. Afterall, you chose this place and you chose him.

And the sun continues to set.

***

The morning is grey outside the apartment. It’s still early enough for the streetlamps to be on, and from under your bedroom door, you can tell the hallway light is on as well. You hear the muted clamor of breakfast coming from the kitchen, and your father coughs.

You smooth your hair back in the vanity one more time, double-checking your appearance, then grab your backpack and head out into the hall.

“You came home late last night,” your father comments from the dinner table as soon as you enter the sitting room. In front of him sits an empty plate, a mug of coffee and a half-empty glass of orange juice. 

You set your bag on the table and head into the kitchen. “I know.” 

“You shouldn’t ride your bike at night,” he calls after you.

“I know.” 

Your mother is by the stove, wearing her sunflower print apron and black slippers. The room smells like breakfast sausage. She has her back turned to you and when you approach, she spins on her heel and pushes a full plate into your empty hands before you can do anything else.

“Ah--Guten Morgen, Muti. Vielen--” you’re caught half-way through a yawn--“Dank.” 

“Good Morning, Liebling. Eat up.” 

You smile and return to the table. Your father is waiting, but says nothing. He continues to say nothing as the clouds are pushed across the sky and the food on your plate disappears one bite at a time.

Eventually, he grows tired of the silence. He takes a long sip of his coffee, then says, “You were out with that boy, weren’t you.” It is not a question.

“You know his name,” you say mildly as you push your chair back and stand to take your plate into the kitchen. Your mother appears at your elbow and collects it for you instead. Without another excuse, you pull your bag across the table to check if you have everything you’ll need for school.

Still sitting where he is, your father asks, “When are you going to break up with him?” 

“I’m not.” 

He gives you a hard look. You pull your arms through the straps of your bag. “Is there really no one else for you?”

“I’m going to class now.” 

He sighs, seemingly giving up on the conversation. “You have work after, right?”

“Right.” 

Another sigh. “Alright. Be safe. See you soon.” 

He drains the last of his coffee. Your mother kisses you on the cheek and tells you to have a good day as well. 

“You, too. Lieb’ dich.” You turn to your father, “Bye, Vati. See you soon.”

***

Childhoods are not made equal, and the law of even-stevens is not something adults seem overly interested in. You first learned this in year three, when you were dropped off by your mother to play with a friend who lived in an apartment the size of your living room. Her bed was folded up neatly under the coffee table and the bathroom was two floors below hers. When you explained all this to your parents, they never allowed you back.

The second time you learned that adults were not as worried about being fair as they pretended to be was at Gilbert’s house, when the two of you could only play cards on his bed because his newborn brother was sleeping and anything else would have woken him. His mother made you sandwiches and when you asked about her lunch, she said she wasn’t hungry, then ate the discarded crust off your bread. 

The third was when Gilbert was visiting your house, and switched on your family’s brand-new color television set. He casually flipped through the channels until he found one you’d never seen before, and you watched with confusion as image after image of the glamorous, rich, free West Germany flashed on the screen--something you’d never seen before, something he thought of as common knowledge, and something that made you begin to question what else was hidden from you. Your father catching the two of you soaking in the perverse capitalist propaganda movie ‘Grease’ was the beginning of his long-lasting feud with Your-Best-Friend-Gilbert. 

The list goes on and on, your eyes not so much being opened to a single dawning realisation--but rather that realisation was inevitable, a full picture fed to you piece by piece each time you bore witness to some other lie fed to East Germans, who chew and chew and swallow because they’re so starved of everything else. 

This is what you’re thinking about as Kristian goes on explaining Nietzsche to you. It’s terribly pretentious, he’s terribly pretentious, and so, regretfully, terribly, are you. 

“I thought it was interesting. Didn’t you as well? What Herr Ullman was saying about the difference between Nietzsche’s master and slave morality--obviously we are the strong masters. We must not be pitied.” 

Kristian is a person who never for a second thinks for, or critically, of himself. He is in your Philosophy lecture, your father knows his, and he has never once wanted for anything. The urge to fidget overcomes you, and so you grip the underside of the shop-counter, and rock back and forth on your heels to stop the annoyance from crawling up your arms. 

“Y/N?” 

“Hmm?” 

“I asked what you thought of how Nietzsche’s ideas could be applied to our politics now.” 

“Oh, well--” you pause for a moment to think about how much of yourself you’re willing to put into this conversation-- “It’s interesting how some people claim to be masters--”

“Of course!” he interrupts. “You’re brilliant--because in reality, they are not. Take here, in the DDR, for example. The majority of the working class think of themselves as masters, while holding slave moralities,” he finishes for you, incorrectly. You bite your tongue.

Sometimes, Kristian is enjoyable to be around because it’s like a game, to have a conversation with someone who refuses to hear anything you say. You like to test the limits of his perception of you and see just how far he’ll go to rationalise whatever you say so that in his head, you agree with him.

Recently though, it’s become clear that he has an interest in you that is just a little more than friendly, and casually letting him down is becoming a problem because he refuses to take a hint. Now, at Uni, every time you turn a corner, he’s there to follow you to your next class, and his forwardness is beginning to unroot whatever amusement you used to feel around him.

Kristian is another item to add to the growing list of reasons you’d rather be wasting your day watching the clouds go by than be at Uni--or be trapped behind the counter of the Apotheke you work at, begging the powers that be that Kristian leaves before your shift is up, otherwise he might get it in his head that you have free time to spend with him.

