#nettle wc

[lemnnshark]

"Nettle is a brown tabby tom with long, spiky fur.

[eggfeather]

nettle

[shallowbreeze]

Nettle

Nettle is a brown tabby tom with long, spiky fur.

How many brown tabby terrible fathers are the Erins gonna write?

[peppermint-moss]

Got a donation on my ko-fi that got us to reach TWO behind the scenes stretch goals!! thank u thank u!!

These are all the characters' 'base' colours! For each blue/pink/purple scene I'd put the corresponding blue/pink/purple colour (seen at the bottom of the first image) at 100% Soft Light over them (with a clipping mask) to tint them appropriately C:

I made sooo many character designs for this amv haha; usually different/side characters don't show up as much in my amvs that I honestly just make them up on the spot lol. But this time a lot of side characters appeared multiple times so I actually designed them out beforehand (and I started to have fun drawin lil guys hehe)

Oh yea forgor: the lil note beside Darktail's eye; I originally wanted the lake to be blue to match the symbolic colour of Needle's like despair n stuff, But through the course of making the amv I realized I wanted the lake she drowns in to be purple because she's doing it for Violetpaw!! So in the amv the water ended up being blue for just a moment when Dark pushes her underwater, then back to its purple :')

And the second BTS is the sketches for the thumbnail! I started in my sketchbook to brainstorm n then moved it over to digital (that digital sketch needle has like one paw raised but then i was like. That looks weird lol)

commission info || ko-fi (tip jar; for every $8 in donations I share a BTS!)

[marmosetpaw]

[forest-of-a-rising-tide]

START this one made me sad to draw :( and to get in clangen. i was hopeful theyd get a new friend

[clanslist]

[commoninfected]

Cats!! :D

[beanlot]

indecision

ellie wants you back, even though she ended the relationship.

wc: 2.1k (angst + smudge of fluff)

─── ⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰ ───

“just get it over with, please.” she exhales jaggedly, smell of rubbing alcohol poisoning your nose as you apply pressure onto her wound. she’d been shot with an arrow, one you’d had to snap to pull out of her, but it’s nothing she hasn’t handled before.

she didn’t squirm, or whine when you bandaged her up. she sat still and took it, clenching onto the old and tattered leather seat.

you’d dated ellie for a shaky and indulgent two years before. your relationship at first was it - it was her looking at you when she’d done something clumsy or funny in hopes to see you laugh, it was holding each other tightly after you’d gotten separated, it was her lips kissing at your skin fruitfully. you remember it so clear.

“mm. baby.. baby..” you hear her voice, low and groggy. you’ve woken her up, shuffling around endlessly for half an hour trying to sleep. “baby.. shh. relax.. relax with me, you’re fine.” her hand settles on your hip, and she’d bring you in closer, tatted arm ravelling around your stomach. she was so gentle, so guiding, so protecting. “shh.. i’m here. i’m here, my love..”

ellie felt bad for ending it, it was necessary. there were times where she’d refuse to communicate, you would lose your temper, and start yelling at each other. you’ve grown hard around the edges over the years, your skin is scarred and tormented. it’s not your fault.

“oh shut the fuck up, ellie!” you spat at her. truth is, your arguments brewed for a few weeks. it started with glares, sly comments and ignoring eachother until it erupted. “you always do this, speaking to me like you’re so much better just becau-“

“speaking to you like what? just because i don’t sit on my ass here all day whilst everyone else does the work?”

the best thing to do was to break up, for both of your sakes. you were fine with it at first, you knew it was for the fucking best. you were starting to despise eachother’s company; you knew you’d get over it. because just like the scars and torment weren’t your fault, ellie was often blinded by hatred and impulse, it’s how the world shaped her.

“you know what.. i think.. we should just.. stop.” ellie scoffs.

“stop what?”

“us. it’s not fucking working. i can’t stand you.”

but what you couldn’t get over was overhearing her speak with dina, flirty and sultry tones bouncing back and forth between them a week later. they’d slept together, not long after that breakup.

and here you are, a few months later, knelt in front of her to relieve her physical pain.

“thanks..” a quiet whisper left her as you shoved the materials back into your bag. you’re still on high alert, ellie says that you always are, it’s like walking on eggshells being in a room with you.

she watches as you keep your eyes on the windows, peering through the blinds, your pupils narrow. she tries to lighten the mood, tries to relax you a little. “a year ago, you would’ve passed out.” she jokes, a breathy laugh leaving her. but you don’t laugh.

i think that’s also what ate away at ellie during the end of the relationship. you used to have fun, and live, and look forward to the next day. but you’re a different mind in the same shell she used to love, and part of her believes she’s accountable for not being there for you.

you hear her whisper, as you sink into the chair opposite her, your head leant back towards the ceiling. “you okay..?” her voice is cautious, but she knows what’s up, she’s not stupid.

“fine.” you state bluntly.

it’s silent. she feels hopeless. you’re so cold now. but on the bright side, at least she no longer has to listen to your words of kindness easing her through the pain, or drink the poison of your fucking maturity.

“i’m sorry. for it.” you hear her. she’s darting her eyes around your body, the long scar under your jawline, the scratches on your wrist from trying to slice nettles out of the way. you try not to smile at her apology, because it’s pathetic. “it’s whatever.” you respond, your voice uninterested.

you feel sour thinking about it now, actually. you could’ve left her to those hunters, left her to infected, left her to bleed out and clean her wounds herself. “did you enjoy it?” you impulsively ask her, a saltiness to your tone that she was anticipating.

her stomach still drops though, and she can sense the eggshells cracking around her. “what?” she mutters, her eyes narrowing at you as you look at her. you used to look at her with delicacy, adoration, desire. but now your eyes are empty, glossed over; ellie could only describe it as you looking through people rather than actually looking at them.

“you know. sleeping with her that quickly, was she good? worth?”

it’s silent, and you’re both staring at eachother with challenging eyes of contempt. she gets it, understands your anger, yet she also can’t seem to wrap her head around your entitlement. “what are you sa-“

“scale of 1 to 10.”

“what the fuck are you saying?” ellie’s voice goes up a pitch. she wish she could stand up and grab your throat, try and knock some sense into you. but not only is the pain in her shin holding her back, it’s also the fact you’d hold up an ambiguous fight. “are you serious?” she leans forward in disbelief.

but when you don’t respond, your gaze unfaltering, she sighs.

“i don’t know.. like.. an eight, i guess..”

it was a rhetorical question, asshole.

you’re sure she answered it out of spite, and you feel internal rage. but you don’t let it show, you just nod with pursed lips. “i’m happy for you.” you state coldly. you wish you had the heart to just leave her here, take shimmer up north back to jackson, but you don’t.

it’s silent for a few minutes. she’s often glancing back at you, already regretting her answer. although it was a truthful answer, she should have kept her mouth shut. but the damage has already been done, she sees it honing on your face as you look elsewhere.

“i’m..” she starts, sighing. “i’m sorry.. that was fucked, it’s all fucked.” she shakes her head. you’d been forgiving and graceful enough to snap an arrow and pull it out her leg, bandage it up for her. and yet she sits here as if she uses that same arrow to pierce at your heartstrings, play you like an instrument, even if you act as if it’s not affecting you under your stoic mask.

“can you come here…

please..?”

you look at her, and her eyes are brimmed with vulnerability. you stay in your seat for quite some time, until you muster up the patience to approach her.

she feels you dip into the space beside her. she wants to reach out, touch your skin, marshmallow you up how she used to. but she knows she can’t, she has no right. “you don’t have to forgive me.. i just..” she whispers. “i wanna say i fucked it all up, for us. i know i did..”

you digest her words, your eyes darting around the ceiling in contemplation.

“i just don’t..” she pauses, her eyes ponder down to her thighs, and then down to her bandage that you had wrapped. she’s trying to word her next sentence without it sounding so morbid, but she cant. “i don’t wanna lose you one day, knowing you hated me.” she murmurs, waiting for an inkling of emotion on your face - anything, she’ll take anything - but it doesn’t come.

she’s dreamt about it. having you in her arms, choking on your own blood, using your last efforts just to spit out a malicious i hate you.

“i thought the.. whatever with dina would’ve got rid of you.” ellie squeezes her nose bridge, trying to explain in a way that doesn’t sound so bullshit. she doesn’t want to say that she had sex with her, even though that’s what it was. “i fucked her over too.. she didn’t do anything wrong, but she was.. just there.”

wow, you really are a scummy piece of shit, els.

she knows what you’re thinking when she looks over at you, your eyes nailing into her. “i know..” she whispers, and you notice her hand slowly raising, hesitant to graze your own. you flinch when she does this, and she notices your hand inching away from hers. “i know it sounds bad. because it is, it’s my fault.”

she looks down at your hand, her eyes desperate, pupils dilated when they look at you. “please let me..” her voice is tender, affectionate with you. you’re invested in it slightly, letting her nails run along your palm, her touch a wintry feather tickling your skin.

“i just.. i’ll do anything. anything to make it up to you, no matter how long it takes.” she whispers, and you feel her touch leaving your hand. you feel like ice when it does, only to feel piping hot again when she cups your cheek. it’s intimate, but it’s genuine: it’s regret and sorrow, self-hatred and adoration. “i just want you to know, that i know i’m a fucking asshole, i still am..”

“you make me sick.” your voice is piercing and cold towards her. but she understands your rage, and she takes it, absorbing it with accountability. “i needed you. and you fucking left me.”

ellie’s gaze is weak. she’s thinking of your pain, of your scar-covered back and tormented bruises. the ones she couldn’t be there to kiss and treat. when you had came back from torrington after a few weeks’ travel, and she had heard from maria that you were ‘all kinds of fucked up’ and ‘in need of stitches’ under the jaw, she’d dissociated for hours in her room.

she could’ve been there, could’ve helped stop the bleeding, could’ve killed the bastards who had done it to you. prevented it in the first place. you were always there for every tear that dropped from her pretty eyes, every injury, every nightmare. and yet you did it all alone.

“i know.. i know.” she whispers, and you close your eyes when you feel her forehead press against yours. it’s not romantic, it’s just impulse. she wants to just feel close with you again, absorb your warmth, feel the safe haven she neglected and left to rot. “i’ll do anything. you have no idea. anything, i’m begging you.”

you can feel her breath, she’s so close to you, so hurt. she knows she has so many - too many - amendments to make for you.

“i almost died yesterday.”

her whisper is faint, and her eyes are focused on everything, yet nothing at the same time. glossed over in daydream, inanimate and empty. “we were.. i don’t know, going down the southeast, by those cabins..” she tries to recall, memories blurred with the overwhelming poison of your ill feelings towards her. “this guy.. i was just on the floor suddenly, and he’s coming down at me with an axe.

and if it wasn’t for jesse, i would’ve..” she continued, pausing before her eyes glint. “but in my last fucking moments, all i could see was your face. and i just.. i didn’t feel fear, i just.. felt so much regret. and, love. worried about what would happen to you after.”

her words were reluctant at first, but came streamlining out of her mouth when she’s reminded of each emotion that came with having her back against the mud, life flashing between her eyes, the split-second images of your pretty face next to the fireplace. the way you called her name, ellie, so vanilla. so clean. so smooth.

“i felt like.. i just should’ve told you everything, talked it out. i don’t want you to feel bad for me. i’m just.. i am begging you..” she repeats, a faint and delicate whisper against your lips. “if you want me to disappear, i’ll go. i’ll never bother you, you’ll never see me again in that fucking town..”

something about that proposal doesn’t sit right with your heart, or your head. you can’t tell. a part of you wants to slap the shit out of her, and another part wants to kiss at those lips - not out of love, but out of hateful lust.

“it was never about you. it was about.. me. my failure to be a decent fucking person, to be the person you.. needed. it was my own weakness.”

you sluggishly and reluctantly pull away from her, and watch as her gaze softens into disappointment. “i should.. go check on shimmer.” you whisper, rising to your feet, emotionally warped. “you just.. sit here and rest..”

she has to accept consequences of her own actions.

as you start walking backwards and turn away from her, you can just hear all the emotions inside screeching in your head. it’s loud, blinding, deafening; you know ellie experiences it too, the same voices that just get too much. maybe that’s what dina was to her, white noise to dilute them.

she wants to chase you back, grab your wrist and talk it out. but the throbbing tremors from her wounded leg force her to slump back down into the chair with a defeated sigh. she lets you go, just this time, not willingly.

[lemnnshark]

"Nettle is a huge, thick-furred gray tom with a thick neck."

[eggfeather]

nettle

[calypsocolada]

how they react to someone else hitting on you...ft.  giyu, obanai, mitsuri, tengen, rengoku, sanemi & hotaru  

authors note: this was requested by and dedicated to @callmenobodyyxx & @itscheshirecay. hope you guys enjoy!

cw: slightly suggestive, fem reader, not proofread, jealousy, hotaru being scary, use of y/n

wc: 6.3k

click here for my masterlist

It takes a lot for Giyu Tomioka to get angry. It takes even more so to make him do something about it. Giyu internalizes a lot of things. Mainly his feelings for you. Those are shoved deep within the parts of him that can never bubble up onto the surface. And it’s damn frustrating. It’s even more frustrating that you're the complete opposite to him. Where he’s quiet and reserved, you are jubilant and attentive. You love to talk to people, to get to know someone and listen to their story. You like making friends and forming connections. You like being a hashira and having dinner with the rest of the hashira’s. You like being in the light. Giyu likes being in the dark. So why the hell do you affect him so damn much. Why the hell can’t he stop thinking about you. Why the hell does he crave that attentiveness and feel the twistedness of jealousy every time you smile that bright smile of yours at someone that isn’t him. It was quite simple. Something Giyu didn’t want to admit until it was forced to light. Because you kept handing out your time and smiles and conversation to people unworthy of it. 

So as Giyu sat at his booth in the corner, listening to you charm the entire restaurant he was almost content with letting those feelings stay dormant. He felt like telling you these feelings would drag you out of the light into the depths with him. Who would want someone so gloomy dragging you down? He reached for his drink. These feelings, like nettles in his chest.

“Then what did you do?” An interested voice asked, leaning close to you. Giyu watched you smirk, you loved a story. 