Time moves in slow motion as Kristian stands in front of the register and continues to talk. No one has come in after him so you don’t have any excuses to leave the conversation. You feel awkward, like being alone with him is a mistake that you can’t escape from because the owner of the Apotheke is out taking his lunch in the park across the street. 

“We think so alike, you and I…” Kristian trails off, and then he fiddles with the soda he bought ten minutes ago, and looks away, embarrassed. “Hey,” he begins again, and at the tone of his voice, your stomach drops. Before he was just dropping hints or loosely suggesting the idea of going on a date, but this is a confrontation that you’re not prepared to deal with. “I was wondering if sometime you’d like to--”

The bell above the door trills, and you jump into action. “Ah--Willkommen! How can I help you today?” you speak loud enough to smother the end of Kristian’s question.

“Liebe,” you hear the customer say, and immediately you know that it is Gilbert. What timing! He’d taken the morning off to go see Ludy’s school play and mentioned that he might be able to swing by after running a few errands for his mother. “You’ll never guess what happened! Oh! Kristian--” he pauses-- “Hallo. Anyways, I was riding my bike down Schulstrasse after the play and I--” 

“We were talking,” Kristian interrupts, whatever boyish shyness he’d had evaporating as he crosses his arms and turns to face Gilbert, almost puffing out his chest like a bird.

Gilbert gives him a funny look, then asks, “yea?” He looks to you for confirmation.

You shoot Gilbert a wobbly, unconfident smile and gesture to Kristian with wide eyes. He furrows his brow in confusion, then looks around and realizes you’re alone in the shop. He then turns his full attention to Kristian and, with fake pleasantness, asks, “how are your classes, Kristian?” 

Kristian rocks back on his heels and unfolds his arm at the sudden question. “Good, I guess…” He shoots a look back at you, and you pretend to be seriously inspecting the cash register for defects. You pop open the drawer and feign counting the Deutsche Marks.

“Good!” Gilbert presses forward. “I hear Herr Ullman is a hardhead.” 

“A bit,” Kristian replies, then turns his back to Gilbert and tries one last time to get your attention. “Y/N--” 

At the sound of your name leaving Kristian’s mouth, Gilbert slides an arm on the counter between you and Kristian, who bites off the rest of his response and drops all pretenses to glare at Gilbert. 

“Interesting,” Gilbert says flatly, “Sowieso, Schatz, when does Herr Friedman get back from his lunch?”

Kristian doesn’t wait for your response. He just huffs, snatches his drink off the counter, and stalks out of the Apotheke. The bell trills as he pulls the door open, then lets it slam shut in its frame.

“Tschussi!” Gilbert calls after him, and you really should reprimand him for that last, unnecessary taunt, but the amount of relief you feel now that Kristian is gone is ridiculous, and so you reach over the counter to grip his forearm with both hands, grinning up at him.

“Don’t be so mean,” you say half-heartedly. 

Gilbert cocks his head to the side. “Then he should take a hint and listen when you tell him no.” 

His genuine response surprises you when it shouldn’t. Afterall, you know what sort of man he is; you’ve known for years. It’s what kindled your crush on him in secondary school, the year before he went off for his apprenticeship in that garage he still dreams of, it’s what fanned the flames when he returned for his year of mandatory service, and it’s what stokes the love even now. “Thank you.” 

“Why?” He grins. “Did you think it was awesomely sexy when I made him back off--”

You choke on a laugh, cheeks warm. “Oh, shut it! You ruin everything!”

He laughs like a witch’s cackle, and you pretend to be put out, then ask,“what were you trying to tell me about before?” 

“Oh!” He straightens. “Remember that pigeon from school?”

***

“Gib can talk to birds, you know,” Ludwig says factually. ‘Gib’ is his childhood nickname for Gilbert. You nearly trip at the sudden change in topic.

“See!” Gilbert throws a hand out to gesture at Ludwig, vindicated. His other hand holds his bike steady as the three of you continue to walk down the sidewalk.

You groan. “I swear to god, the pigeon does not know you!”

“Yes he does! I’ve named him--” 

“Don’t remind me--” 

“His name is Gilbird.” Gilbert proudly sticks his nose up, and you resign yourself to pushing your bike in silence. You’ve had this same dispute since school. Gilbert is convinced that since he saved a pigeon from a hungry alleycat one time, it now owes him some sort of life debt, or at least he thinks the pigeon thinks that.

“I think it’s clever,” Ludwig says quietly, squeezing the straps of his backpack tighter in his hands as he continues to walk beside you and Gilbert, who are pushing your bikes to keep pace with him.

“Ludy,” you stage whisper just loud enough so Gilbert can still hear you, like you’re sharing some grave secret, “he’s been saying the same thing since year five. I don’t even think it’s the same bird!”

“Schatz!” Gilbert cries, outraged.

You roll your eyes dramatically. “C’mon,” you say, and goad Ludwig into jogging ahead of Gilbert with you. As much as Ludwig hero-worships his elder brother, he also can’t resist the temptation of teasing him, especially when you offer him the upper hand. 

“Ah!” Gilbert exclaims once he realizes your plan. “Hey!” When you pass him, you stick your foot out to unhinge his kickstand, making him stumble over his bike.

 “I’m too awesome to not be telling the truth!” he calls after you. “You were there! Hey!”

Ludwig laughs out loud, and so you turn around as well, only to see Gilbert struggling to untangle his handlebars from a bush. “Quickly!” 

You swing your leg over the seat of your bike, then usher Ludwig into the basket fixed over the rear wheel. It’s not meant for a person and is an uncomfortable fit, even for little Ludy, but the two of you manage. 

“That’s cheating!” Gilbert calls out sorely, still a little ways behind the two of you, though you know he’ll catch up in no time. Ludwig giggles right in your ear, and then you push off the concrete and begin pedaling down the sidewalk. 

“Look at him, all the way back there,” Ludwig teases. 

You can’t turn around to bask in your victory, you’re afraid to lose balance and throw Ludwig off the bike. “Is he still stuck?” 

“Yes--No! He’s just freed himself! Schneller! Faster!” Ludwig leans more of his weight forward, onto your back, and you laugh breathlessly, then pedal harder. You take the curb hard, pushing yourself off the seat to absorb the shock of your front wheel dropping onto the asphalt, then the rear wheel squeaks in protest under Ludwig’s added weight.

From around the wide bend of the road, you see the young trees that are planted in front of Gilbert and Ludwig’s Plattenbau, the tall apartment building looming over the road like a victory line. Your thighs begin to burn under the exercise. You pant, and Ludwig squeezes your shoulders tighter. “Oh no!” he cries. 

Then it’s over. “Ha ha!” Gilbert tuts victoriously as he flies past the two of you, legs stuck out in a silly pose as his gears rapidly click. 

“Aw! That’s no fair, Gib! Y/N has me on the bike, too!” Ludwig defends you from over your shoulder. 

“You should have thought about that before you two unawesomely conspired to push me into that bush!” 

“We didn’t push you! You tripped!” You slow to a stop in front of the side entrance next to Gilbert, and wobble under yours and Ludwig’s combined weight. Gilbert drops his bike in the grass and moves to help Ludwig down from his perch on the basket.

Gilbert rolls his eyes. “Same thing.” He sets Ludwig on the ground, then adds with fake scorn, “cheaters.”

Ludwig laughs, and you inspect your backpack, which Ludwig had been crouched on for the duration of the short ride. “Do you go to work now, Gib?” he asks.

“Ja. But I’ll be back like normal.” You look up in time to see Gilbert messing with Ludwig’s hair. You feel a pang of jealousy, thinking of your own brothers.

“Okay.” Ludwig walks to the entrance, then pulls open the door. “See you later!”

“Bye!” 

“Bye, Luddy!” 

For a moment, the two of you just breathe the filthy air. This part of town always stinks like a car’s exhaust pipe. Then Gilbert looks back at you. “Race you to your house?” 

You eye him critically for a moment, then turn your bike around and begin pedaling as fast as you can without so much as waiting for a fair start.

Your grin is unabashed when you hear him shouting after you.

***

Translations:

Unsere Freundschaft mit der Sowjet-Union erzwingt den Frieden. Our friendship with the Soviet Union enforces peace. From this 1979 propaganda poster.

Deutsche Demokratische Republik. DDR. German Democratic Republic. Abbreviated ‘GDR’ in english. The official name of ‘East Germany’.

Onkel. Uncle.

Sowjetisch Rot. Soviet Red, referring to the Soviet Union’s flag colour.

Gottverdammte. Goddamn (f).

Lieb’ dich. Love you (slang, not proper grammar).

Liebchen. Sweetheart, lovely (noun). Term of endearment. (Literally: little love, love I am fond of, the -chen is diminutive and cute).

Doch. Too, totally, all the same, nevertheless. This is a ridiculous german word.

O-Saft. Orange Juice (slang).

Guten Morgen. Good morning

Muti. Mom.

Vielen Dank. Thank you very much. 

Liebling. See Liebchen, though this is a more common version.

Vati. Dad.

Apotheke. Drug store, pharmacy.

Willkommen. Welcome.

Liebe. Love.

Hallo. Hello, Hi.

Deutsche Marks. Mark der DDR. Currency of the GDR.

Sowieso. Anyways.

Schatz. Babe, baby. Term of endearment. (Literally: Treasure)

Tschussi. Bye-bye, toodles. Cute with children, though usually used sarcastically by adults, especially men. (Gilbert is making fun of Kristian here)

Schneller! Faster!

Plattenbau. A cheap style of building made from prefabricated concrete slabs common in the GDR. (Literally: Panel building)

Masterlist | Posting Schedule 

[felidaefighter]

Love You To The Point Of Violence

[CW: angst, mentions of Quackity’s torture of Dream, fiance breakup]

Sapnap scoffs. “What, so Dream just told you how it worked? That doesn’t sound like him.” Quackity chuckles a bit in faux disbelief. “I know, right? I mean, it did take a bit of convincing-- hey at some points it was like pulling teeth-- but in the end, I managed to extract the information.” His voice lowers into a conspiratorial semi-whisper. “The reason he was apparently oh-so-powerful, the reason he stayed alive and continued to hold power over all of us-- that’s no longer just his, baby! I know it now too!”

“Oh, so now you’ve got the same sort of power that Dream had?” Sapnap asks, seemingly cheerily. It’s a leading question. It’s a tone that masks righteous fury. Quackity would know that if he’d paid any attention at all to either of his fiances lately.

“Yeah, yeah! Exactly!” Quackity says, getting excited. “Isn’t that great? We don’t have to worry about needing to go to Dream for revival anymore, we don’t have to worry about Dream overshadowing our every move!”

Stubbornness is not the equivalent to stupidity. Even with a reputation as a warrior and fighter first and foremost, those are preceded by the ability to stay sharp and think fast. Being able to connect the dots is a simple skill. The willingness to connect them has to be there first, however.