“The demon was crying out for its mother by the time I was through with it.” You sibilated and the crowd erupted in laughter and cheers. The interested voice leaned in and Giyu finally saw the face. It was a man, eyes lustful and moony. Giyu had seen you deal with quite a few people. Angry and sad and happy and interested. But never interested in the way this man was interested. The man’s hand slid along the back of your chair as his front barely pressed against you. 

“Another round for the beautiful hashira.” The man beamed. Giyu stared for a moment, his heart bursting like pricks from a thorn bush. You happily accepted the drink and even turned towards the man, offering up to cheers with him. The man clinked his glass against yours and Giyu watched you both take drinks, eyes linked with one another's. The man placed his drink on the bar and leaned towards you, lips mere inches from your ear as he whispered something. You laughed and pulled back. Giyu couldn’t hear what you said but then you stood from your seat and followed the man out of the bar. Giyu felt his whole body tense when the door felt closed and that calming and bright presence you usually brought to every place ceased to exist. He should stay seated. He was wanting his feelings to die off and if he followed you right now he’d only make things worse for himself. He wanted you to be happy. You needed someone that could match your light. But was that some slimy guy from some seedy bar? Giyu was out the door in seconds, the cold air stinging his cheeks as the door slammed behind him. 

“Mmm… right there.” He heard your voice off to the right and turned sharply towards it. “A bit higher.” Giyu rushed towards the side of the bar and rounded the corner. “Hold tight.” 

“Y/n!” He called out and stopped dead in his tracks when he finally found you. You turned, the dim light of the lamp post illuminating the scene. The man was holding your sword, you were just behind him, adjusting his position. 

“Tomioka? Everything alright?” You asked innocently. Giyu scowled as the man straightened, a smirk on his face. Giyu barely nodded his head. “You sure?”

“Head back inside.” Giyu’s eyes locked on the man, his voice even and eyes sharp. The man swallowed, handing back your sword.

“It’s fine. He was just curious about sword technique.”

“I’m sure he was.” Giyu didn’t take his eyes off the man until he was scurrying out of his eyeline. You slide your sword back into the hilt and step closer to Giyu.

“Did we get a mission?” You asked, eyes searching his face. His eyes met yours. 

“Did something happen? Between you two?” 

“Between who?” You asked, obviously not understanding his meaning. Giyu stepped closer. 

“You and that man.”

“Hm? No.” You shook your head, smiling amused. “Are you sure everythings alright?”

“No. Nothings alright. Do you know how dangerous it is to leave with some stranger in the middle of the night?” Giyu asked, taking another step closer. You didn’t shy away because arguing with Giyu was something you enjoyed because you knew the moment you finally pushed him over the edge he might just reveal what was deep within. Something you were craving just as much as him. 

“I was just having a bit of fun. No harm done.” You baited and smirked. Giyu’s eyes sharpened. 

“He could’ve tried something with you.”

“No harm in trying.” You shrugged and walked [ast him. Giyu’s hand shot out. 

“Are you… trying to make me mad?” He asked, eyes locked on yours. Yes. Yes you were. 

“Like I said. No harm in trying.” You gave him a smile. Come on, Giyu… His fingers tightened around your wrist for a couple seconds before he loosened enough for your arm to fall out of his grip. You knew what he’d say next. That he was heading in for the night. You had told yourself before tonight that this was the last night you’d try for his affections. There’s only so much you could do. It’s not something you could force. It was quiet. You cleared your throat. “Goodnight then, Giyu.” More like goodbye. You brushed past him, a step away from the corner when his cold hand grabbed you again. Hope sparked in your chest.

“Don’t go back.”

“Where do you want me then?” You asked and that hope tightened in your chest.

“Nowhere near that idiot.” He said and you wondered if that’s all he’d do. Just hold your wrist and hope you'll get it. You got it just fine, you just wanted him to show some initiative. 

“He seemed fine enough.” You said and Giyu shook his head quite resolutely. “He was interested in me, in learning how to hold a sword, he was-“ Giyu pulled your wrist and you along with it, his free hand sliding against your face, silencing your words by pressing his lips to yours. 

“Enough.” He mumbled against your lips. “I get it.”

~

“You want some?” You offered, you were covered in baking powder, a bit on your nose and cheeks and all over the front of your smock. Obanai sat across the kitchen near the window, pouting as he usually did. You were cooking for the trainees on this rainy day and one particular trainee had followed you into the kitchen under the guise of learning how to cook a scone. On days where you spent most of your time baking Obanai would sit at the table just to be close to you but not up in your space. This trainee was up in your space. 

“Yeah!” He answered as you spooned some of the filling off the plate and held out the spoon. Obanai had been watching pretty closely this entire time. Those sharp snake eyes making sure no funny business would happen. And that’s when it happened. Instead of taking the spoon and feeding himself, the trainee leaned towards you and let you feed him. 

Obanai slammed his book shut. You didn’t jump but the trainee did. He jumped so far back his back slammed into the kitchen island. 

“You want some too?” You asked innocently towards your fuming partner. Obanai pushed off the table and nodded his head as he forced his way past the trainee, holding back the temptation of choking him out. He watched as your eyebrows raised in surprise, it was clear you didn’t expect him to take you up on it because time and time again he’d just sit across the room from you and not say much of anything. He paused just before getting to you and turned back to glare at the trainee. 

“Make yourself sparse.” He demanded with a calm fury. The trainee tripped over himself to get out of the kitchen. You laughed slightly, watching him go. 

“He’s a nice kid, Iguro.” 

“He’s not a kid.” Obanai rebounded as he watched you grab a different spoon and scoop some filling out for him to try. You give him the option of taking the spoon but he reaches up, gently pulling off the wrapping around his mouth. Your breath hitches as his eyes never leave yours. You're sure he’s looking for some kind of disgust, some kind of uncomfortableness but you show none of it as you guide the spoon to his mouth. The kitchen grows three sizes smaller as his hand reaches up and grasps your wrist, spoon a few inches from his mouth. You swallow as he steps into your space. “I'll have some later.” He says and leans to press a kiss to your lips. You're just about too stunned to do anything when he pulls away, guides your hand back towards his mouth and tastes the filling on the spoon. “Good. Sweet.” He notes and you stare unblinking, lips parted as he fastens his mouth coverings back on. “Next time no trainees in the kitchen with you.” He says and meets your eyes. You blink finally, clearing your throat. 

“Uh huh, sure thing.”

~

“You need help with that?” A trainee asked to your right, you turned and smiled, nodding your head as you handed off some of the practice swords. He fell in step with you as you waved down Mitsuri who had been finishing up her last session for the night. She waved back, eyes darting to the man beside you before an unsure smile fit to her lips. “Miss?” The trainee asked as you turned back towards him. 

“Yes?” You asked. 

“You’re a hard worker.” He smiles and you purse your lips, smiling gratefully. 

“That’s kind of you to say.” 

“A lot of the other Hashira are scary but not you. You have really given me hope to keep going.” He says and the smile on your lips gets bigger. 

“So you’re feeling better about the training?” You ask as the training behind you two ends, the trainees all walking out of Mitsuri’s lesson groaning from exertion. 

“A lot better.” He affirms and you reach out, gently squeezing his arm. 

“I’m happy to hear that.”

“Miss… I have to ask…” 

“What’re you happy to hear?” Mitsuri chirps from a few steps behind. You turn, half smiling at her.

“Kanroji, I was just talking with,” You turn but the place where the trainee was just standing was completely vacant. You blinked a few times, looking all around the training yard until you spotted him running full force away. “Hmm. He’s actually gotten faster.” You laugh, turning back to Mitsuri. She gives you an almost tense smile. 

“Can I carry those for you?” She asks and before you can answer she’s gently grabbing the few practice swords out of your hands. 

“Oh… thanks.”

“I’ll help you clean up.” She smiles brightly, heading towards the field. 

“Kanroji, aren’t you tired? I don’t wanna trouble you-”

“It’s no trouble.” She calls over her shoulder as you jog to catch up with her. 

“You sure?” You ask as you fall instep with her. She nods her head resolutely. There wasn’t much to clean up, just a few broken practice swords. 

“Hungry?” Mitsuri asks as the sun sets in the distance. You straighten up, stretching a bit.

“Starving. But I’m cooking this time.” You say as Mitsuri shakes her head slightly.

“I like cooking for you.”

“I’m sure you do. But I’ve had an easy day and you haven’t.” You say, taking off and jogging towards the main house. Mitsuri calls after you, laughing as you beat her inside. She follows you into the kitchen. “Miss Kanroji, take a seat already.” You laugh over your shoulder as Mitsuri scoffs.

“Let’s cook together.”

“You’re relentless.” You laugh as Mitsuri just gives you a smile. You work together on dinner for a bit, you chop up vegetables and Mitsuri frying them up. You set up the table as Mitsuri prepares the tea. 

“No sake?”

“I have an early morning. Would you like some?”

“Mhm.” You shake your head, you weren’t going to drink alone. Mitsuri sat beside you at the table as you two tore into your food. One thing you had in common was your appetites. 

“Y/n?” Mitsuri asked in between bites.

“Hm?” You hummed, taking a sip of your tea.

“That trainee you were talking to… Is he always quite friendly?” Mitsuri asks. You hike up a brow and meet her eyes. You thought about it for a moment. 

“He… I guess so?” You say, unsure of what she meant. 

“He helps you clean up a lot?”

“Yes… yeah he sticks around after training.” You answer nonchalantly, grabbing at your chopsticks. “I’m quite proud of him. He’s come a long way.” You say, smiling a bit. When Mitsuri doesn’t say anything you look over at her. With her chopsticks she’s poking around at her food. You immediately know something is wrong. “What is it? Did I use too much seasoning?” You ask as she immediately perks up just to shake her head. 

“No no… darling it’s perfect.” She answers and you both have your own similar reactions to the nickname. Furious blushes. Mitsuri clears her throat. “I meant…” She staggers off, not finding the right words. You decide to show her some mercy.

“What is it then? You don’t play around with food. Is that trainee bugging you?”

“Bugging me?” She echoes, shaking her head but something was bugging her. You set down your own chopsticks and turn fully towards her. 

“What’s on your mind?”

“You. You mostly.” She relents. You suck in a breath. 

“Me?”

“Yes you!” She affirms, blushing red like a sunburn.

“In what way..?” You ask and Mitsuri pouts. 

“In a lot of ways!” She blushes even more, covering her face with her hands. You find yourself blushing too, noticing now that your knees were barely touching under the table. You blushed again at that too. Mitsuri huffed into her hands. “I don’t like being… I don’t like that he…” She can’t seem to finish her thoughts, her voice muffled into her hands. You reach over, pulling her hands away from her face. You were going to say something but the moment your eyes met your mind went blank for a second. “I… I’m jealous.” She admits. You exhaled a breath held in your chest. 

“That… that’s okay.” You say, swallowing, you were still holding her by her wrists. “But… you have nothing to… to be jealous about.” You say. 

“I don’t?” She asks and you shake your head, letting her go. Because did you eat dinner with that trainee every night? No. Did you look forward to talking and laughing and spending time with that trainee? No. This was all something reserved for Mitsuri. And friendship didn’t even come close to covering what was brewing between you and the love hashira. 

“Absolutely not.” You affirmed and hand sliding just under her jaw. Her eyes got wide a bit and for a second you have this crippling fear that you misread the moment but then her face lights up and her lips curl into a soft smile. She doesn’t wait for you to make the first move, she makes it herself. She reaches across the table and tugs you to her lips. Warm and waiting.

~

 

“Here you are, Miss.” the bartender greets, placing your drink in front of you. You give him a tired smile and take it. “It’s on us.” 

“I have money.” You say and the man shakes his head. 

“No good here. You and that man saved our town. We’re grateful.” The man smiles as you give a half hearted smile. You were exhausted, you and Tengen had just fought a couple tough demons and you were surprised you could even sit up in this chair right now. Tengen was outside, basking in the glory of the townspeople fawning over him but you weren’t one for the spotlight so you slinked into the closest bar and hid out the best you could. The bartender stayed close, cleaning off the bar and shooting looks at you. “Did you… have you worked as a slayer for long?” He asked nervously. You took a long sip and smiled. 

“I’m a Hashira, which means I’m more important and always exhausted.” 

“A Hashira, huh?” The man curiously asks. You nod your head. “That must mean you’re mighty strong?” You can hear the smirk in the man’s voice, you look up, expecting mockery but he doesn’t look amused, he looks impressed. 

“I’m strong enough.” You answer wearily and he smiles, eyes trailing across your body before nodding his head, as if to affirm to himself you looked strong. You blow out a laugh and take another drink. 

“I own this bar, and the restaurant across the street.”

“Ah?”

“Can I treat you to dinner?” The man asks, you meet his eyes and there’s no doubt in your mind he’s flirting. You wonder how long it’ll last before…

“Can you treat us both! I’m starving.” Tengen slides into the seat next to you, the smile in his face practically glowing from the crowd of praise he’d been receiving outside. The bartender seizes up a bit and clears his throat. 

“O-of course, sir. Anything for the saviors of our town.” He says quickly and Tengen’s smile grows. He gently nudges your arm. 

“How hospitable.” You ignore him. 

“Can I have another?” You ask, pulling out some money but the bartender shakes his head and pours you another without taking your money. He also pours one for Tengen.

“Get to know my partner any better?” Tengen asks the bartender who blushes instantly. 

“Uh— we were just—.”

“She’s a locked door this one.” Tengen smirks, looking over at you. You look at your drink. “I don’t fault you for trying.”

“Trying?” The bartender echoes. 

“To ask her out. She’s something, I get it.” Tengen says unabashedly. You huff, glaring over at him as the bartender fumbles over his words. 

“Leave him be.” You say and Tengen relishes in your attention.

“You like him?” He asks with a smirk. You down the rest of your drink, tossing money on the bar before hopping out of your seat and heading towards the exit. You shoulder out of the door as the cold hits your cheeks. You walk in the direction of the inn you and Tengen were staying at for the night knowing you had about five seconds alone before he was at your side again. “He’s not your type is he?” He asks and you’re so used to him popping up beside you that it doesn’t even faze you much anymore. 

“None of your business.”

“He can’t be.” Tengen says to himself, he drapes his jacket over your shoulders. You don’t fight it, just pull it close. “I think you like someone taller than that.” 

“I don’t wanna talk about this.” You say but he’s not listening. 