Sapnap’s no stranger to the way bloodstains that couldn’t quite bleach look on white shirts like the one Quackity currently wears. He knows the way voices sound raspy and hoarse from screaming, when a single uttered “yes” is painful. He can figure out what that means about things that lead to other things. And most importantly, he’s familiar with the way men of power hold themselves when they’ve decided that nothing is going to stand in their way, no matter what it takes, no matter the cost.

“And what’s stopping you,” Sapnap replies, trying so hard to keep his temperament in check, voice oozing venom, “From becoming just like Dream, then? What’s stopping you from being just as bad as him, huh?”

Quackity’s tongue isn’t silver, but he coats his words like it is, his voice falling into a melody and tone to lull whomever he’s talking with into trust. But even false silver is easily tarnished when it is grabbed with force and pried away. “No, no, Sapnap, listen to me, it’s not like that! You know me. Would I ever--”

“I’m not stupid, Quackity, alright?” Sapnap pins Quackity bodily to the wall, leaking rage (and hurt, and betrayal), and grabbing the front of his shirt. Quackity puts his hands up, but the look of easy confidence and control never leaves his scarred face. “I know I tend to talk with my sword but I’m not stupid, alright? And it kinda hurts that you’d think I wouldn’t figure this out.”

“Figure out what, Sapnap? What are you talking about? All I said was, Dream-- that’s the guy we’re talking about, remember? The bad guy who was butting into everyone’s business and wanted all the power to himself?-- he doesn’t have all the power anymore! He’s shared it. With me. And I just-- I just wanted to tell you the good news! Because I thought it would be great, for us, for--”

Sapnap cuts Quackity off again. “Cut the crap,” he says, and Quackity’s gaze hardens. Steady and calculating. The look of someone who’d pull the trigger without a trial. “Dream was my best friend. You think I don’t recognize this? You’ve been after power since day one. Since you ran in that stupid election all you’ve ever wanted was power.” Quackity opens his mouth but Sapnap barely lets him breath. “That was why you created El Rapids, you told us straight up! To get power. And yeah, you could-- you could say it was power against Dream you wanted, but was it really? Because Dream’s in prison and can’t hurt anyone from inside but you’ve still managed to get his blood all. Over you.”

Reflexively, Quackity looks down at his shirt. Too late he realizes it was a bait. The barely-visible stains could’ve been anything, could’ve been anyone’s blood if it was blood at all-- until he proved it. “You’ve become just like him,” Sapnap says, and the disgust isn’t enough to match the betrayal in his voice. “Okay, listen,” Quackity tries to gesture, but Sapnap’s running on instinct and adrenaline and his grip automatically tightens again at the movement.

“Someone I love decides to cut me and all the people who care about him off. He decides to manipulate people into doing what he wants because it’s “for the best”, he decides to kill and torture anyone who stands in the way-- who am I describing, huh Quackity? Huh? Huh?”  Quackity doesn’t answer, because he knows the answer. There’s nothing to be said.

Sapnap leans in close to his fiance’s face, and for a moment, they are both reminded of simpler days, when an action like this was a preclude to a kiss. Instead, Quackity feels the hot metal of a blade just itching to spark into flames at his throat, the Sharpness of the sword drawing pinpricks of blood even as it’s basically only hovering over his skin.

“I loved you, Quackity,” Sapnap says, sincerely, and Quackity stares into glistening but steady eyes. Maybe if it were earlier his heart would’ve faltered. Maybe he wouldn’t’ve already crushed those feelings out of himself in pursuit of what he craved. Maybe he would have understood the intent. But Quackity is not a man who falters, not anymore. He is not a man who lets his emotions control him. He is not a man who lets his attachments dictate his actions. “You don’t understand.” It falls on deaf ears.

“You know what? I still love you,” Sapnap confesses, and with a blink his eyes no longer glisten. And it intrigues Quackity to hear this, because there is no love in his voice. All he can hear is a promise of violence. “But right now? You’re worse than Dream ever was. So I’m gonna make you the same promise I made him.” His breath is right against Quackity’s own. There’s something intimate about betrayal, especially from someone you love.

“And what’s that?” Quackity asks, almost sounding bored of it, wanting to get the conversation over with and the blade away from his throat. “If you do anything out of line, I’m going to be the one stop you. And I’m going to kill you. You can trust me on that.”

The blade comes away from Quackity’s throat, and Sapnap drops his grip. Quackity straightens his collar and cuffs, collecting himself and his thoughts, keeping his emotions in check. “Well, I guess we’re done here,” Quackity says smoothly, “And... I guess we’re done.”

“Yes,” Sapnap says, “We are. But this-- this isn’t over.”

Quackity leaves, and he’s no stranger to the hunter’s gaze that follows him. That’s fine. He’s used to being prey. He’s adapted. But his fist shifts on his weapons, and he finds himself methodically adjusting and readjusting the part of his shirt where Sapnap had gripped it; remembering when his grip meant something else, and loathing the way his clothes now held lingering traces of his ex-fiance’s smell. Too little too late. No time for regret or love.

Still, there is something that stirs inside of him, some sort of slow-dawning realization when he puts thought into what Sapnap said. Rightfully, Quackity thinks, Sapnap shouldn’t love him anymore. Quackity has long since stopped caring about the physical prowess of those who oppose him, is beyond fear. It means nothing against words, in the end. But Sapnap does still love him. Loves him, with so much of his heart. And Quackity realizes what that truly means for him. To love someone is to promise to destroy them if the time should come.