“Or does height not bother you? You don’t seem very picky.” He looks down at you, smirks when he sees he’s gotten under your skin. So you decide if he’s going to pester you you could dish it right back. 

“I don’t care about height.” You say as he towers over you. “He did have nice eyes.” You say and watch in real time Tengen’s face drops. He was wanting to annoy you but you had turned it around on him and he wasn’t expecting that. “And good hair. And a hard worker.”

“He seemed meek.”

“I don’t mind.” You shrug. “I’m not the talkative kind myself.”

“You need someone that challenges you. Ever heard of opposites attract?”

“Hmm.” You hum and shrug your shoulders. “He gave me free drinks. And offered dinner.” 

“I offer you dinner all the time.” Tengen argues and you have to hold back the laugh as you stop walking. 

“I should go take him up on his offer.” You turn back towards the bar when suddenly Tengen catches your arm. You pause, looking back at him. 

“You’re joking.”

“I could settle down here. It’s quiet and-“ Tengen pushes you back against the concrete wall, hand behind your head so you don’t bump it. “I’m joking, Ten-“ he smashes his lips against yours, your eyes widened in disbelief. But the kiss is warm and consuming and all jokes and frustrations were forgotten.

“Done joking?” He asked against your mouth. You cleared your throat, cheeks red. 

“Uh huh.”

~

You sat back in your train seat, arms crossed. Rengoku sat across from you, tearing through his second bento box. You watched him, took a sip of your drink, then sat back again. He didn’t look up for quite a bit. 

“Do you want some?” He asked and you just shook your head. You had absolutely no appetite after your disastrous first mission with this eccentric Hashira. Your arm was in a cast, bandages on your cheek and stomach from being tossed about by a demon. You were almost food to be digested if Rengoku hadn’t swooped in to save you. “You should eat.” He pushed a box across the train table. You stared at it for a long moment so he reached over and opened it for you. Your stomach turned and you made a face. 

“I’m not hungry.”

“Sure you are. You worked hard today.” He says and you look up at him, he’s all but beaming at you. You pout slightly. 

“I almost died… like ten times.” 

“But you didn’t.” He counters, smiling. You furrow your brows as he motions to your food. “You’ll feel better.” Reluctantly you reach out and pick at your food, eating just a bit to appease him. But once you started to get a bit more in your stomach you did feel better and you ended up eating the whole box. He slides another across the table and you don’t fight him on it this time. He watches you eat with a curious expression on his face. You look up at him.

“What’s that look for?”

“Nothing.” He says, a fondness in his eyes as you shrug and continue eating.

“I guess I should thank you.” You say. 

“I’ll share my food with you anytime.”

“I meant saving me from the demon. I was useless out there.”

“You most certainly were not.” He says matter of factly and waits until you're looking at him to continue. “Most slayers don’t make it past their first missions. Not to mention you held it off successfully until back up arrived.”

“But I had to be saved.”

“You’re too hard on yourself.” He admonished you and you feel slightly embarrassed. You look down at your food. He was right. It was your very first mission and you were alive, eating food on the train back to the butterfly mansion. You were alive. That’s what mattered. When the train docked you and Rengoku stood as a man bumped into you. Rengoku’s hand slid around your back as you stumbled back into his arms. He steadied you. 

“Oh… I’m very sorry Miss.” The man who bumped into you apologized, he’d lost his briefcase to the ground and had bent to retrieve it. When he stood back up his eyes met yours. 

“It’s alright.” You gave a polite smile as patrons walked around you towards the exit. 

“Oh… my you-- your that pretty slayer from the town over right?” He asked as you blushed deeply. You blinked, motioning to yourself.

“Me?” You asked as the man smiled brightly. 

“It is you. I wouldn’t forget a face like that.” He smirks as you bite your lip to keep from smiling in embarrassment. “Can I help you with your bags?” He asks, you part your lips to answer but Rengoku beats you to the punch. 

“She’s alright, I’ve got them for her, young man.” Rengoku says, stepping between you and the man, yours and his bags in one hand, his other hand gently guiding you towards the exit, hand softly on the small of your back. Once on the train platform the man clears his throat.

“Can I buy you dinner, Miss? As a thanks?”

“I just ate.” You answer and notice Rengoku’s hand still around you. You blush even deeper.

“Breakfast?” The man tries.

“I appreciate the offer but we’re catching the next train.” You say. The man sighs, running a hand through his hair. His eyes dance along your body and you consciously step closer to Rengoku.  

“Well… how about a tour of town?”

“How about you get going?” Rengoku answers for you, his face still cordial, though the tone of his voice was definitely stern, something you hadn’t seen unless he was fighting demons. The man looks Rengoku over and you wonder for a moment if he’ll try something, it was almost laughable. But he relents, giving a halfhearted wave before disappearing into the crowd. 

“He was persistent.” You huff as Rengoku looks you over. 

“You alright?” He asks as you nod your head, giving him a soft smile. 

“Thanks for the save… again.” You blush and he reaches for you, ruffling your hair a bit. “I can carry at least one back, Rengoku.” Rengoku simply shakes his head as he leads you towards the next train. 

~

Sanemi had been seething the moment you smiled. He leaned against the wooden fence, watching over your training session as you helped teach some of the newer slayers. When it comes to flirting and attraction most of it goes straight over your head. It was like your mind only had so much room and most of it was demon knowledge and the occasional sweet. Alot of slayers liked your training sessions and Sanemi was noticing more guys than girls. He noticed they were staying longer after the sessions and he definitely noticed the flirting. But you sure as hell didn’t. Nor did you care as you beat each of them with ease with your wooden practice swords. 

“Are you guys retaining anything?” You call out, taking one of the guys to the ground, pressing the dull end of the blade to his throat. He smiled up at you, almost lovingly and Sanemi almost vaulted over the fence and killed him himself. You helped the boy up and sent him back with the others as you had the next one step up. Slayer after slayer was easily dispersed by you. That was the small retribution Sanemi felt, seeing you dish out punishment. You dismissed them a while later and started cleaning up. Sanemi waited for you near the gate and listened as the group of boys walked by. 

“I think tomorrow I’ll ask, you think she’ll say yes?” One boy asked as the others gasped and laughed. 

“Absolutely not! Miss Y/N is way out of your league!”

“I could make her happy!”

“Could not!” The boy laughed as Sanemi felt his blood cool. 

“You’d have a better chance with a demon.” 

“I’m gonna ask her to dinner tomorrow.”

“You wanna keep your neck intact, I'd keep your questions to yourself.” Sanemi growled. The group of boys hadn’t noticed him and when they did they all went paper white.

“Oh-- w- we were just messing around, Mr. Shinazugawa.” 

“Just like you’ve been wasting her time during training sessions?” Sanemi asks and the fear on the boy's face was sweet justice. But Sanemi wasn’t done. “She’s busted her ass trying to keep you all from being eaten by demons but you're talking about pathetic crushes?”

“We-- we’re sorry sir.”

“Not good enough.” Sanemi crosses his arms. “I’ll be watching tomorrow and If I don’t see visible proof that you all are taking it seriously you’ll be going against me. And I won’t use some pathetic practice sword.” The boys run off to train as you jog over. 

“Everything okay?” You ask as Sanemi turns, nodding his head. 

“You're too easy on them.” He says as you give him a soft glare. 

“You’re too hard on them.” You say and Sanemi reaches for your hand, tugging you towards the main house. 

“You should hear the things they say about you.” 

“What do they say?” You ask as Sanemi shakes his head. 

“Let’s just say it’s a test of patience for me.” He says as you laugh slightly. 

“You’re just easily jealous.”

“Yeah. And?” Sanemi asks as he ushers you inside, something he’d been wanting to do all day. Inside, with no one around, no peering eyes, just him and you.

“They’re good boys.” You say as he makes a face at you before pulling you against him. 

“They're not.” He argues, hand on your cheek as he kisses you, pressing you into the wall. “Stop being so nice.”

“I’m-- not.” You argue back against his lips. 

“Are to.”

“Quit arguing with me while kissing.” You groan and he deepens the kiss, hands possessive.

~

Relaxing after a mission was something very sacred to you. In fact it might have been the sole reason that got you through each mission. Halfway through slicing a demon's head off you were already thinking about hot springs and all you could eat and warm blankets. This time was going to be even better because your sword, which you had broken on multiple occasions, was completely intact, which meant you didn’t have to visit your terrifying swordsmith, Haganezuka, at the beginning of your rest and relaxation trip. The few times you visited him you felt more likely you’d die by his hands than a damn demon. So this time as you were escorted to the village you were on cloud nine. You lounged in the hot spring, breathing in the night. You ate your fill at the village diner and drank yourself drunk at the tavern. One of the swordsmiths walked you back to the inn and offered to meet you for breakfast which you heartily accepted. The next morning you were ready to do it all over again as you headed to the diner. 

“Y/n?” A voice asked as you walked down the stony path. You turned, smiling.

“Good morning, Kanamori!” You greeted cheerfully as Kanamori cleared his throat. 

“Morning…Did… Did you just get here?”

“I got here yesterday morning.” You said as the man fell in step with you.

“And… you visited Mr. Haganezuka?” He asked as you smiled brightly. 

“Nope! No need. My sword is great. I’m actually on my way to have breakfast with one of the villagers, can’t recall his name but he had a sort of spooky looking mask.” You explained as Kanamori stopped walking. You stopped a second later and glanced back at him. “Everything alright?”

“That’s Mr. Haganezuka’s competition.” Kanamori explained as you nodded slowly. 

“Ah, really? Some drama there?”

“You could say.” Kanamori says as you smile slightly.

‘Well, fill me in while we walk.” You say beginning to walk again. Kanamori picks up his pace to walk in step with you. 

“You… Miss Y/N, you don’t understand. Mr. Haganezuka is… hm. Trying to think of the correct word... He’s… protective over his clients. Mainly the ones he… is… fond of?” You continue walking, the diner coming into view. 

“Fond?” You echo. “Are we talking about the same swordsmith?”

“Yes, of course!”

“Mr. Haganezuka is not fond of me. I can assure you that.” You laugh heartily, waving him off.

“Miss, I can assure that he is. I’ve known him for years.” Kanamori stresses. You reach for the door but he steps in your way. 

“I am hungry, Kanamori.”

“Miss Y/n, dining with his competition is… He… he will be very…”

“Why don’t you join us? It’s not a date or something, just breakfast.” You say as Kanamori shakes his head so hard his mask almost topples off.

“Like I said… he’s fond of you and I’m not-” You reach out, grabbing Kanamori by the shoulder and guiding him out of your way. 

“You are overthinking, alright?” You step inside the diner and glance around, the man who invited you wasn’t here yet so you took your seat and ordered some hot tea. You sipped on it, watching the trees sway outside of the window when suddenly someone sat in the seat across from you. You turned and met the mask you had been dreading to see. You sucked in a breath as Mr. Haganezuka stared across at you. “Mr. Haganezuka… good morning.” You blushed, clearing your throat.

“Good morning.” He answers tightly, ordering himself a tea. You trace the top of your glass anxiously.

“Beautiful day out today, hm?”

“Hm. Quite beautiful.” He agrees but his eyes stay firmly planted on you. 

“My swords fine.” You say but it comes out in a rush. 

“That’s good to hear.” He says as a tea is placed in front of him, he angles his mask up a bit and takes a sip. “And are you enjoying the village?”

“Uhm… yes. Yes sir.” You say, blushing slightly.

“Did some relaxing at the hot springs?” This small talk was killing you. You felt like any second he was going to explode. But you entertained it all the same.

“Yes. It was… rejuvenating.” You answer and he nods his head.

“Were you waiting on someone?” He asks and your heart skips a beat or two. 

“Hm? Waiting on-- no… no. Not waiting on anyone.” You say and wish you had heeded Kanamori’s warning. This man took his swordsmith position very seriously. It wasn’t like you were going to drop him for another swordsmith. It was kind of a long way to go to keep your business. Haganezuke nods his head. You two eat breakfast, a tense silence growing and once you were done Hanganezuka paid and when his back was turned you tried to make a break for the door when suddenly the man who walked you home came in and you ran smack into him. 

“Ah! Miss Y/n! Sorry I’m late for breakfast, I had a last minute client.” He greets as you look at him wide eyed. “What?” He asks then glances behind you. He goes white and you just know Haganezuke had to be erupting in flames by now. The competition hit the door in a sprint and you wish you could have laughed. You turn, a guilty grimace on your face. 

“That wasn’t-- I don’t-- I don’t know that freak.” You explained in a rush. 

“May I walk you back to your inn?” Hanganezuka asks as you nod your head in a rush. He opens the door for you and you fall in step with the taller man. In the distance you see a cloud of dust and the man you were supposed to meet halfway down the street.

“Mr. Haganezuka-”

“Hotaru.” He interrupts.

“Hm?”

“You can call me Hotaru.” He says as you nod your head quickly.

“Hotaru… You know… I value the swords you make me. No one caters to steel better than you.” You fumbled through your sentence blushing. “And--- I would… never as long as I live… settle for someone else’s sword making over yours.”

“Is that right?”

“That’s right.” You affirm. “Especially like… someone who’s your competition that I didn’t know was your competition.” You ramble, looking up at the tall man.

“Yeah?” He humors you. 

“Yeah!” You decide foolishly to continue. “That guys… a hack. So I've heard.”

“You hear a lot about him?” He asks and you swallow, preparing to lie. 

“A bit. All bad things of course, Mr. Haga- er uh- Hotaru.” You say, the morning sun is blocked by the shaded trees that line your path. You and Hotaru were alone on this path, and shaded from any and all prying eyes. 

“And you share those sentiments?” He asks, stopping, you almost bump into him. 

“Of course I do.” You say hurriedly. Hotaru nods his head slowly, you feel like you're walking on eggshells, hoping you don’t set him off.

“You sure?” 

“Yes!” You affirm and watch in real time as Hotaru blows out a breath almost like relief. You furrow your brows slightly. 

“That’s good to hear.” He says, stepping closer to you. You freeze, like a deer in headlights as his hand reaches across the expanse between you two and tucks a strand of your loose hair behind your ear. You blush like crazy, heart skipping four to five beats. “Visit again before you leave, Miss Y/n.” He says, leaving you alone on the path, a few steps from your inn. You stare after him and after a moment sit right down on the path. Kanamori’s words come barreling back to you, his words about Mr. Haganezuka being fond of you. You couldn’t believe it before but… now you didn’t know.

[anniebeckcalla]

━━ꜱᴋᴇʟᴇᴛᴏɴ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇᴛ.

. a secret relationship with the dreamies

(bf! dream x reader) ◦ ₊ wc:809. ◦ ₊ cw:fluff, kissing, light skinship. ◦ ₊ lowercase intended ! ◦ ₊ navigation

ღ calla's note: i may have been a little top- heavy on jaemin and haechan’s parts, but who cares? enjoy!

𝘫𝘦𝘯𝘰

the room was crowded to the brim with happy party goers of all ages; from the crawling tots to the wobbly elders. you yawned as you checked your watch- parties like this tended to tire you out. you'd only come for your best friend, as it was her family's party- oh, and her older brother…you looked up from your watch to see jeno gazing directly at you from directly across the room, his mouth raised slightly in a smile. your ears and cheeks flushed as he tilted his head in a slight nod, a subtle reminder of how much he ached to be beside you instead of what felt like poles apart

𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬

the door shut behind you both as you staggered in, lips pressed tightly together, your breath coming out in heavy pants. mark pressed you against the wall, but you pulled away suddenly, pushing him away gently. ‘we shouldn't be doing this, mark. not right now.” mark’s eyebrows curved in a frown for a moment, but then he composed himself. “when will it ever be a good time, baby?” he muttered, taking your hips and pulling you towards him. you sighed, stroking the cropped hair at the back of his head when he nestled it upon your shoulder. “one day, when everyone knows about us, it'll be all day, I promise.”

𝘫𝘢𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯

with one arm casually draped across the back of your seat, jaemin maneuvered the car into a shady alley, eyes trained on the back window. at last, the car came to a stop. “this should be secluded enough for us,’ he concurred. his gaze softened as his eyes landed on your lips, and he cupped your face with one hand as he leaned in to kiss you. you took your time to kiss him; there was no rush. nobody would find you two here. jaemin pulled away gently, staying so close that your lips were still brushing. “i can't wait until we can do this without having to hide away,” he whispered, his thumb caressing your jawline.

𝘫𝘪𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘨

“did you do something nice with your hair today?” the girl had a huge smile plastered on her face, eyes sparkling as she gazed up at jisung. jisung smiled, but he wasn't looking at the girl. he was gazing across at you. “yes. i decided to do something special today,” he replied. “for someone i love dearly.” you beamed back at jisung, your heart bursting with more affection than you thought it could contain. none of jisung's admirers meant anything to him. it was only you, and nobody else. even if you two had to keep it on the low for now.

𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘯𝘭𝘦

“you never said we were coming to an abandoned basketball court!” you picked leaves off your jersey as you tried not to lose your balance from where you were squatted near a clump of nettles amongst other debris. chenle prodded gently at a thorn scratch on his cheek. “well, at least nobody would think to look here!” he smiled. “we're well and truly alone.” you rolled your eyes, but not unkindly. “I get the sentiment.” chenle shuffled closer to you. “I promise that I'll take you somewhere nice one day,” he said, taking your hand in his. “then we'll make it an official first date. we'll go anywhere you want.” you laid your head on his shoulder. “as long as we're together, I don't mind too much.”

𝘩𝘢𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯

you let out a sigh of delight as haechan tilted his head to deepen the kiss, his hands caressing your waist with gentle strokes. you suddenly broke apart as the door shook; someone was trying to get in. you watched on in horror, trembling slightly even after the rattling stopped. “good thing i secured that door shut first, right?” haechan laughed, pointing to the sliding lock at the top of the door. he held his arms open as he walked back towards you. “i am a genius.” “don't praise yourself too much,” you laughed as haechan wrapped his arms around your waist to resume the embrace.

𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘶𝘯

you yawned as you opened your eyes, smiling as you wrapped your arms around renjun's waist. in response, he traced lazy circles on your back, you nestled your head further into the nook of his neck, inhaling his soft smell of citrus and talc. whilst you were already at home, in your bedroom, your true abode was wherever renjun was. your phone pinged suddenly, and you leaned over to pick it up.

‘mum- i'll be home in 5 minutes!”

“you're going to have to go, renjun,” you sighed, and renjun nodded sadly, getting up immediately. “text me when I can come back, okay?” he said. you forced a smile on your face. “it won't always be like this-”

“I know, y/n, i know.”

◦ ₊

reblogs and comments greatly appreciated !! (´･ω･｀)

masterlist

taglist: @cigsaftersuh @jenoleeaesthetic @pl4netx1a @jeonghansshitester @herjaemin @chenlezip

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[99woez]

nettles ᰔᩚ l.sh

warnings. smut, best friend!sohee, childhood best friends to lovers, drug mentions, and police stuff . i think that's it but if i missed something please let me know! enjoy <3

wc. 12.7k

summary. the only escape from this deadbeat town is your best friend, lee sohee.

part one || part two || part three

You’re sprawled out on Sohee’s bed, foot kicking against the wall, the sound of cicadas a dull roar outside the open window. The little clock on his desk says 9:53 but it feels like 2 a.m. You’re both still riding that post-gas-station high, a weird mix of elation and anxiety, the taste of him still laced through your tongue like a dare. In the half-light of his bedroom, everything looks washed-out and gentle, the world’s rough edges blurred by humidity and late summer.

Sohee’s lying on his stomach right next to you, chin propped up on a battered paperback, but you know he’s not reading a damn word. He’s got his glasses on, but his eyes keep drifting to you, then away, then back again, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to look. The room smells like lemon detergent and sweat and the faint, chemical tang of grape gum. You roll onto your side to face him, pushing your hair out of your face, staring him down until he finally cracks a sheepish grin.

“You really weren’t worried someone would come in?” he says, voice pitched low like it’s a secret. He’s been replaying that scene all night, you can tell, the way his cheeks go a little pink every time you catch him staring at your mouth.

“Would’ve made it more exciting,” you fire back, and he nearly chokes on a laugh, hiding his face against the crook of his arm. You can’t help but reach over and poke the soft spot behind his ear, just to see him squirm when he does, the edge of his glasses nudges your hand and you catch a glimpse of the smooth skin at his nape. You want to bite it. You want to bite all of him, really, but you settle for ruffling his hair instead. He bats your hand away, but not like he means it.

“I’m just saying,” Sohee ventures, voice muffled, “that’s the first time I’ve…” He trails off, face burning. He’s not shy, not really, but he gets sentimental out of nowhere and sometimes you don’t know what to do with it except laugh at him. You flip onto your back and stare at the ceiling, counting the cracks that spiderweb from the light fixture to the corner.

 “First time you’ve what?” you prompt, voice syrupy. You can feel him looking at you, embarrassed but proud.

“First time I did anything in public. Like that,” he mumbles, then clears his throat. “With anyone.”

“You’re welcome,” you say, smug and mean, but you squeeze his calf through the blanket to let him know you mean it sweet.

He hums, and you both settle into a silence that’s easy and full. You listen to the way the house creaks in the wind, the way the cicadas rise and fall, the way Sohee’s breathing evens out once he’s finished being a dork. You could stay like this forever, in the loose, lazy summer heat, the little clock ticking away, the world outside forgotten.

He’s the first to drift off, forehead smushed into the back of your hand, breathing so steady you want to crawl inside his ribcage and live there like a hermit crab. At some point you pull his glasses off, fold them up, and set them on the milk crate that serves as his nightstand. He stirs and blinks at you, the kind of lazy, unguarded gaze that makes your pulse skip.

“You’re still here,” he says, voice thick and low, like he’s dreaming you up. He’s not even teasing, he just says it like a fact, like it’s the best thing he’s ever discovered.

“Where else would I be?” you whisper, suddenly shy, even though you’ve spent the last hour recounting in excruciating detail the precise angle he looked at you from beneath the counter at work. He closes his eyes again and makes an incoherent happy noise, burrowing his face into your wrist. You stroke his hair, soft and a little bit greasy, and wish you could bottle this moment for the bad ones that come after.

The noise of the house changes when it gets late; pipes clank, the fridge groans, sometimes the distant hush of his mom’s TV through the wall. But tonight it’s empty, just the two of you, no one to trip over in the bathroom or ask when you’re coming home. You want to ask Sohee if it’s always this lonely when his mom’s on third shift, but you don’t want to kill the mood, so you just squeeze his shoulder and let the question die.

“Sohee?” you whisper, hearing him grunt softly to acknowledge you. “You ever think about the future?” The words slip out of you before you can stop them, so featherlight it almost doesn’t count. It hangs in the warm air, drifting over Sohee’s head, invisible but suddenly heavy.

He shifts, stretches, yawns like a cat, and then rolls his face to look at you. “Not usually,” he says. Then, “Sometimes. Lately.” He bites his lip, a nervous habit, and you feel a bloom of affection so sudden you want to punch it away. “What about it?”

You dig your toes under the edge of his blanket, wedge them against his shins because you need to be tethered to him for this. “I dunno. Just… what’s gonna happen. Like, with us.” A chunk of you wants to snatch the words out of the air before he can hear, but they’re already out. You force yourself to keep the gaze steady, the way he does when asking about your day as if the answer matters more than anything.

He blinks, slow. “With you going to Colorado?”

“Yeah.” Your mouth tastes like the inside of a soda can, metallic and sharp. “It’s, like, a million miles from here.”

Sohee shrugs, but you know it’s not a real shrug. “I think you’ll kill it out there. You’ll be the best vet tech in the world and probably end up running the place before Christmas.” He’s trying to make it sound like a joke, but his voice trips over the word ‘vet’ like it’s a loose step on the porch.

You turn on your side, propping your chin in your hand so you’re nose-to-nose with him, the air heavy with all the things you want to say. “You know I’m coming back after, right? Like, I’m not just gonna vanish into the Rockies and get eaten by a bear.”

Sohee smiles, the kind of smile that’s all crumpled, like he forgot how to hold his face together. “You might,” he says, “but I’d probably just follow the bear and annoy it until it gave up and let you go.” You both laugh, but it’s the kind that edges into sadness at the corners. He tugs your hand into his and threads your fingers, the two of you making a zipper of knuckles and skin. “I just… I’m happy for you,” he says, voice barely above a hum. “For real. Like, who else is gonna get out of here and actually do the thing they want?”

You want to tell him he could, too, but you know better. Everyone in this town has a radius, the invisible leash that jerks you backwards if you try to stray too far, and Sohee’s is shorter than most. He says he doesn’t mind, and maybe that’s true, but you can’t help wanting to drag him with you, just to see what the world looks like with him standing next to you.

“I’ll send you postcards,” you promise, and he lights up, nodding like a child. “Like, every week. I’ll find the ugliest ones and write really gross things on the back so the mailman has to read them first. Make the mailman’s day.”

He snorts, still holding your hand, tracing slow circles around the bones in your wrist. “You’ll forget about me,” he says, and you both know it’s not really a joke.

You want to argue, to tell him that no one could replace him, but the words get stuck in your throat. He’s not making it easy, not when his hair falls over his eyes like that, not when he looks at you so raw and bare. You squeeze his hand twice, the secret code for “I’m here,” and hope it’s enough.

Sohee’s eyes get glossy, the weird, glassy way they do when he’s about to cry but holding it back with the sheer force of being a human boy in the South. If you blink, you’ll lose it too, so you keep your gaze steady, breathing through the ache in your chest.

“You’ll be better off,” he tries, but it comes out like a question.

“Don’t say that,” you whisper, and your voice cracks in the middle, betraying the hurricane in your ribcage. “You’re, like, my favorite person in the whole world. You know that, right?”

He doesn’t answer, just pulls you into his arms, tucking your head under his chin. You let him. You let him breathe you in and squeeze the air out of your lungs until you’re both just one shuddering, blurry mass of skin and hope. You don’t say it, but you both know what you mean.

The silence between you is thick with all the things you want to aren’t ready to say yet, and for a while you just let it be.

But then you’re kissing him, because it’s easier than talking, and because it feels like home in a way nothing else ever has. He tastes like sleep and grape gum and the spent electricity in the air after a thunderstorm. He’s the first to deepen the kiss, but you’re the first to open your mouth, greedy for him, tongue darting out to catch the edge of his lip. His hand comes up to your jaw, cradling it like he’s found something fragile and rare, and you melt into the touch so fast you nearly forget yourself.

You want to say it, I love you, but the words stick, so you tip his chin and kiss him rougher, harder, until you’re both gasping for breath. You roll on top of him and straddle his hips, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his thighs. It’s a power move, but also a plea, and he must hear the “don’t leave me” in the way you grind down, because his hands slide up your back and anchor there, holding you in place.

“I want you,” he breathes, voice hoarse and ragged, and the sound of it undoes you completely.

There’s no patience this time. You tug his t-shirt over his head, raking your hands down the smooth slope of his chest, kissing every inch of skin you expose. Sohee arches up into your touch, his whole body electric and trembling, calloused fingers kneading your hips. He’s always blushed easy, but now he’s basically a space heater, all radiance and nerve ends, his skin pink and shivery under your palms. He’s not used to being wanted like this; you can see it in the way he trembles at your touch, the way his throat works around the words he never says out loud. You want to make him say them, want to draw them out syllable by syllable until they’re imprinted in the air above your heads.

You pin his wrists above his head. He lets you, grinning like an idiot, his chest rising and falling in these quick, hungry bursts. You want to devour him. You want to carve your initials on the inside of his bones. You lower your head and sink your teeth into the hollow of his collarbone, biting just hard enough to make him gasp and arch off the bed, then soothe the mark with your tongue.

He’s already hard again, straining against his boxers, and you rub your thigh against him just to feel the heat and pressure. His eyelashes flutter and his lips part, and for a second you think about saying it—I love you—right here, right now, where it’s just the two of you and the whole dumb universe can go screw. But the words catch, so instead you kiss him, deep and bruising, a little bit mean because you know he likes it.

His hands are useless under yours, pinned above his head, but he’s not fighting it. He just moans into your mouth, shivering every time you suck at his lower lip. You let him go, just for a second, to peel your tank top over your head and fling it to the side, then you’re back on him, not wasting a second. You want him so badly your hands shake, the edges of emotion so raw and sharp you can’t even look at him without your eyes getting hot. You bury your face in his neck instead, mouth pressed to his pulse, and you whisper his name, over and over, like a prayer.