And Sapnap has never broken his promises.

[sincerelybluevase]

Careful, Madam Chapter Seven

A/N: Here it is, the final chapter! Thank everyone for being so patient with this one (the first chapter was published in June 2020, insane how time flies) and for the lovely comments; they mean a lot to me! For a gorgeous preview made by @thegirlisuedtobe, click here. Tagging @alice1nwond3rland, @need-not, @mlletina, @msmaryadmitrievna, @solattea, @halewynslady.

Maxim was the first to speak. “Steady, Mrs Danvers. You wouldn’t want to shoot me.”

Mrs Danvers did not waver. She held the gun steady. Not a muscle in her face moved so that she seemed hard and resolute to me, marble-made. “Let go of Mrs de Winter, sir.”

He released my arm with a theatrical motion, raising splayed hands in mock surrender.

“Come to me, Madam.”

I went so quickly I nearly stumbled. I wished to clutch her arm, to feel the reassuring solidness of her long lean limbs, but I was afraid of what might happen; I didn’t want to set off the gun by accident.

Maxim looked at us with hatred. His face had turned cold and masklike with it. “Now what?” he asked. “You’ll shoot me, Mrs Danvers?”

“I will if you force me, sir,” she said.

“And then what, Mrs Danvers? What happens then? Have you thought about that? Should you kill me, you will hang; the law won’t take pity on you for being a woman. They’ll string you up by that thin neck of yours until you are dead.”

“They won’t if they know what you are, sir.”

“And what am I?”

She glanced at me, at my reddening cheek. “A murderer and a wife-beater.”

He laughed coldly. “That’s no reason to shoot me, now is it, Mrs Danvers? I think you and I and the law can all agree on that.”

“It is if you provoked me, if you threatened your wife and unborn child, sir.”

The laughter petered out. Still he smiled, showing his sharp canines. “You’d have to aim well then, Mrs Danvers, and kill me with one shot, because if you leave me well enough to talk, you’ll be done for. Who do you think the police and lawmen will believe: me, a gentleman with an impeccable reputation, or you, a mad, old, sexually-frustrated maid with unnatural tendencies?”

I wished to speak so I could defend her, but fear held me in its grip, petrifying and silencing me.

Mrs Danvers set her jaw and tightened her grip around the gun. “I’m a good marksman, sir. If I aim to kill, I shall.”

“Perhaps,” Maxim jeered, “but are you certain? And are you absolutely certain that, even if you kill me, you won’t go to prison? They’re harsh places, prisons. Do you want to spend the rest of your life in a cold, damp room, with only a strip of sky to remind you of what lies outside?”

Still Mrs Danvers held the gun steady, her joints seemingly locked into place. “Here’s what men like you don’t understand,” she said softly, “I gave the best years of my life to your first wife; I’m willing to lay down what years remain to me for your second.”

My love for her made a pain rise in my throat. I swallowed against the tears. I looked at Maxim, thinking he would refute her or curse at her. He did no such thing. Instead, he began to yawn, making a great show of it, his mouth opened so wide I could see the fillings in his molars. When he was done, his eyes watered. He brushed the tears away with a fingertip, then turned to me. “You shall stop this nonsense right now,” he said. He spoke as if I was a naughty child.

I shook my head. I could not speak.

A vein at his temple began to throb. I could see it jump around under the skin, writhing like a worm. “Oh, but you shall. You shall stay here, with me, and we shall forget this moment of madness. Mrs Danvers shall have to go, of course, no sane man would keep a housekeeper who pulled a gun on him, but I shan’t press charges. I’ll even give her a good reference. A woman with her qualities can work for any fine family in England. But you, my little darling, shall remain here, by my side, as my wife and the mother of my children.”

“No,” I whispered.

“No? What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“I don’t want to stay.”

He laughed in disbelief. “You don’t want to stay? Do you understand what you’re saying? Before you met me, you had no friends or kin, money, no prospects. You were an old lady’s plaything, her little whipping boy. I raised you up out of darkness. I gave you a name, a house, a reputation to uphold. Without me you have nothing and you are no one, just a grubby little schoolgirl with bad nails and a name no one can spell. Do you hear me? You are nothing!”

“She won’t be nothing. She’ll be my mine,” Mrs Danvers said.

With a roar, Maxim lunged at her. She pulled the trigger, but he knocked the gun out of her hand. The shot went wild, the bullet damaging one of the plaster leaves on the ceiling, causing crumbs to rain down dryly. The gun fell to the floor, skidded, came to rest not a step away from me.

Maxim punched Mrs Danvers in the face, once, twice, thrice. Her head snapped back. She staggered. Blood poured down her mouth and chin. She made a soft choking sound, coughed. Drops of blood flew from between her lips.

“Stop!” I meant to scream it, but it came out as a whisper.

Again Maxim struck her. This time she stumbled and fell, her skirts billowing around her like black sails. He bent over her and continued to beat her. His fists came down on her face and throat again and again and again, dull slaps of flesh against flesh.

“Maxim! Maxim, stop! You’ll kill her!” I screamed. The sound carried, though for all the good it did, I might well have kept my tongue; Maxim continued to brutally, systematically beat Mrs Danvers. She tried to sit up to fend him off, but he pushed her down. Again she rose, again he beat her down.

As a child, I had witnessed our cat playing with a mouse. It would let it run, only to smack it down with its paw before it could get away. The mouse didn’t stand a chance, yet it persisted hopelessly, just as Mrs Danvers would persist in trying to sit up until she could rise no more.  