He flips you onto your back with a sudden burst of strength, the two of you laughing through the shock, but there’s a fever to it now. He’s kissing down your throat, your collarbone, the place on your shoulder where he’s left a constellation of little marks. It’s a little greedy, how his hands roam everywhere at once, but you don’t mind. You want him to be greedy. You want to be his favorite thing to want.

He pulls your shorts down in one practiced motion, mouth never leaving your skin, and you gasp at the feeling of air on your thighs, the way his fingers knead the softest parts of you like he’s trying to memorize every inch. You moan his name, louder than you mean to, but you don’t care if the neighbors hear. Let them listen.

He’s between your legs now, hands splaying you open, his mouth following the curve of your hipbone until he’s right where you want him. He looks up, checks your face, and it’s so unbearably sweet you almost lose it right there. He wants to see if you really want this, if you’re really here with him, and the answer is so blindingly obvious you can’t say yes, yes, yes. You croon the word in your head, in your blood, in the way your thighs open for him and your spine curls into the mess of sheets. You see him kneel down, all devotion and nervous hunger, and you can’t help but reach for his hair, the brown strands soft under your fingers as you guide him in. It’s not like you have to, he’s looking up at you the whole time anyway, gentle and a little bit scared, but so, so eager.

He kisses up the inside of your thigh, breath warm and shaky against your skin. You want to make him a little less scared, a little more greedy. Your hand traces his jaw, thumb brushing the mole at his cheekbone. “Please,” you murmur, and you mean it with your whole body.

His first lick is tentative, a question more than an answer, but you arch up and cry out, the sound too loud for this tiny house but you don’t care. You want him to know he’s got it right; you want to tell him he’s perfect, but all that comes out for a while are these embarrassing, needy little whimpers as his mouth finds your clit and works it slow.

He looks up at you, eyes huge behind the fringe of his hair, and you can see he’s never done this before, not really, but he’s trying so hard it makes your heart ache. He sucks at you, tongue making little circles that build into a pressure so intense you have to grab the headboard with your other hand just to keep from floating away. He’s a quick study with his mouth. Within a minute you’re shaking, both hands forming fists in Sohee’s hair as his tongue circles and laps and sucks, faster where you’re most sensitive, then backing off, teasing, making you whimper and grind against his face.

Your thighs threaten to clamp around his head but he holds them apart, strong and sure, a new confidence burning off whatever nervousness he had at the start. Every time your hips jolt, he tightens his grip and hums low in his throat, the vibration making your vision pop with white. 

He reaches blindly for your hand and you give it to him, both of you clutching tight. The gesture undoes you. He wants to be tethered, wants you with him even now, under your skin and inside your bones. You squeeze his fingers, desperate, and when he feels it he looks up at you, slick-mouthed and wrecked and so pretty it hurts.

You want to tell him he’s a good boy, your good boy, but your voice shivers out of you as a ragged gasp: “Sohee—oh fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop, please—” and his lips curl with pride before he doubles down, tongue flicking against your clit as one finger, then a second, slips inside you with a wet, careful pressure. It’s too much and not enough and you arch your back, sobbing out his name, the surge of pleasure building and building until you’re right at the edge, ready to go over.

He holds your hand the whole time, thumb stroking the back of it, and when you finally feel your body begin to shake apart, your mind blanking out in a white-hot rush. Every part of you is being touched, held, tasted, cherished and all at once you realize you would never get tired of this, of him, of the way your names sound as they break in half on his tongue. You lock eyes with Sohee and let the orgasm rip through you, shuddering, crying out, barely holding on to his hand as you come so hard your body curls up like a busted match.

He stays with you the whole time, licking gently, then just softly kissing until the aftershocks die down and you’re left boneless on the mattress, spiraling through some weird, holy afterglow. You try to catch your breath, staring at the ceiling like you’re waiting for the cracks to rearrange themselves into a message from God.

He crawls up next to you, wiping his mouth on the back of his wrist, and for a second you think he’s going to make a joke about it. Instead, he just cups your cheek, thumb tracing the line of your jaw, and kisses your forehead. There’s something unbearably sweet about it, the way he gathers you up in his arms, his own breathing ragged, and just holds you like this is the most precious thing that’s ever happened to him.

You cling back, not quite ready to let go, your heart pounding so loud you’re sure he can feel it through your ribs. You want to tell him he’s perfect, that he’s a good boy, that he’s yours, but it comes out a choked whisper: “Oh my god.”

He laughs, warm and dizzy, and buries his face in the crook of your neck. “You’re so fucking hot,” he mumbles, voice muffled and thick with awe. You’re still trying to reboot your nervous system when you feel his cock twitch against your thigh, stiff and urgent, leaving no uncertainty about how much he enjoyed himself. The thought sends a bolt of excitement down your spine, makes your toes curl into the sheets. For a second you just lay there, the two of you tangled up in sweat and limbs and the sugar-high hum of mutual adoration.

Sohee’s the first to move, propping himself up on one elbow and looking at you with a dazed, slightly crazed grin. His hair is stuck to his forehead, and there’s a smear of your slick on his cheekbone that he doesn’t even bother to wipe off. You want to lick it yourself, but he beats you to it, swiping it with his thumb and sticking it in his mouth, eyes never leaving yours.

“God, you’re a menace,” you moan, rolling your head to the side so you’re looking at him straight on. “You’re gonna kill me one of these days, I swear.” 

He grins, bashful but bold, and then,without warning, buries his face against your throat, teeth grazing skin. You yelp, wriggling under him. “You like it,” he accuses, a little out of breath, and you can’t help but laugh, your whole body shaking under his hand.

There’s a moment of perfect, fidgety stillness, like the hush before a thunderstorm. You shift onto your side, knees curled up and arms tucked close, your half-naked body pressed against his. He’s propped up on his elbow, hips slotted against yours, the smooth heat of his cock nudging between your thighs. You can feel his heart pounding through his chest, so frantic and alive it makes your own pulse skip a step.

He kisses you again, lazy and half-lidded, hand smoothing over the curve of your hip. You don’t want it to end; you could lie here and let him touch you forever. Then, Sohee’s hand trails down, fingers skimming the line between your thighs, and he breathes into your mouth: “Can I fuck you?”

You bark out a laugh, startled and delighted, and the sound makes him blush harder than you’ve ever seen, his ears practically neon. He buries his face in your neck, mortified, but you can feel him smiling against your skin.

“Was that…dumb to ask?” he mumbles, voice muffled by your shoulder, and you have to fight the urge to roll him onto his back and kiss him until he’s boneless.

“No, idiot,” you say, twisting to look him in the eye, “it was cute.” You reach back and grip his thigh, grinding your ass against his cock. He shivers, his hands tightening on your hips, and you’re both laughing and breathless and so stupidly in love it aches.

“Good,” Sohee says, voice gone serious all of a sudden. His hand is still between your legs already pushing back into the heat of your cunt, cock slick and begging. He leans his forehead against the back of your neck, like maybe if he hides there he won’t die from embarrassment.

“Yeah,” you whisper, just to see him squirm. “You can fuck me, Sohee. Want you to.” You barely finish the sentence before his hand is between your legs, thumb circling your clit, and he’s guiding himself into you with a greedy, shuddering gasp. He pushes in slow, all the way, every inch stretching you open until you’re so full it’s almost too much.

You choke out his name, and Sohee’s hips stutter, like he’s fighting back the impulse to come already. He holds himself there, cock pulsing inside you, breath ragged and needy against your skin. The sensation is so fierce and sudden that you can’t help but arch your back, your ass grinding into his lap, and he whines, high and desperate, before he starts to move.

He fucks you slow at first, careful and deliberate, each stroke a study in restraint and hunger. His hands roam everywhere, all over your waist, your tits, your belly, as if he’s trying to imprint the shape of you onto his fingers. His lips latch onto your shoulder, biting down just enough to make you gasp, just enough for it to hurt in the best way possible.

“So good,” he mumbles, words slurred and sticky with pleasure. “You feel so good, baby, fuck—”

You can only moan and squeeze his hand so hard your knuckles ache. It’s all you can do to keep from sobbing, the friction inside you so sharp and perfect you think you might combust.

You hadn't expected him to be good at this, but Sohee’s a fucking savant, learning every inch of your body with each roll of his hips, finding the exact spot that makes you shudder and then abusing it mercilessly. He holds you from behind, arm slung under your chest, palm flat over your heart as if he can steady it with just his touch. The heat of him is everywhere, pressed to your back, his lips at your ear, his cock dragging in and out with an aching, careful rhythm that has you digging your nails into the bedsheet.

He’s talking, too, a steady stream of nonsense and worship, half dirty, half sweet, all of it meant for you and only you. “God, you’re tight. ‘S perfect, is this okay? You want more?” The questions spill out of him, desperate, like he’s terrified of losing you with every thrust. You can only nod, jaw gone slack, every nerve strung out on pleasure. 

He shifts, angling your legs just so, and suddenly he’s hitting a new spot, one that makes you see stars. You gasp, the sound torn from your throat, and behind you Sohee lets out a high, broken laugh like he can’t believe he’s the one doing this to you. 

The pressure builds, slow and gorgeous, every rock of his hips driving you closer to the edge. You whimper his name, over and over, his name like a prayer, the syllables breaking as you clench and flutter around him. Your legs start to shake. The sheets are twisted in your fists, your breath caught on the cliff-edge between begging him to slow down and daring him to go faster, harder, anything he wants just as long as he never stops.

Then Sohee makes a sound, something between a whimper and a sob, and goes very still. You feel his chest press tight against your back, his heart jackhammering against your spine. There’s a beat where you think he’s about to come, and then—

“Can I—” His voice is so shaky you barely hear it, “—can I see your face?”

It guts you, the question. You give a frantic nod, unable to speak, and he pulls out just long enough to flip you onto your back, his hands cradling your body like you’re made of glass. He’s above you now, shaking, sweat beading on his brow, and you can see everything: the wild hope in his eyes, the way his lips tremble, the bruises blooming along his throat and collar from where you bit him. He looks like something half-feral, but he kisses you so sweetly it makes your eyes smart.

You hook your legs around his waist and pull him back in, the stretch so good you shudder. He bottoms out with a gasp, forehead pressed to yours, and you lock eyes and ride the wave together, all teeth and sweat and tangled hands.

Sohee’s hand finds your cheek, thumb sweeping over the flush at your jaw, and he doesn’t hesitate now. He fucks into you deep, hips colliding with your thighs in a rhythm that makes the headboard rattle, and every breathless moan from him is a message just for you. He wants you to see it all: how he falls apart, how his eyes burn when you squeeze around him, how the muscles in his neck go taut when you claw at his shoulders and beg for more. He says your name over and over, threaded through with awe and disbelief, like he can’t quite believe you’re real, that this is real.

You’re helpless under him, pinned open and exposed, and the thought of it should embarrass you but it doesn’t. It makes you wild. You rake your nails down his back, leaving half-moons in his skin, and when you bite his shoulder you taste salt and desperation. You want to keep him here forever, want to swallow his noises and make a home in the soft, needy part of his chest.

He slows for a second, just to watch you squirm, to see your lips part in a silent scream when he pushes in hard and stays, grinding his hips in a way that makes your vision blur. “God, you’re so beautiful,” he chokes out, forehead pressed to yours, and the words hit you like a fist to the ribs. You want to say it back, want to tell him how he lights you up from the inside out, but you can only whimper, can only clutch him closer.

He brings your hands above your head, trapping your wrists against the pillow, and you nearly sob at how much you love it, the slick slide of his palm around your wrists, the wet heat of his mouth against your jaw, how he’s looking at you like you’re the one miracle he’ll ever get. The pace is relentless now, every thrust sending little ripples through your body, your legs hooked tight around his waist as if you could fuse the two of you together if you just held hard enough.

“Sohee,” you gasp, the word lost in the hot air between your mouths. “Don’t stop, please, please—” You’re babbling, begging, and you don’t care how desperate you sound. You want him to ruin you, to hollow you out and fill you up with nothing but the way he says your name, the way he smells like clean sweat and cheap detergent and the faintest echo of your body clinging to him.

He lets go of your wrists only to cradle your cheeks, his hands trembling as his thumb traces your lips and his gaze locks on yours. “I wanna see you,” he says, voice cracked and thick with longing, like each word is an act of worship. “I wanna see your face when you cum for me.”

The confession strips you bare. You let him look, let him see every flicker of pleasure and fear and need that crosses your face, and you see it reflected back a thousandfold in the way he looks at you, how his eyes go soft and wide and shining. You’re crying a little, you realize, your lashes are sticky, the world blurring at the edges, but you’re too far gone to care. You can feel your whole body locking up, every muscle tight as a wire, the pleasure cresting so violently you can’t do anything except stare up at Sohee, at the way his eyes shimmer in the low light, at the messy fringe of hair dripping sweat into his lashes, at the pure, unfiltered want etched in every line of his face. He’s so beautiful it hurts, and the way he fucks you, so slow, so deep, so deliberate, makes you feel like he’s chiseling your name into the softest part of his heart.

He fucks you through it, the whole way, never looking away, never letting you look anywhere but right at him. Your vision whites out, and for a second, the world narrows to just his hands and his mouth and the thick, steady pulse of him inside you. You feel yourself come apart, the orgasm tearing out of you so hard your back arches off the bed and your mouth opens around a soundless scream. Sohee holds you there, forehead pressed to yours, fingers tangled in your hai,r and his whole body shaking with the effort to keep you both tethered to this moment.

You think you black out for a second, but when you come back to yourself, Sohee is still moving, a little more ragged now, sweat dripping down his temple. He’s so close, you can tell by the way his hips stutter, the way his eyes go glassy and wild, the way his teeth sink into his bottom lip as if he’s trying to keep from falling apart before you’re ready to catch him.

He loses it, hips jerking, cock throbbing inside you as he buries his face in your neck and holds on for dear life. You feel every tremor wrack his body, every desperate little whimper, every breathless chant of your name until he’s emptied himself, spent and shaking and still not letting you go.

After, the world softens into static. Your thighs tremble where you’re still wrapped around him. Sticky-sweet sweat slicks your skin, glues you together at every possible point of contact. Your heart’s beating so hard you can hear it, and if you listen close, you can hear Sohee’s matching yours, in time, like you’re two halves of a single heart.

The room stinks of sex and summer and the cheap detergent his mom buys from the Family Dollar. You’re dizzy, floating, a little bit dead, but in the best way possible. It’s perfect.

Sohee drops all his weight onto you, and you groan, but not because you want him off. He’s heavy and solid and exactly where you want him to be. He pants against your collarbone for a long minute, maybe more, until his breathing comes back to something like normal. He’s still inside you, softening but refusing to pull away, and you’re not complaining.

“I can’t feel my legs,” he says, voice muffled by the crook of your neck. It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.

You giggle, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, fingers tracing the sweat-damp curls at his nape. 

He lies on you for a full minute, winding down, not even trying to be polite about the weight of him or the fact that he’s sticky and gross. You like it, actually. The aftermath. This is the best part, always. You’re still wide open, both inside and out, and for a second you think you could tell him anything, even the embarrassing stuff, like how you always thought he was the prettiest boy in your class or how you used to doodle his name in the margins of your biology notes and erase it so your mom wouldn’t see. He kisses your collarbone, a lazy, absent thing, and then props himself up to look at you, eyes still so soft it makes you want to cry.

“So, uh,” he says, words slurring together with sleep and sex, “wanna take a shower with me?”

You snort. “You trying to be romantic or just pissed about the sheets?”

“Can’t it be both?” he asks, rolling off and giving your thigh a slap. It’s not hard, but it leaves a little sting. You let out a yelp and kick at his calf with your bare foot. He’s already up, hands on his hips, and you watch the way his body moves as he heads to the bathroom, admiring the deep red marks you left on his skin. You can’t help but grin at your handiwork.

“Don’t use up all the hot water!” you call, stretching out on the bed, basking in the afterglow, smiling so wide your cheeks burn. You can feel his gaze even after he’s out of the room, like heat residue clinging to your skin. You take your time finding the energy to move, savoring the ache in your limbs, the soreness between your legs, the way your chest still flutters when you think about the way Sohee looked at you—like you weren’t even a real person, just a fever dream he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch.

Eventually, you peel yourself off the mattress, padding across the creaky floor with nothing but a borrowed pair of his boxers and a tank top. You hear the bathroom door shut, the rattle of old pipes as he turns the water on. The sound is comforting, domestic, the kind of white noise you imagine you’ll miss in sterile dorm rooms and city apartments a thousand miles from here.

You grab your phone from the nightstand, thumb through the notifications out of habit, but nothing catches your eye except a half-sent text to Sohee from earlier: <3. You think about finishing the thought, but it feels silly now, considering you just spent the last hour with your mouth on every part of him, so you lock the screen and flop back onto the tangled sheets.

You’re lazily scrolling through his playlist when you hear a muffled voice through the bathroom door. At first, you think he’s singing—he does that sometimes, badly, when he thinks you can’t hear—but the cadence is wrong. Too sharp, too soft in the wrong places. It takes a second to place the sound: he’s talking to someone, voice low and tense, but you can’t make out the words over the old radiator rattling in the hallway. You hesitate, not wanting to be obvious, but some paranoid part of you wonders if he’s talking to Sungchan, or worse, about you. You press your ear to the door, heart thumping in your chest, but the words are muffled, ending with a sharp “I got it. Don’t worry about it,” before the water drowns everything out.

You push open the door anyway, pretend you didn’t hear a thing. Sohee’s already in the shower, back to you, steam crawling up the cracked tile and fogging the mirror. You hover in the doorway, watching the way the water beads on his shoulders, the light catching the curve of his spine. You wonder if he knows you’re there. He turns, glancing over his shoulder, and grins.

“Finally,” he says, voice playful but strained, like he’s working too hard at lightness. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming.”

You step in, peel your shirt off, let it puddle on the floor. “You’d miss me too much,” you shoot back, but your words are softer than you mean. He gestures for you to join him, pulling back the curtain and holding it wide as if he’s ushering you onto a stage. You climb in and the water hits you, hot and sharp, stinging your skin where he’s left marks. The air smells like cherry soap and mildew.

He wraps his arms around your waist, palms splayed flat against your back against your skin, and for a second you just stand there, letting the water pound your shoulders and the heat liquefy your bones. He’s smiling, but it’s thin—too careful. His hands trace down your sides, fingers grazing your ribs, and you shudder even though it’s a thousand degrees in here.

“You okay?” you ask, searching his face. There’s a flicker behind his eyes, but he splashes water in your face before you can pin it down.

“Better now,” he says, then hooks an arm around your waist and drags you under the spray. The water stings your scalp, but his hands are gentle, lathering up the cheap soap and working it into your hair with an almost reverent focus. He does your hairline, your ears, even scrubs behind them like he’s afraid you’re going to vanish if he lets go. You close your eyes and tip your head back, let him rinse you clean, the suds sliding off your shoulders and pooling at your feet.

He kisses you, slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that tries to erase everything except this moment; just you and him and the water and the way your bodies fit together. You let yourself be kissed, because it’s easier than asking about Sungchan, easier than wondering what that phone call was about or why Sohee’s jaw gets so tight whenever the world tries to muscle in on your little night.

You rinse him off in return, working your thumbs into the knots at his shoulders, tracing the constellation of moles on his cheek with a faint smile. You stare at his face for a moment longer than you should, feeling the words burn the tip of your tongue but nothing comes out. He watches you stare at him, giving a small yet fond smile as he rests a a hand on your cheek as well, full lips parted slightly.

“My girl,” He whispers as he draws you closer, and it’s almost instinct, the way your arms wind around his slick, soap-slicked shoulders and squeeze, hard.

You don’t even hesitate. You kiss him, open and grateful, with the taste of cherry shampoo and tap water on both your tongues. You’re not shy about making it filthy, either — you love the way his lips part, the way his breath hiccups when you run your tongue slow against his. You love the shivery-soft sound he makes as you press him up against the cold tile and pin his hips with yours.

He looks at you, blinking rain out of his big brown eyes. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?” His voice is husky and sopping with affection. You nod, grinning, teeth pressed to your bottom lip, and let your hand drift lower, tracing the length of his thigh.

“I like you alive, actually,” you tell him, and he laughs. It’s a real laugh this time, not the tight, nervous bark he’s been doing all evening. The kind that vibrates all the way through you. You press your ear to his chest, listening to the way his heart races. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re not worth it,” you say, voice muffled by wet skin. “Don’t let anyone ruin your good days, not Sungchan, not anyone.” You glance up at him, expecting him to roll his eyes, but his face has gone strange and slack, like he’s trying not to cry.

He draws circles on your lower back, and you both close your eyes.

Sohee’s old Civic, the one with the duct-taped mirror and the air freshener that lost its scent a year ago, lurches to a stop at the edge of the grass parking lot. You can already hear the muffled throb of music from the festival grounds, some country band with too much optimism, and you’re about to grab for your purse when Sohee’s hand lands on your thigh. His palm is damp, trembling just enough for you to notice. You look over, expecting a joke or a kiss or one of his dorky faces, but his eyes are fixed on the rearview like he’s looking for ghosts.

“You good?” you ask, pinching his knee through the ripped denim. He flinches, then smiles too wide, the way he does when he’s lying. You want to press, but excitement’s got you by the throat, so you just squeeze his hand and say, “Let’s go, dork.” He leans over and steals a kiss, lips sour from the energy drink he crushed in the last five minutes of the drive.

You feel seven years old again, dizzy and sugar-hungry, and it’s so much better with Sohee next to you. He’s got his hands stuffed in his pockets, chin up, eyes catching the security guard walking up with a German Shepard on a leash next to her.

A routine check, but the dogs are new. You don’t pay it much mind, but Sohee’s grip on you tightens. You try not to look suspicious, but the second the K9 cop stops at Sohee’s window, you’re sweating buckets. The dog, a mean-looking, brindled thing, barks twice and yanks the lead so hard the officer nearly drops it. You freeze. Next to you Sohee straightens up and gives his best aw-shucks grin. It’s the one that used to get him out of trouble in high school but, let’s be honest, never worked on adults.

“Y’all here for the festival?” the guard says, looking from Sohee to you and back with a skeptical, sunburned squint.

“Gold passes, actually!” Sohee says, brandishing the wristbands like proof of citizenship. “Did the online thing. Not sure where to go for parking though.”

She’s not buying it. The dog’s nose is pressed to the window, hot breath fogging the ancient glass. It paws desperately, whining, then sits abruptly and gives the guard a look like, Get my damn treat. You know enough from crime shows to realize that’s a problem.

“Pop your trunk,” the guard says, voice flat. Sohee’s hands shake as he hits the button. You feel the color drain from your face because the trunk is clean—but the backseat is not.

The cop says, “Step out, please,” and you do, knees knocking, hands shaking so bad you almost drop your phone. The sun is so bright it stings your eyes. Sohee’s out next to you, already sweating through his shirt.

The second the car’s open, the dog launches itself onto the back of the seat, nearly tearing the fabric as it goes nuts, nose jammed between the headrest and the seatback. The officer gives Sohee a withering look, then yanks open the back door and lets the dog climb in. You watch, numb, as the shepherd snuffles around the floor mats, paws the seat, then like something out of a shitty PSA, starts furiously scratching at the place where the seat cushion meets the upholstery.

“Is there a reason your dog’s so focused on my car?” Sohee tries, and you wince at the edge in his voice. The cop ignores him, already fishing a gloved hand into the crack in the seat. Three seconds later she comes up with a crumpled plastic baggie, cloudy but unmistakable.

“Is this yours?” she asks, holding it up between two fingers. You stare at the bag, then at Sohee. Your mouth opens, then closes, a tiny, venomous oyster.

“No,” you say, “that’s not—” but Sohee’s face has already gone gray. He’s doing a thing with his hands, squeezing them together, over and over, like he’s trying to keep his bones from flying apart. He doesn’t look at you. Not even a glance.

The guard’s backup pulls up in a golf cart, radio squelching, and within seconds you’re both standing with your palms on the Civic’s hood, the dog planted between you, tail wagging with the satisfaction of a job well done.

“We’re gonna need to search your bags,” the new guy says, and you watch numbly as your backpack is emptied onto the hood. Chapstick, three dollar bills, a plastic comb, your student ID, two tampons. The officer pokes through them with the tip of her pen, barely glancing at you, all her focus on Sohee.

He’s trying to play it cool, you can see it in the way he leans back on his heels, but his hands won’t stop fidgeting. The dog’s planted by his knees, tail wagging, the way it sometimes does when it corners a squirrel. The guard with the dog steps between you and Sohee, her stance casual but blocking any chance of side-eye communication. You’re suddenly so, so thirsty.

She turns the baggie in her hand. “Want to explain this?” she says, a little less bored now, a little more interested in the way the sunlight bleaches the color from Sohee’s face. You expect him to laugh it off, say it’s not his, say someone must’ve planted it in the car, but he just shrugs and stares at his shoes.

You wait for the universe to reverse itself, for the joke to clarify, for someone to jump out and say it’s all a set up. Instead, Sohee says, “I’m sorry,” barely a whisper, and you feel your vision tunnel so far you can’t even see your own feet.

“Whose is it?” the guard prompts. You want to speak, to defend him, but your voice has jammed somewhere in your throat. You literally cannot believe this is happening. You think back to the phonecall you barely caught last night. The glue in your throat only grows thicker, making tears grow in your eyes, covering your eyes with a shake of your head, a sob tumbling out from your lips.

You’re aware dimly, through the panic haze that Sohee’s looking at you, begging you to do something, say something, but all you can do is dig your nails into the hood of his car and try not to sob so loud the whole parking lot hears. The tears burn, hot and mean, and your knees nearly buckle under you. Of course it’s not yours, but it’s not the first time you’ve been in trouble for someone else’s shit, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re screaming at yourself for not seeing this coming. For not noticing every time Sohee’s hands shook, every time he asked if you wanted him to drive, every time he got quiet during Sungchan’s dumb threats.

The cops don’t even say anything to you. They just read Sohee his rights while another one, clipboard in hand, writes down your name like you’re being added to a class roster. There’s a moment tiny, a flicker where you see Sohee turn, eyes rimmed red, and he tries to reach for your hand, but you wrench away. You’re not even mad at him, you’re mad at everything. Mad at the whole dumb town that raised you to believe good things were waiting somewhere out past the city limit sign, if you just hung on long enough.

Your hands are cuffed. You stare at them, metal biting your wrists, and for a second you just want to lie down in the grass and disappear. You see your reflection in the Civic’s window eyes swollen, face blotchy, mascara bleeding down your cheeks. A real winner.

The two officers don’t even bother being rough with you; they just guide you into the back of a cop car like you’re a lost little girl who needs to be ferried across the street. The window is caged and the seat is sticky, and as the door slams shut, you see Sohee’s face through the glass. He’s crying, openly, ugly, the way boys do when they’ve run out of options and can’t punch their way free. You want to scream, but all you can do is stare at your own knees, the dried patches of grass stuck to your socks, and think about how you already miss him.

The station is smaller than you expect, beige-painted cement blocks and a vending machine that’s been out of order since the Bush administration. You’re herded into a side room by a nice-enough lady cop who offers you a foam cup of tap water and a pack of peanut butter crackers. You take the water and ignore the crackers, because you’re afraid if you eat you’ll puke all over the linoleum. The clock on the wall ticks so loud it drowns out your thoughts.

They don’t separate you for long; you see Sohee through the thin window in the door, slumped in a metal chair, eyes puffy, wrists red where the cuffs cut too tight. He doesn’t look up when they lead you past. Another cop, younger, with chipmunk cheeks and a gut that strains the buttons on his shirt, tries to make you laugh by saying, “Don’t worry, you’ll be outta here soon enough.” You want to believe him, but your hands won’t stop shaking in your lap. The vending machine hums like it’s laughing at you.

You’re not sure how much time passes. Someone brings you a cell phone in a ziplock and tells you to memorize a phone number in case “you get a call.” You try to think of your mother’s number, but your mind’s whited out, replaced by memories of Sohee’s sad face through the glass.