There was only one thing to do. I bent down and took hold of the gun. It was still cool despite Mrs Danvers’ grip. I raised it and found it surprisingly heavy for its size; it almost slipped out of my clammy hand. With one eye closed I aimed the gun at Maxim, but I was shaking and dared not fire for fear of hurting Mrs Danvers.

I brought the gun to my temple instead. “Maxim, look at me,” I shouted. “I’ll kill myself! I’ll kill myself and your unborn child if you don’t stop!”

He looked over his shoulder. His face was spattered with blood, his lip curled into a snarl. He let go of Mrs Danvers’ dress, causing her to thud to the ground, and came to his feet. “Don’t!” he said. “Don’t you dare!” He stumbled to me, his hands outstretched to wrest the gun from me.

I pointed the gun at him, closed my eyes, and shot.

*

All of this happened many years ago. My life now is very different from the one I led at Manderley. I’ve said goodbye to England and now have no estate to call my home, no husband to lord over me. Here, my name means nothing, and my face, once plastered over every English newspaper, is just another face, easily forgotten. No one need know that I once was the second Mrs de Winter, the one who everyone knows because she killed her husband. An act in which she was justified, of course, since he had murdered his first wife and now wished to kill her, too, before putting a bullet through his own brain, but that never made the case any less sensational. Whenever I think of it – which, when I am honest, is seldom but still too often for my taste – I can’t help but smile wryly. After all, there is a cruel sort of irony to the whole affair; Maxim killed Rebecca to safeguard Manderley’s reputation, but her murder proved to be the first link in a chain of events that would lead to a nationwide scandal. If I close my eyes, I can still see the reporters pressed against the gates, pen and notepad in hand, clamouring to see me.

There are no reporters in my new life. They do not know where I am, and to the local ones I am of no interest. I live in a cool little cottage, painstakingly paid for with the money I earn with my drawing lessons; I have given away everything I inherited upon Maxim’s death, for I never desired his money even before it became tainted with murder and madness.

Every day is much the same, but that I don’t mind. There’s comfort in familiarity, safety in routine, and after all that we’ve lived through, Danny and I have a certain hankering for comfort. Besides, raising a child together provides plenty of challenges and excitement, we’ve found.

Dear Danny. She’s wonderfully patient with me. I fear I am not always easy to live with. For all my efforts, I’ve not been able to banish the past completely. It still inhabits and possesses a part of me, one that I can fight when awake but must succumb to in slumber, so that, at night, I walk the grounds of Manderley once more. In my dreams, the house and grounds have fallen victim to rot and ruin. The lawn has gone to seed, sickness has turned the chestnut tree into a bleached husk, and the rhododendrons have reared to the fantastic heights of fairy-tale briars. The house itself sags to the side, its walls pockmarked by sour rain, the windows dirty and broken.

But for all its neglect, it is not uninhabited. I do not talk of the birds and bats roosting in the rafters, nor of the mice living underneath the floorboards and the silverfish who slowly eat away the wallpaper.

The library, with its masculine smell of leather and smoke and newspaper ink, is his domain in death as it was in life. There, he paces up and down, up and down. All that pacing has worn the carpet to threads. Each night I must go to him. It does not matter that I am unwilling; my mind and feet betray me, and take me to him. He knows that I am coming and awaits me with impatience, smoking cigarettes in quick succession, littering the ground with ash and butts. His face, once so handsome in a peculiar, medieval way, is ruined by the shot that killed him. It turned his left eye to pulp and smashed the orbital bones to pieces so that the area around the eye is curiously dented.

There must have been no time for Maxim to realise my betrayal; the bullet bored itself into his brain, killing him instantly. The Maxim of my dreams, though, gives me an amused, cruel little smile. Then – just as my life has become routine, my dreams have, too, and so this next moment never varies – he opens his arms to me. I don’t want to, but I must step into his embrace. He pulls me close to him until my head rests against his chest, against the fabric of his tweed jacket turned sodden by blood and the jelly leaking from his burst eye.

“My little love,” he murmurs as he strokes my hair, his breath stinking of the grave, “you didn’t think you’d ever be free of me, now did you? I shall never let you go.”

It is then I wake, gasping and sobbing.

Danny aims to soothe me, kissing my face and folding her long arms around me. I cling to her so tightly it must hurt. She’s no longer as strong as she used to be. No one would be after what Maxim did to her. He damaged her left eye to the point of blindness. During the years, it has turned milky white. She has taken to wearing a velvet eyepatch over it to keep out the light, for even the flame of a candle upon her left eye can trigger a mighty headache. Even covered up it pains her, but she never complains.

She holds me well after the shaking has subsided, kissing my hair. I kiss her throat in return, her chin, her cool sweet mouth. I always hesitate when I reach the scars Maxim left on her face. He embossed her cheek with his signet ring, the M and W intertwined. Yet whenever I hesitate, she brings her mouth to my ear. “No need to be careful, Madam,” she whispers, and then I know.

I have someone in this world to call my own.

I have someone to love.

[orenonahaichigoda]

More non-Ichigo character thoughts. This time, Rukia.

Sleving the ones who are actually permanently children for whatever reason completely unexplained at least before the novels, haven’t been following the novels. Like the Digimon Adventure universe movies, the only other cartoon I like on its own merit and not because it’s tied to my cartoon-loving dad who died of racially motivated fetishistic abuse against Asians, the same which most fandom exhibits, the Bleach novels seem like they’re mostly there to justify the poor rush job that the epilogue was. Again, same as the Adventure epilogue. Just, the literal twelve-year old fans decided to hop on the family computer and type up some fix-it fic to post on their Geocities rather than the terrible-twos-esque temper tantrums we saw from some Bleach fans.