When they finally bring you into the interrogation room, it’s nothing like Law and Order. The table is Formica, the walls are sweating fluorescent light, and the “bad cop” is a guy with drowsy eyes and a stain on his tie. The nameplate says LEE, A. in a chipped black font.

He folds his hands and studies you for a long time, his stare so flat you want to start screaming before he even opens his mouth.

“Know why you’re here?” he asks. His voice is almost gentle, but you can tell he’s the kind of gentle that suffocates cats with a pillow.

You nod, then shake your head, then nod again. “I guess,” you say, and he scribbles something in a notebook that looks more like a prop than a real cop tool.

He lets you sit in the silence for a full minute. You count the tiles on the ceiling, try to keep from crying again, but it’s harder now that the adrenaline’s gone. You’re left with the raw, gummy core of panic.

He sets the pen down and leans forward, elbows on the table. “So. Here’s the deal. You’re smart, we know that. Top five percent, full ride waiting if you keep your nose clean.” He flips a page, never looking up from the notebook. “But distribution charge? Even a misdemeanor, that’s a wrap on your vet career. Won’t get a state license anywhere in the country. You’ll be lucky to run the cash register at Petco.”

A cold sweat prickles under your arms; the air in the room feels suddenly thick, viscous, like honey left in a hot car. You want to cry again, but the tears just sit there, boiling against your eyelids.

Anton Lee finally looks up at you. His eyes are the flat, empty blue of an old TV left on a dead channel. “Tell me about Sohee,” he says, spinning the pen once between his fingers. “Tell me about Sungchan. And I’ll make this go away.”

It’s not even a threat, really. It’s a simple, brutal fact, as bland as the coffee stains on the Formica.

You cross your arms over your stomach. “He’s my friend.”

Lee gives you a look like he’s heard that a hundred times and every single time, it means the exact opposite. He doesn’t sigh, but his face folds in on itself a little, like he’s disappointed you didn’t even try to lie.

He shifts tactics, drops the hardass act, gives you his best I’m a regular guy smile. “You ever read Lord of the Flies?” he asks.

“What?”

He leans back, chair creaking, hands folded back in his chair with a sigh, like your ignorance is either the most disappointing or the most promising thing he’s encountered all week. “High school kids. Stranded on an island. No rules, no adults. You know what happens?”

You look at your shoes, the black scuff mark where you kicked the cop car door, and mutter, “They go crazy. Start killing each other.” You read it sophomore year, hated every page, could never figure out why the teachers thought it was such a big deal.

“Exactly,” Lee says, nodding with this weird, predatory satisfaction. “You put the pressure on, you see who’s really in charge. First they protect each other. But when it’s life or death? Somebody always flips.” He shrugs, like this is just basic science, like gravity or inertia.

He slides a photo across the table, face-down, like he’s dealing blackjack instead of ruining your future. When you flip it over, it’s a grainy shot of Sohee and Sungchan, arms slung around each other’s necks, grinning wild and reckless outside the gas station. You’re in the background, blurry, laughing at something off-camera. The timestamp is from three weeks ago.

“We know who the big fish is,” Lee says softly, tapping Sungchan’s face with the end of his pen. “But the only way we get him is if someone on the inside tells us how it works.” He makes a steeple of his fingers, gaze never leaving yours. “Here’s what I’m offering. You put it on the record. Tell the truth. You don’t even have to come in for court. We close it, you get a clean record, and you still make it out to Colorado.” 

You stare at the photo until the faces blur, until it looks like the kind of image they show on the news after something bad happens. You want to laugh, or maybe throw up. Every part of your body is vibrating, pure animal panic, the knowledge that nothing you say will save you from this room, from this moment.

Lee flips to a new page, the scratch of pen against paper so loud it’s like he’s carving your confession into concrete. “Look, I’m gonna be real with you. If you don’t talk, you get charged. No wiggle. No second chances. It’s over. They’ve been watching you guys for months, waiting for someone to mess up. Now they have you. And you have one shot to get out clean.”

You think of Sohee’s hands, trembling under the table at the Waffle House, the way he always bought you coffee even when he couldn’t afford the gas to get home. You think about Sungchan’s grin, sharp and mean, and the way he looked at you like prey. You think about your mother, how she’d cry if the news ever made it to her, how she’d probably never visit you, even if you were close enough to drive.

Lee’s eyes are hungry. He leans in, so close you can smell the burnt coffee and the faintest ghost of aftershave on his neck. Every sense feels sharpened, like the strip-lit room is a dissecting tray and you are the frog. “I know you’re scared,” he says, voice pitched exactly right, just a shade above a whisper. “But you get one shot at this. Tell me what happened, who made you do it, and you walk out of here. No record. Nothing ever follows you.” He leans back, waiting for you to blink first.

You look at your own hands, pale and useless in the washed-out light. You don’t want to lose everything. You don’t want to be the kid who never leaves this town, who gets stuck washing dogs for cash and can’t get into a single vet school in the country. You don’t want to be the reason Sohee gets ruined, either. Or maybe you do, just a little, because he’s the one who didn’t tell you. Or maybe you’re just too tired to care which way the knife cuts.

You say nothing for so long that Lee sighs, stands, and starts packing up his little black notebook and dollar store ballpoint like you’re not even a challenge. “I’ll leave you for a minute,” he says, and moves to the door, his hand lingering on the knob. “Think about it. But not too long.”

The door seals behind him with a sound that is so final it feels like your fate snapping shut. You stare at the photo, the blurry, happy triangle of you, Sohee, and Sungchan, and you want to scream at the frozen faces for the answers you never quite have. 

When Anton comes back, you’re already crying. Not pretty, dignified tears, more like hiccuping, snotty, full-body sobs that make your ribs ache. It doesn’t matter. You barely care anymore. He sits down, pushes the water cup closer, and says nothing. Just waits.

You start talking. At first, it comes out in little slivers, fragmented and cracked, like you’re reading your own obituary through a tin can. You tell him about the gas station. About how Sohee never wanted to do it, not really, but Sungchan made it sound easy, like a favor, like everyone does it. About how you hated Sungchan from the start.

Anton scribbles notes, but mostly he just sits there, eyelids heavy, letting you ruin yourself in your own words. You keep going, even when your voice goes hoarse, even when it feels like your lungs are burning up from the inside. You tell him about the time you watched Sungchan roll up behind the store, headlights off, and how Sohee’s hands shook so bad you had to take the envelope and shove it in the register yourself. About how you never touched any of the drugs. You were never involved until today. Sohee kept that from you, protected you the best he could.

You expect him to call you a liar, or at least look at you with that cop-smirk that says he’s already written the ending and you’re just a bad actor caught mid-audition. Instead, his gaze softens and for a second he’s just another tired man in an ugly tie, leaning over a cold cup of gas station coffee, looking at you like maybe, just maybe, you’ll get out of this okay.

When you finish, the world feels scraped out and hollow. Anton slides a box of tissues across the table, lets you take three, and doesn’t even watch when you wipe the snot from your face. His pen taps on the tabletop, slow and thoughtful.

“You did good,” he says, voice all sand and velvet. “You did real good.”

You want to believe him, but your insides are a slurry of guilt and relief, equal parts traitor and survivor, and you can’t tell which one is louder. You choke out a laugh, and it sounds like you’re gargling glass.

“What happens now?” you ask, folding the tissues into a tiny, desperate ball.

He stands, not even looking at you, just turns for the door. “Now you wait,” he says, almost kindly. “We’ll give you a call when it’s over. You’ll walk out today.”

You watch him go, the hush after his exit so thick it feels like a second skin. You clutch your stomach, doubled around the ache, and cry until you don’t have any tears left to shed.

They keep you in the holding cell for forty-seven minutes. You count every second, because your phone is still in the evidence bag and there’s nothing else in this room except a steel bench and two empty water cups. You want to call Sohee. You want to tell him you’re sorry, or that you love him, or that you wish you both could turn the car around and go back to the day at the flea market when all that mattered was stealing dumb keychains from the rotary rack and daring each other to eat the weirdest food at the county fair.

When Anton comes back, it’s with a paper bag from the front desk—a couple of your things, cell phone, the gum you left in your jacket. He sits you down on the bench and looks you in the eye, the way grown-ups do when they expect you to break.

“You’re not gonna see Sohee,” he says, not unkind but with the finality of a cracked gavel. “He’s being processed. Bail isn’t likely until after the hearing. But you did your part. You did right by yourself. By your future.” He says this like it’s a kindness, but it feels like a tattoo needle, each word leaving

You stare blankly at Anton at the news, looking away from him then at the ceiling. There’s hot tears in your eyes, your bottom lip trembling. You feel Anton’s hand on your shoulder to comfort you, making your face pinch. It’s all so overwhelming, so suffocating, you can’t stand it.

“I don’t have a ride,” You get out through a tight throat, feeling like something snapped inside you at that. You don’t have a car, your mom is at work, and Sohee is in jail. Sohee is in jail. A sob tumbles out of your lips, covering your eyes as tears spill out of them. “I don’t have a car.”

Anton’s hand doesn’t leave your shoulder, not even when you shake with the force of the next sob. He just sits there, thumb awkwardly stroking the edge of your t-shirt, a gesture so gentle it makes everything worse. Finally, when it’s clear you’re not going to say anything else, he leans into the intercom by the door and calls for the front desk girl to bring a tissue box.

You want to crawl out of your skin. You want to be alone, outside, away from the beige linoleum and the stink of cheap coffee and Anton’s careful, adult eyes. Instead you blow your nose, hard, and stare off into the cinderblock wall until it becomes a blank, vibrating screen.

Later, when Anton leads you out to the parking lot, the sky is already streaked with bruised purple and the air is thick with the hum of cicadas. He walks you to his car an ancient, battered Sonata with a cracked windshield and a backseat full of file folders and fast food wrappers. He opens the passenger door, not like a date or anything, but with the weird, overpolite energy of someone who’s never shuttled a crying girl home before.

You buckle yourself in, then immediately press your forehead to the glass, hoping the chill will siphon off the ache behind your eyes. Anton says nothing for the first few blocks, just drives in silence, his hands white-knuckling the wheel at ten and two, like they told him in police academy.

“You ever see a fox in the city?” he asks, out of nowhere, voice low and careful. “They’re everywhere,” Anton says. “They come out at dusk, when it’s quiet and there aren’t so many people. Saw one last week, running between the dumpsters behind the courthouse.”

You blink at him, not sure if it’s a metaphor or if he’s just really into urban wildlife. He glances over, catches your blank stare, and lets out a breathy laugh. “Sorry. I meant—sometimes things end up where they shouldn’t. But they get by anyway.” His hands loosen on the wheel, knuckles fading from bone-white to pink, and you hate how much you want to believe him.

There’s a patch of road where the streetlights are dead, and you drive through a tunnel of hot, humming dark. For a second, it feels like maybe you’re not even here—maybe you’re just a row of numbers rolling past on a dashboard, or a voice that never leaves the inside of your own skull. You could be anyone, or no one at all.

“Are you hungry?” Anton asks, voice tentative. “We could… stop, if you want. Get a burger or something. There’s a place still open near the old rec center.” You almost laugh—like you could eat anything right now. Like food could fill the black hole chewing away at your stomach. But you say yes anyway, because the idea of being alone in your house with all the lights off makes your skin crawl.

The burger place is nearly empty, just a pair of old men in camo hats nursing black coffee and a couple in the corner feeding fries to a toddler in a faded Batman t-shirt. The lights are low and the air smells like fried onions and bleach. You order a small vanilla milkshake, the kind that comes in a paper cup so thin it starts to melt on contact with your palm. Anton gets coffee, black, and sits across from you in the sticky booth, arms folded tight across his chest.

For a while, neither of you say anything. You sip your milkshake, not because you want to, but because it gives your hands something to do. Anton drums his fingertips on the Formica, watching the tired cashier wipe down the soda machine with a rag that was probably white once. The silence is thick and frayed at the edges, like an old towel, heavy with words neither of you want to say out loud.

You glance up, expecting the cop look, but he’s just staring at his coffee, tracing the rim of the mug with his thumb. “You did the right thing,” he says quietly, not looking at you. “I know it doesn’t feel like it, but you did.” The words are meant to be comforting, but they land like a punch in the gut.

“I love him,” You finally say aloud, sighing up at the ceiling as tears fill your eyes again. You’re shocked you have any left in you. “Not as a friend, not as a brother, I wanted to be his wife, but I was…So scared to say it. Now, he’s going to prison,” You stare at Anton like he could fix this, knowing he can’t do anything for you or Sohee. You wipe at the corner of your eyes, shaking your head with a sniffle.

“Now, it’s done. It’s all just done.”

Anton drives you home. He doesn’t ask about the tears or the way you keep rubbing your wrists, the indentations still hot and stinging. He drops you off at the curb, and as you get out, he hesitates like he might say something more, then just gives you a nod, eyes fixed on the windshield, and pulls away.

You stand in the driveway for a long minute, staring at the front door, at the crumbling steps, at the battered recycling bin that hasn’t been taken out in two weeks. You’re not ready to go inside, but you do, anyway, because what else is there to do except keep moving until you’re too tired to feel anything about any of this?

Your mom’s car isn’t in the drive. She works nights now, or at least that’s what she tells you. You wonder if she’ll notice the missed calls from the police station, but maybe she’ll just assume you were out with Sohee and let it pass. You hope she does. You don’t want to explain any of this, not to her, not to anyone.

In your room, you stare at the blank, unmade bed, the pile of dirty clothes, the suitcase your mom got you from Goodwill propped open in the corner. You start throwing things in, jeans and underwear and every t-shirt you ever stole from Sohee’s dresser. You pack his hoodie at the bottom and bury it under everything else, as if you can smother the memory of him by force.

You pack all night. At some point you start crying and just don’t stop. It’s not a sobbing kind of cry, not even a wail, just a leaking faucet that never quite turns off. You wonder if Sohee is still crying, or if he’s just given up, or if he’s already figured out how to survive inside those walls the way he always did out here. Maybe he hates you. Maybe he’s grateful. Maybe he’s both.

It’s around two weeks later when you find the letter in the mailbox, written in his left-handed scrawl, the only handwriting in the world you’d recognize even if it was burned into your brain. The envelope is stamped three times, covered in ink like someone was trying to erase it by overloading it with attention. There’s no return address, but you know.

You don’t open it that night. You let it sit under your pillow, weighing down the ache, until the morning burns through the blackout shades and you wake up, hollow and a little afraid. Then you slit the envelope with your thumbnail and read, breathless, like you’re waiting for the end of a bad dream.

It’s three pages, front and back, all written in blue ballpoint. He starts with “Hey,” because he’s never really known how to say hello, and he ends with “I don’t know if this will even get to you,” and it reads less like a real letter and more like a string of confessions he’s been saving up since the second he left your sight.

He tells you about the first night in county. He describes the walls, the bugs in the light fixtures, the way the guards call him “son,” which is both a joke and a threat. He says, “I’m not writing to make you feel bad, I just miss you,” and then draws a sad face next to it, like you’ll forget to read the sentence if he doesn’t illustrate it.

The second page is just stories, little memories you’d both already lived but he wanted to pin down before they vanished. “Remember when we hid out in the rec center after dark and you dared me to break into the pool?” he writes, and you can see his grin, wide and soft, right there in the slant of the words. “Remember the gas station nachos? You said they’d poison us but I ate them anyway because you dared me. You win every dare, always. Even this one.” The ink is darker now, maybe he pushed the pen in too hard, maybe he just needed to make sure you’d see it.

On the third page, he writes, “I’m not mad at you. Never was, not even for a second. Don’t let anyone tell you that you did wrong. You got out. That’s what I always wanted, even if I never said it.” The sentence is underlined, and there’s a little arrow, pointing to a margin note:

“P.S.,” the letter says, right before it runs out of room at the very bottom. “You don’t have to write me back. But if you want to, I’m here for as long as it takes. When I get out, I’ll find you. Even if it’s Colorado. Or Mars.”

You hold the pages in your lap for a long time, reading and re-reading, letting the words rot new holes in your ribs. He doesn’t hate you. He’s not even mad. It’s worse, almost, because it means he meant it every time he said you were his favorite person, his north star, the reason he didn’t just disappear into the cut-rate stories of everyone who came before him.

You sit on the porch steps, knees pulled to your chest, letter clutched like a life raft. You want to write him back so bad your hands ache, but you don’t know what to say. What could you possibly say to make any of this less awful, less lonely, less like you broke the only person who ever really saw you?

You watch the neighbor kids ride bikes in a lazy loop around the cul-de-sac, the sound of their laughter a sharp, foreign noise in the thick, humid air. You wonder if any of them will ever get out, or if they’re all just waiting for their turn inside the station, their own version of Lee, A., waiting to pin their lives down to a single bad choice.

Inside, your mom’s watching TV, the volume up so high it rattles the windows. You think about telling her what happened, how it all went down, but you know it’ll just end in a quiet sigh.

You read Sohee’s letter one last time before sunrise, then fold it into the smallest square you can manage and tuck it in the front pocket of your suitcase, right next to your Colorado acceptance packet. You zip the bag, grab your keys, and walk out the door. The air is thinner than yesterday, more empty, the sky the off-white of a sleepless morning.

The post office opens at 8 a.m. sharp. You stand outside with a line of retirees and a woman in pink pajama bottoms, breathing in the scent of wet pavement and stale cigarettes while the automatic doors jitter awake. When you’re inside, you fill out the envelope with the return address of Sohee’s house, hands trembling so badly you almost write the zip code backwards. You seal your letter inside, not a reply, exactly, but all that you wanted to say in three front to back pages, and drop it in the slot marked “LOCAL DELIVERY.” You watch it vanish into the bin, feel nothing, feel everything.

Back in the car, you wait for the numbness to turn into sadness, but it doesn’t. It just sits in you, heavy and cold, a space where something used to live. You start the engine and point the nose of your mom’s borrowed beater toward the interstate, not even bothering to look in the rearview.

The road smells like rain, and if you squint, the sunrise looks almost pink around the edges instead of rotten gray. You drive with the windows down, letting the sticky summer air sting your face, and for a while you try not to think about anything at all. Just the white lines blurring under your tires, the way the trees flatten and fall behind you in the rearview. You don’t look back. Not at the empty house, not at the post office, not at the street where Sohee once waited for you with a warm Coke and a note scribbled in the margins of your biology homework.

The mountains are farther than they ever looked on the calendar, but every mile between you and the town feels like a bruise healing over, dull and tender but less dangerous than it was the day before. You want to believe you’re starting clean. You want to believe that the world will let you.

[marmosetpaw]

[ghostclangen]

When Hornetstar was given her nine lives, it was nightmarish. That’s what she’d told him (despite Marshlily’s protests about confidentiality) when she first spoke to him about Waterfur. But when Fireflash wakes up after reluctantly touching the Moongem, he awakes into a brilliant shining day.

“This must be StarClan,” he murmurs, looking around. Second only to the Cavern and its ethereal glow, it’s the most beautiful place he’s ever seen. A slight breeze ruffles the long grass around him, and a forest, leaves dappled with light, lies in the near distance. Clear blue ponds dot the landscape, reflecting the cloudless sky. For the first time that day, he feels a sense of relief; not enough to wash all the stress away, but he’d been expecting far worse.

“It is indeed.”

Fireflash turns around and is unable to keep back a gasp. Behind him stands what must be hundreds of cats, their coats shimmering as if made of stars. Their eyes are ablaze, but Fireflash senses no hostility, simply expectant curiosity—though admittedly, he’s still intimidated; with no idea what to expect from a real leader ceremony, he simply stands there, overwhelmed.

As his eyes flick from face to face, some of them familiar but most not, his eyes finally fall on a group of nine cats at the front, and his heart skips a beat at the sight of some of his most beloved cats. Before he can say hello to them, though, the crowd speaks in unison once more: “Welcome, Fireflash.”

Fireflash chuckles nervously. “Um. Hi?”

A little laugh comes from the front of the crowd, and from the group at the front, a dark tabby tom steps forward.

“Charredtail!” Fireflash breathes, more in amazement than in greeting. It’s not that he didn’t know what StarClan was, but still, to see all of his departed loved ones again … It’s not something anyone can prepare for.

After giving him a fond smile, Charredtail touches his nose to Fireflash’s forehead. “With this life, I give you sympathy and understanding. Use it well to support your Clanmates through their suffering.” Then, after a pause, he adds sheepishly, “Sorry about this next part.”

“What next pa-”

As soon as he says it, Fireflash is swept away in a sensation unlike anything he’d felt before. Every inch of him feels like it’s on fire, every nerve set ablaze as the fur rises along his spine. His mind, too, spins out of control; all at once, the only thing his eyes and nose pick up is the tang of blood, and mortal fear washes over him—but it’s slowly replaced with a feeling of acceptance. 

Fireflash takes a deep breath in, struggling to maintain composure. He’d been prepared for intensity, he supposes, but the pain of gaining a new life was still almost unbearable. He balks at the concept of eight more lives rushing through him.

The next cat to approach is Havenpool, and a wound that he thought had healed opens in Fireflash's heart at the sight of him. As much as he loved- and still loves- Rapidspeckle, he'd always regretted never properly confessing his feelings to him and Crageagle. Call it a flight of fancy, but he'd bonded with Crageagle over their outsider origins, and he'd quickly fallen in love with both him and his mate. But now they were both gone, and Rapidspeckle, too.

Before he can start to fully spiral, Havenpool's nose is on his forehead and says, "With this life, I give you truth. Use it well to stay loyal to your heart."

Fireflash takes in another sharp breath as the life courses through him. With grit teeth, he shuts his eyes tight, struggling to bear the vertigo from the spinning of his mind, shot through with lightning-like pain.

As Havenpool turns away, not one but three cats step forward, and Fireflash’s heart aches at the sight of his family: Flamenco, Cobaltshine, and Miteskitter. His eyes fill with tears of happiness and melancholy, but he blinks them away before anyone can see—hopefully.

Flamenco is the first cat to touch his nose to Fireflash’s forehead. “With this life, I give you love. Use it well to nurture what needs healing.”

This life, thank StarClan, goes down smoother. There’s still a background noise of pain, but most of what he feels is affection—platonic, familial, and romantic, all swirling together. The faces of his loved ones, living and dead, flit through his brain, and despite the ache in his bones, he can’t help but smile. “Thanks, Dad,” he says softly, but Flamenco is already walking away to sit with Cobaltshine. 

Miteskitter steps forward next. “With this life, I give you judgment,” he says. “Use it well to tell what’s righteous from what’s not.”

Pulsing pain races through Fireflash’s body once more, and he grits his teeth, tempted—though unable—to run. While the dizzying feeling should be disorienting, he finds that his brain becomes sharper instead of confused. He takes a deep breath in, then another one out, feeling more stable than before, more ready to accept the next six lives. It’s the right thing to do, he knows; GhostClan needs a strong leader.

That leaves only Cobaltshine. Fireflash is hit with a pang of guilt; even if she had been under the influence of the curse, he was still close friends with Hornetstar, and he doubts she’d be nearly as forgiving of the cat who killed her than Charredtail had been. 

If Cobaltshine harbors any resentment toward him, however, it doesn’t show. Like the first three cats, she touches Fireflash’s forehead and says, “With this life, I give you determination. Use it to fight for your Clan until the very last moment.”

A surge of energy washes over him, and he gasps. This is the most powerful he’s ever felt in his life—was this how the tigers of legend felt? His muscles grow tense, aching as the life runs through him. It’s a good ache, though, the ache that comes after a good run or a victorious battle. He knows in his bones that nothing could stop him now.

When he opens his eyes, though, Fireflash is faced with a sight that makes his shoulders slump. His mate and child … How could he face them? He was the one who sent them on the border patrol they never came back from. If he’d just had them go train, they would still be alive. “I’m sorry,” he croaks, hanging his head. “I’m so sorry.”

As he looks back up at her, Rapidspeckle gives her mate a forgiving yet sad smile, then bumps her shoulder against Pearstripe’s to urge him onward. 

For as confident as he was in life, Pearstripe seems more daunted now. He doesn’t look afraid, exactly, but … Fireflash frowns as he recognizes the feeling of having to break bad news in his expression. “With this life, I give you stubbornness,” he says, not looking him in the eye. “Use it well to keep going even when your first plan fails.”

A violent spasm wracks Fireflash’s body, a painful jerk that leaves him gasping. Before he can collect himself, he’s hit with another, then another, then another. Though he’s half-convinced they’ll never stop, he pushes through, digging his claws into the ground and gritting his teeth hard until the pain relents.

Fireflash’s heart sinks at the meaningful look Pearstripe gives him before he leaves. His first plan? Surely he doesn’t mean …

As he stares down at the ground, renewed stress flooding down his spine, Fireflash feels the soft touch of Rapidspeckle’s muzzle against his forehead. Despite his anxiety, he begins to purr as she says, “With this life, I give you bravery. Use it well to face the fears that hold you back.”

A million feelings swirl in Fireflash’s mind: the rush of flinging himself into battle, the excitement of climbing his first tree, the exhilaration of swimming in a tumbling river. While the life of bravery hurts like any other, a thrill runs through him, a new itch in his paws to search for the next challenge.

But it was facing your fears that got you killed, he almost says after the rush seeps away, but bites his tongue. Instead, he rubs his cheek against Rapidspeckle’s, wishing desperately that he could stay. Still, as afraid as he is about becoming a leader without almost any of his family alive to support him, Fireflash manages to build the courage to let her go.

The next cat that greets him isn’t a loved one, but Fireflash is grateful to see her nonetheless. “With this life,” Nettledawn says as she touches his forehead, “I give you hope. Use it well to brave the long journey ahead.” 

Expecting it to be a gentle and painless life to receive, Fireflash jolts as he’s hit with the most painful one yet. His heart beats so quickly and so strongly that it hurts, and terror fills him at the concept that it might give out. The rest of his body feels like it’s gone up in flames, filling him with burning pain that seemingly emanates from his chest. Through the pain, though, there’s a sense of overwhelming power, and as the agony seeps away, something new blooms in his heart: an unmistakable feeling of hope. 

As Nettledawn walks back to the crowd of starry cats, she brushes against Hornetstar. A wave of grief washes over Fireflash at the sight of his closest friend. What’s he going to do without her to guide him? Nothing would ever be the same. How could it be, with her not by his side?

Hornetstar walks much more confidently than usual when she approaches him, giving him a warm look of pride. Despite the newfound swagger, though, she’s still a little sheepish when she says, “With this life I give you leadership. Use it well to make decisions with confidence.”

Hornetstar’s life whips up a whirlwind of emotion. Inexplicable fear and grief strike Fireflash like burning lightning, nearly driving him to tears. Through the disorienting sensation, he smells the distinct scent of sickness and blood. Is this Hornetstar’s kithood? He’d heard about RoseClan’s plague, but to live it now, in this moment, is something else entirely. Then, stress clutches him, and in the back of his mind, he hears the sound of violence—loud, eerie shrieks of pain. Long before he was born, as Hornetstar told him once, there was a war between GhostClan and MoonClan that ended in the death of their first deputy. This, he realizes, is the echo of that war. How much more of this can he take? How much more of Hornetstar’s long life can he take?

 Just when it feels like his heart will explode from anxiety, it—along with the pain—suddenly washes away, and he opens his eyes with a gasp. Trembling and haggard, he attempts to steady his breathing. Despite his body’s exhaustion, though, his heart is filled with strength of a thousand cats. 

He looks up at Hornetstar as she begins to speak again. “I hail you by your new name, Firestar,” she declares. “Your old life is no more. You have now received the nine lives of a leader, and StarClan grants you the guardianship of GhostClan. Defend it well; care for the young and old; honor your ancestors and the warrior code, live each life with pride and dignity.”

“Firestar! Firestar! Firestar! Firestar!”

As the countless cats of StarClan cry out his new name, Firestar stands up straighter and looks around, a bit embarrassed at the sheer extravagance of it all. He’s just some cat, really … 

“I’m so proud of you,” Hornetstar says as sits down beside him, curling her tail over her paws. “You’re going to be great. I know it.”

Firestar gives her a smile, warm but tinged with melancholy. “I’ll miss you,” he says softly, and leans his head against hers. He tries to hide the desperation and grief in his voice, but it still cracks.

“I’ll be here,” Hornetstar says, and smiles. “Now, go on. Your Clan needs you.”