Anyway, so, you know, there was definitely a deep love between Renji and Rukia that appeared when Renji was fighting Ichigo, though not in the early stuff, because seat-of-pants writing. Been there, and I think anyone who’s written fic has.

However, not only do none of their interactions ever read as romantic, they don’t read as the same maturity level except for the early jail taunting bit.

Renji reads like a lot of his peers, except that his childhood as a street urchin haunts him especially hard.

Remember episode one? The first thing Rukia gets mad about ends with her claiming she’s ten times Ichigo’s age. When she binds him, she takes time to draw on his face before going to do her duty.

I just mentioned the whole problem of characters’ trajectories veering wildly onto a completely different road. Shoot, look at early Gin and end Gin. (Leaving aside early Orihime who wants to be a cyborg and wants to fight to protect Tatuki like Tatuki always protected her, and her veering into Nurse Nancy In Distress Orihime, which compounds sexism because yes, the work is sexist and all sorts of queerphobic. I really would’ve loved to see a follow-up on when she decides to destroy the Hogyoku, honestly)

However, Rukia… never really moves past or gets veered off the course of her early characterisation. Even her very sweet scene with Orihime in the early Arrancar arc—it frankly read *way* more like possibly shippy peer content between them.

There are totally adults that size—I’ve known white, black, and non-white European cis men under four foot nine and Rukia’s height and build is not at all uncommon for E/SE Asian women. Her and Momo both look like just short women, not the same as, say, Hiyori or Tousirou, who are clearly just perma-kids. The average Japanese woman is five foot two/157 or 158 cm, but that height and build is not uncommon. (And though mine was racially motivated because I’m Asian enough, furthermore, Japanese enough, Momo seriously needs more love—takes a DV survivor to know a DV survivor. Clearly Aizen has groomed probably even her sense of self out of her, and neither canon nor fandom is particularly kind to her. There is not much explicit about what went on between them, but I honestly see no other possible reading for her)

Just…Rukia doesn’t ever end up reading like someone who would make a good parent. Yes, the parents of all Bleach teens are absolutely dysfunctional—the adults in positions of authority over them in Karakura all are somehow. However, what little we see in the new SJ Bleach chapter, which I actually bought at my local Japanese language bookstore, so I’m going off the original in my native language, thankfully, they’re not just repeating the dysfunction. (Though I’m very curious why there does seem to be formal kinship terms despite the fact that Kubo unimaginatively rolled with current Japanese law—thank the LDP, America’s favourite—and Rukia married out instead of Renji marrying in, as evidenced by their name plaque at their door. Clearly, there is some Kuchiki influence in their family, though… scratching my head)

It’s another undeveloped, inexplicable thing, just, I mean, while the read I got was Orihime seeing Ichigo as her hero when abuse is on all sides, totally reasonable, and Ichigo seeing Nurse Nancy in Distress Orihime as a *responsibility,* and that is just never the underpinnings of a healthy relationship. I don’t even care if you’re talking a D/s relationship, you don’t start off on that foot and expect to last, at least there was *some something* going on?

Renji and Rukia just don’t read romantic, and furthermore, Rukia just doesn’t read mature enough to be a mother at all. Rukia looks like she could be in her twenties, but she acts like a teenager throughout. Any time she’s not in line of duty mode, she just acts like Ichigo’s age. So that development was absolutely a curveball.

(And “people can be born as ghosts” is just a whole another issue and posts. Artificial bodies being capable of reproduction resulting in living children? OK. Ghosts having ghost babies…? Stretching a little too far for my taste)

[realmadridfamily]

Pilar Rubio presents her second collection of swimsuits for the Galician company“Selmark”.

Pilar Rubio is a TV presenter, mother of four boys, a born athlete, as well as a designer and fashion lover. "My mom was a seamstress, and I grew up surrounded by fabrics and sewing machines" says presenter a few days before presenting her second swimsuit collection for Spanish company Selmark. Pilar was fully involved in this new project from the very beginning of the creative process ("We did everything through a video call because we started working on it just before my childbirth") and the five models (three swimsuits and two bikinis) reflect her powerful personality and inexhaustible energy. We discussed with her shortly after she announced that she tested positive for COVID-19. Pilar talks about fashion, design and family, three of her great passions, although she undoubtedly recognizes that her four children are the best project in her life: Sergio, Marco, Alejandro and Máximo Adriano.

This is the second collection you have created for Selmark. What will we find in it? It's a good news. After the success of the first collection, they wanted to make another one and I think we make a great team and we understand each other very well. We have the same idea of what a swimsuit is, what message we want to convey to women ... and I think it's a concept so different from anything we're used to. This first collection was so different from the others because we wanted women to feel that swimwear is their ally. When they offered it to me, they told me they wanted me to design the swimsuits, and I said, "Wow, swimsuits, the hardest thing there is."

How to find the perfect swimsuit? I'm a perfectionist and can spend days looking for a swimsuit that I feel good and comfortable with until I find one that I like. I think it happens to other women too. When you wear one you have to be very sure that it fits you because it shows a part of you that you don't show for the rest of the year. That's why the statement we use is perfect: "it suits you, you feel better". This is the message we want to send you because if this costume suits you, you'll be safer, more comfortable, you'll feel more beautiful, and it all adds up.

What's the key to this second collection? How was the creative process before launching it on the market? The important thing or the key to these two collections is that the shapes are perfect, that they fit all women and emphasize the beauty of women. We've spent a lot of time on it, calling it interior engineering because we've created designs that favor all curves, tweak beautiful parts and hide the ones we don't like so much. We have been working on the second collection since January 2020. I was not able to go to Vigo, which is where Selmark is located, but through a video call we understood each other, we saw fabrics, colors and found five models that are perfect without any doubt.

What inspired you this season? I have been inspired by powerful women, who for me convey that magic that we all have and that empowerment that seems to be very fashionable today but that I think we must always carry as a flag. May these designs make us feel like this: beautiful and powerful in equal measure.

The campaign also includes some spectacular photos, one of which is very wild, where you pose with a snake! Not only men will be in the jungle! (laugh) Women can also have a wild and glamorous point. That model, "Mamba", is beautiful, it goes back around the neck with a bow and makes it a perfect body to wear on a summer night, for example. You can be in the jungle, on the beach, in nature or in the city center, it's important to feel good.

You're not only the face of this collection, you were fully involved in the entire creative and production process ... Sure. I am not just an image, I actively participated in the entire design process. Whenever my image is behind something, it's important to me to take care of it. Each such product has to be something that I have tested and I'm sure it suits me. It's like another baby for me (laughs). I created it myself and that's why I took care of the smallest detail. There is also a very strong field work. I asked all my friends! I asked them what they like, what they want to hide, what they like to enhance with a bikini ...

These five models can also be used for going out to the city and not just for the beach or swimming pool, right? I also wanted them to be super useful, so that I could also go out into the street in them. We've already done it with another collection. I wanted the clothes to be so beautiful that you want to wear them all the time. In fact, many of the models in the first collection were sold out within the first hours of leaving. Now with this second collection I wanted to give it a further point of sophistication. Each model I have imagined in a different place. They are so versatile that they are not only for bathing, but can be worn for a drink at the beach bar or beach club for an afternoon in Madrid ... logically accompanied by a skirt, a pair of pants, a jacket ... But let the one who is brave and wants to take it out as is, I applaud her! (laughs)

What would be the best way to combine them? If I was in Madrid I would take a red swimsuit, model Diamond, and wear it with a jacket and shorts. I would like a total look in red. You can wear a bikini top with a floaty skirt to go to the beach club. To go by boat, you can combine it with a caftan. And I love the Dream model that is a bit psychedelic and Hindu, and that one with some hanging colored glasses, it would look great.

Where does this passion for design and sewing come from? My mother is a seamstress and all my life I was surrounded by fabrics and sewing machines, watching my mother arranging First Communion dresses, suits, and sewing skirts and dresses for me. And little by little I was tinkering, I took the old sewing machines that were at home, I asked her for patterns and I was making my skirts, my dresses. I've always liked it. It's a way to escape the world, it gives me peace. It's like therapy. It's my favorite hobby, although now I don't have as much time as before being a mom. But before, when I had a free time, I usually spent it sewing. At home I have an old sewing machine, which is more than a hundred years old, the kind you have to hit with the foot, which was my grandmother's. Before, I used it often. Now I have a more modern model but I keep the old one as a relic and it's also an excellent piece of furniture because when it's closed it's like a small table.

Are you still sewing clothes for yourself, or are you at least customizing some of the ones you already have? Yes! I customize everything! I still take scissors, bleach ... everything I find out there and I give it a lot of use. You can't even imagine! Suddenly, there are a thousand ideas in my head! But my main source of inspiration is the heavy metal bands of the 80s so every time I see articles from that era or read books from that hard rock scene, I try to make dresses or suits that are inspired by those artists, which are my idols.

Would you like to restart your own brand like you did years ago with rock shirts? Being who I am, who is involved to the fullest, now it is impossible, but you never know. At the moment my most important project is my children and from there I try to manage everything else.

Do you see a talent for creativity in your children? The truth is, they all love to paint. Soon I won't have walls to hang my children's paintings! They bring them to me every day and they are super cute with phrases like "I love you mommy" so I can't throw out any (laughs). But the one I see most interested of all, the most meticulous and detailed, is Alejandro, my third son. Every time I'm sewing or drawing something, he comes up right away and asks: “Mom, what are you doing? And because? And how do you do that? You teach me?"He already wants to take a needle, but for now I won't let him (laughs). I can see that he is very interested in anything creative.

Designer, TV presenter, you exercise every day, four little children ... Please tell me, how do you do it?! (Laughs) Like many others, I guess. Since you have to do this, try your best to align the pieces of the puzzle. But it's important not to neglect yourself as a woman, to have good mental and physical health that makes you send good energy to your loved ones. That's why I have to feel good to make others feel good.

Your husband, Sergio Ramos, is one of the most fashionable celebrities, would you dare to design something for him? I think it would be entering the men's field and I haven't done it yet (laughs), so far I'm only inspired by things that are for women.

How did you spend the last year of the pandemic? If we had to take stock and be able to get something positive out of this catastrophe, it would definitely be the fact that we could be together. We make a good team, distribute responsibilities, we also have very good children.

In June, you and Sergio will celebrate your second wedding anniversary. How do you remember that amazing day? Will you do something to celebrate the second anniversary? We don't plan anything at the moment, we live day after day. Everything I remember from that day is beautiful. From time to time flashes of that night come to me and I think it was all so special that unfortunately I couldn't stop for a moment. Everything was special.